I remove the cloth around my head and wrap it around the wound in my leg leaving the knife in place. The strip of cloth immediately darkens with my blood. I can’t remove my boot, so I grab my flint knife and slice down one side parting the leather of the boot and easing my foot out. Removing the cloth from around my waist I bandage my foot.

The battle cries, yelling and screams echoing off the hillock are certain to draw others and I must at least hide somewhere. I reclaim my arrow, a flint tipped arrow, I perhaps naively believe, belongs to only one tribe. I reclaim my Lord’s ransom. My quiver and bow loop around my neck resting mainly on my chest as I slowly turn around on my bottom and using my hands pull and slide myself along the terrace. I pause beside my spear and lay it upon my chest trying to loop the quiver strapping around the shaft. After several attempts, I give up. I continue my sliding and by the middle of the day, I am at the end of the terrace closet to the hedge. The ends are a slant where the original gradient of the ground is cut out like a small cliff face. I slide to the edge of the terrace and then hitch my bottom a little higher to catch the edge of the original sloping ground, I fail and slide back, catching myself. My eyes stare wide at the drop to the next terrace. My heart races as I know, in my present condition falling, could end me. I can’t stay here. Taking a deep breath, I heave and swing again; my bottom clears the terrace edge and lands beyond on the sloping ground.

With my almost perfect view, the hedgerow being better, I spy two groups, one from the East and one from the West converge on the village. I curse under my breath, hurry and slide, uphill is slow and tiring although that could be due to blood loss, which reminds me my waterskin waits for me under the hedge.

Approaching the hedge and my waterskin, I notice the two groups hurry. They have spotted each other and are now in a footrace, my time grows shorter again. I take a deep drink from my waterskin and place it on my chest. I slide higher, beyond the hedgerow.

I glimpse both groups arrive at the edge of the village and each bend over sucking in deep breaths and then I lose sight of them as I continue to slide. My blood loss has stopped, even the thigh, which I didn’t expect, therefore no blood trail. With this encouragement I continue until I am amongst the edge foliage of the tree grove, I can hear the bubbling of the stream as yells and calls go out about discovering a body. I hope this is Kog’s on the lower terrace and I hope this keeps them busy, discussing, arguing and deciding before they continue to search.

I am four body lengths into the grove when another shout goes up, I suspect they have found the Chief’s body. This means they have one terrace to go. OuzOuz looks like a Chief, dresses like a Chief his death should occupy them longer than Kog’s. I continue to slide backwards, my arms tiring.

While by the stream sipping water another shout goes up, they have found Muz. I need a place to hide.

I continue sliding up fighting against the slope of the land, towards the headwaters of the stream. If the groups near the killing sites need to refill their waterskins they will probably head directly for the stream, near enough in line with the hedgerow. I don’t doubt those in the village will refill closer to where they are, the village’s position would have been selected due to the location of permanent water. It is the investigators or the inquisitive I need to worry about.

Sliding on your bottom allows you to examine every possible location close to the ground and I decide upon a slight stone overhang in the middle of the stream to slip under. The stream flows over the stone shelf forming a modest curtain of water. The bottom of my leather pants and back of my leather shirt are wet by the time I am finally at rest. Conveniently I only need to lean out into the curtain of water to drink my fill, while the cool flowing water also soothes my hands. I chew on a strip of dried meat next while laying back and taking my first rest since the start of the battle. I know the dagger in my thigh needs to be removed, at present, battle excitement and survival relief numb the pain so I choose to sleep while I can.

The ache in my thigh wakes me into the darkness of night. The gurgling of water, night insects and an occasional rustling in the ground vegetation, the serenade of a perfectly normal evening. I strain to hear any voices and fail, the curtain of water destroying any attempt. I think upon my thigh wound, and luck, the dagger missing the major artery and my foot, walking was already going to be a challenge with the thigh, adding the foot … oh no. My boot. They must have it … they know I am wounded and at the very least hobbling and therefore still nearby … it can only be a matter of time before a search starts.

I need to make for the brambles and not leave any tracks they can follow. This stream should originate from the same valley the bramble tunnel opening ends in. I should be able to slide higher and once in the brambles slide low under them … I need to remove the dagger from my thigh, the handle will catch with each slide …

I take the leather belt my quiver attaches to in my mouth and bite down. I feel for the knife and pull, the grunt from my throat is still loud as pain shoots through me, yet I remain conscious. I blink and then in the dark try to remember how I tied the bandage around my leg and retie to cover the hole the dagger made. I wipe away the blood by feel, there is an initial gush, a slowing and then seeping. Without light, I won’t be able to do better.

Ensuring everything is back on my chest I slide out from under my rock. Siting up, I untie the quiver belt, thread the loose end through the bow and lay the spear shaft next to it, tying them both to the quiver. I then tie the remaining lengths together to make a second loop which I pull over my head, so the quiver, bow and spear are as flat as possible and secure on my chest. I place the two flint daggers and the bronze knife in the quiver also. I remember in that moment Kog, and the arrow through his neck. More evidence.

I cross my wounded foot’s ankle over my good foot’s ankle and begin sliding backwards in the dark, fully expecting at the very least severe bruising on my bottom and more cuts on my hands as I utilise the shallow stream on one side of me as a guide.

False dawn breaks and I judge my progress. I’m not at the brambles yet although they aren’t far away or at least the transition of hillside vegetation to brambles. As for my thigh, the bandage isn’t perfect but to undo and retie would mean more bleeding and for the time being, the bloodstain is stable, goblins heal well. My foot is in a similar state, although the bandage is in a better position. I have grown accustomed to the level of pain, or my wounds don’t hurt as much as I thought they would, either way, I can continue.

As dawn breaks the feeling of exposure to those in the village below weighs heavy on me. They are distant except I know they will be hunting me now; they have plenty of evidence to know whoever killed the three is still nearby as their attacker must be limping. A simple exercise to continuously widen out the search throughout the day. Sunlight, the warmth welcome … my heart freezes, I hurry to pull back my spear through the quiver belt loop. The head is copper and can easily reflect sunlight. Taking the bronze knife from the quiver I slice off a length of my leather pants leg and then wrap the piece around the spear point, tying it off with a thin strip I cut off as well. I return everything and then begin my sliding once again.

The brambles are sparse and other vegetation grows amongst them, probably due to the water nearby. I skirt along until the brambles dominate and lay prone to attempt my first slide, I must wriggle snake-like and occasionally reach into the brambles with my hands to grab strong branches to pull on. I examine the trail I leave, to the untrained eye they could believe the tracks belonged to the slithering of a giant wide belly snake. The trained eye would backtrack to the stream and spot my handprints which will give me away. My one hope is they are inept and believe in some sort of snake with limbs … yeah, right, fat chance as most tribal goblins are hunters.

When my eyes can no longer penetrate the brambles to see the outside world, I consider myself far enough in, now to slither West and hopefully slide into the tunnel. I reward my progress with a swing of water, another portion of dry meat and a short rest. I catch some words, yelling or shouts which make no sense. There could be a hundred tribesmen or five making the noise. A splash of water hits the top of my head, then a stream flows around my body and the depth is increasing. Rain runoff from higher in the mountains same as Flint Arrows tribal lands. Depending upon the rainfall this could mean death. I slide along, the water flow and incline of the land against me, but I must find a break in the brambles overhead before the water rises above the current bottom level of the brambles.

The spot I settle on is an improvement in height to what I have been sliding under, the biggest advantage is its width and length, I can hook my legs up and drag my torso higher as well to lay on a cross branch on the edge. Now I can imagine this sheet of water falling upon the village, no, the terraces, they must capture the flow and divert it either side of the village somehow …

I lose the day but at least I don’t drown hung up like I am. My tired arms ache for release as do other muscles groups and I lower myself into a moist mud. The softness is surprising, a deep drink from my waterskin satisfies my thirst and without the distraction of doing anything, I succumb almost instantly to sleep.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

---

In a sleep-daze, I swat the tickle from my nose until one time too many and I wake. My eyes flash from one side to the other, up and across and in every direction, I look, are young green leaves. The dead grey-brown rough wood carries life to its branches in a spectacular way. The leaves also camouflage the branches … my slow-going will be even slower as I need to confirm I am not going to bump into something solid.

I wriggle … and slide, slipping down the incline and reach out above me trying to find a branch. My hands suffer stings and I withdraw them quickly digging my one good heel into the mud to steady myself. The green leaves conceal barbs on the leaves themselves and developing thorns on the branches. I shut my eyes. I open my eyes, and this isn’t a nightmare, this is real. Warm tears moisten my eyes and then stream down my cheeks …

I cry out my hopeless situation, my near-death multiple times during the battle and the fact I am certain the hunt is on, to find me. There is no escape unless I keep moving, to move will involve suffering pain and enduring beyond an impossible threshold to continue again …

The brambles draw blood from my hands with a sting, the minimum price. I continue; this is beyond returning for others, Lord Hob, Koria Keen Eye and my sister-wives this is for me. To die a mystery, forgotten except for solemn remembrance on special occasions is not going to be my fate. I move forward a hand width distance at a time, I must preserve my head from further injury, now unable to suffer the same pain as my hands. This slow pace also means I don’t slide towards the open world and the hunt.

Sleep comes easy.

---

I stare at my hands, the green of my skin now shows different splashes of black, not all my blood, I am slow and careful to reduce the wounding and avoid blood loss. These are stains, rubbing doesn’t remove the colour and my water is for drinking, not for washing my hands. Slow hand movements take my fingers into the green foliage and careful positioning avoids the spikes to harvest a curious black-blue fruit, long due to bubbles upon bubbles of growth building upon each other. I nibble the end. A burst of sweetness explodes on the tip of my tongue. After all this suffering, is this your secret? I finish the first and wait for the plant to kick me down as is its nature … nothing except childish giggles of delight as I pick another … and another … and another.

My journey sliding on my back this day becomes more tolerable, the more fruit I consume the more my body welcomes and while progress is slow the travel is tolerable instead of toil. In this way, I slide into the tunnel, yet the space isn’t clear, leaves from the surrounding branches reach across trying to smoother the void. I wonder if the secret door at either end stands out as dead patches amongst green or do leaves invade even them. There is no trespass of the tunnel as the leaves are whole and hearty … I can’t walk in any case so I keep sliding, this time I can sit up slightly and walk my hands because the leaves reaching across don’t make contact. My quicker pace and picking now sparse fruit counterbalance to maintain my previous intake, which my body thanks me for recovering condition and energy.

Chatter and words, with emotion and exclamation rush towards me, there is nothing I can do except wait …

Goblin males wielding spear-like poles slash down either side of the tunnel decapitating the stems supporting the leaves, their muscle memory actions take them past me before they notice enough to halt. There are no introductions.

“Those following will take care of you.”

They swing their poles and continue.

A rush of children follows next, they pick at the fallen leaves scoffing the fruit bounty they claim. Some pause to stare and then hurry on keen not to miss out …

A mix of older male goblins and all ages of female goblins crowd around me and then flow on. A cursory glance by one produces an announcement of sorts.

“Oba, stitching required here!” A smile and a pat on my head and then gone, following the others.

The older females, in the quiet tail of the procession next and one, knees down beside me.

“Oba?” I ask.

A kind smiling nod confirms as she opens a leather sack and removes several needles, settling on a small one first, threading a curious string. I am about to question when she explains.

“You like those bramble berries I see, good … good they will help.”

Her hands flash by before my eyes can follow. The wound on my foot takes the hit and yet the pain I thought would flare up whimpers to a dull ache.

A knowing smile and then she gets to work. Gentle old fingers remove my bandage, which she folds and sets upon a bramble leaf. Inspecting the cut, she nods to herself and threads a string.

I touch her shoulder. “Can we boil them in water? Infection,” I say. How do I explain infection?

“Do you see any corruption in your wound?”

I shake my head, confident the explanation rests with my bandage.

“The bramble fruit, so sweet, like honey prevents corruption in wounds and if enough is eaten assists your body fighting it. All will be well.” She offers me a leather roll and I take it, ignoring countless blood and saliva stains of however many others have previously done the same thing. I convince myself the blackening is from the berries as I bite down.

She slices open the wound and my jaw clenches to muffle my scream. Not all just a cut here and a cut there, like a dance and with purpose. She then places my foot between her bent over legs, just behind her knees and folds my foot so the two sides of my wound are flush. Some adjustment and then she starts stitching. Individual threads or loops, each one stinging, seven in all.

“I normally finish by smearing bramble fruit over the wound, your blood though is as good. Now the thigh.”

I remove all I carry and finally lift my buttocks so my pants can be rolled down below my knees, a well-practised manoeuvre required when I needed to release my water.

“You are lucky!” She leans the crown of her head towards me. “Please rub this one’s old head, for luck!”

For several heartbeats, my two hands rub her head, much to her delight.

“Wise to leave the knife in, otherwise too much blood loss while the other open wound bleeds. How many days ago?”

“I am guessing, maybe five?”

She leans back, whistling while shaking her head. I can offer no further explanation; how do you explain the truth?

“You heal well. I suspected as much from the foot, although they are funny things sometimes, healing differs greatly between wounds and between bodies. I still haven’t worked out why. Thighs though, muscle, much blood they heal the same and yours has done much healing in five days. I will need to cut unless you want a huge scar?”

I shake my head. Although under clothing or armour most of the time, when I am undressed others will single out the wound and draw the wrong type of attention to me.

“You will still have a scar, perhaps more …” Her hands wiggle about, I believe she is searching for the right word. “Bad bum!”

I chuckle and wrap my mouth around the leather roll. After her cutting is complete, she grabs my hands and under her guidance, I hold the two halves of my flesh together while she stitches. Fourteen of them. Fourteen stings which my growling throat and clenching teeth do nothing to reduce the pain.

Scrubbing bramble fruit over her needle and leather roll she returns both to her bag. Her frail-looking body climbs slowly until with a sigh she is upright.

“Your body for better or worse has healed the deep flesh. My cuts permitted some adjustment to improve the appearance of the scar. Cut the upper toe out of your right boot and pull it onto your left. With the stitches tight in a shoe, they should have enough support to allow you to use your spear as a crutch to assist your right leg and hobble.”

“Why the rush before?”

“The rumours of the slaying of Chief OuzOuz and the hunt for his … erm well some say, murderer, others say hero dragged many different tribesmen to the village where his body lay. So many in fact the elders of our village decided to go deep into the mountains to hack a tunnel. With the water, all know the brambles bloom and the way the secret doors are cut and shaped for a time after, they will be obvious, the spot will appear dead. It takes time for the canopy to grow over the top of the brambles. Exposure to the sun allows fast-growing and fast spread … the villagers who just ran by are escaping while they can.”

“How do your people know about cutting the doors?”

She cackles. “We hide our people and at times our animals, sometimes other things in the brambles when the Chief or his petty servants visit demanding this and that, regardless of what the village needs, but the time after the mountain rains is always dangerous.”

“The Blood Suns are really two tribes in one then, aren’t they?” I ask.

“There aren’t many villages in the middle of the Blood Suns Tribal Lands as over time they either joined the villagers near the mountain range or joined the berserk warriors near the borders.” Her eyes shine. “Yes, two tribes in one and now no more, no chief.” She glances at me making brief eye contact. “And lands overrun.”

“You won’t tell?”

“It won’t matter what I say, wherever you go for many days you will limp on the foot for which they have a boot that perfectly matches your cut. Surviving your other wound is the more heroic and yet you may be able to cover that one up. Especially if you pull your pants up and stitch the leather.” She hands me a needle, turns and ambles down the tunnel.

---

“Duzsia, wife of Klug you return!” Tor rushes to embrace me and assist me into the cave proper, leading me from the top of the stone steps. Once inside his daughter rushes to hand me a wooden cup full of water, while the granddaughter fossicks.

My two under armpit walking sticks lean against the wall of the cave, my bow, quiver and spear lean beside them before I drop into the makeshift wooden seat Tor offers.

I look about. “Where is Pud?”

“We released him, so he could continue his good work.” As I am about to protest, he waves me down. “Every village he ‘frees’ will need to stop here for rest before going on. I check with the Head Goblin to make sure Pud hasn’t violated the spirit of our arrangement while allowing himself a reasonable profit.”

“You are wiser than I and I am glad we met.”

“You know Ten Spears?”

A nod and sit up.

“They visited, some days ago and convinced many to be escorted to the Farm under their protection. They asked about you. I didn’t know them so my response … guarded. I am sorry. They were willing to wait, I convinced them not to by saying no one knew when you would return if at all.”

“You did the right thing.” I would have been hobbling and slowing the entire column, making everyone nervous, which could lead to tension, panic and chaos. No best they left without me.

“Most talk about a heroic melee where a single goblin, obviously the biggest and strongest, definitely a loner, defeated a certain Chief and his two berserk bodyguards after they consumed mead. They have his boot, sliced clean through by one of the three, supposedly the only wound suffered … I notice the wound on your foot and if I can put a wound and a boot together, many others will as well. All search for you, their intentions unknown.”

His daughter leans against him. “Stay. You can lurk about in the caves until you’re fully healed, and we will keep strangers away …”

The granddaughter hands me a bowl of bramble fruit and I laugh, loud and long.