Chapter 2 - Chasing Death.
He ran with bent-kneed, loping surety, his breath as deliberate as each stride. The scent of moss, moist earth, and flourishing sycamore urged him to hold tight to life. 'Focus on the task,' he thought over and over, 'you need only one more.' His hands worked at a decisive pace, the knife straightening the shaft, notching both ends, one a bit deeper than the other. He slipped the knife back into its sheath, fished an arrowhead and a bit of string out of a pocket, and began securing it to the shaft. The fletching went on last, his fingers trembling out of sheer adrenaline.
He pirouetted behind the trunk of a tree and drew his bow. He strung it, quick and dirty, the shaft of the arrow clutched in his bared teeth. He placed the arrow on the string and turned back the way he had come, raising the bow. The sound of the bowstring slapping his armored forearm rang in his ears. The shot was good, striking a pursuer where the armor ends and the neck begins. The man went down, clutching at the arrowshaft and screaming. He drew, aimed, and shot again by the time the screaming started, and a second man crumpled to the ground, an arrow through his knee. The last was as precisely placed as the prior two, the shaft passing through the final pursuer below the ribs, the arrowhead ripping through the liver.
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'A grim task,' he thought while he ignored the screaming, cursing, and whimpering that issued from the three men. He wiped sweat from his forehead and drew his knife, moving to deliver mercy. He saw that they were young, and well armed and armored. Solders then, not sellswords, though they wore no blazon to distinguish their loyalty. As he drew closer, the third man expired. The first followed soon after in a wheezing gurgle. The second man sobbed into the forest detritus, clutching his shattered knee. He noticed that they'd had crossbows, the strings still drawn. He must have surprised them with his abrupt about-face. If they had been ready for his assault, this would have ended differently.
He propped his bow against the trunk of a tree and jogged the last few yards to the second man. He swatted the bowl-style helmet off the man's head and grabbed him by the hair. He lifted the man upright and pulled his head back, his knife resting against the man's throat. The twang of a crossbow followed the crack of a quarrel striking him in the back of the head. He had made a mistake in the miles-long chase, miscounting the number of pursuers. He crumpled to the ground, not knowing of his misstep, not knowing of the pain, not realizing that he was now free.