After hearing the thin rogue and large swordsman discussing stealing his white oak bow, Jack didn’t wait to hear more. He turned on his heels and sprinted towards Lundun as fast as he could, picking up small cuts and scrapes from low-hanging branches.

  Fuck! It’s a five-mile run. Fuck! His thoughts were cut short by a noise behind him. He didn’t look back. Instead, he kept running, while small scratches and bruises reminded him of the danger. Damn it! Why is my luck so bad? he cursed, unsheathing his dagger. The rough handle felt good in his hand.

  As he ran for his life, he considered each of the six adventurers’ threat levels. Think logically… they won’t all be chasing me. It might be one or two of them. He figured the large swordsman wouldn’t keep up, nor would the fighter with a shield, or the woman nursing an injured leg. Jack concluded those three wouldn’t be a threat in the short term. Stay calm. I handled a goblin on my own. That thought filled him with a small burst of pride and confidence.

  Although he wasn’t very fast or fit, he wasn’t pacing himself for a long run, or avoiding branches or other obstacles. He could tell he’d increased the gap between him and his pursuers, but he wouldn’t be able to maintain this pace for very long. He had maybe minutes before they caught up.

  Another branch hit him in the face, leaving a small, stinging cut. He pushed down the rising panic as he continued to analyse the situation. I think there was a mage and a healer… they’re unlikely to give chase, he reasoned. By a process of elimination, he came to the conclusion that he was being pursued by only one of the adventurers. It had to be the thin ratty man with a shortsword, dagger, and bow. The other five adventurers might be following at a distance, or if he was lucky, they’d underestimate him and not follow at all.

  As he reached the edge of the forest and the wildflower meadow, he realised that stepping out from the trees would leave him exposed to a shot in the back from the rogue. Instead, he stayed near the forest’s edge, scouting for an ambush point. He soon found one. It was a large tree that had fallen over, revealing its tangled roots.

  The root pit will work as a hiding spot. He glanced back to check for pursuers. Seeing no one, he ducked behind the tangled roots and hid among the dirt and dangling debris. I have to control my breathing, he thought, as his heavy, noisy breaths reminded him he was still in danger.

  Jack crouched in the darkest spot he could find in the root well. He felt the damp, humus-rich soil beneath his knees. He was partially hidden by the upturned roots of the fallen tree, tangled with grass and forest debris. It wasn’t the perfect hiding place, but it would have to do. The alternative was to take his chances running through a meadow with a bow-wielding rogue on his heels!

  He gripped his dagger in one hand and his bow in the other, ready for whatever came next. Taking deep breaths, he tried to remain calm. I’m not the prey. I’m the hunter, he told himself, focusing on slowing his breathing. He thought of what would happen to his family if he didn’t stop Greaves. I can’t fail.

  Around thirty seconds later, the snap of branches broke the silence. His pursuer was close.

  Jack was still struggling for breath, so he took a few deep breaths and forced his breathing to slow while sheathing his dagger. Shit, my lungs feel like they are going to implode! Struggling to stay quiet as he nocked an arrow with dirty, shaking hands, he snatched another deep breath. You can do this, Jack. Believe you can do this. His hands trembled as he drew the bowstring back, praying his pursuer would appear before he had to gulp for air again.

  His shallow breaths sounded deafening in the stillness. I’m too loud. His heartbeat pounded in his ears like a loud drum. Fuck! He’s going to hear me!

  As the arrow was almost drawn, his pursuer, a thin man in brown armour and a dark cloak, jogged past the upturned tree and into the meadow, bow in hand.

  Don’t turn around, Jack thought as he activated True Aim and began silently counting to six.

  One… two…

  The rogue stopped just outside the forest’s edge, about fifteen feet from the fallen tree’s root pit.

  Three… four…

  The thin rogue turned, confusion evident across his ratty face. Jack steadied his breathing as best he could, willing himself to stay hidden.

  Five…

  His lungs screamed for deep gulps, but were fed shallow sips of precious air. The rogue spotted him and pulled an arrow from his quiver much smoother and faster than Jack could.

  Jack tried to steady his breathing while aiming for the rat’s heart. “Six…” He let the arrow fly before gasping for breath while fumbling for another arrow from his quiver.

  There was a small thud as the True Aim empowered arrow struck the rogue in the gut. The rogue yelped in pain, dropped his bow and arrow, and clutched the wound with both hands. Dropping to his knees, he stared at Jack in shock.

  Got you, you ratty bastard. Jack gulped for air and drew back his bow. He loosed the arrow as he shook and gulped for breath. His vision was narrowing due to a lack of oxygen.

  The arrow flew wide, disappearing into the knee-high grass and wildflowers. “Shit!” Jack swore in panic. With fear-filled, shaking hands, he pulled another arrow from his quiver. His hands refused to stay still! Trembling, he tried to nock the arrow, fumbling the action.

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  The rogue, still kneeling, appeared to realise his injury wasn’t life-threatening. He grabbed his bow and pulled an arrow from his quiver. He flinched in pain as he tried to nock the arrow, causing a short delay.

  Still gasping for breath, Jack abandoned the arrow in his hand, drew his dagger, and stumbled out of the gnarled cradle of roots. His progress slowed as he struggled to free himself from the twisting roots while battling against exhaustion and fear.

  Grunting in pain and with a panicked expression, the rogue managed to nock and fire an arrow before Jack could reach him.

  Struggling for air, Jack discarded his white oak bow as it became tangled in the tree’s roots. As he pulled himself out of the mess of roots, the rogue’s arrow grazed his right arm.

  The rogue swore with a lisp, “Thuck!” At missing, while reaching for another arrow.

  Jack hissed in pain and, like the goblin he’d fought less than thirty minutes earlier, he discarded all survival instincts; he charged forward with reckless abandon at the still kneeling rogue.

  The second adrenaline rush in under an hour had depleted his energy reserves; his entire body felt spent, his arms were lead weights, and his lungs begged for another gulp of air.

  The kneeling rogue had nocked and drawn another arrow. With wide, fear-filled eyes and flinching in pain, he loosed the arrow at his dagger-wielding enemy.

  The arrow tore into Jack’s side, almost passing all the way through. He gasped in pain as he felt the serrated tip rip into soft flesh just below his rib cage, yet he didn’t abandon his reckless charge. Gritting his teeth and ignoring the nausea-inducing agony, he swung his dagger towards the rogue’s neck.

  The rogue attempted to block Jack’s dagger with his bow while trying to unsheathe his shortsword. As the rogue’s bow parried the dagger strike, Jack’s momentum sent them tumbling into the wildflowers at the forest’s edge. Soon, arms, legs, the rogue’s bow, a dagger, and a shortsword became entangled in a struggle for dominance.

  Both Jack and the ratty rogue grunted in pain as the arrows in their side and gut snapped while they rolled through the grass and wildflowers. Jack clutched his dagger, and the rogue his shortsword, while the bow and arrows were lost in the ensuing scuffle.

  Jack held the rogue’s shortsword at bay with his left hand, while the rogue held Jack’s dagger with his right. It was a temporary stalemate that wouldn’t last more than a few moments.

  As the two fought for their lives amid the wildflowers, the butterflies and bees continued to gather nectar to see them through the night. It was their own, more subdued, struggle for survival in this harsh world.

  Jack, still gasping for breath, headbutted the thin, ratty man on the bridge of the nose, causing a loud cracking noise and blood to pour from his now broken nose.

  As they rolled over once again, Jack found himself on top. He wrenched his dagger-wielding arm away from the rogue’s grip and drove the dagger towards the rogue’s neck.

  The panic-stricken rogue raised his left arm in defence, where Jack’s dagger found a home through the thin man’s left wrist.

  As the rogue screamed in pain, Jack put all his weight into the dagger to drive it through the man’s wrist and towards the rogue’s grimacing face.

  The thin rogue dropped his shortsword and concentrated on pushing his assailant away with both hands. “Helthp!” he shouted in a panicked tone as six inches of the bloody blade protruding from his wrist moved towards his ratty face.

  Jack grabbed the dagger with both hands and, with what little strength he had left, pushed towards the vermin’s throat. The palm of his hand stung as if he’d gripped a sharp thorn.

  The rogue’s grunts of panic turned into a gurgling splutter as the dagger, still stuck in the rogue’s wrist, found its home in his neck. Blood cascaded from the rogue’s carotid artery as Jack tore his dagger free while falling back among the grass and wildflowers.

  The thin rogue looked on in horror, both hands now trying to stem the flow of blood.

  Still clutching his blood-soaked weapon, Jack climbed to his hands and knees, exhausted.

  The rogue rolled to his side while blood streamed from the fatal wound. He gargled something unintelligible while trying to stem the flow of blood; his life was slipping away.

  Jack didn’t care what the rogue was trying to say, probably begging for his life. He crawled the few feet to the dying man and plunged his blood-soaked dagger back into his throat, twisting it to end him. His right hand stung again, but he ignored it as he took deep, ragged breaths and tried not to pass out from exhaustion.

  As life left the thin rogue, Jack again felt a wave of power pass through him. A small, but not insignificant, fraction of his fatigue faded, granting him some reprieve. He gasped with relief as some of his tiredness dissipated and his vision cleared.

  “Fuck! That was… awful,” he croaked as he took deep breaths to both calm himself and inhale the much-needed air he’d been deprived of.

  The fight had lasted a minute or two, but with the goblin battle and the frantic sprint through the forest, it felt like hours of relentless running and fighting at full speed.

  I just want to sleep, he thought as he looked at the dead man before him. But he couldn’t afford to rest. “Damn it, there are five more of them.” He scanned the forest for any sign of the other adventurers. The trees swayed in the warm evening breeze, indifferent to the bloody corpse lying before them; there was no movement beyond the fluttering leaves and the buzz of nearby bees.

  With trembling hands, Jack sheathed his bloodied dagger and began gathering the scattered items from the fight. Several dozen arrows lay nearby, spilt from their quivers during the struggle. Jack stuffed as many as he could into his own quiver, slung the rogue’s bow over his shoulder, and dragged the thin rogue’s corpse towards the root ball hole.

  Though it felt like hours, it was less than a minute before Jack reached the fallen tree’s roots, gasping for breath and grunting in pain. The broken arrow shaft lodged in his side stung with every exertion, a sharp reminder of his injuries.

  After a struggle, he managed to haul the corpse into the deep hollow left by the uprooted tree. He paused, taking deep breaths to steady himself. He glanced at the trail left by the body’s drag marks. “Damn it! Why can’t I ever have any good luck?” he muttered, crawling back out of the hole.

  For the next minute, he worked to obscure the signs of the dead body’s drag marks. It wasn’t perfect, but with the sun setting on the far side of the forest, he hoped the growing shadows would conceal most of his tracks. I hope none of them have tracking skills.

  The area was already crisscrossed with animal trails and paths worn by adventurers, making it difficult to determine the cause of the disturbance.

  Jack crawled back into the root well, careful not to leave an obvious trail. “Damn it,” he whispered again as he spotted his white oak bow dangling from the nearby roots. After retrieving the bow, he struggled to remove the dead rogue’s cloak, then stuffed the body into the deepest, darkest part of the hollow along with his own pack and most of the rogue’s belongings.

  He kept his bow, quiver, and the rogue’s shortsword within reach, ready for another fight.

  Lying beside the corpse, Jack draped the dark cloak over them both as best he could, leaving a small gap to peer through. Fuck, this is creepy, he’s still warm! He thought, while shivering at the feeling.

  Jack took slow, deliberate breaths, waiting for what might come next.

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