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 from crashing through branches reminded him of the danger. Damn it! Why is my luck so bad? He unsheathed 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. Fuck! A sharp bramble caught the back of his left hand as he ran. 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.

  “Ow!” 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. 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.

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  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’re 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. He looked down at the grass where Jack had been.

  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.

  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 release an arrow before Jack could break free of the tree roots and 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!” 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.