Kale crashed through the bushes, cursing because of the extra noise, but unable to do anything about it in the near-complete dark.  There was no time to make course-corrections: no time, even, to plan a course.  They were after him - they were right on his heels - and he was running for his life.  

    The ghostly trees appeared in his path faster than he could take note of their existence, rushing at him with the speed of his own flight, and each time he barely managed to avoid them and find a path between their trunks.  Behind him, he could hear the sounds of his pursuers, just a handful of yards behind him.  They were everywhere, almost surrounding him.  He was sure there were two running abreast of him, and a few running behind him, right in his heels.  They weren't gaining, but neither was he, and he knew his strength would give out any time now.  It was a miracle it hadn't already.  

    Tree.  Bush.  Duck.  Jump.  Dodge.  His breath pounded in his lungs, and the fear and panic gave a whine to every time he exhaled.  His muscles burned, but his fear gave an edge and a push that he didn't have normally, and it drove him onwards, farther than he would have been able to normally.  He tripped, fell, rolled, and was on his feet again, driving his feet against the earth the same way he was breathing.  There had ceased to be any sort of grace or exhilaration to running, and now all it was was throb, throb, throb, with each step wondering if he would be able to take another one. 

    They were gaining on him.  That twig that snapped behind him had been closer than the last one.  He thought he could see the two next to him now - between the flickering trees, he caught glimpses of long tangled mats of hair whipping in the wind behind big, burly heads.  They knew, he thought.  They could sense he was giving out, and they were moving in for the kill.  

    Hurry.  Hurry.  Hurry.  He wanted to lay down and die, but he drove himself onward with that word, pouring into it all the fear of the past few months, forcing himself to push even though there was nothing left to push with.  One more step.  Two more steps.  Three more steps.  Must not let them take him.  He must not let himself die - although with every step he took, it became more and more clear to hm that that choice was no longer in his hands.  

    And suddenly... a clearing.  The trees parted, and before he even realized it, he was sprinting across and open space of grass, the moonlight pouring upon his flying feet.  He cried out in surprise as a pale ray of hope entered his mind, and he turned to face his pursuers, raising his sword as he did so.  Let them fight him in the open.  At least then he would be able to see their faces, and he would have some slight, frail chance.    

    They followed him into the clearing, as he had hoped they would, and his spine straightened as he finally was able to see them clearly.  There were five of them, as he had thought, and they were all big and burly, with wicked axes in their hands, and terrifying half-grins on their faces.  They advanced on him in a horseshoe formation, striding up quickly, undaunted by the sword in Kale's hand. 

    Somewhere, some bird of the night cried out in a loud, mournful voice.  Kale listened to it, his heart rate slowing as he did, thinking that the bird might be the only one to ever mourn his death.  And in some strange way, he was satisfied.  Enough that he should hear one last beautiful sound before he died. 

    They were upon him.  In one instant, he had moved from standing still to ducking, parrying, trying to keep his body as far away from the murderous axes as possible.  From time to time he struck out with his own sword, but it was always in vain, for an axe blade always blocked his blow, and he found he had to move will all his speed just to avoid the blows that his attempt had cost him. 

    Something glistened darkly on the grass.  Kale realized with half a thought that it was blood, and he wondered briefly if it was his.  But there was no time to wonder or to even care: he had become an animal of prey, moving because he knew there was nothing left to do but move.  He barely felt human any more.  The axes swung in deadly circles, pursuing him, with the certainty that sooner or later, one of them would find him and cleave him in two.  Would his dead body be anything to them once he was dead, he wondered?  Was he worth anything alive, in fact?  Though he was breathing harder than he had ever breathed in his life, he found space between breaths to laugh bitterly.  Of course not.  Nobody cared about him.  He was worthless, nothing, a no one.  What did it matter if he died? 

By some wild chance, one blow from his sword landed where he had intended, and one of the men fell with a cry to the ground.  He raised his axe in an attempt to protect himself, but Kale slipped his sword past and slew him quickly.  There was only a moment in which to marvel at his good fortune when he was once again running for his life, twisting, turning, ducking, leaping. 

    Something struck the back of his head, not sharply, like the blade he had been expecting, but dully and brutally, like a hammer.  He fell to the grass, wondering what it was that had struck him without killing him, but knowing that it didn't matter now.  Just a matter of seconds, and he was dead anyway. 

    But he wasn't.  He counted to five, and he was still breathing.  He tried to raise his head to try and find the explanation to the seeming lack of activity, but the effort proved too difficult for him.  Apparently, he was wounded worse than he thought. 

    A rough hand reached down and rolled him over onto his back, and in another second, Kale felt a cold blade pressed to his throat.  He opened his eyes, and found himself looking into the face of one of the men, who he assumed must be the leader.  The thing pressed against his skin, he saw, was not an axe as he had supposed it was, but a sword. 

    "I didn't know Howlers carried swords," he said before he could think better of it. 

    The man above him frowned darkly.  "Now is not the time to say stupid things, boy," he said, his voice thick with an accent.  "I'm going to kill you." 

    "You are?" Kale replied.  "Then why haven't you done it already, instead of telling me that you are?"  He squirmed, wishing the sword wasn't so close to his neck so that he would have more room to breathe.  "What do you want with me, anyways?  I've never done you or your people any harm!" 

    One of the men laughed, but the chief moved his hand and silenced the man.  "What does it matter to us what you have or have not done?  We are not concerned with things like that."  He pressed the sword a little harder against Kale's skin.  "What matters is that we want you.  Now choose, boy.  Would you rather die, or are you one of those cowards who would sell his life to prevent his death?  We are always have room for another slave." 

    Kale didn't know if he could breathe.  He supposed he was doing it without thinking about it, but it seemed to him like an impossible action, as if he should have ceased to breathe long ago.  "Neither," he whispered.  "I choose to live as a free man." 

    The chief frowned at him.  "Then I will kill you," he said simply. 

    Kale closed his eyes.  He had been a fool.  He didn't know why he had said what he said, except for the fact that his energy was completely spent, his limbs had worked until they could work no more, and there was no strength left with which to think.  Which, he supposed, meant he was ready to die.  But his heart wasn't ready.  He still resisted it with a furious passion and a despair that made him want to weep.  It was so unfair. 

    "That can't be the reason," he burst out suddenly.  "That can't be the only reason you want me.  There's another reason you want me, isn't there?"  

    He could almost hear the man stop short, even though he made no sound.  "You ask too many questions, and you're a fool to boot," he said.  "If I'd known you would be so much trouble, I wouldn't have chased you so far."  

    "But you did chase me," Kale said.  "And you're not going to kill me.  You know you aren't."  

    The chief cursed violently in some language Kale did not know, and he felt the blade leave his throat.  "No!" he spat out.  "But of course I'm not going to tell you the reason, you dog!  I only wish I could kill you, and silence you forever!  You've been more trouble than I bargained for already!"  

    A kick landed on Kale's side, knocking the wind out of him.  His eyelids fluttered open, and he saw the chief talking quietly with two of his men.  They moved towards him and began to bind his arms and legs.   Kale let them do it without protesting, thankful in a small, absurd way that he wasn't being forced to move.

    After they had finished tying him up, they picked him up roughly and began to carry him out of the clearing, through the forest, in some direction that Kale could not tell.  He drifted in and out of consciousness, so he did not know how long it was until they finally laid him down to rest and left him without bothering to cut his bonds. 

**Note: As my story is still in the making, all names, places, and events may be subject to change.** Copyright 2008 Cherise A. Do not reproduce at all without my express permission. If you like what I do, you can link to me instead.