Escape

You hear the faint trickling of a stream a few meters away, deep somewhere in the forest. The trees block the light of the nearly full moon, leaving you shrouded in darkness. Each stone, each tree another obstacle to dodge as you sprint by with ease. “Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!” But they’re still closing on you. Weaving between trees in the forest, you can hear the arrows smacking into trees behind you and whistling by your head. Any false move could leave you dead. But it’s too late. You’re already free. The ground leaves your feet as you fly over a sudden edge, leaping forward with all your might and plunging into the sloshing, foamy, white and blue depths below. The impact sucks the air from your lungs, the cold instantly numbs your hands and feet. Now is the hard part. You clench your body into a ball the best you can, pulling your bound hands from behind your back to under your legs and in front of your body, while carefully holding your breath. After tearing your cloth bindings on a sharp rock, you finally rise to the surface of the tossing ocean. Where is it? Scanning your surroundings, you see smoke rising from a small rock about a half kilometer southeast. It must be. You summon your strength, take a deep breath, and begin to tear through the water, swimming like your life depended on it. Because it did, of course. As you swim you continue to hear distinct noises behind you, little splashes and plunks, once covered by the violent waves crashing against the Cliffside, are now quite clear. You stop to turn and investigate, only to be struck in the shoulder with a serrated arrow from an archer atop the cliff. You gasp out in pain as blood begins to rush from your wound, replaced by the stinging of salt water. You do the only thing you could do. You dive. Still headed in the direction of the rock, you hope. Seeing the occasional arrow stream through the water within a few meters and only coming up for air when absolutely necessary, you finally reach your destination. You’re out of the archer’s range now. A rope hangs from the top of the rock, fresh and unfrayed, the back end of a grappling hook just barely visible against the moonlight above. You grip the rope and begin to climb. Your palms rip and tear on the rope, you slip and cut your feet on the rocks, but you finally reach the top. One chance. As you reach the top of the rock you look across at the coast nearest to you. Atop the cliff sits a castle. Even from this far, you can still hear the faint screams of the tortured prisoners, those being burned alive, or drowned slowly, or stretched on a rack. Just the noises are enough to haunt a man, but You? It fills you with rage, it reminds you why you’re here, why you’ve done this, why you have an arrow sticking from your arm and scars all over your body. You approach the flame. One bow. One arrow. Wrapped in cloth and soaked in oil. You take a deep breath, and take up your arms. Knocking and lighting your arrow, you recall exactly where in the courtyard the barrels of pitch sit in preparation for the battle that’s supposed to take place tomorrow. You draw. Inhale. Exhale. “Thwick!” A bright light streams through the air, and a few seconds after it leaves your sight, you see the castle go up in flames. With a smile, you lay down on the rock. It’s over. You get to go home.

~A.B.