Dolwen had killed the man, he was certain of it. The last blow that felled him was thrown with strength that welled up inside him like wet fire. His knuckles still ached hours later in the cart, broken fingers and toes carefully maneuvered as he laid under the blanket and the straw. He couldn't get the taste of blood out of his mouth, and figured that he probably didn't deserve to anyways.
From the south, the sound of horses pounding hooves on muddy grass echoed up from the darkness. Within minutes, the rattled breathing of sick horses was close. Peeking out from the side of the wagon, Dolwen saw a pair of riders growing close, outlined by the dim light of a lantern. The driver drew the cart to a stop to the protest of the donkey, and they waited in silence for a moment.
He was supposed to have taken the fall. Of course, hearing the burly boxer they put him up against spit 'knife-eared boy-lover' at him had lit a fire. That insult had earned him a permanent home in a Garden of Morr. Being struck with that much force had shook the brain and flooded his nose with blood, he thought. The man had suffocated while passed out in the care of his friends. That just made a bad situation worse. He'd jumped out the window and took off into the night when he'd heard. Dolwen never even knew his name, just that he had to hit him until he stopped moving. Mission success, he thought.
It would have been so much easier if he had just stayed with the crew, on the sea. The petty argument that led to his departure was so long ago. But, of course, his pride had clouded his judgment, like it always had. It had led him into this dark mess, too.
"I don't have much," said the old driver as the riders came abreast of him. He turned the knob on his lamp, widening it and diffusing the light about them and the straw. Dolwen could see their faces. He knew them from the basement. They were the ones who told him to throw the fight.
"We don't want your money, old man," one said loudly. "We're looking for an elf."
"Oh, my. Haven't seen an elf in years. Have you tried the forest?"
"Don't act stupid with us," the other rider scoffed. "We know you have him."
"We'll make it worth your while," one said. He smiled and took a gold Karl out of his breast pocket, shiny and new. It glinted tantalizingly in the dim lamplight.
The driver stared. And then, slowly, curled his finger and pointed into the cart.
That was his cue. He burst from the hay and out of the cart, clutching Cleavy in his hand. On fleet foot he sprinted for the woods, dodging within. A mighty rush of air flicked past his ears, and up ahead, an arrow planted itself into the sod. His elf eyes lit the forest for him in the scattered moonlight, guided his feet and hands, ducking beneath boughs and grasping hands of ragged trees. Was this what he was missing, being a city elf and then a sailor? The trees seemed to warn him, whispering the place of sharp rocks and the place of gnarled roots.
"You owe us twelve silver, knife-ears!" they shouted after him. He could hear the braying of their horses, dismayed by the even ground. The arrows weren't, however. Another slipped by him on a ribbon of air, cutting a branch ahead and spinning wild, lost in the dark. He made a hard left onto a wide path and kept going. He glanced back over and over, but no sound followed him. Dolwen kept running, even when his breath was about to give out.
To his right, at a crossroads, he saw a makeshift sign, arrows and boards stuck together like a piece of scrap metal. Whatever was on it, he didn't know, but a symbol of a wide plateau and a castle was crudely etched in one of the boards. Middenheim. A big city. A great place to lose them.
He kept going. No time to stop, now.
