Blood and Strength - Part 13
It wouldn't have been before, but now he could hear the gates start to open up again behind him. He threaded the arm over his shoulder, and pulled it in place as best he could, over the top of his back. And then… he tried to stand.
He did so with frightened ease. He'd felt the full weight of the man as he tried to drag him with a single arm, and the word 'heavy' did not begin to describe it. But the second his legs and back got involved, the man seemed practically weightless.
It was awkward to hold a man of that size in place with just a single arm, and his legs kept moving, and threatening to fall off with each step that he took, but Vol figured that at the very least, it would be better than confronting fully drawn bows at such close distance with his back exposed to them.
The gates pulled even further open. It was time to move. Vol set off at a pace that was close to a full sprint.
"THERE HE IS! FIRE!"
"Wait, is that Gareth?"
"Bastard! He's killed Gareth!"
"Fire at him! Go for the arms!"
"But Gareth—"
"He's dead, you fool! Don't let that bastard get away with it!"
The body on his back had an unexpected side effect. He was forty metres away before they worked up the courage to shoot at the body of their already fallen comrade. Vol felt the impact go straight through the body as the first shaft landed. It punched in through his chain mail and then… then it stayed there, or so Vol assumed. Even if it hadn't, it would have had to go through his backpack next, with all its furs.
That first arrow loosened the hesitation of the rest. A whole cloud of them was coming for him now. A few streamed past him, and more ran straight into the body, whilst another, slid straight into his exposed left arm, at a lower part of the shoulder than it had hit before. His thrill was still active, so he did not collapse, but he stumbled nonetheless.
He was fifty metres away, and the first wave had already left the bows. Now he needed speed. A stream of ten guardsmen had already made it out of the gate and were ploughing through the snow after him. From their conversation, he knew that more would be following him on the back of mules.
He let the body slip from his shoulders to the ground, and he sprinted, as fast as he was able, towards the trees, knowing that once he reached them, he'd be able to enact a more measured pace.
His strides came more quickly than they ever had in his life, as he tore up ground. He'd never been fast, always lanky, and clumsy, but strong. Now, he was quite sure he could put the other kids that he'd grown up with to the test. He'd be amongst the best of them now.
The next wave of arrows came, but he was already over a hundred metres away. He had the luxury of being able to look over his shoulder and react to them as he ran. He threw himself to the left, as he had in the street before, and this time he managed to dodge the whole cloud without wounding himself further.
And then he was back to his feet once more, ploughing through the powdery snow like a hungry bear, the sweat flying from his forehead. He hit the trees, and felt only the slightest bit of relief. Those bowmen had put the right amount of fear of arrows in him. His left arm was a mess now. He had no idea what he was going to do with it. He had no experience with healing.
That was a problem for future Vol. For now, he just had to keep running. He dodged the road that he'd used to come to Nookhaven – that would have led him straight back to Bolrif. Instead, he went to the left, taking himself further East, and towards the promise of mountains.
He heard a howl in the distance as a dog pack was given the scent. He felt a shiver from it. Not from the cold. Though his speed and stamina had improved, he had no illusions about being able to outrun hounds.
He'd put some distance between himself and the guards, but he could still hear the cursing and stomping through the woods after him. Yet how long could he keep it up? He was running far faster now than he had when making his journey from Bolrif to Nookhaven. This wasn't a speed that he could hope to maintain for long.
The same, of course, was true of the guards… Unless they came in mounted on snow mules, as they'd threatened to. Snow mules and hounds – they would track him down no matter how far he went.
Then what? Fight? Wait in the woods, and ambush them, cut them down one man at a time?
He stumbled his way up a hill that was closer to being a cliff. His gloved hands scrambled for purchase on the icy rock. His left hand offered no real assistance, other than a prolonged complaint about the pain. It was his right hand that did all the work. He hoped that in hauling himself up something so steep, the mules would at least have a harder time following his tracks, as would the hounds.
The guards caught up to him just as he got over the top.
"There he is! He's climbing up the ridge!"
"Follow him!"
"Fool! He's trapped himself! Run around and cut him off! We'll wait for the mounted team and surround him!"
They ran around as if sure of what they would find there. Vol, of course, was not. This was unexplored territory for him. He went wherever his whims guided him. He struggled back to his feet, after ascending the ridge, and then began to plough through the snow once more. It was even deeper here than elsewhere. It slowed him down something mighty, but he struggled through it, hoping for better ground up ahead.