The cold air burned Marek's lungs as he ran. Branches whipped his face and arms, leaving thin stinging cuts he barely felt. His boots skidded on wet leaves and loose stones.
Three days ago, he had owned a good horse, a steel dagger, and a purse heavy enough with gold to pay for lodging anywhere in the realm. Then the Hill Tribe had found him traveling through their land.
They had not killed him. That had been a choice, and he still did not know why. They took his horse, his weapons, his food, and his gold. They left him face-down in the mud with a cracked rib and a split lip. He had walked for two days after that, moving in shadows, keeping to the treeline, eating berries that gave him cramps and drinking from streams that tasted of iron.
