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.

Now these men were behind him. Not Hill Tribe. Hunters. Or so they had called themselves when they first spotted him crossing an open field that morning. Four of them at first, then six, then eight. They had dogs. One of the dogs had gotten close enough that Marek had kicked it in the ribs, and it had yelped and fallen back. The men had shouted at that, angry but not urgent. Now they were enjoying the chase.

Marek glanced back over his shoulder. The forest here was dense, mostly birch and old pine, but a cleared path ahead marked where logging had occurred years ago. The path would be faster to run on, but it would leave him exposed. He stayed to the side, jumping over a fallen trunk, landing badly on his right ankle. The ankle had been swollen since the morning. He ignored it.

Through the trees, maybe fifty paces back, he saw the first of them—a wide man with a leather cap and a short bow. The man notched an arrow as Marek watched. The motion was slow, deliberate. The man raised the bow.

Marek swerved left just as the arrow released. The shaft passed so close to his ear that he heard the air split. It struck a pine trunk two feet from his head and stuck there, quivering. He did not slow down.

"Don’t lose him!" a voice barked from deeper in the trees—the leader.

Marek had not gotten a good look at the leader’s face, but he knew the voice. It was the same voice that had called out across the field that morning. "Flank left! Push him to the path!"

Marek tried to cut right, away from the path, but two men were already there, moving through the undergrowth with their bows lowered. He changed direction again, back toward the center. His legs were heavy now. The adrenaline that had carried him for the past hours was thinning out, replaced by a cold trembling in his thighs and lower back.

He stepped on a loose stone hidden under wet leaves. His foot slid. His ankle gave out. He stumbled forward, arms flailing, and hit the ground hard on his left shoulder. The impact knocked the air out of him. He rolled onto his back, gasping, and by the time he managed to push himself up to his elbows, the men were already around him.

Two men grabbed his arms. Someone yanked his hood down off his head. Someone else kicked his feet apart so he could not brace himself. They hauled him upright and dragged him ten feet forward to where the ground was clearer, then threw him down again. This time, he landed on his stomach, the wind driven out once more. He tasted dirt and old pine needles.

The leader stepped into view. He was a tall, lean man, with a scarred chin and small, dark eyes. He wore a stained, faded leather jerkin and carried no bow, only a knife strapped to his boot. He squatted down in front of Marek, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and punched him across the face.

The blow landed square on his cheekbone. A sharp crack sounded in his skull, and his vision flashed white for an instant. Warm blood ran from his nose down over his lips.

Marek turned his head and spat blood onto the leader’s boot.

The leader looked down at the red smear on his worn-out boot. His face did not change expression. He drew back his fist and hit Marek again, same cheek, same spot. This time, Marek heard the bone creak. His eyes watered involuntarily.

"You shouldn’t have made us run," the leader said. His voice was calm, almost friendly. "We didn’t want to chase you through the woods all day. That wasn’t considerate."

Marek’s jaw ached so badly he could barely open his mouth. He forced the words out anyway. "What do you want from me?"

The leader stood up, brushing pine needles from his knees. He gestured to one of his men. "Tell him."

The man was younger, clean-shaven, and nervous. "Well, we heard about a certain noble whose father offers a huge sum of gold if found. And guess what?"

Marek didn’t respond.

The young man continued. "You just happen to be the one. And you walked into our field after months of trying to locate you."

"We want to deliver you alive to get the pay. So stop running, and we won’t have to hurt you more than necessary," the leader added.

Marek’s mind worked through the pain. "If you really want gold," Marek said, tasting more blood, "treat me better. Or else, if you take me to my father, I will make sure you never see a single coin. I will tell him you beat me, robbed me, and planned to kill me. He won’t pay a thief."

The leader tilted his head. For a moment, something flickered in his small eyes. Then he laughed, short and flat. "You hear that?" he said to his men. "He’ll make sure we never get paid. Listen to this bloody noble! Still giving orders with his face in the dirt."

One of the men kicked his side. Marek folded in two and groaned in pain.

The leader squatted down again, this time closer, so Marek could smell the stale ale on his breath and the unwashed wool of his jerkin. "I hate your kind," the leader said quietly. "I hate the way you talk. I hate that you think your word means something. I hate that you ran from us for hours like we were beneath you. You’re beneath us now, aren’t you?" he spat. 𝙛𝒓𝒆𝙚𝒘𝒆𝓫𝙣𝓸𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝒄𝒐𝓶

Marek did not answer.

The leader stood and stepped back. He made a small gesture with his hand. Four of the men moved forward immediately, as if they had been waiting for the signal. They grabbed Marek by the arms and legs and positioned him on his fours while his face pressed into the damp ground. He tried to fight, but one of the men knelt on his palm, pinning him flat and holding his head in place.

"Get off me!" Marek yelled, his voice cracking. He thrashed, but the weight on his body was too much. "Get off! You bloody hunters —"

A fist hit the back of his head. Not hard enough to knock him out, but hard enough to make his ears ring and his thoughts scatter. He stopped struggling for a moment, dazed.

The leader walked closer to face him, standing over Marek’s head so Marek had to look up at him upside down. The man was grinning now.

"Bloody hunters? We’re not hunters," the leader said. "We’re rapers. And I’ve always wanted to fuck a noble!" He crackled.

The men laughed really hard.

Marek’s blood went cold. He had heard stories. Everyone had heard stories about rapers. They force themselves on their prey without mercy. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.