Blood seeped from the wound in his leg. Arter pushed himself up and dragged his way toward the tree. He leaned against its base and examined the arrow protruding from his thigh. Even the slightest touch upon the shaft sent waves of pain through his body. He gritted his teeth, knowing he could not remain there for long.

The forest was filled with noise as animals fled the oncoming violence. Footsteps echoed in the foliage around the blacksmith. It would be now or never, thought he. With one hand still clinging to his sword, he gripped the shaft of the arrow with the other. Pain coursed through him. He took a breath, held it, and pulled with all his might.

Just as the arrow was wrenched free of his flesh, he heard shouting in the distance. He froze, holding the red stained arrow aloft, allowing it to drip onto the dirt. The footsteps paused. Arter felt his breath stop, attributing to the silence of the forest that surrounded him.

*****

Meanwhile, one of the archers took pause. His fallen comrade lay at his feet with an arrow protruding from his neck. The man clenched his fist, notched an arrow, and held it in the direction of the source — the woman that stood before him. Through gritted teeth he called to his men.

“Find the smith and kill him,” he said, glaring down at his adversary. “I will remain behind and deal with the meddler.”

With those words, he let an arrow fly. No sooner had the fletchings brushed against his knuckles did the man reach for another arrow. He knew in his heart this would be the end of this. If it meant the success of the mission, however, death was a small, impermanent, price to pay.

“I embrace death,” he said, his second arrow at the ready. “Do your worst.”

*****

Arter heard the footsteps begin again, this time faster. They approached him on all sides. He swore and threw down the arrow he held in his hand. Bracing himself against the tree, the blacksmith struggled to push himself to his feet. Just as he stood, however, an archer burst through the foliage and shot an arrow in his direction.

Be it fate or luck, Arter moved just in time to avoid death — the arrow sunk itself into the wood of the tree just an inch from his throat. His enemy drew another arrow. With nothing else to do, the blacksmith hurled his blade at the man, catching him with the blunt end of the weapon and knocking him down. Then, he dove for the forest once more. He held one hand over the wound in his thigh while he hobbled between trees and around bushes.

The oncoming footsteps surrounded him again. He knew well that he wouldn’t survive another encounter.