Crossbow's clicked, quarrels scything through the air mere feet from Beren's form. He leaped and swung where he could, uninhibited by the snow like his pursuers but still slowed from having to navigate through the trees. These coniferous trees kept their leaves all year round, so it gave him a bit of cover even if it detracted from his visibility. From one branch to the other he leaped, men's voices raised up from behind him. Even as he caught another branch, a quarrel struck the wood just beside his hand, and the branch broke with a snap like lightning. 

He didn't have time to curse, only plummeted a dozen feet to the ground and hit the snow with a grunt. Leaves and smaller bits of wood fell on him like a blanket, but after a mere moment he pushed himself up like a leaping dolphin out of the surf. Beren shook his head and brushed the twigs out of his thick, dark hair and gauged his bearings. Checking his east, he saw a handful of men twenty meters away and closing. 

He decided not to get back in the tree, knowing it was slowing him down more than anything. Instead he turned and ran on foot, leaping over snow banks and dodging roots and dead brush, kicking off trees to do unexpected turns as he fled. After another two quarrels zipped past him, a last missile embedded itself in his jacket just where his cloak had been rolled up. That was lucky, but he still groaned at the hole in his jacket. He growled and continued to run before hitting the sloping decline of a hillock, leading down to a small clearing in the trees. Beren hopped down it and looked around for an exit. He saw the statue of Meldarion to the north through a copse of conifers, still gleaming in the sunlight. 

He took that as as good a sign as any he couldn't keep running. 

Initially he had fled so they could focus on his flight and not Jocasta's disappearance, but he needed to link up with her, and he hadn't yet seen any sign of her. Beren turned around, planting his feet in the ground. All around him were trees, but none stood between him and the small slope across the flat clearing. The lack of trees meant the sun had touched the ground more, making the snow scarce. 

Beren stripped himself of his jacket, tossing it to his right. The powerfully built man wore a navy-blue undershirt and a maroon vest over it, with a sash belt that matched his under shirt and earthly colored trousers that almost seemed like an aradian savran, but was distinctly more practical. His muscled arms were exposed along with his neck and face, but he had freedom of movement. It was frigid out, but it was the hottest part of the day for the next few hours. The sun kissed his tanned skin as he extended his arms to gather his breath, giving his form a distinctive brass quality. 

The first two men broke the tree line, both pale-skinned and blue eyed. Their crossbows having been discarded, much like what Beren expected. He wasn't very learned with projectile weapons, but dwarves made extensive use of crossbows. Even with pulleys or footguards, they were a bitch to load and were heavy to lug around. They wouldn't have caught him with those weapons. Instead they drew their schiavona's, black guards and steel that glinted in the sun. 

"Given up, have you?" One asked, both sliding down the small incline. "We don't want to have to kill you, farm boy." 

Beren's concentration broke, and he blinked, flabbergasted. "I'm not a farm boy..." He said incredulously, and pointed a finger at the one who spoke. "Wait, do you...do you think I'm a cliche!?" 

"Doesn't matter to me," the second one added. 

"Aye, come with us and you can be a Lion. Or we kill you here." 

Beren took the staff he had lain down in his hand and began to twirl it before him, right to left, letting the swing of the pole casually sweep the snow before him, making a visible line in the mud. Some of the more dogmatic people in his order felt it was not right to ever fight, even to defend oneself. But even if Beren adhered to that, if he died, Jocasta would be out there alone. He wasn't going to let that happen. 

"Cross that line and someone will die," Beren warned them. Unfortunately, they didn't have a chance to answer before a third man showed up, sliding down the small hill to the level ground. The first two looked at one another and grinned, before they advanced on Beren, swords out and legs moving in rhythmic patterns. The third Lion in the middle, they made a semi-circle before him and stepped past the line, and Beren knew there was no backing out. 

Had someone been near in the trees, they could have heard the clang of steel and the clack of iron-studded wood. The three men gave swift thrusts and small, savage cuts. Beren stepped left to right, trying to get the three to get in one another's way. His staff was a blur, wacking the swords aside but giving ground. Two stabbed at him, his staff blocking both swords simultaneously as he stepped over the third sword's thrust, stomping his booted foot on the blade to disarm the middle attacker. The center lion cried out from the pinch of his hand in the basket-hilt, but Beren's foot hit him just under the jaw. He fell back, blood pouring out of his mouth from a bitten tongue. 

Beren leaped to the left, dodging a sword blow, redirecting a stab in mid air with his staff. He landed in a small skid, twisting his staff under and over the blade and shoving it over the Lion's arm to smack him in the head. He reeled back, but swiped a backhanded cut as he fell back. Beren ducked, but he took a cut from the advancing Lion, tearing a deep slash across his arm. The pain flashed, but he didn't let the warm blood stop him from reacting. Even as the last lion reared his schiavona back for a stab to his midsection, Beren shoved the midsection of his staff into the man's head, staggering him. 

Another fourth Lion reached the tree line even as Beren leg swept the third lion, and the first two were getting up at that point. He knew he couldn't face those odds, and though he felt regret for it, he stepped forward and stomped his boot on the fallen mercenary's neck, crushing his wind pipe. The other two ran at him, cutting from both side, sending Beren ducking and dodging and riposting where he could, the two drawing him back toward the base of an oak tree. They worked well in unison, clearly having been trained to fight together. 

He was in trouble, but even as the third reached them, Beren saw something that could help when he glanced upwards. The monk leaped back and kicked the oak tree with all his strength, the base of the tree shuddering. Heaps of snow fell on the men just as they were about to finish him off, sending them sliding to the ground in a heap. Beren kicked off the tree and drew his axe, and even though he felt it was almost tantamount to murder, he performed his bloody work as they lay there dazed, and then he ran off, back toward the road, hoping to find Jocasta somewhere behind the Lion's lines.