The sun was just beginning its descent high overhead, breaking through the cloud cover and lighting the sky in wonderful pinkish hues.
The prisoner could have cared less.
He sprinted through the trees as quickly as he could, his breath coming in short painful gasps. Sweat cascaded down his lean, muscular body as he ran. Not so distantly behind him, the prisoner could hear the crashing sounds of his pursuers. Their oaths and muffled curses accompanied by the whinny of their lathered horses.
He limped with every leaping stride, another factor to slow him down as he ran along. An unhealed gash along his leg had torn through its scab and blood flowed freely down his bare leg to trickle over his toes. An annoyance, but one that he could do nothing about at the moment.
An arrow buzzed by, passing within inches of his head. He reflexively lurched to the side and tumbled to the earth, rolling uncontrollably until he collided with a thorn bush. Cursing floridly beneath his breath at the prickly new wounds along his obviously tortured back, the prisoner lurched to his feet and began anew. Stride after painful stride. Seeking escape.
More arrows zinged past him. But he was prepared for them and did not fall a second time, even when one sliced across his ribs. He ignored the new wound, experienced in dealing with injuries far worse, and continued to run. Fresh blood oozed out of the wound and mingled with the sweat that had begun to add fresh stains on his dark patterned kilt.
Ahead he could just about see a road. It was hard to tell, but it appeared to be within a hundred meters or so. He cursed his luck. He had been hoping for a river or a cliff or something he could use to his advantage as a hiding place. All the road offered to him was open space. Something more suited to his mounted pursuers than himself on foot.
He began to pray to whatever Gods were listening. Begging, for the first time in his whole life, for some measure of assistance.
He broke through the underbrush and stumbled onto the road.