David Robbins - The Fox Run

What was on her trail?

Joan resumed her determined march, her pace unflagging. If a mutate was after her, it would simply charge, heedless of the clamor it might make. Wild dogs would be howling with glee as they closed in. The big cats would be completely silent; you wouldn’t know a cat was after you until too late. Every so often she would hear a twig break or a branch rustle.

Something was attempting to close in on her undetected, biding its time, waiting. For what?

It had to be the Trolls. Saxon would not permit her to escape. He would send some of his men after her. How many?

Joan concentrated, resisting the gnawing influence of her almost overpowering fatigue. She had hoped, by moving all night, to get a big lead on her pursuers. Apparently they had not stopped to rest either.

Whoever was on her heels wanted her real bad.

A small field opened up ahead, waist-high grass wavering in a stiff northerly breeze.

She found her mind wandering, her thoughts straying to her childhood.

She recalled her schooling years, her tutoring by the Family Elders, and her subsequent Warrior training. Her mother had attempted to dissuade her from becoming the first female Warrior in many years. “Be a Healer,” her mother had urged her, “or a Weaver or Tiller. Anything but a Warrior!” Her mother had feared for her life. The Warrior mortality rate was four times higher than that for the rest of the Family, and with ample justification. The Warriors were usually the first ones to encounter danger; they were pledged to give their lives in the protection of the Family and the Home.

The wind was increasing.

Joan reached the field and started to cross. The grass was thick, tugging at her moccasins and tangling around her ankles. She hoped she wouldn’t inadvertently step on a snake. The very idea made her skin crawl.

A bee buzzed by her head.

She held the axe aloft, over her head, preventing the handle from catching in the growth. The knives were securely tucked under her leather belt.

If she pushed herself, she reasoned, she might make it back to the Home by nightfall. Back to the Family. To Hickok. She was becoming especially fond of the flashy gunman, and she knew he was strongly attracted to her.

His lips had told her as much several nights before the attack, when they were lying in a secluded grove. He was the first man she had ever wanted.

During her youth, her tomboy years, the opposite sex had been a source of competition to best any way she could. In her teens, to her surprise and dismay, none of the men had seemed particularly interested in her. Then, to her astonishment, there was Hickok, shocking her one day at target practice. “You shoot well,” he had said, coming up behind her on the range. “You have a good eye.” He had awkwardly fidgeted with his gunbelt. “Goes with your great body.”

Her heart had nearly stopped.

Joan smiled with the pleasant memories. The long walks, the star-filled nights. Others had noticed. Her sisters had teased her. He had brought out emotions in her she never imagined existed. Many of the women had envied her. Hickok was considered quite a catch.

Involved with her reflections, she failed to notice the sudden stirring of the grass to her left.

When Plato had announced the Alpha Triad would be leaving for the Twin Cities, that Hickok would be gone for a lengthy spell, she had run off and cried, angry and hurt. Why hadn’t he told her? Why did he shy away from her after the announcement was made?

A wall of trees loomed in front of her.

Joan stopped and glanced over her right shoulder. Still no sign of the Trolls.

That was when Buck hit her. He jumped up, his club swinging, clipping her on the jaw as she whirled to confront him.

Joan fell, her vision spinning, onto her back.

Buck closed in, his metal rod raised. “We owe you, bitch! For my nose and for Galen and Trent. This is for them!” He brought the steel bar down.

Joan used the axe handle to block the blow, the impact jarring her shoulder and aggravating her knife wound. She rolled and rose to her feet, the axe poised.

Buck was gone.

She knew she was in trouble. The wind was whipping the grass, lashing the leaves of the trees, and drowning out any sound the Trolls might make.

They were toying with her, drawing out their fun, engaging in a little game. She was too exposed in the field, a virtual sitting duck.

Joan bolted, covering the intervening space to the trees and darting into the woods.

Behind her, someone laughed.

She ran, limbs tearing at her body, her eyes never still, dreading the next attack.

“Run, bitch! Run!” Buck was somewhere to her left.

Joan reached the trunk of an old tree, its girth wide, many of its limbs dead. She stopped for an instant, getting her bearings.

An arrow thudded into the trunk inches from her head.

Someone laughed.

Joan ducked around the tree and churned up a steep hill, an ache growing in her side, the exertion taking its toll.

“Run, bitch!” Buck was enjoying this immensely.

The hill crested, the other side a steep drop of thirty feet. She slowed, took a deep breath, and jumped.

“Run! Run!”

Joan winced as she landed, her legs buckling under the strain. She fell forward, onto her face, dirt filling her mouth.

The laughter wouldn’t stop.

Move! Get up and move! She tried to will her legs to function, to obey her, but they refused. There was a bank in front of her. If she could only get to the other side, maybe she could hide.

“The hunt is over,” Buck announced.

Joan shifted onto her back and looked up.

Buck and two other bearded Trolls were standing on the drop-off.

“Want her dead?” asked a brawny Troll with a bow. A quiver of arrows was perched on his back.

“Not yet,” Buck answered, grinning. “I’ve got plans for the bitch! Cover her.”

“Saxon did say we could have fun with her,” stated the third Troll, a sword in his left hand. “But he also said he wants her head. Should we cut it off before or after we have our fun?”

Buck pondered the question. “After,” he finally replied. “I may want to use her mouth.”

The other Trolls nodded their understanding.

“Cover her,” Buck repeated. He sat and slowly slid down the steep incline.

Joan knew what he intended to do. She grabbed one of her knives and pulled it free from her belt.

“Drop it!” ordered the Troll with the bow. An arrow was notched, the string drawn, his bead on her chest. “Now!”

Joan reluctantly complied.

Buck reached the bottom and stood, leering at her, swinging his club back and forth. “I told you, bitch,” he bragged, “I told you I’d get you for what you did to me.” His busted nose was still swollen and discolored.

“Anytime,” Joan said sweetly. One of the knives was hidden from their view, under her left arm. The Troll with the bow would probably nail her, but she would make sure she gutted Buck first.

Buck dropped the steel bar and began hiking his tunic above his thighs.

“This is going to be fun,” he told her.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, pard,” interjected another voice, “I reckon the lady would rather slurp horse piss than oblige the likes of you.”

Joan twisted, craning her neck, her eyes widening in disbelief, her pulse racing in relief. It couldn’t be!

It was.

He stood on the bank, smiling, his right arm casually draped in front of his body, his left pressed against his side.

The Trolls seemed flabbergasted.

“Kill him!” Buck found his voice, dropping his tunic.

The Troll with the bow elevated the point of his arrow, compensating for the distance, knowing there was no way this stranger could draw his guns before he loosed the shaft. He saw a blur and felt something slam into his torso and he fell, the bow and arrow tumbling from his limp fingers. The string released, the shaft driving into the ground.