Finding Freedom
an excerpt

He was certainly more at home in the woods than them though, they were crashing straight through the woods instead of weaving through the paths between the trees like he was. But then the noises slowed, and stopped. Sarone stopped too, unsure of exactly where the Bloodclan members were. He dropped into a crouch and peered around him. But he couldn’t see anything. Could they have heard him? Sarone moved quickly to stand against a tree. He peered around, and an arrow whizzed by his head, which he drew back with a snap. He pushed himself off the trunk with an explosion of adrenaline, plowing into some prickly bushes. He ignored the throbbing scratches on his face and lay low, aware that his clothing would help him blend in. He held his breath and listened carefully. He could hear birds chirping, but nothing else. With a chill he realized the only birds still singing were to the left of him though. He turned his head carefully to the right, and spotted a flash of metal. He moved his hand to his hip and carefully loosened a finely-honed steel dagger from its sheath. Then he drew a throwing knife from the sash under his shirt. He took a deep breath and levered himself off of the ground with his left hand in a sudden burst, landing on his feet. With his right he threw the knife. He heard it thud into something, and a hiss of pain escaped someone. Sarone didn’t wait to see who he’d hit though, he sprinted to a stand of trees. He sat down at one of the trees bases, muscles still tensed. He was surprised nobody had tried to shoot at him. He’d assumed there were at least two of them, one who had shot at him and the other who’d been hiding at a different angle. Then an arrow thudded into his arm. Sarone flinched, lingering a second too long. He heard crashing footsteps from behind him closing in, and he knew there was an archer ahead somewhere, keeping on the move. Trapped. He leaped forward, running between the trees, all but deserting caution. Another arrow buzzed angrily by his head, thudding into a tree behind him.
The shaft of the arrow sticking out of his arm caught on a tree and snapped, sending another jolt of pain through Sarone. He reached for another knife as he dove behind a rock. He took a breath, then rolled behind another tree. Then he got up and started circling back the way he’d come. He couldn’t allow them to set up another ambush for him. Then he spotted another glint of metal. He aimed carefully, then threw his knife with all the force he had. He saw a man crumple, hand clutching his leg. There was a noise from up ahead as his companion heard him fall. Sarone took out another knife and hid behind another tree, his back pressed flat against it, his breathing hard and fast. The moments stretched on, and Sarone wondered if the other man was doing exactly what he was, waiting for him to make a move. Sarone didn’t have time to wait though. He still had to catch up to the rest of the group and stop them. They were dangerous and cunning, and he didn’t want them anywhere near a town.
Sarone drew his last knife, clenching it awkwardly in his left hand. Then he threw a knife straight into the other Bloodclan man’s chest. Sarone pulled back as quickly as possible, barely avoiding the arrow that immediately flew straight at him. He judged where the arrow had flown from, then crouched down and threw his knife along the same path it had taken. He heard a gurgle, and a man fell from his perch on a low branch, clutching his side. Sarone drew his dirk and crept forward. The man spotted him and drew a dagger. Sarone rushed at him. The man threw the dagger. But Sarone had already dropped to his knees on the ground, thrusting his hand forward. The dirk stabbed the man’s leg, and he staggered. He’d lost a lot of blood already. Sarone thrust upward as he stood up, cutting straight through the man’s heart. He wasn’t a fan of slow death, unlike Bloodclan. And he seriously doubted the guy would’ve told him anything about Bloodclan’s mission after he’d stabbed him half to death.
He took a step back as the man fell. Sarone looked carefully, and could see no rise and fall of his chest. Once he was sure the man was dead, Sarone took his knife out of him and cleaned it and the dirk off on the man’s shirt. Then he ran over to the other man and reclaimed and cleaned his other three knives. He was chafing with impatience, every second he fell further behind the other Bloodclan members, but these knives had been given to him by Rambar. They had been specially made for him by a smith. They were razor sharp and thin enough to lie beneath his thick shirt, but still sturdy, and were perfectly balanced for throwing. Once he’d collected all of them he took off running through the forest, hastily trying to shove them back into their sheaths, but keeping one out. He couldn’t afford to be too cautious now, and he might need it. All of a sudden a memory burst through the wall he’d tried to build. He remembered one day when he was only five and had taken his dad’s knife. He had been running around with it, slashing at invisible Alliance members. He had wanted to be just like his dad when he grew up. He’d wanted to help save mankind and defeat the bad rulers, and to destroy the group that opposed them. But then he’d tripped, and the blade had sliced his side. He’d wailed and his mom came running out. She’d soothed him and told him never to do it again. But here he was, twelve years later, running with a drawn knife. And it was Bloodclan he was after now.
He shook his head, trying to dislodge the painful memory. His grip on the knife whitened his knuckles, and his breathing came raggedly. He hated this weakness in himself. How could he fight Bloodclan when a mere memory distracted him so much? He plowed on through the forest, trying not to remember why he was so good at traversing them, trying not to remember the years he’d spent on the run. Those were dark years, ones he’d barely survived. A tear coursed down his cheek, and he sped up, punishing his body as far as it could go, welcoming the exhaustion.