Kazlin wondered how much longer his burning leg muscles could carry him. Twenty minutes? Ten? He did not know. In fact, he could hardly keep his wits at all. Exhilaration. Fatigue. Panic. Each of the conflicting feelings ricocheted through his reeling emotional center. He did know what he needed to do – survive until sunrise – he just wasn't sure how.
The young troll's heart was reaching its bursting point, and a searing fire raged within his lungs. He tore at the front of his leather tunic to let the cold air reach his sweaty blue skin. His hunting cloak splayed out behind him as he ran, the edges tattered and ripped as if by sharp tree branches or animal mischief.
A crunchy layer of snow hid the ground in most spots but gave way to icy patches in others. As a low-hanging tree branch jumped out of the blackness in front of him, Kazlin ducked. The knotty limb struck the curve of his back, making him stumble. One gloved hand balance-checked the frozen ground, but it was no use, he was going to fall.
Oh no, this is it, he thought to himself.
The troll tucked his head and somersaulted into a crouch, skidding to a stop in the frost. In one fluid movement, he quickly drew an arrow from his quiver, knocked it on his bowstring and turned in the direction from which he had come. Breathing ashen puffs into the cold pre-dawn air, he listened. Though the echo his heartbeat made in his ears drowned out every sound around him, he imagined he could hear – or maybe sense – the patter of swift feet bearing down on him.
"Just get up an' keep movin'," he muttered to himself, staring down the length of his arrow. "Go now or yah not be goin' ever."
He hopped up and rambled on like a wounded stag being chased by a pack of frenzied wolves – which wasn't too far from the truth. He leapt small shrubs and weaved through tree clusters seconds after they materialized out of the darkness. He concentrated on landing one foot squarely in front of the other, because it kept his mind off the alternative.
In his subconscious, Kazlin knew he was doomed. He was doomed the moment he and his companions had accepted their foolish "quest" days ago. In that normally tranquil but now toxic corner of his brain, he could feel panic replacing hope like a murky cancer.
"That's him messin' wit jah head," Kazlin sputtered. "Just throw it off."
In what he later described as a waking dream caused by sorcery, or fright, or maybe both, Kazlin saw himself hanging upside down from the roof of a dank cave. Though he struggled, a heavy rope bound his arms to his sides. Looking down, he could see the mist-covered ground shift and move under him. Things were down there – sentient things – circling. He suddenly felt the cord that suspended him jerk and then give way as if cut. He fell headlong towards the rocky floor, towards whatever creatures waited for him there. Aaaaaaaaa!
Kazlin snapped back to reality. He was still on his feet and running, luckily. He began to concentrate again on his footwork, pushing all other thoughts from his head. He would never stop, never surrender, never suffer such a fate. Only thirty more minutes before the sun would pierce the horizon.