A/N: This chapter focuses on Jarred's escape from the Shadowlands, and how he got his new identity. Thank you to everyone who have been reviewing-I really appreciate it! :) I enjoyed writing this story and I hope you enjoy reading it.

Disclaimer: Deltora Quest belongs to Emily Rodda.

Pursuit

They were coming.

He could hear the rapid patter of their footsteps, the ominous sound of twigs snapping underneath their boots. He could hear their disgruntled spatter of words as they searched for their runaway prisoner, sure that he was somewhere on this damned mountain. After all, where else could he go? The only place to go to was towards Deltora, for so they called this bright, beautiful land.

He stood as still as a stone in the shadow of the strange thorny trees that littered the landscape. Hopefully his pursuers would not think to search near the trees, not wanting to be scratched by the thorns. But still, he held his breath as the men who were not men came into view. He had gathered that they tracked his scent, like hounds tracking blood. There was a large chance that they would find him, but he dearly hoped that the thorns repelled them from looking too closely.

He could feel his heart hammer as he heard their harsh voices.

'Oy!' the first guard barked. 'Pern 1! The prisoner is here somewhere. It stinks of ticks.'

The other guard grunted, his face thunderous, as he shoved myriads of thorny branches out of his path. 'Those damnable trees are everywhere! I heard you, Pern 2!' He snarled as another branch whipped into his face. 'We cannot go any further. These trees will be the death of us!'

'The master told us explicitly to find this prisoner and bring him back,' Pern 2 snapped. 'Move it! He cannot be far from here. He must be hiding in the trees.'

Grumbling, Pern 1 obeyed, marching directly towards the escapee's hiding place.

Their prisoner's heart sank. This was exactly was he had hoped would not happen. Now he would be forced to confront them, and in his current state, it was possible that he would be killed or captured again.

He braced himself as they neared his hiding place.

'Pern 1!' Pern 2 called. 'The tick is here!'

He sprang before the creature uttered another word. What came next was short, bloody, and very, very satisfying.

oOo

Hours later, he collapsed onto the floor of the cave he had stumbled upon, feeling the blood from his wounds drip in thick drops onto the stone beneath him. The fight with the guards had taken more effort and had wounded him more than he had expected. Every wound on his body ached and burned fiercely and exhaustion cloaked his body like a heavy blanket. He closed his eyes, relieved. Finally, finally he could rest safely. Finally he was safe. He drifted off to sleep with that comforting thought in his mind.

When he woke, gasping for breath and heart pounding, darkness filled the cave. Moonlight shone dimly outside the entrance, causing the stream visible in the distance to shimmer with silver light.

It was just a dream, he told himself. Just a dream… But as he recalled the dream, remembered the sounds of the sweet-faced woman screaming and being torn to shreds, and feeling as if he should know her, and himself being pound into the ground by a Vraal, he knew that is was not just a dream. His mind was trying to tell him something. But what?

He hauled himself into a sitting position, wincing as his muscles screamed in protest. Questions swirled in his mind; questions that had been pushed out of his mind during his nightmarish escape from the Arena, but surfaced into the forefront of it now that he was out of danger. Who was he? Where was he? Why was he here? Frowning, he struggled to remember his past before the fight in the Arena, but there was only a terrifying darkness.

So, he thought. He would have to solve this riddle that he had become by using logic. He dragged himself over to the wall of the cave, and traced the erratic thoughts growing in his mind onto the granite. Who am I? Well, he was a man, that was certain, unlike the cruel Grey Guards. Where am I? He was on a mountain of some sort, apparently a part of Deltora. And he had come from a desolate wasteland north of the mountain. The Shadowlands, a voice whispered deep inside of him, and he knew that this was its name. What should I do now? He thought of the being that the Guards had called 'the master', and the familiar way the Grey Guards had traversed the rough terrain of the mountain. A memory came to him, of his escape from the Arena. There had been others there like him, he remembered, hidden at the back of the Arena, chained together like animals. They must have been from Deltora, just as he was.

He bowed his head. It seemed that evil had entered this land long ago, enslaving its people. The Grey Guard's 'master' was the master of Deltora now. It did not bode well for him. He would be pursued in Deltora by Grey Guards wherever he went. He thought of the people of Deltora having to face this sort of treatment and his heart broke inside of him. No person should have that experience.

What should I do now? The thought returned to him, glowing and purposeful. And he knew. He would return to Deltora and help the people resist the tyranny of the hated Enemy. Inspired, he found himself tracing a V-like shape onto the cave wall, a V shaped like a bird in flight. He gazed at the strange symbol, and wondered where he had known it from.

Filled with new purpose, he hauled himself to his feet and stumbled towards the cave entrance. Just once he turned back. And gaped. For the place where he had been lying was covered in blood, and on the wall on which he had been tracing were words written in blood.

Slowly he lifted his hands to the moonlight, and found them stained scarlet. Blood, a part of him thought dimly. His blood. Despite knowing that he was severely injured, he realised that he had not fully understood or noticed the blood seeping from his wounds and the danger it could bring.

He shook his head. He had to leave the mountain, or a legion of Grey Guards would find him and most likely kill him. He had to find refuge. That was what he had to focus on now, he told himself. Leaving the mountain and finding a place of refuge.

He stumbled from the cave, ignoring the searing pain of his wounds, leaving the words glimmering crimson on the wall behind him.

oOo

As he journeyed to the base of the mountain, he learnt much. He learnt that the mountain was called Dread Mountain, and that it was the home of the Dread Gnomes. He learnt that the thorny trees were called Boolong trees, and that they had overpopulated the mountain ever since the Dread Gnomes had chased a race called the Kin away, who ate the Boolong trees.

He learnt that once the Dread Gnomes had been a mighty race, proud and known for their love of gold, but that they had been deceived into slaving away for a hidden evil. He learnt that the mountain was filled with danger and monsters lurked in every shadow.

He learnt all this during a number of close encounters with the Dread Gnomes. The first encounter occurred on a sunny day as he was journeying down the slope of the mountain, taking care not to be scratched by thorns from the trees. From behind him, he heard footsteps marching closer in his direction, and a spatter of voices from above. Alarmed, he sprang by instinct into the shadow of the trees, burrowing into them, ignoring the sting of the lacerations the thorns caused on the backs of his hands and head. What if Grey Guards had found him at last? He held himself as still as he could as he watched the footsteps come closer and closer.

To his relief, the strangers were not Grey Guards, but a group of short, stocky individuals dressed in clothes made from animal hide and fur. They held their heads proudly as they marched, each of them holding a jar of strange liquid. Their faces were mainly expressionless, but he could see resentment and discontent on the faces of a few of them. He soon found out why.

'This is a disgrace!' one hissed to another. 'Dread Gnomes should not be slaving away for a giant toad. Our halls should not be filled with dead flies and slime. We should be in charge of our own territory!'

His eyes narrowed at the name. So these people were called the Dread Gnomes, and they were enslaved by some sort of evil.

'Shut your mouth, Gla-Thon!' a Gnome hissed. 'Gellick saved us, made us strong. He protected us from the Shadow Lord and his creatures. He made us powerful.'

'I know I am right, Ri-Nan!' Gla-Thon shrieked. 'And one day you will see it!'

'Shut it, or you will bring Gellick's wrath down upon us for speaking ill of him!' Ri-Nan snapped.

'Oh, do you really think he is so powerful that he can hear me?' Gla-Thon jeered.

'He is capable of anything,' another Gnome broke in after a pause. 'Ri-Nan is right; we must do nothing to bring his wrath down upon us. Because of Gellick, the Shadow Lord has not turned his attention on us, as he has on the other tribes of Deltora. We must bide our time, and wait.'

Ri-Nan and Gla-Thon both grimaced but said nothing further, and they walked on in silence.

The Gnomes passed out of sight, travelling further down the mountain. He crept out of his hiding place, shaking. A great evil had befallen this mountain, enslaving the Gnomes, just as Deltorans were enslaved in the desolate place he had escaped from. And an even greater evil had taken over Deltora. It was terrible to think of the suffering the people had endured. Something had to be done about it.

He walked on, thoughts and ideas filling his mind as he followed the Gnomes' pathway down the mountain.

oOo

His second encounter with the Dread Gnomes occurred when he found a hut three quarters of the way down the mountain, seemingly deserted. Out of curiosity, he walked inside, and gaped. It was crawling with bugs, and spiders spun webs in each corner of the hut. How could anyone leave a hut in such disarray? It must have been deserted for years.

'Who are you?' a harsh voice behind him demanded.

He spun to meet the cold eyes of a Dread Gnome. The Gnome aimed a bow and arrow at his chest. 'This hut is the property of the Dread Gnomes, and forbidden to strangers,' she said coldly. 'Why are you here?'

'I am just a traveller,' he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. 'I saw this hut, and was curious. I did not know that strangers were forbidden to enter and I apologise if I have offended.'

After a moment, the Gnome lowered her bow and arrow, and he watched as her body lost its tension. 'Well then,' she said, 'you have been warned now. Do not make the same mistake again, or you will pay with your life.' She turned and strode from the hut and he could hear her making her way up the mountain.

He almost breathed a sigh of relief at the near escape from death. What luck he had! But the Gnome he had just met would tell her leader of their encounter, and in turn the Shadow Lord would be notified of the whereabouts of his escaped prisoner. It was even more important now to leave the mountain as quickly as possible.

He left the small hut, and walked on, praying that he would make it to the base of the mountain before the Grey Guards caught up to him.

oOo

The rest of his journey from the mountain passed uneventfully. When at last he saw the foot of the mountain, he almost collapsed with fatigue, but managed to stay standing. It had been an exhaustive journey, but it was not over yet. He would have to find a cottage or village of some sort where he could find supplies and heal from his wounds, and where he could be safe from Grey Guards. Feeling the burning pain of his wounds, and the blood dripping onto the grass beneath him, he wondered that he had made it this far without collapsing from blood loss or being recaptured by Grey Guards who would be able to smell the blood from a mile away. But he had. And he would go on, and survive.

He marched onwards, along the dirt path that led from the mountain. It was an effort to remain standing, but somehow he managed. As he walked, the world faded to one pin-prick on the horizon. He barely noticed his surroundings; he found himself in a dream-like trance, caused by sheer exhaustion, unaware of where he was going and how long he had been walking. Only one thought shone clear in his mind: keep walking. Survive. And so he stumbled upon the terrain, feeling as if he were living a dream.

oOo

He did not know how many hours he had been walking when he collapsed. As he came to his senses, lying on the soft, damp grass, he felt a measure of peace overcome him, and knew that he had come to a safe place at last. He closed his eyes, tired to the bone. Maybe now he could sleep…

He was startled awake by the sound of footsteps. Alarmed, he sat up, and relaxed as he saw an old, old man approach him. He expected the man to question him, but he took one look at him and helped him to his feet, and said, 'Come with me.'

He followed the man to a cave amidst a forest of ferns and trees. Inside, the old man began preparing a meal of cooked meat and herbs, cooking them over a blazing fire. He did not say one word to his guest as he did this, but merely pointed to a corner of the cave.

The escaped prisoner was forced to wait until the meal was served before he could ask the questions burning in his mind. He gazed warily at his food. The meat was burnt at the edges and the herbs looked too dry. It did not seem like a nourishing, delicious meal but he did not want to offend his host by pointing that out. The old man had offered him shelter when he could have turned him away; it seemed not right to complain of the meal he had been given when this man had been so generous and compassionate.

'Who—who are you?' he blurted out.

'I am Doom of the Hills,' the man replied, chewing his bacon with obvious relish. 'I live here.'

'Here?' He could not imagine anyone choosing to live in a cave. 'Why here?'

'I am a hermit, of a sort,' the man smiled. 'I was a greedy, selfish man, once. After a terrible accident which took the life of my sister, I saw the error of my ways and left my village, seeking a life of solitude and peace. I found this place, and have lived here ever since, communing with nature and repenting for my past sins.'

The ex-prisoner stared at him, open-mouthed. The old man frowned, seeing his food untouched. 'Eat, friend,' he said. 'Eat, and become strong again. This food will help you recover from your ordeal.'

Reluctantly, the prisoner tucked into the meal. 'What is this place?' he asked between mouthfuls of meat. 'It is so peaceful here.'

'I call this shelter Kinrest,' Doom said. 'Once, a race called the Kin rested here during their journeys to and from Dread Mountain. You may not have heard of them; many people have not. They are fabled creatures. They stopped returning to the Mountain when the Dread Gnomes began shooting at them with poisoned arrows, and chose to remain at their winter home. It was safer for them.'

The prisoner nodded. He could understand the need to survive. He himself had fled certain death in the Shadowlands.

'But who are you?' the old man asked, his dark eyes piercing into the prisoner. 'Where did you come from?'

The prisoner hesitated, unsure as to how much he should reveal about himself. If Grey Guards found this man, they would extract any information they could about their escaped prisoner if they thought that the old man was hiding something. He did not want to put him in danger.

'Friend, I gave you shelter and shared my meal with you. Give me the courtesy of knowing who I am helping.' The man stared at him intently, his expression unfathomable.

'I come from the Shadowlands,' the prisoner admitted after a moment. 'I do not know anything about myself besides that, and the fact that Deltora is my home. I am being pursued by Grey Guards; I do not want to put you in danger, so I must leave as soon as possible. I thank you for your hospitality.' He waited for the man's reaction to his words. Would he now be regretting that he had helped him? He found himself holding his breath instinctively.

'Nonsense!' the man frowned at him. 'I will not allow you to leave in such a condition, despite your claims of being pursued. You are tired and wounded; you must recover or you will die of your injuries. I will deal with any danger when it comes.'

His expression left no room for argument. The prisoner reluctantly nodded.

'Rest, and recover,' Doom of the Hills commanded. 'You may stay as long as you need to at Kinrest.'

Despite his nagging doubts, the prisoner felt an overwhelming relief. Truly he had not wanted to leave this place of safety, and desperately wanted to be strong enough to defeat a troop of Grey Guards should they find him. He hoped, deep inside of him, that he would be safe at last.

oOo

For three days, the prisoner stayed peacefully at Kinrest. There, with old Doom's help, his wounds healed and his strength was recovered. He got to know Doom quite well during the time he spent there, and learned to appreciate and respect his peaceful nature and stubbornness. Doom was not resistant to ordering him around if something needed to be done. The two men soon became friends.

On the morn of his third day at Kinrest, he woke to the sounds of rapid footsteps approaching Kinrest, and a harsh voice shouting, 'He is here! I smell ticks!'

The prisoner's heart thudded painfully, and he almost groaned. They had found him, and now the old man Doom was in danger, because he had helped him.

He crept to the entrance of the cave, and froze as he saw the scene laid out before him. Three Grey Guards stood before Doom of the Hills, snarling at him, while the old man maintained a serene posture and expression.

'I live here in solitude, sirs,' he heard Doom say peaceably. 'I have for many years. No one is living here but me.' His hands were outstretched, as if to show them that he was not an enemy. The prisoner longed to yell at him to run, but he knew that that would undermine all that the old man had done to protect him and heal his wounds. The Grey Guards would most certainly kill him if they found him there.

There was a heavy silence, and the Grey Guards looked at each other, grinning in glee. 'You lie, old man,' they snarled, turning their murderous gazes upon Doom. 'We smell two ticks. Where is he?'

Tension filled the atmosphere between the Guards and Doom. The old man repeated, 'I am the only one here,' but his voice was less steady. He stared at the two Guards, who grinned maliciously back. They crouched, preparing to pounce upon their prey.

The prisoner's heart thudded. He had to do something. He could not stand and watch while those monsters killed his rescuer and host. He had to help the old man somehow. But how?

He was not thinking as he charged out of the cave. He faced the Grey Guards, baring his teeth at them. 'Let him go,' he said. 'I am the one you want. Leave him be.'

The Grey Guards grinned. 'We think not,' one of them said. 'The more ticks dead, the better, I reckon.' The Guard stepped towards Doom, hands reaching for his neck.

The prisoner sprang at the Guard, barely hearing Doom's choked exclamation. The Grey Guards roared, and suddenly the prisoner found himself in the middle of a battlefield. He dodged and attacked, dodged and attacked again, and watched with grim satisfaction as the Guards fell, one by one, blood spattering the grass beneath them.

His satisfaction died when he saw old Doom slumped on the ground, his neck twisted in an odd way, his eyes wide open and sightless. Sudden grief flooded the prisoner as he recalled Doom's exclamation. He had never had a chance.

oOo

He buried Doom of the Hills in the cave he had lived in for so long. It had been home to him; it was right that he should be buried there. As he knelt before the grave, in remembrance of the old man who had helped him when he had needed it most, he prayed that he would finally be at peace in the spirit world.

He gazed at the words he had scratched onto the headstone: Here lies Doom of the Hills, who helped a friendless stranger and so met his death.

He could feel the grief and rage rise in him, and he did not quench it. It was not fair that this old man had to die like this. He had been peaceable and good. The Grey Guards had had no reason to kill him, other than spite. They should not have been able to kill him.

His fists clenched; his body trembled with the fury he was feeling. Doom should not have died like he had. It was because of him that the Grey Guards had killed him. If Doom of the Hills had not helped him, he would still be alive.

But the prisoner was not angry at himself so much as the Shadow Lord. Yes, he had brought death to Doom's home, but it was the Shadow Lord who had sanctioned it, his creatures who had killed Doom. They had to be stopped, and not just because of himself.

He thought of the Dread Gnomes, slaving for a giant toad, and Doom, who had died protecting him from the brutal Grey Guards. He thought of the Dread Gnome who had spared his life when he trespassed upon one of their huts. For them, and for himself, he would help rid Deltora of the Shadow Lord.

He hesitated, and scratched four more words onto the stone. He will be avenged! Looking down at his handiwork, he smiled grimly. It was fitting that Doom should have such a message scrawled on his headstone. The old man had given him shelter and healed his wounds, and had paid with his life. The prisoner swore with all his heart and soul that he would be avenged, that he would see the Shadow Lord and his creatures defeated for what they had done to Doom and the people of Deltora.

But he was no one. He had no identity, no memory and no friends to help him. How could he do this thing, when he had virtually nothing to go on? For a moment, he faltered.

And then he remembered Doom. 'I called myself Doom,' the old man had once said. 'It seemed a fitting name. Everyone around me felt doomed by my presence.' The prisoner remembered how he had chuckled bitterly, and remembered how he had felt empathy with Doom. He too felt that way at times, thinking of his escape from the Shadowlands.

Doom. It was a fitting name, the prisoner thought. It would suit him very well. It seemed as if he was doomed, doomed without a memory and without hope.

So, he thought, satisfaction filling his mind. Doom. He was Doom of the Hills. No longer a nameless prisoner from the Shadowlands. The thought made him smile again.

He stood and walked towards the entrance of the cave, thinking. He was safe. He was finally safe. As long as he was known as Doom of the Hills, the Shadow Lord would not be searching for him. Indeed, he most likely would think him dead. The Grey Guards would not pursue him any longer; he had seen to that with a great sense of vengeance and satisfaction. He had strewn their bones in the deepest corners of Kinrest, burying them in the soil so that they could never be found.

He was finally safe. The thought filled him with something akin to joy, and relief, and hope. He was safe, and he was alive. He felt a smile spread across his face; fleeting and tiny, but a smile nonetheless.

He had an identity. He had a mission. He was safe at last.

For now, that had to be enough.