The hard wood of the trundling cart hurt underneath his weary body, spuriously stabbing jolts of sharp pain down his spine with every bump. A dull buzz had long ago overtook the feeling in his legs, searing all the way down to his feet like a swarm of bees, and his back ached.
In the dark, shadow-filled cart there were only a few others. An old woman with a stretched voice, another young man who stared emptily at the wall across from him, and a woman in the hard corner of the box holding herself silently.
They had been prisoners in shackles for what felt like years, though from the number of nights and days Coln had counted through the slivered cracks in the wood it had been only two days.
The cart stopped shaking, and Coln lifted his head. Muffled voices exchanged outside of the thick wooden wagon.
"W-what's goin' on out there," croaked the old woman. Her hunched neck struggled up, but she couldn't lift her head. It hung down with a defeated sigh.
Coln remained silent. A few loud thuds banged against the wooden hull. More of the prisoners stirred.
Suddenly, a square hole in the roof of the cart slammed open and the crowded cart flooded with blinding white light. Coln threw his hand over his eyes and shrunk into the wall.
"Get up," barked a silhouette from outside the doorway. A gauntleted hand reached down into the cart. Coln struggled to sit, his bones cracking painfully as he slowly erected himself with a grunt. The old woman was easing onto her knees to stand across from him.
Coln reached up to the extended arm above him and winced as it grasped onto his own sore arm tightly. The soldier yanked him up, another pair of arms grabbing his chest, and with a few heaves he stood at the top of the cart, firmly held by two men in rusty iron armor.
"Bring 'em to the trees," said the soldier who'd lifted him up, a striking man with blonde hair, nodded and pointed off at a thicket of large oaks. "Alger's gonner tie him up." He had a thick accent, assuredly straight from Reijh. "Come back haer when you're finished."
The soldiers nodded and, one in front and one behind, escorted Coln down a wobbly ramp to the ground.
The cool dirt cooled his aching feet, and he felt himself trembling. The light of the sun as it began to ease down onto the forest cast malevolent shadows over the looming, reddening sky.
"Come on," said one of the soldiers. Their tight grip on Coln's thin arms hurt and he wondered if he would bruise. Their armor clunked with every step towards the treeline. Coln cleared his throat.
"Why're they emptying us out of the boxes?" he asked hoarsely. The soldier to his right, who had the long, blond hair characteristic of the capital, looked for a moment at his partner before saying in a sturdy voice, "They're changing youse up. More prisoners're coming so we need bigger wagons, that's all."
Coln grunted as he trudged forward. "Great," he muttered.
----------------
The sky had turned a marvelous scarlet, burning overhead like the fire of a warm hearth. Coln looked down at the dirt, his cheeks burning. It was a beautiful Connlaothian sunset, quite wasted on him.
The rest of the prisoners had been strung up beside him. Some, like he, had to stand on boulders just to reach the branches thick enough to hold them securely. They dangled on the tips of their toes, held up by stretched arms rubbed raw on the bark above, hoping the night would pass by fast. They couldn't even pray to catch some sleep.
The soldiers all sat and lay in a circle talking amongst themselves, their blond hair glinting in the light of the sunset. Every once in a while shouts would break out as they struggled to make a fire in the lush wood. They were a good distance from him, perhaps a few dozen yards. He couldn't quite make out what they were saying.
A sharp noise caught his attention at his right. He craned his head, twisting his body to see around his arms. The younger woman who'd been huddled in the corner of the wagon, who Coln now assumed was likely late in her thirties, stared at him wide-eyed. Her feet slipped on the stones and she frantically fought to keep her balance. Coln bit his lip in sympathy, for he knew that any weight on their wrists, whose tight bindings constricted harshly, stung terribly. Her stone was steep and smooth, unlike his flat one.
The girl stumbled on the stone once more, wincing audibly as she couldn't find her footing. Her sharp whimpers were faint, but Coln could tell from her face how much her hands must've hurt. With a final slip she lost her footing and slipped off the side of the stone, crying out. The branch above her creaked and her body yanked.
"Hey!" shouted a few soldiers, who came running over as soon as she had slipped. Coln quickly turned his head down. He watched from the corner of his eye.
"What in the name of the Archduke's goin on?" one demanded as he struck the woman on her ribs. She stammered, a few tears welling in her red face, and regained her footing. Her arms trembled.
"You trying ta escape, huh?" the solder asked. She shook her head desperately. The soldier scowled, rocking back. He crossed his arms. "One more act like that," he warned, shooting a finger at her before swaying off to the group.
Coln looked up at the branch she hung from. Dark, black shadows cast into the trees, but he swore he saw a crack. The back of his mind warned him it was just an illusion, a fallacy played on his eyes by his weariness.
But a glimmer of hope unearthed in his chest.
Biting his teeth and waiting until the soldiers had continued their mundanity, he squeezed his eyes shut and bent his knees. Sharp pain twisted at his wrists and scraped at his skin, and the branch didn't budge.
He squatted further down, as far as he could, compressing every fiber of weight he could muster into his body. The branch bent.
Coln grinned and stood shakily. As soon as he had fully erected, he dropped himself again, with more violence. The pain screamed down his arms but he could feel the branch begin to creak under his weight.
The other prisoners had begun to whisper, trying to do so themselves. They'd make too much noise, Coln thought. He had to be faster than them.
With fervor he threw his weight down as much as he could, ignoring the bindings on his wrists. The leaves began to shake and hiss like the sound of pouring water as they rustled above, and he jumped again. A loud crack splintered above, horribly loud. His hands screamed. He bounched once more.
The branch snapped.
Coln collapsed to the ground with a thundering thud, the branch falling with him and shaking the entire tree. The soldiers all stopped silent and stared at him.
Rancorous shouting erupted.
Coln sprung to his legs. The soldiers charged towards him, their feet pounding the earth like a stampede. He wildly twisted his wrists to slide the leather wrappings off of the broken end of the branch. Within seconds it slid off, and a drumming heartbeat later he dashed into the forest.
The towering oaks flurried past him as he sprinted through the disheveled forest floor. He jumped over logs, dodged under branches, skirted past sudden trees. The soldiers behind him shouted, their roars lessening with every moment until he figured only a few were now dashing after him in pursuit.
He kicked his feet and bounded through the woods with as much resilience as his beaten body could call forth. The wind burned through his throat and stabbed at his stomach, and his heart exploded with every rapid beat.
Suddenly, in the deep shadows, what he assumed in a split second was a tree lurched in front of him with a stabbing pain in his arm. He crashed into it with full force and cried out, flying to the ground.
Through blurry vision he saw a man instead of a tree.
