The forest, dark and wet, was a maze. Trees, tall and ancient, blocked the moonlight. The undergrowth, thick and tangled, grabbed at her legs. Roots, hidden beneath the leaves, tripped her. She fell. Got up. Ran. Fell again. Got up. Ran.
The men, behind her, were faster. Their legs were longer. Their bodies, stronger. They knew the forest. They had scouted the manor before the attack. They knew the paths.
Johana ran blindly. No path. No plan. Just the instinctive flight of a prey animal. Her feet, bare, were cut by roots, by stones, by thorns. The cuts bled. The blood, mixed with the rain, left red footprints on the wet earth.
She burst through the tree line. The forest ended. The ground, suddenly, dropped away.
A cliff.
She stopped. Her feet, sliding on the wet grass, stopped inches from the edge. Below, the river. Black and churning. The water, swollen by the rain, moved fast. The rocks, at the base of the cliff, were sharp and white in the moonlight.
She turned.
