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"A fawn's trick," he panted, ashamed. "I got away by
hiding like a fawn."
He stared at his own side, mottled with thorn scratches
and rock scrapes. "No wonder it worked. Still, perhaps these
creatures don't see well by day." But he looked at the sun,
already sunk below treetop level, and he knew that there
would be no third escape.
By dusk he was tottering, barely ahead of the
draconians, barely able to move his legs. His eyes showed
white all around the edges, and he smelled his own blood in
his nostrils. Each step brought a new ache, each breath
another side-stitch.
There was no question but that they would kill him. All
that mattered was when and where.
Once he nearly sank down on a patch of deathwort,
ready to let it end appropriately. If this were but one more
death in an endless series, what did it matter whether he
died well or badly?
But he heard them coming and struggled wearily to his
feet. "I have," he gasped, "an appointment. With a friend,
and with - others. I will fail no one this time."
The sun was no more than a blood-red sliver in the
brush when he lurched across the trail and into the small
glade. He looked around dazedly, though he knew the place
well
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