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The wind storm had barely slackened at all as Kwell turned his feet back in the direction of the grove. The wind buffeted him as he pushed his way back. It was difficult to tell if he was traveling in the correct direction. Occasionally, however, the wind dropped and the sand was let down from the air long enough for him to spot the clump of rocks that marked the place. He quickened his pace and his hand grasped at the hilt of his dagger.
As he rushed forward, it seemed to his racing brain that he was traveling slowly. The minutes stretched themselves into unimaginable lengths of time. Precious seconds slipped by as he forced his feet to go faster than a walk.
When he finally reached the glade, his breath was short and he gasped for air. He drew the knife, his only weapon, when he saw ahead of him the struggling figures of the recently escaped slaves and the men who hunted them. He hurried on, his heart beating violently, and searched for someone to fight with.
Ahead of him he could see three men fighting. Two of them were ones that Kwell recognized, escaped men who the slaves that had recently run away met up with. The attacking one was a slaver. The slaver had a heavy staff in his left hand, and a sword in his right, and the two others were attacking with what makeshift weapons they had.
Kwell sprang forward, forgetting his short breath and tiring limbs. He approached the slaver from behind, but as he ran up, he realized that he could not do any good with the dagger from where he attacked. Instead, then, he sheathed the knife again and made the last few leaps forward and reached out his hand to catch the cudgel.
The slaver swung back his arm and Kwell took the chance to grasp it. One hand grabbed it long enough for his left hand to grasp it as well. He clung to it, nearly wrapping all of both his arms about it to keep it down. The man, confused and struggling for a moment with the sudden, extra weight, turned towards him. The two others took the given chance and dodged into his sword range. They tackled the man to the ground and Kwell was knocked to the side and off his feet.
He struggled up onto his knees, his hand reaching for his knife. He crawled over towards the struggling mass of the three men. He scrambled up halfway to his feet and then threw himself at the man’s head, bringing the knife towards his throat.
The slaver quit struggling abruptly. He was dead. The two men fighting him, stopped and backed up. They glanced at each other and Kwell, catching their breath briefly. Then, without a word, one jerked his head towards others fighting, and the three turned to find another man to take down.
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