The knife glimmered in the plae moonlight as it swung. Down, down, down. It effortlessly severed the remaining strands of rope, stopping with a dull clunk on the rock beneath it. I stood there and watched as the bridge seemingly floated away from us; gracefully arcing its way until it bumped against the cliff face. The way back was gone. We sat, slumped against the rock, and breathed a sigh of relief. Our chasers were stayed for the time being. I looked around. There was nothing but trees and insects to be seen for miles. I looked at my companion. Sweat beaded across his forehead as he laboured for breath. I wondered if I looked the same. He went to say something, but either he was out of breath so no sound came, or the blood pounding in my ears was creating such a din as to drown out all sound. Either way I heard nothing, I only saw his mouth moving. That was the last action I saw from him. The next thing I knew he was slumped over, an arrow tip protruding from his back. I pushed him back and saw the shaft and flights of the arrow. I looked up and saw the owner of the arrow. An old hermit desses in a hotch-potch array of clothing.