High up in the mountains, on the barren highlands, the hunter walked. Mist drifted over the rocky plain and his wet hair was moved by an icy wind. Yet he marched on, unbothered by the sharp stones that scarred his feet or the chill that went through his bones.
He waded though shallow streams and climbed over narrow ridges. The howling ghosts tried to push him off the cliffs, but his feet were steady and his step was careful. The man was born and raised here. This was his home, and although his clothes were soaked and his skin was a blueish purple, he would not rest or make a fire. The rage which burned inside him was enough to keep him going, enough to make him endure this cold. On he marched, as fast as the terrain allowed him to go.
He walked past the pools of melting water, over the rocky foothills and through dark forests, until he reached the valley, where the wilderness gave way to small fields.
Through the windows of the houses built against the slopes he could see the glow of fires and one instant he longed for his home. Yet he knew there was no way back. They would search for him, the fugitive...
He dared not ask for hospitality, for he did not know whose side the people were on. Most farmers were attatched to their freedom, but fear could cause people to do regrettable things. Most people simply wanted to stay out of trouble, and he couldn't blame them, for most men would already have given in to despair having suffered what he had.
The child... His son. He thought of his expression... Such a brave lad. He did not move, nor did he tremble or cry, but he knew he faced death when his father aimed the crossbow. The apple... Split by a fierce bolt. It could have been the boy's face.

The hunter gritted his teeth as he thought of the frightened child. What had kept him from shooting the bailiff? Was it the Lord's hand which had held him from pulling the trigger one more time? Had he shot that second bolt, his wife would now be mourning for both a son and a husband. It was God who had kept him from making that mistake. He had had to endure even further humiliation and suffering, but now the time was coming.

Through the fields he walked. His fields, their fields... Here they had toiled for centuries. With their own sweat and blood the people had turned these unfertile lands into a little paradise and now came this stranger to take it all away from them. He treated them as if they were serfs, slaves even... How much longer did he think the people could live under this yoke? How much deeper into the mud of their own homeland he thought he could push them?

The hunter reached the town's walls and pulled the soaked hood over his hair. The guards would search him, but he was unarmed anyhow.

He walked through the alleys until he reached a house near the port. He knocked the door thrice and waited. It was set ajar and a wrinkled face appeared.
"Who is it... Oh Lord! It's you. I heard about the trial. Come in, quickly."

The hunter stepped inside and took off his wet cloak.
" I need dry clothes and a weapon."
" I thought they took you prisoner."
" They did, but I managed to get away."
" How ?"
" I jumped overboard. Do you have a crossbow? We have to be quick."
" Yes, yes. Here is my own. And here are the bolts. But what do you need it for ?"
" For revenge."
" You won't... You hot-headed idiot. They'll kill you!"

But the hunter had already grabbed the weapon. He weighed it in his hand, placed it against his shoulder and nodded.
" It will do. You have my eternal gratitude. Goodbye."
" But..."

The hunter left his friend's house and walked towards the quay. He was alone, for with this weather people prefered not to go out. All the better...
He hid himself behind some barrels and waited.

The waiting seemed to take ages, but then he saw them. The boat came round the cliff slowly and sailed towards him. Its sails were torn and the rigging was damaged, but somehow it managed to get to the port. The gangway was lowered and the passengers stepped onto the quay.
First came the soldiers, then followed by the servants carrying the chests with tax money. And then he appeared; The bailiff. Dressed in his expensive clothes he stepped onto the quay, his nose up in the air and his expression grim.

The hunter placed a bolt against the wood and pulled the string back. Then he placed the butt-end against his shoulder and he aimed.
" There is no apple on your head, bailiff", he whispered, " So I'll aim a bit lower..."
A soft thud. Blood spattered over the bailiff's face and clothes before he fell backwards into the water.
The oppressor was dead, but the fight had only just begun...