The horse trampled through the vegetation, hooves scattering dirt as they went. The boy held on as best he could, but the leaves cut and the branches bruised him.

They escaped together, the boy and the horse, and the killing of the doctor still echoed in the boy's mind, always at the edges, corroding everything else. A curse, a warning of his future. So they ran and somehow escaped, aided by luck and the cover of night.

But the paths were watched, men in leathers, holding guns and swords. And any relief was tinged with the knowledge that they would soon be set upon. Every time they stopped, to water the horse or to just give him a rest, it was a race against time.

The fear ate at Patrick, mind, and body. He could not remember the last time he slept or ate. He started to hear shots and steps where there were none, see shadows in the forest no matter how far they ran, snarls and cold blue eyes following them.

he had planned on making a while dash towards the Red River, the ribbon of water cutting off the island from the mainland. Crossing the massive river would prove an almost lethal challenge but Patrick was hopeful to find a bridge.

Once across he could run to the mountains and perhaps find the hunter companies up in the Kettering's Bay. Tough and coarse but fair people and good in a fight. Patrick wanted to hop on one of their ships, hand over the horse and his armor as collateral. But as it turned out Patrick never made it that far.

At first, they galloped along the main road, trying for the most direct route, but the mercenaries soon appeared. Patrick barely escaped with his life. From then on, life seemed like a sequence of near misses and lucky breaks.

Sometimes during the night, when the moon was at its highest, Darby's men released their hounds. The howling and barks wrapped around the trees and slinked through the earth to find them. The sound was maddening, and it rolled all around, carrying with it the threat of fangs.

With the main routes blocked, Patrick cut through the forest, going for the small bridge he half-remembered. A decaying thing that nobody used anymore, and so Patrick thought might be his chance at life.

Dawn came, light shafts breaking through the trees and dissipating and hope that Patrick had left. Vergil could hardly go any further. His eyes looked glazed over and half-mad and had stopped listening to any commands, running when the hounds got too close and slowing down to rest when they were no longer on the horizon.

Patrick, armed only with the late doctor's knife, could do nothing but pray and hold on tight to his rapidly diminishing horse.

A last mad push. Digging his heels into the horse's flank and kicking had helped the escape. Patrick knew that he would feel awful later, and planned to reward the horse with as many sugar cubes as he wanted.

Finally, he had made it. He could see the bridge from between the trees. All was curiously still. Patrick tried to hear any hint of dog barks or men shouting but all that accompanied him in the stillness was the ragged breathing of his horse. The boy winced as he walked, whole body screaming in protest, having been in the saddle for the whole night.

Patrick pulled the horse with him, and they broke the treeline, standing on the little ridge, the earth crumbling and rolling down the rocky beach of the river.

Now the view of the bridge was unobstructed. Patrick looked and felt despair burst in his chest. The little bridge was burned and still smoking. The smell of the horse had concealed it while among the trees, and now standing in front of it, he could see how his hopes had all been in vain.

The bridge still smoking should have told him that whoever did it might be around and waiting to do him harm, but the boy was no longer concerned with earthly things. Patrick kneeled in the rocks, held his head in his hands. They could never cross, the horse was nearing death he knew it. Patrick could make a try of it and would have a fair shot if he was regularly rested and fed. But as it was, the choice became drowning or bleeding.

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Lost in thought, and with the river noise nearby, Patrick missed the footsteps or the growls. Shapes appeared on the ridge. Then a whistle.

Patrick, startled out of his pensive state, looked up.

"Damn, boy, you sure took me on quite a chase. Made us earn our pay." Carter laughed from up on the ridge. Hounds pushed against his left, eager to be released back on the hunt, anxious for the kill. Their yelps and growls raised the hair on Patrick's head.

"Figured you would go this way." Laughed Carter, his long and greasy hair shaking as he went. "Well, I'm a liar, actually. You were all over the place, boy. Could not get a track, but there are only so many ways to get off this patch of land. Had my boys burn any and all they could. Unless you wanna go for a river bottom walk, wearing all that armor."

Patrick found his voice, growing both angry and frightened as the man chuckled to himself, treating it all like a game. "Just let me go."

"Everybody's got to have principles little Patty," said Carter. "Besides, what am I supposed to do here? Give ya a piggyback ride across the river? Hells all-mighty boy, find your stones, and at least die like a man."

"I'll go away, you'll never hear from me again." pleaded the boy.

Carter's tone turned sharp and the joke was all over. "Yeah, that'll happen regardless." Then he turned his head, dark hair hanging to the side, the whites of his teeth appearing all the brighter amidst the dark. "Besides, we both know that this will be a lot more satisfying, and a hell of a lot quicker." he waved a hand, trying to find the right words as if to snatch them out of thin air. "Call it mercy. At least this way you won't starve to death beneath the trees."

Carter then pushed his tongue between his teeth and let out a whistle. The hounds responded, going mad with anticipation. Another whistle and they were off, accompanied by the hollers and cheers of the mercenaries on the ridge. Something that Patrick would remember later was Carter's smile. He did not yell, he did not cheer, but stood unmoving, lips stretched unnaturally as if humanity itself was the joke.

Patrick got to his feet, dragging desperately at his horse. If they could only make it to the river, perhaps they would be carried away, perhaps something would happen, anything but a death where they would be ripped to pieces by dogs.

The first hound jumped. It landed on the horse, biting and scratching, the short struggle settling with the hound's teeth sinking into the horse.

Vergil's eyes went completely dark and the horse went mad with fear. In the confusion, he knocked Patrick off his feet and to the ground, who was then beset by the rest of the hounds.

Moving in a circle around the boy, the war dogs snarled and continued barking, the beasts waiting for the bravest of them to make the first move. An already scarred dog, half an ear missing stepped forward.

Patrick was ready, and as the dog charged, he struck with the knife. The hit landing between the dog's ears, he gained a few seconds of reprieve before he rest attacked. Some went for his legs, a few trying for the jugular but only reaching the chest.

Patrick felt a moment's gratitude for his armor before he collapsed. He slashed and jabbed with the small knife as best he could, holding his arms up to defend himself, but the hounds occasionally scratched through.

All was nearly over, but the old horse had been trained for war and although startled, the instinct to protect its rider pulled through. Vergil shook off the hound. The dog landed on the ground confused before Vergil broke its skull with his hooves. The horse then charged through the pack that was attacking Patrick.

The boy grabbed at the reins and held on as the horse dragged him. Vergil, with the hounds in quick pursuit, began galloping across the rocky beach.

Patrick was stuck. If he let go of the reins the hounds would set on him and rip him apart, but if he held on much longer, the rocks would shred him. He tried grabbing at a higher part of the reins and pulled the harness towards him, which slid the blinkers over the horse's eyes.

Vergil, now blinded, reared and redoubled his efforts, turning madly. Patrick began yelling for him to stop.

A shot rang out, striking the horse. Vergil reared on his two back legs and fell, the horse's massive weight collapsing on top of Patrick. The boy seeing this, let go of the reins and tried to roll out of the way, but it was in vain.

A whistle called back the hounds, and the beasts obeyed reluctantly.

Carter walked down from the ridge and crossed the beach, shaking the rifle from his back, walking alone towards the fallen boy and his horse. Patrick was unconscious, but Vergil was still trying to stand up, harness wrapped from his eyes to the muzzle.

Carter was not smiling anymore but looked on with pity at the efforts of the wounded animal. He knelt and felt Patrick's pulse and then looked at the musket wound on the horse.

"Boss!" came a shout from the ridge. One of the mercenaries pointed aways down the river where the masts of a warship peeked through the treetops.

Carter looked down and made his decision. "Don't ever say I never gave you anything," he said, turning his back on the boy and his horse. Carter ran away back to the forest before the ship came into view, and his happy singing was swallowed by the trees.