A dozen guards ran towards Jack and Cain.

  “We run!” Cain barked, already mounting his horse.

  Jack followed as they headed through the clearing back towards the road to the manor house.

  Cain drew his sword, and Jack drew his dagger. It felt good to hold it again.

  Two beastkin guards intercepted them. Cain parried a sword strike and kicked the tigerkin away. The second jabbed a spear at Cain’s chest, but he grabbed the shaft and yanked hard. The wolfkin toppled, landing under Jack’s horse. Hooves crushed bone as the wolfkin gurgled in pain.

  They galloped back towards the manor road, with guards closing in on them to the sounds of echoing horns.

  An arrow whistled past Jack’s ear. “There’s an archer!” he shouted. Another arrow clipped his shoulder. He gritted his teeth. “Fuck!”

  The pair pushed their horses forward, up the road, drawing closer to the manor house. The sound of hounds returned. Closer this time.

  “What’s the plan?” Jack called.

  “Hell if I know,” Cain yelled. “We’re fucked!”

  They pulled off into the forest and dropped their speed to a trot, so the horses wouldn’t stumble in the low light. A few minutes later, they heard the sound of nearby horns, dogs, and horses; they were closing in.

  “They’re gaining,” Jack said.

  “We have to make a stand,” Cain growled. “Somewhere defendable.”

  Jack thought searched his memories for a suitable location. “The ritual chamber. There’s only one entry point.”

  Cain nodded. “It should be about half a mile that way.” He pointed to where they could hear horses approaching. “We’ll keep on this path until we lose the horses.”

  With no other choice, Jack followed.

  They rode in silence, adrenaline carrying them through. Five minutes later, Cain changed direction and headed towards the hidden ritual chamber. Ten minutes later, they arrived.

  “No guards,” Jack said as they surveyed the fake temple ruin. “They must be all out looking for us.”

  “Hmm…” Cain agreed. “We’ve probably got less than fifteen minutes before they find us. We either make a last stand here or keep running until they find us?” He looked at Jack.

  Jack frowned. “I’m a scribe. I don’t know what the best option is. I’ve trained a little with a bow and blade, but I won’t last against dozens of trained killers.”

  Cain nodded in agreement.

  Jack swallowed. “And then there are the nobles, they are all blood mages, probably with dozens of stolen combat skills. Greaves has the Mage Shield skill.”

  Cain’s eyes widened at the bad news. As a warrior, his class skills would be useless against Greaves.

  Jack glanced around; the sound of dogs and horses was closing in. “Neither of us can kill Greaves.” He gripped his dagger at the thought of killing the Baron. The rough handle gave him some comfort.

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  “Fuck,” Cain spat. “Fucking necromancers on the road to Lundun, now blood mages! Fuck the Gods, we can’t fight them.” He turned to the woods. “We keep running.”

  They mounted their horses without hesitation and rode into the forest. They had no plan, only motion and survival.

  Jack and Cain rode in silence with the hunt crawling closer with every breath. The horns and the distant sound of the hounds never stopped. For three long hours, they echoed through the trees, a chorus of pursuit that never faded. The noise was a constant reminder of their fate if they were to stop. A warning and a promise like a blade held across a throat.

  Jack’s thighs were rubbed raw from riding bareback, the horse’s spine a merciless ridge beneath him. Heal had eased the worst of it, but every stumble still jarred his knees and sent a jolt up his spine. His back felt like bruised meat, and his hands and arms ached from holding the mane too tightly.

  Cain was faring much better; the experienced adventurer was more used to life on the road and in the saddle. He rode ahead, silent and grim, with his shoulders set, and his own discomfort buried beneath stubborn determination. He’d spent the previous day shackled in Viscount Tides’ dungeon, waiting to be sacrificed. This was an improvement.

  They rode through the shadows and pain in silence. Then, through a break in the trees, moonlight caught on moving water. A shallow stream, no more than two metres wide, glistened ahead. Silver light danced over the water’s surface as it rushed over smooth stones.

  “Thank the Gods,” Jack said as he saw fresh water.

  Cain dismounted first, landing with a grunt.

  Jack slid from his horse, his legs trembling. The instant his feet hit the ground, pain bloomed from every joint. His knees buckled before he caught himself. “Ow,” he groaned as he took his first step, legs still bowed from the ride.

  Cain chuckled.

  The horses drank, muzzles plunging deep into the water to quench their thirst.

  “At least one of us can still walk upright,” Jack joked, dropping to one knee with a grunt. He splashed water over his blood-soaked face. It was freezing cold and perfectly refreshing. He cupped his hands and drank while sighing.

  Not deep enough to block scent hounds, but enough to muddy their trail, maybe. He glanced at Cain, who was dipping his head into the water and rinsing a shallow cut above his brow. Jack drank more, then stood, wiping his mouth.

  “They’ll cross water,” Cain said. “You know that, right?”

  Jack nodded. “It won’t stop them. But it might confuse the trail. Buy us more time.”

  Cain nodded. “We ride in the streambed where we can.”

  They mounted again, guiding the horses into the shallows.

  It was a calculated risk. The footing was uneven, and the water soaked their feet and splashed up their legs. Every quarter mile, one of them would ride out of the stream into the forest before circling back to the water. Just enough to leave a mess of broken scent lines to confuse the hounds. They both hoped it would be enough to buy a few more precious minutes.

  They followed the stream for over two miles. The horses struggled, hooves slipping on slick stone. Wherever the stream narrowed, they pressed into deeper water, hoping the hounds would lose the trail.

  “The white oak bow,” Cain started, “it looks like the bow a party member of mine owned.”

  Jack was surprised. “Really?”

  Cain nodded. “Mira, a talented Apprentice Ranger, owned an identical bow.” He grimaced. “She died to the horde of undead goblins on the road to Lundun. She was the one who saved Zia. Scooped her up as we made a run for it, on horseback.”

  Jack’s eyes widened. Could it be her blood on the bow? “I’m sorry she died, Cain,” Jack said. “If it’s any consolation, her bow has already saved my life twice!”

  “That sounds like a story,” the Journeyman Warrior rumbled, expecting to hear more.

  Jack chuckled. “Well, it started with a trip to a forest to train my archery skills…” He went on to explain in graphic detail the fight with the goblin and the altercation with the adventurers stealing his loot. Cain agreed that it was Jack’s kill. He told Cain how he’d hidden in the root ball of a tree and had bugs crawling all over him while lying next to the rat-faced rogue’s corpse. Cain laughed at the imagery.

  Jack held nothing back, and by the time the forest began to close in and the stream became harder to follow, he’d told him almost everything. He didn’t tell Cain he’d been reborn or that he’d held a blade to Zia’s throat—he wasn’t an idiot—but he’d covered the swordsman’s death and how he’d tracked Mo, the mage.

  Cain agreed with most of Jack’s actions. However, he disagreed with leaving the other three adventurers alive. “You should’ve killed the other three, Jack,” he advised. “They give us adventurers a bad name. If we survive this, we’ll hunt them down together. Wouldn’t be the first bad adventurers I’ve culled.”

  “Thanks.” Jack felt much better after unburdening his soul. He wasn’t sure he’d take Cain up on the offer to hunt the others down, but it felt good to have an ally.