No longer a young man, Jace was already tired from the chase, though there was some strength left. How many were hunting him? He thought back to the moment he had emerged from the trees at the back of Magra’s house. One man he had shot, another he had stabbed. Four had come running from the front of the house. Was it only four giving chase? If so who was holding the dogs? Were there others in the house guarding Magra?
Only one musketeer had been at the rear of the building, the rest in hiding at the front. Had he emerged from the trail at any other point it would have been more than his arm they’d have hit.
Jace had approached the house from the front, but had held back, scanning the building. Magra knew he was coming, and they had worked out a simple code. If it was safe to come in Magra would leave a water jug on the porch. There had been no jug.
He should have eased himself back into the trees then, and returned home. But he was concerned about Magra, and so had worked his way round to the rear. It was a mistake. Even so, you are alive, he told himself.
Once again he heard the dogs barking, this time from below and to the north. They were in the gulley.
Keeping low Jace began to climb, topping the rise and angling his route back towards the one place they would not think of searching. It took almost an hour.
Now, once again, he was hidden in the trees by Magra’s small house. The two dead men lay where they had fallen. Jace scanned the area, circling it, just in case anyone had been left on guard. At last he quit the sanctuary of the trees and ran to the man he had stabbed. His sabre was still imbedded in the corpse and Jace dragged it clear. Then he recovered his fallen pistol, thrusting it into his belt. There was no movement from the house, and, with a heavy heart, Call Jace moved across the clearing and up onto the porch. He had spent many happy hours in this secluded place, and the memory of Magra’s laughter filled his mind.
Her naked body was in the bedroom, though not on the bed. It lay against the far wall. It seemed to Jace that she must have cowered there, for her legs were drawn up tight against her body. Blood from her slashed throat had flowed across her breasts, and then pooled on the wooden boards beneath her.
‘I’m sorry, lass,’ said Call. ‘Had I loved you less no-one would have come here. Had I loved you more I’d have taken you to my home.’
Turning on his heel he strode out and returned to the trees.
Call Jace was no longer tired. He had his hunting knife, his sabre, his pistol, and enemies to kill. Aye – and a broken arm and a body past its prime! Get a hold of yourself, man, he thought. This is no time to be thinking like an old-style Rigante berserker. Magra must be avenged, that is true. But you can’t do it in this condition. First you must escape your hunters. His heart yearned to go after them, but his head remained cool. Magra was dead. Nothing could change that. Yet in order to avenge her Call needed to see the killers, to know them. He had only caught the barest glimpse in that first attack. How could he get close without the dogs scenting him?
Turning again he moved swiftly back into the house, and through to the narrow kitchen. At the back of a small cupboard he found a pottery spice jar. Pulling clear the cork lid, he carefully sniffed the contents. As a young man Jace had discovered the joys of spiced food. Peppercorns were expensive, but he had acquired a store of them. Some he had given to Magra, to be used when she cooked for him. From another cupboard he took a small peppermill, and ground the spice to a fine powder. Returning to the doorway, he sprinkled half of the black powder across the opening. Leaving the house through the rear window he ran across to the tree line, pausing to sprinkle more powder into two of the bootprints he had made.