Squirming back, he drew his pistol. The hound scrambled over the rise and bounded down the track towards him. Jace came up on one knee, cocked the pistol and waited. He fired just as the dog reached him, the ball tearing into the beast’s mouth and out through the back of its head. The hound’s front legs collapsed under it, the body somersaulting into Jace, knocking him sideways. Pushing aside the dead animal Jace glanced down the slope. The men were climbing it now. With no time to reload, he thrust the pistol into his belt and began to run along the track.
Cutting left into the trees he powered up another short slope and crouched down behind a thick bush to charge his pistol. His hand was trembling from exertion and he spilled powder into his lap. Anger flowed through him. Is this how it will end, he wondered? Killed by a pack of mangy Varlish?
With the pistol loaded he waited once more. If he could shoot one musketeer, then charge into the others, he might be able to kill them all. Even as he thought it he knew such an outcome was more than unlikely. In order to kill one with a pistol he needed to be close. That would leave two other men with long-barrelled muskets, and the dog handler with his own pistol. They would all have time to fire before Jace reached them. It was more than he could hope for that they would all miss.
Even so, it was his only chance. With his strength all but gone Jace was bereft of options. If he continued to run they would come upon him anyway somewhere down the trail, and he would be too exhausted to put up a fight. Like a stag pursued by wolves. No, best to make his stand now.
A great calm settled on him. Laying the pistol down he drew his sabre, plunging it into the ground beside him. Then he took up the pistol and cocked it.
Dark clouds had begun to gather over the mountains. Jace glanced up. Rain might help. Only the best-crafted flash bowls would keep out water, and their muskets would be useless. But then so would his pistol, which was cheap and hastily made. One against four with a sabre? Could he win?
Jace smiled. He could if he were Grymauch.
The pain from his broken arm was lessening. The limb was almost numb now. He saw movement and two men emerged from behind the trees, muskets ready. Jace crouched lower behind the bush. The grey-haired killer was not in sight. A third man moved into the open. Where have I seen him before, Jace wondered?
Slowly and warily the three men began to climb the slope. They were fifty paces away now. Jace took a deep, calming breath. Where the hell was the fourth man?
Jace glanced to the right. The trees were thicker here, but there was no sign of movement. The man could not have got to the left of him, for he would have had to cross the trail below. This was a worry, for Jace already knew that the man was a good shot. Crouched as he was behind a screen of bushes Jace was all but invisible, but if the man was hiding in the trees to his right then he would have a perfect target the moment Jace rose to fight. Once more the Rigante leader scanned the trees. There was nothing to be seen.
The advancing men were closer now. The first was a burly, black-haired musketeer with a round face and small eyes, the second was taller and lean. His eyes were wide, his head moving swiftly from side to side as he searched for his prey. He looks frightened, thought Jace. He will fire too swiftly.
With the trio no more than twelve paces from his hiding place Jace reared up. Extending the pistol he shot the black-haired man in the chest. As he did so he felt a blow to his back. It was like being struck by a hammer. He staggered, dropped his pistol and swept up his sabre. Dizziness almost swamped him, but he charged from the bushes, directly at the tall, lean killer. The man swung his musket and fired. The shot missed. Jace ran on, plunging the sabre through his belly. The blade sliced through the killer, emerging from his back. As the man fell Jace tried to drag the sword clear. Putting his boot on the dying man’s chest he wrenched hard. The sabre hilt came away in his hand.