Rapscallion

Their heads were low over their horses' necks as they galloped past.

As the hoofbeats receded, Lasseur raised his head. "How did you know?" he whispered.

"Practice," Hawkwood said.

"Morgan's men?" Lasseur suggested.

"We'll have to assume so."

They crossed the lane and stepped quickly into the woods on the other side. Behind them, they could hear the shouts of the dog handlers. It sounded as if they were beating the underbrush for game, as if they knew they were drawing close to their quarry.

The trees began to thin out once more. Hawkwood and Lasseur moved forward as if walking on glass. At the edge of the woods, they stopped. Hawkwood could see the river. It lay beyond a strip of meadow, less than a pebble's toss from them. It was broad, at least thirty yards in width and shaded by trees on both banks. He looked to his left. Two hundred yards away there was an ancient stone bridge. He could see the parapet and beneath it a keystone and the curve of an arch. He could see the tops of reeds, too, and he could hear water rushing over a weir.

A series of howls, sounding ever closer and rising in volume, reminded them why they had sought out the water. If they could make it to the river, it would be hard - hopefully impossible - for the dogs to track them.

They stepped from the trees.

And a twig snapped at the edge of the wood behind them.

Hawkwood and Lasseur froze. Hawkwood was aware of a shadow moving to his right. His nostrils caught a familiar whiff.

"Got you now," Del said. As he moved into the open, his mouth formed a grotesque gash in his thin face. He was dressed in work clothes. There was no ghostly skull, nor a monk's robe. Just the pistol gripped in his hand.

Another chorus of baying came from the woods at their back and Hawkwood knew with sickening finality that Morgan's men had finally managed to close the gap.

Del grinned again. "Saw you coming. You were making a real racket. Now we'll have some fun," he said. His voice seemed to change, to take on a darker, crueller tone. Suddenly, Del didn't seem quite so oafish.

"No," Lasseur said. "I don't think so. Not today."

It was the timbre in Lasseur's voice that alerted Del to the imminent danger. His response was immediate, driven by panic.

Hawkwood was standing to Lasseur's right and thus partially blocking Del's view as Lasseur drew the pistol from his belt. With an alacrity that belied his doltish looks, Del raised his pistol and fired. Hawkwood felt the impact of the ball against his skull. As he went down in a vortex of pain, he heard Lasseur return fire. His last memory was of seeing a bright flower bloom in scarlet abandon across Del's chest.

Before the world ended.