“He thought wrong,” Marc said.

His jaw muscles bulged, and he remained still for what appeared to be minutes. That is until a sound from within the woods caught his attention.

His eyes flowed over the terrain to that point before the rest of his face followed. There was nothing there but darkness. While he was not afraid of what lurked under this tenebrous cover gave him reason to be cautious. 

He loaded another round into his pistol and shouldered the pouches. The next steps would wait, he would first investigate the sources of those sounds before hiding the body. 

“Plenty of men have hung from their necks for what I’ve done,” Marc whispered.

It was one thing to shoot a hare for food; it was another matter to take a human life. However, as Marc counted down the steps, he knew it had to end badly for one of them.

His finger sat on the trigger, while he did not squeeze, he remained perfectly calm. When the rogue yelled as though this was a berserker headed into battle, Marc squeezed the trigger. His weapon came to life, the bright flash lit up the forest, but even through the purple streaks in his vision, he saw the rogue drop like a stone with a hole through his chest. 

“He thought wrong,” Marc said.

His jaw muscles bulged, and he remained still for what appeared to be minutes. That is until a sound from within the woods caught his attention.

Marc knelt down and reached for the nearest pouch. The coins and food were in the other pouch, but his loaded pistol was in this one. He pretended to fumble around through the contents, his nose pointed at the bag. 

However, his eyes were locked onto the rogue as that smile faded. Leave it to a brigand to assume the worst in their victims.

“I said HA—” the rogue yelled.

By that point Marc had already drawn his pistol. It was aimed at his chest and this time he purposefully aimed lower on account of his shots to land high. The man hesitated for a fraction of a second, unwilling to charge an armed foe. However, that sickly smile returned to his lips and charged. He guessed I won’t be able to pull the trigger…

“I don’t have much on me,” Marc said. “I couldn’t afford to spend the night at an auberge.”

“You’re rather well fed for a pauper,” the rogue said. 

“I never said that I was,” Marc countered. “I have salt pork and bread along with some coin…”

He let his leather pouches drop to the ground as a show of good faith. The man was about twelve paces away, so Marc needed to be ready. 

“You’re hiding something—”

“What would I have to hide?”

“Friend or foe?” Marc asked, although he questioned why it was worth asking at all.

“A friend,” the man said, but the tone was insincere, the mark of someone who barely understood sarcasm. “If you have the coin.”

There it was, the answer to his question and perhaps an explanation for why the stableboy believed Marc. In hindsight, it may have been safer to take the road less travelled. I figure brigands are unlikely to patrol those routes. 

“I don’t have much on me,” Marc said. “I couldn’t afford to spend the night at an auberge.”

“Halt!” a man ordered. 

After all those years of training Marc did exactly that. The sound came from the woods, so his eyes flowed from the road towards the trees where he spotted the silhouette of a man. 

It was the sight of steel glistening in the moonlight that caught his attention. Before the contents of his stomach dropped to his toes, he realised there were no campfires nearby. An assassin would never announce themselves before striking, and guards don’t enjoy being in the dark…

“Friend or foe?” Marc asked, although he questioned why it was worth asking at all.

The moon was in the early stages of being a waxing gibbous. Enough light to see the road, contrasted by the dark and foreboding forest at his side. His steps were light, and his spirit was surprisingly light. I wonder why?

Given that his mother was dead, and Bertrand was likely in chains or worse, Marc should have been a sobbing mess. A part of him did want to drop to his knees and beg for God to take him, but this was also the most freedom he ever had. 

“I’m going on an adventure,” Marc whispered, worried that talking out loud would—

“Halt!” a man ordered.

When he got up, an idea struck him like an arrow to the chest. He did know of an uncle up north. A baron hated his father and was known for following orders to the letter of the law to annoy the Comte. It was rare to hear his father mention him without there being followed by a slew of swears.

Now he had a destination in mind, one that would further distance himself from his father’s lands. Based on the travel of the sun, he concluded this road led north, which was oddly fortunate. Best not dwell on a gift from the Fates…

While it was doubtful that he would get a warm welcome, Marc figured his uncle would help, if only to annoy his father…