While viable, it was not worth the risk of going into Town. The townspeople would recognise him and would very likely report his arrival for fear of reprisal.

So far, he had time and distance going for him. Whatever solution he found needed to increase his odds for survival. I need to add to the distance, which further reduces their chances of finding me—

“Merde!”

He suspected they hoped Marc would either perish of his own accord, swallowed up by a world that was dangerous at the best of times. They have no idea that my mother and Bertrand gave me all the tools I need.

Marc was not some newborn babe out in the wilds. However, he did lack coins and supplies. His clothes were a problem as well, as they would be noticed. None of the peasants could afford clothes like this. The same goes for Enfers and his saddle.

He needed an ally, but had little contract with those outside of the keep. I doubt anyone would risk the fury of the Count to help me… at least they won’t do it overtly.

While waiting for his meal to cook, Marc leaned back against an enormous tree trunk. The change in pace was enough for all the aches and pains brought on by yesterday’s exertion to creep back into his mind. In that moment he was thankful for youth, remembering how Bertrand would complain about his bad knees on cold and wet days. 

“What have I done?” Marc asked.

A trail of blood red water flowed down from where he stood. Without a blade he had to get creative, but nature often provided in times of need. He found several frangible rocks that left behind sharp edges when broken. It was work to skin, and dress the hare, but now it was cooking over an open flame. 

Now that his hands were free of blood, Marc ran his fingers over his knuckles. The wound from last night had dried leaving thick scabs. At least there’s no pain.

When his hands were free of blood, the young man ventured back to his campsite. Enfers appeared entirely content to be here… or is it fear on account of what I did to the hare.

This time Marc repeated the steps in reverse. He carefully set one foot ahead of the other to avoid anything that would make noise, like crackling dead leaves, or snapping a twig. He would freeze on the spot if the hare moved unexpectedly. Pistols were notoriously inaccurate, which meant he needed to get close. A lot closer than the fifteen paces taken in a duel. 

There were risks of him getting too close, while slow and steady had gotten him this far, his presence alone might spook it. Alas, the longer he took, the more likely it was that the hare would hop away in search of more food. 

Once he was under twelve paces, he raised his arm and aligned his body perpendicular to the hare. With his head turned right, his dominant eye focused on the single bead at the tip of the pistol.

Next he grabbed his pistol, readying both barrels with powder, and a ball while using his horse as cover.

He knew the steps well, Bernard had seen to that. At the thought of the man, Marc paused, took a deep breath through his nose with closed eyes and let it all out through his mouth. I hope he’s alright.

After pouring in two seconds worth of powder, Marc returned his focus to the hare. The woodland creature was still there, nibbling at the bark off of a tree. So he capped the horn and placed it back into the saddlebags. 

Next came a wad of cloth, and a lead ball, which he rammed into place using the one attached to the barrel. After the barrel was loaded, he rammed the ball into place, he added a bit more powder to the flash pan, and brought back the flintlock’s hammer.