Murtagh had a pistol in each hand before the corporal hit the ground. One bullet went wild as his horse shied away from the sudden noise and movement. The second found its mark, ripping through a soldier's upper arm leaving a tuft of shredded fabric flapping from a rapidly reddening sleeve. The man kept his saddle, though, and was tugging at his saber, one-handed, as Murtagh plunged beneath his cloak for fresh weapons.
One of the two remaining soldiers turned his horse, slipping in the snow, and spurred away, back toward the prison, presumably in search of help.
"Claire!" The shout came from above. I looked up, startled, to see Jamie waving after the fleeing figure. "Stop him!" He had time to toss me a second pistol, then turned back, drawing his sword to meet the charge of the fourth soldier.
My horse was battle-trained; his ears were laid flat against his head and he stamped and pawed at the noise, but he hadn't run at the sound of gunshots, and he stood his ground as I groped for the saddle iron. Glad to be leaving the fight behind, he dug in as soon as I was mounted, and we made off at good speed after the fleeing figure.
The snow hampered our going nearly as much as his, but mine was the better horse, and we had the advantage of the rough path the soldier's flight had plowed through the fresh snow. We gained slowly on him, but I could see that it wouldn't be enough. He had a rise ahead of him, though; if I cut to the right, perhaps I could make better time on the flat and meet him coming down the other side. I jerked the rein and leaned hard to keep my seat as the horse slithered into a messy turn, found his feet and plunged ahead.
I didn't quite catch him up, but I had cut the distance between us to no more than ten yards. Given unlimited distance, I could likely catch him, but I didn't have that luxury; the prison wall loomed less than a mile ahead. Much closer, and we would be seen from the walls.
I pulled up and slid off. Battle-trained or not, I didn't know what the horse would do if I fired a pistol from his back. Even if he stood like a statue, I didn't think my own aim was up to it. I knelt in the snow, bracing my elbow on my knee, the gun across my forearm as Jamie had shown me. "Brace it here, aim there, fire it here," he had said. I did.
Much to my amazement, I hit the fleeing horse. It went into a skid, went to one knee and rolled in a flurry of snow and legs. My arm was numb from the pistol's recoil; I stood rubbing it, watching the fallen soldier.
He was injured; he struggled to rise, then fell back in the snow. His horse, bleeding from the shoulder, stumbled away, reins dangling.
I didn't realize until later what I had been thinking, but I knew when I approached him that I could not let him live. Near as we were to the prison, and with other patrols out seeking escaped prisoners, he was sure to be found before too long. And if he were found alive, he could not only describe us—so much for our hostage story in that case!—but tell which way we were traveling. We had still three miles to go to the coast; two hours' travel in the heavy snow. And a boat to find, once there. I simply could not take the chance of allowing him to tell anyone about us.
He struggled to his elbows as I approached. His eyes widened in surprise as he saw me, then relaxed. I was a woman. He wasn't afraid of me.
A more experienced man might have been apprehensive, my sex notwithstanding, but this was a boy. No more than sixteen, I thought, with a sense of sick shock. His spotty cheeks still held the last round curves of childhood, though his upper lip sported the fuzz of a hopeful mustache.
He opened his mouth, but only groaned in pain. He pressed his hand to his side, and I could see blood soaking through his tunic and coat. Internal injuries, then; the horse must have rolled on him.
It was possible, I thought, that he would die in any case. But that wasn't something I could count on.
The dirk in my right hand was hidden under my cloak. I laid my left hand on his head. Just so I had touched the heads of hundreds of men, comforting, examining, steadying them for whatever lay ahead. And they had looked up at me much as this boy did; with hope and trust.
I couldn't cut his throat. I sank to my knees beside him, and turned his head gently away from me. Rupert's techniques for swift killing had all assumed resistance. There was no resistance as I bent his head forward, as far as I could, and plunged the dirk into his neck at the base of his skull.
I left him lying facedown in the snow and went to join the others.
Our unwieldy cargo stowed under blankets on a bench below, Murtagh and I met on the Cristabel's deck to survey the storm-tossed skies.
"Looks like a fair, steady wind," I said hopefully, holding a wet finger aloft.