The hoofbeats were like thunder behind him as he rode clutching the reins for dear life, not daring to look back again. A sharp sound like a snare drum cracked and a tree shot out splinters as a steel ball crashed through the bark and March knew that these pursuers were not going to let up for anything. They would chase him straight into the castle of Lord Simas if they had to, into the very bedchamber where his lady still lay dying.
But his horse would never manage that journey. They would have to stop, to rest. That left March with two options: lose the pursuers in the woods, or fight them off, kill them or scatter them. A fool’s choice. An old knight had once told him – “if you have no choice but to fight, then the battle is lost already.”
He pulled on the reins, veering Mist off the track and into the woods like a shot. He heard the cry from behind, the others reluctant to follow him into the dark woods. He felt a kind of grim satisfaction at that. At the least he had bought himself some time. He “whoa”ed Mist down to a walk and took stock. Of course, the most important part of losing a tail was done. However, he had neglected in his fervour the second, all-too-often-forgotten part, which is to ensure that you not get lost yourself. No direction seemed to carry so much as a hint of the road that might draw him towards a new path.
March cursed violently, causing a bird above him to flap its wings aggressively and make a loud rark of irritation. He stepped down from Mist’s back and began to lead the sweating, snorting animal through the woods, wishing he had a little more light to travel by.

A little while later, March heard something that made his blood chill. Hoofbeats, behind. Just one set, now. How close?
March drew the Angel’s Memory and prepared for a fight, sending Mist on ahead. There was a feeling of unbearable stillness. Even the flies seemed to hang in the air, unwilling to break the silence, as the sound of hooves drew nearer, grew louder, seemed to be coming from every direction at once.
The Prince’s horse burst out from the undergrowth and the man on its back leaped towards March, his arms outstretched. The two men went tumbling to earth, and the Memory flew from March’s hand as his arm struck a protruding root.
The Prince pulled away from March and scrambled to his feet, reaching to his bandolier for a pistol. Before he could take aim, March lurched forward and grabbed the barrel of the crude machine. The struggle was brief, before the Prince managed to tilt the gun towards March and pull the trigger with a-
click. The flint snapped off harmlessly. Estilo, the son of the mad king, looked down and saw the thumb holding down the metal strike-plate that should have moved aside to let the spark reach its fiery destination. He snarled and tossed the gun aside into the underbrush, shoving March away as he reached for another pistol. Roaring incoherently, he pulled the trigger as the knight dove to the ground. Striketrue March lay still. Had the Prince seen him flinch in the air from an impact, or just from the noise? He reached to his bandolier and found that he had no more pistols. He uttered a curse and drew his sabre instead.
March listened closely as the Prince came closer, listening to the crunch of his footsteps on the carpet of dead leaves which March himself occupied. They were right beside him now. The Prince made a small noise of exertion and March rolled, avoiding the blade coming down on his neck by a fraction of an inch. He channelled a luminous rune straight down and lifted into the air, knocking aside the Prince’s retaliatory strike with the Memory, which he had landed on top of.
“Impressive!” said March. He landed lightly and swung again, the ethereal blade passing straight through the Prince’s head to knock his sword down. The Prince blinked, staggered. A weapon that cannot kill…
He set his jaw. March was distracted, his head tilted to one side.
“Wait,” he said when he saw the Prince move to raise his sword. “Do you hear?-”
The wolf leapt as March ducked sideways, tearing a great shred out of his sleeve and a red gash out of the arm below it with its glinting black claws. He spun from the impact and stumbled into a tree heavily, air rushing from his lungs. The Prince’s full attention was on the beast now, and he held his blade out in front like a warding rod.
“Don’t do that,” March coughed. “Lift it so you can swing it. The wolf is hungry – it won’t let a few nicks and scratches hold it back.” The Prince did as he said, suddenly hyper-aware of every detail, every hair, every scar on the body of the grey, vicious animal before him. Its lip curled in a snarl, and the Prince watched as a loop of drool fell to the dead ground.
When the wolf leapt it was as if time had slowed to a snail’s pace. The Prince swung his sabre forwards and up as he dropped to his knees, slashing the creature across its chest. Blood pumped from the wolf’s bestial heart sprayed across his face, but when the thing landed, it seemed barely bothered. It shook its head and growled deep in its throat, and its eyes seemed to be full of fire.
“No good! It’s just angry!” said March. He stepped forward, slipping the Memory into its loop on his belt.
“What good is that blade?” asked the Prince. “A sword is a killing tool! What use is a sword that doesn’t kill? What’s the use?”
In response, March ducked into a low stance and extended his hands, flexing his fingers rhythmically. Iridescent filaments of pure sky blue crackled and hissed up and down his arms, like lightning running along the underside of a stormcloud. He said nothing. The Prince cocked back his arm again, ready to parry if the wolf leapt again.
Instead of leaping, though, the beast seemed to vanish in a flurry of movement. “By Uulan! It’s in the brush!” shouted March. “Stay on your guard!”
Wide-eyed, turning that way and the other and back again, the Prince broke and, with a wail, ran for his life. Without a second thought, March was after him, but he too had vanished among the trees. He cursed and then formed a searching rune with both hands that wavered outwards in a shimmer of white light.
After a second, the circle of white light resolved and twisted and shaped itself into a cascade of wisps that drifted between the trees with unnatural clarity. March didn’t wait, whistling for Mist to follow and then running along the trail of softly glowing points in the air.

A scream cut through the forest, not far away along the trail that March had made for himself. He leapt into action, a luminous figure, casting a blast at the guttural animal breathing he heard ahead of him. He heard the wolf whimper as it rolled off the Prince and smacked into a tree. “My Gods!” the Prince gasped. “I thought I had had it!”
All well and good, March thought. But we aren’t out of the woods yet.
And that wasn’t the same wolf. The one he had blasted clear of the Prince was now picking itself up, limping slightly, but it was clear in the moonlight that the shade of the fur, the shape of the muzzle, all subtly different. He shaped another rune out of the air and cast it. The animal froze suddenly. But if you looked closely, it wasn’t completely stopped. The nostrils still flared, the fur still bristled. It was just doing it
very
slowly…

The Prince picked up his sword, flinching at another rustle in the brush.
The wolf lunged! The Prince swung wildly at empty air, the blade hissing high over the canine’s head as March dived forwards, grabbing the animal before it could tear a chunk out of the nobleman’s leg.
“M- my Gods!” said the Prince again as the wolf tried to snap its steel-trap jaws shut on March’s hands which held it open. “Kill it!”
It would be easy. Pretty much any animal is easy to kill, if you’re that way inclined and have the know-how. Humans included. March let go of the wolf and kicked it into the air, casting a two-fisted blast straight at it. The animal flew off into the bushes, and the last that was heard of it was a whimpering retreat.

The two men shook hands, and that was it.
“I hope you might reconsider your declaration of war, your highness,” said March. The Prince smiled, and shook his head.
“We all have our duties, my friend. My quarrel is no longer with you. I hope we might meet again, under more fortunate circumstances.”
He turned to walk away. “We will,” said March.
The ripple of force startled the Prince, although not for long. It passed through the back of his head without any appearance of injury, and quietly turned its contents into paste before exiting out of the front. A tiny scrap of functioning grey matter survived just long enough to whisper on his final breath, but March was too far away to hear it and it was lost to history.

He checked the pouch on his chest. The flower still resided there, shielded from the rigours of the world, from all harm.

And Striketrue March rode on, to his lady. He would meet the Prince again, only once, under very unfortunate circumstances indeed.

But that was a long way off yet.