“Yaa, git up, git up,” shouted the driver, fear causing his
voice to break several notes above normal, “for all
you’re worth, run my darlings!” Behind them he could
hear the thundering hooves of at least six riders. They
were gaining on him steadily. The two young squires
bouncing about in the carriage beneath him had
callously ignored his pleas. “We must go before the
moonrise.” He had continuously warned them. But they
had laughed in his face, choosing instead to continue
squandering their future inheritances on cheap local ale
and roadhouse whores. The tavern now lay several
miles behind them and the next town was yet a long
way off. It was just a matter of moments before the
riders would be upon them and the driver knew it.
The first rider came up alongside the left side of the
carriage, spurring his mount furiously, attempting to
catch up with the lead horse. The driver clenched the
reins in his left hand and reached under the seat for the
loaded musket he had placed there just prior to their
departure. The weapon was heavy and unwieldy as he
struggled to raise it up and shoulder it using only one
arm. He tried to keep the sight centered on the middle
of the back of the first rider, now leaning forward in his
saddle, reaching out for the harness, his long black
cloak flapping wildly as he galloped. The lead horse,
eyes wide in terror, strained against the harness,
struggling for more speed. Blood speckled foam
dripped from her lips around the bit which cut savagely
into the soft tissue at the corners of her mouth.
The roar of the musket’s discharge shattered the night.
The driver, sure of a hit when he saw a large section of
the cloak shear away, was dumbfounded. The rider,
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