L'appel Du Vide [Call Of The Void]

[2]

As they galloped along in lightning speed, Philippe felt the chill digging into his skin like a poisoned dagger. Branches whipped past him, their sharp ends biting into his cheeks. They were going so fast that the trees lining the path were blurry pinpricks in the periphery of his vision. The shrill whoop of arrows whizzing past him raised the hair at the nape of his neck as they zigzagged down the path.

The tension of the chase pulsed thorough his veins, and his heart was beating at erratic intervals, sometimes going still or otherwise beating so furiously it threatened to rip his ribs apart.

He felt his instincts taking over him. His hands grew progressively steadier over the reins and he maneuvered the path almost effortlessly, tugging at every curve and ducking every time he felt an arrow near him. He was bent over the horse in utter concentration, and everything else but the chase fading away from his mind.

The men behind them shouted, their fury apparent in their voices, cursing profusely every time they missed their mark. They weren't poor marksmen no doubt, but Philippe's maniacal riding style—he diverted from the path in front of them, whipped the horse feverishly, causing it to jump and duck whenever his instinct said that they were going for the foot of the horse or the noblewoman's neck-- kept them from hitting their marks. The horse swiveled around like a drunk, but aside from occasional exclamations, the noblewoman did not protest.

A loud swear accompanied by the panicked neighing of a horse caused him to turn his head around for a fraction of a second. He saw one of the riders on the forest floor, an arrow cleanly lodged in his throat, rivulets of blood streaming down his breastplate.

"Theo," one of the men screamed, "Theo!" Hysteria was apparent in his voice. "I will kill you," he roared, "I will kill both of you, d'Aramitz, mark my words."

Philippe shouted above the whistling of the wind to the noblewoman, "Is your name d'Aramitz?"

"Yes, Marie d'Aramitz," she answered him back. When he turned around, he saw her face slightly tilted towards his back, pulling an arrow out of the quiver. "Focus on the path and don't get us killed," she snapped as she took her mark. He complied, pulling the horse's reins. They missed a puddle quite narrowly.

He heard another man fall down—Marie d'Aramitz had shot him in the thigh and he'd lost his grip on the reins and had fallen off his horse. The horse, unaware that its rider had been unseated, raced past them.

At the horizon, he spotted faint outlines of some huts—they were in the outskirts of Paris. In front of them lay barren field teeming with weeds and dead grass. Fallow land, presumably abandoned during the years of the Revolution.

"Where do I ride to in the city?" Philippe shouted to Marie d'Aramitz as they exited the forest. The azure sky slowly slid into view, replacing the shroud of treetops that'd been over them in the forest. The dense foliage around them was being replaced by increasingly sparser vegetation.

"In the city?" She shrieked, "Mon dieu, anywhere but the city. Paris is teeming with as many sewer rats as with Carpentier's men. I thought I'd be able to get rid of all the men by this time, but they're too skilled."

"Back into the forest, then," he muttered to himself and took a sharp right turn while feinting to turn left, thus effectively causing the pursuers to misfire. However, a whoosh sounded by his left ear and sudden pain flashed through him, going as abruptly as it had come. He swore loudly, causing Marie to let out an alarmed squawk. He felt warm liquid trickle down the top of his ear and drip down to his chin. He didn't have to look at the stained hem of his shirt to know that it was blood. He slapped the horse's hide violently with the reins, his energy fuelled by the bursts of pain. The horse shot into the air and galloped faster, its speed rivaling that of the breeze.