The dogs caught up with them around fifteen minutes after they abandoned their camp. These weren’t like any dog breeds on earth that Michael had ever seen. They had loose flaps of skin, thick fur, and heads that seemed too large for their bodies and came with a massive set of teeth. The last time there had been about twenty of them, and this time there were closer to fifteen.

As they started to catch up, Michael saw Francesca falling behind, and Lance barely paying attention to where he was running.

“We’re going to have to fight,” he yelled, turning around and moving to stand where he could intercept any of them heading for Francesca.

One dog was running so fast it practically flew over a nearby hill and aimed at him like a missile. He took his shield and slammed it into the dog's face, hearing bones crunch as it fell down to the ground, limp. Three more followed after that and he was only able to cut one down before the other two clamped down on his legs, their teeth managing to cut into the unarmored part of his calves and draw blood. He cursed as he slammed the edge of his shield into the neck of one of them, and tried unsuccessfully to kick off another of them before giving up and running it through, praying his brittle sword would hold.

He’d had a few dogs back on Earth. An Irish Wolfhound just before he’d died, a mutt when he was a kid, and a lab that he wound up caring for more than his sons who promised they could take care of it. He couldn’t say he very much cared for this breed as he healed the jagged bitemarks in the back of his legs and surveyed his surroundings.

He saw Ollie blast another one to the side, and Pyotr kicking one while smashing the hilt of his blade into the head of another. The dogs weren’t the real danger. They were just a method of tracking and distraction. The real problem was the soldiers that followed behind them.

He started to look around for them when he heard a loud pop and felt heat and pain bloom in his stomach. He cursed as he fell to one knee and brought his shield up in front of his chest and head. Their pursuers were five Tusinian dragoons that they’d narrowed down from seven, mostly thanks to Marcus’s keen eye. In a straight up fight they would be able to demolish them, but with them being harried by hounds and shot at from multiple directions it had been too risky, particularly with Francesca to think about.

Michael healed himself, frowning at the fresh bullet hole in his breastplate as a small ball of lead fell out of his stomach. He got up and started to run toward where the shot had come from. There were two more shots fired from other directions, but they missed him and as he crested the hill he was on, he saw a dragoon with his rifle aimed in his direction. He’d been waiting for him.

He fired and it hit Michael in the center of his chest, but he kept his forward momentum, healing himself as he rammed into the man and knocked him to the ground. Once he was down Michael smashed the heel of his boot into the man’s face, killing him, and started to look for the others as he sealed his cracked sternum.

Two dogs were running toward him and he channeled his magicka, feeling the cool pools of it within him start to shift and move as he summoned two quarter sized shields in front of their faces that they smashed into at full speed. There was a sad whimper from one of them that made Michael's stomach twist up a bit, but he still took advantage of their distraction to kill them both with quick sword strokes. He heard a struggle nearby and ran toward it to see Davi smashing one of the dogs into one of the dragoons, killing them both. His eyes were wild and he actually roared as he tossed the dog’s corpse to the side. Michael saw two bullet wounds on him and healed him.

Another shot took Michael in the shoulder and he fell forward. He healed himself with gritted teeth and stayed low. This was getting ridiculous. Did marksmen during the civil war have this kind of hit rate? Or was he just magnetic to bullets? He looked in the direction of the shot only to hear a second pop and watch the Tusinian soldier fall down from a taste of his own medicine, courtesy of Marcus.

Davi helped him back to his feet and they ran to find the others, discovering Ollie surrounded by a half-dozen dead dogs, Marcus emerging from a bush with his rifle, Pyotr clutching his side.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

Michael quickly healed the others, focusing primarily on Pyotr, and looked around.

“Where’s Lance and Francesca?” He asked, whispering “aqui” to see the mark he’d left on each of them. He moved quickly with the others and found Lance standing over three dead dogs, his gauntlets covered in blood, and Francesca unmarked behind him, but looking very relieved that the rest of them were there.

Davi approached her quickly. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, just… never seen someone kill a dog with their bare hands before.”

“What about using one as a blunt object to kill a man?” asked Ollie.

Davi coughed a bit. “I dropped my sword when I got hit. I had to… improvise.”

“How many was that? I got one shooter,” said Michael.

“I got one too,” said Davi.

“I got two,” said Pyotr.

“One for me,” said Marcus.

“That’s all of them, and I’m fairly certain all the hounds are dead too.” He looked at Marcus. “You think it’s worth traveling openly now?”

He shook his head. “Lets try to move at least a couple more days, but we can start moving toward the main road I think. This many dragoons… that’s a big resource to lose. Hopefully they won’t be able to send anyone else after us too quickly, but I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

Michael nodded, “Agreed.” They were planning on staying far away from the road for most of the journey, but they were starting to get low on supplies, and they were all antsy to gain a greater distance from the Tusinian border. The main road may have been more obvious, but it would cut days off their travel time and the majority of traffic in Svict was nearer their capital to the North, at least that’s what the dubiously good intel Francesca and Marcus had told them. There was the risk of them being identified as takers of course, but Stent takers were likely known to be branded and unable to escape.

Everyone began to clean up, and Marcus took some time to go over all the dragoons kits to see if there was anything he could use. Michael approached Lance who seemed to have a bit of life in his eyes again, the battle bringing some of his senses back.

Michael approached with a wet cloth. “For your gauntlets. Don’t want them to rust.”

Lance took the cloth and carefully wiped the blood off of his hands before handing it back to Michael.

“I hate you,” he said in a calm voice.

Michael took a moment to wring out the cloth and nodded.

“I can’t blame you.”

“You’ve doomed my brother, and made me a traitor. Taken my home away from me, and left me bereft and useless.”

Michael could argue, he could explain that he’d not been the one at fault for the majority of that. Lance was the one that had taken it upon himself to lie about a high risk mission, used his father's name to justify it, and would’ve gotten himself hanged for treason the moment they’d arrived back, and quite possibly the rest of them too.

“Yes I did.”

Lance’s face contorted into a scowl. “Damn you.” He shook his head and stood up, taking a step toward Michael. “Damn you for agreeing with me. Damn you for not calling me a fool and saying it was all my fault. You would really let me blame you? Let me hate you for saving yourself and your friends? For not letting me go to the gallows?”

Michael stayed silent, he hadn’t been ready for that response. He just met Lance’s eyes with his own.

“Am I truly just like a child to you? That you would let me say and feel these things at your own expense to make me feel better? Do you think me so immature?”

Michael took a deep breath and let it out. “Maybe I do, and that’s wrong of me. I just… can’t imagine what you’re going through, and I thought that if hating me and blaming me would help you move forward then it would be a worthy problem to endure.”

“What if I’d tried to kill you because of it?”

“You mean, again?” asked Michael with a small smile. “I’d probably take it as seriously as the last time, and beat the shit out of you along with everyone else.”

Lance’s scowl deepened and kicked a nearby stone. Hard. He looked at it and shook his head.

“I would have at least cracked it before…”

“You’re still stronger than almost everyone else,” said Michael. “You have as many titles and deeds as most of the rest of us even without your Heir titles.”

“If I leave, will you and the others try and stop me again?”

“It depends on where you’re going to go.”

“I’m not sure yet,” replied Lance. “I don’t know that I have many choices.”

Michael laughed. “You have a thousand choices and most of a life left to live.”

“Nine-hundred and ninety-nine choices. You won’t let me go back to Stent.”

“No… I suppose you could lie and head back that way, though I’d hope you’d see the futility of that by now.”

Lance’s face went through a half-dozen different expressions, before becoming neutral again. “And you would allow me to travel with you even past Svict? Even with what happened?”

“I would, and I talked to the others about it already. They’re not… enthused, but it’s better than worrying about you slitting all of our throats in the middle of the night.”

Lance looked at his hand and clenched it into a fist. “I’ll travel with you… at least until I figure out what it is I want to do.”

Michael nodded. “Sounds like you're up to helping with the firewood tonight."