He glances over to the approaching enemy shieldwall. "Excellent idea."
Gideon the archer, now mounted, bursts free from the woods. He gestures for all to follow him. "Gentlemen! Let's get the fuck outta here!"
"You don't 'ave to say it twice," Milon calls in response, pulling his visor back down.
Your horse sets out at a quick gallop. All of the loyalist cavalrymen quickly follow behind. Those chasing Rade and his men break their pursuit. The pursuing infantrymen, realizing that there's no way in hell they can catch you on foot, break formation and head back to their camp.
The enemy noblemen, however, have finally armed and mounted up. Rade shadows your escaping cavalrymen, a large column of thirty riders following closely behind him. They're hot on your heels, trailing twenty yards behind you.
You clutch your scavenged blade tightly, your knuckles going white. If Rade catches up with you in your current unarmored, exhausted state, you wouldn't stand a chance.
But he can't catch up. It's simply impossible. Milon's horse already had a head start. Even with the added weight, the powerful mount still outruns Rade's own.
There's still a nagging paranoid feeling that keeps you from relaxing. After so much poor luck and constant hardship, you find it hard to accept that you've managed to escape. You keep expecting Milon's horse to give out or an arrow to catch you in the back.
But neither happens.
You quickly blow past the rebel camp. You catch blurry glimpses of rebel infantry as you speed by. None attempt to pursue.
You've made it.
An almost surreal feeling of safety fills you. You relax your hand, the stolen sword slipping from your grip and into the mud below.
You sigh deeply.
You stared death in the eyes… and won.
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