Von Högge’s Outriders

Clauz ran, faster than he’d ever ran in his short, pitiful life. He’d left his shako and musket behind him, where even now they were being reclaimed by the mud. He dodged between the long-dead stumps of trees, his legs powering forward with sodden, desperate footsteps. He couldn’t stop now - he knew that to stop was to be caught and found by those creatures and their cruel riders. He could hear them, somewhere far behind - the thundering hoofbeats and wet grunting breath that spelled death. No, there was no stopping - only forward. That morning, his regiment had squelched proudly past an ancient tower, it’s crumbling stones a secure redoubt. He knew that if he could reach that tower, he’d be safe. He might hide there, high up, and wait until the creatures had turned away. He just needed to get there.

His lungs strained at his weedy chest, pushing their way between his ribs with each breath. He’d not eaten for days now, and his malnutrition made his gait unsteady and breath ragged. A sod of ground gave way as he put his weight on it, pitching him sideways into a bracken mire hidden among the reeds. He took in more than one mouthful of mud as he gasped for breath. Something writhed under him, it’s odious slime seeping through the ragged uniform. He dragged himself to his feet, sliding and scrabbling in the oily water. With clods of wet mud covering his every inch, he slogged forward, swaying and staggering.

A noise close by made his blood run cold - a rough grunt and an accompanying screech of delight from behind a rusted visor. It couldn’t be more than a dozen feet away. He turned, his leaden bowels loosening, and knew it was the end. A rider in cuirass and helm sat upon a porcine steed, it’s nostrils flaring wildly. The barrel of a gun was levelled at Clauz, and in the other hand, the rider bore a wicked cavalry axe.

“Please, I have a family!” he lied, squirming in the mud. “I can pay, I didn’t fire a shot! I won’t cause trouble, I’ll just go and…”

A blast of black powder ended his pathetic mewling. The rider turned away, reared on his steed and let out a wordless cry of victory, before thundering back to his pack. 

Högge’s Outriders always got their quarry.