[u][b]Herakles Leventis[/b][/u]

Herakles tried to listen intently as he scanned the treeline, its depths looking ever more treacherous, but his thoughts were a mad jumble. Sweat gathered on his brow, threatening to sting at his eyes as it inched its way downward. The warm summer sun blazed, glistening off of the pooling blood already matting the steed's maple coat. He couldn't believe how much there was. Try as he might to look away, his eyes were fixed on the motionless form slumped before him. How foolish he was to have allowed himself to be lulled into this false sense of security. And his foolishness had now cost a man his life. 

The sounds of the river's splashing just behind him drew his focus away for but a moment. His eyes flitted from forest to river and back again as realization struck him like a runaway cart. Should they remain where they were, they'd be pinned without cover against a body of moving water that likely wasn't even passable. Yet he was sure a fate left to the coursing river was a better prospect than being gunned down in the open. No. That would not and [i]could not[/i] happen. He wouldn't have another man die here on his account. There wasn't a moment to spare. They would need to act and act fast. Yet even as he tried to move, his feet stood frozen in place. Anxious thoughts plagued his mind as he fought to regain control over himself. [i]How close was the enemy? Were they on horseback? Could the horses make it all the way back to town without first tiring? Would the enemy have thought to cut off their return, hoping instead to catch them beleaguered and fatigued on the road?[/i] This far from command, he had no one to ask for leadership. His word would be the final call. Yet even as he went to speak, fear caught his words as they tried to find flight and pulled them back into his gut. The words sat like a pile of stones in the pit of his stomach, heavy and laden with guilt. He could hear the pounding of his own heart, now racing faster than his flurrying thoughts. 

"Sir!" He finally heard the man, voice at a shout, yet it sounded distant. Hero had called him now for the third time as the other men looked on wide-eyed and mouths agape. All of them stood, shocked into silence, as pressure to do something —anything— grew all the more pressing. Morale was flagging drastically. His men were relying on him and he was failing them. Failing to think. Failing to speak. Failing to move.... Failing to [i]do[/i]. The stakes in this moment were too high. Failure was not an option. It was either do or die for these daring dragoons. Slowly, but surely he felt his wits coming back to him. His breath began to steady, his legs to cooperate. Precious moments had already been wasted with inaction and the time to respond to the unfolding events was quickly ebbing away. He hazarded another glance at the thicket menacing before them, then turned to address his men, voice faltering slightly. 

"You're right, Hero.. There's little time. On me!" He shouted, a lump in his throat. "We're moving down the road back towards the garrison, but the moment you see me veer towards the forest, be quick to do the same. We'll dismount, tie up our horses, and lay in wait for our pursuers." His face was set in a steel-hard grimace, jaw clenched, trembling, eyes cast ahead. To stand and fight with the odds so thoroughly stacked against them would be utter madness. Yet it would hardly be less crazy to attempt to ride all the way back praying to go unmolested. No, they would have to take the fight back to the enemy in a show of force they couldn't possibly expect. He swallowed hard, spurring his ride into a gallop.

Low to the ground, preying at the edge of the forest, and concealed behind shrubbery Herakles waited patiently. His eyes were peeled for the slightest movement, diligently glued to the roadway. He had two shots ready in his double-barreled carbine and his pistol drawn beside him. His men knelt in preparation, Costas and Barsenis just beside him, while Speros and Hero watched the forest behind them for a sign. The death of Danius weighed heavily on each man present, but some combination of a drive for revenge and —the stronger one still— to survive kept the men alert. There would be blood spilt for the blood lost, but more than that none among them wanted to find themself buried alongside him in the morrow.