Behind him, Corkstown had turned into a massive, towering pillar of fire, lighting the area with a horrifying orange light and filling the air with the screams of people losing everything, and the shouts of men trying to stop it.
He kept checking over his shoulder, trying to see if Maggie was following, if she was catching up. He looked into the pitch black wilderness beyond, and prayed she’d catch up soon. A lost man was as good as a dead man on a night like this.
Keeping the canal in sight on his right, he urged the horse onward, squinting through the misted snow to get a sense of what they were charging into.
“There!” came a shout from behind, and he turned his head to see a trio of riders coming up fast, torches revealing the white masks of Roland’s Scotsmen on the hunt.
Émile pushed the horse harder, holding on for dear life as it bounded over a small rise near a turn in the canal. The slope down to the canal itself was gentle enough, but Émile knew from the Bywash that the thickness and reliability of the ice was never certain. But there was no other way.
He aimed the horse toward what seemed like the narrowest point across the water, checking over his shoulder as the Scots closed the gap.
“Be brave,” he said to the horse, as they raced down the slope and—