Connor: Lesssons of Compassion 1

He slithered to the top edge of the sloping ravine and peered over. A wide dirt road wound below, between the birches and the oaks green in the full summer leaf. The sun had turned the deep green into a shinier colour giving an eerie light to his surroundings. The grass and underbrush fed by the spring rain were tall and springy under his feet as he'd run lightly. He had not had any intention of coming here. He had just been out for a run, an exercise in escape, of subsuming his troubles in the simplicity of physical activity. Things had not gone well for him lately, not for the Assassin cause either. The British had seemed to have anticipated their many moves. His Indian allies had been either routed or rounded up as spies. Such concerted operations could only have come about as a result of the British spies and informants among the Assassins. The defeats and the consequent realignment of thought and plan had driven him to seek the solitude of the forest, the big primeval refuge that had sheltered him.

Until now.

The sound that had interrupted his run, that had sent his wolfish instincts to seek the source had come from here. From somewhere to his right along the road. A cry of despair. A cry for aid. So here he was now, in the midday warmth, sweating and consciously calming his hammering heart. His fingers slid along the haft of his tomahawk, a weapon that like the Hidden Blade, he carried with him, a part of his Indian heritage.

A jingle of horse tack and sound of men's voices broke in on his dark deadly thoughts. They were coming. The leader on a black horse did not appear unduly worried, in fact he was not expecting any trouble at all. Not from a lone Indian boy being dragged on a rope by one of his soldiers. The dirt road had dried after the thunderstorm two days past. The boy was choking on dust, not mud that would have rendered his already tattered clothes a lost cause.

The hidden watcher narrowed his eyes on the troop below him. A town militia, simple men with a nasty streak where Indians were concerned. Not only half breeds like himself but also pure Indians. Scum. Thieves. The names rankled – had rankled once upon a time when he had not had a cause, had not known his strengths and weaknesses. No doubt for the poor prisoner whose hands were tied with the rope and cut to bloody shreds those names were a reality – now at this moment made manifest.

Injustice. It stalked the land, valley to village to town to city. Not just the white man against the Indian but the white man against white man, the rich against the poor, the tricksters against the honest. Only the Assassins bothered to think, to pierce the veil, to stand against such tyrannies, petty and large.

He grunted, shaking off his reverie. This was the wrong time to be distracted. The militiamen while being competent fighters were not good tacticians. They had no scouts out secure in their mastery of the road and their numbers. He had faced greater odds, not that his past experiences made him overconfident. Far from it. Arrogant men did not live long.
He slid his bow from his shoulder and nocked an arrow. Slowly straightening he took aim and held his breath. This moment was a brief second but a profound one. This was the time when the hunter became one with the target, that mystical connection that blocked out the rest of the world, the undeviating line from bow to the bull's eye. There was no Connor, no Assassin, no Creed – just the bow, the man and the tool becoming one, the hunter and the prey coming together. The mystery of the hunt…

He exhaled slowly, his arm steady on the string. At the last moment, when the last man, the one holding the rope wound around his pommel, came in between the two trees where the arrow pointed, he let go of the string. There was a twang unheard by anyone except the birds in the trees if they bothered to listen. The gut-string slapped against the brace on the inside of his left arm as he watched the arrow speed splitting the air to sink in the militiaman's throat. The man reeled in mid-laugh at something his companion ahead had said and toppled from the saddle, his foot snagging in the stirrup causing his horse to leap ahead neighing nervously at such a strange occurrence.

The column halted, milling about in confusion. The leader in a felt tri-cornered hat rode back, his expression even at this distance one of frowning alarm. He was not pleased, surprised in fact. The more alert of his men had formed a line facing the ravine slope where Connor stood still unnoticed by them. These were not professional trackers or soldiers but simple men. With families. With trades. And yet…. They did this…

The soft-footed Assassin was already moving, bow back over his shoulder. The trees were his pathway, something the ordinary people never thought about doing. The branches creaked under his weight but not for long. His soft boots stifled most of the sounds. He stepped lightly from branch to branch, tree to tree, tomahawk in hand. Leaves slapped at his arms and body but his hood protected his face as much as it hid his identity. These militiamen could not know who he was, what he was.

The Indian boy was gasping on the ground, obviously relieved at being disregarded for now. Connor heard his ragged breathing from his perch over the heads of the nearest militiamen whose alert posture was belied by the nervous shifting of their hands on their swords. The leader had examined the dead body and now held out the arrow for his men to see.

"There is an Indian nearby - perhaps several," he declared and threw a look at their captive. "Perhaps one of his tribe caught sight of us." He raked his men with a hard look. "He is all alone out there. We keep moving. Jones and Kelly, I want you out – up that ravine a ways. Stay in sight. Ramone, take the Italian and cover the other side. Van Risch, the Indian – put a noose around his neck. Let's see if his rescuer daren't show himself then."

The orders were obeyed instantly, the prisoner once more hauled forward through the dirt, strangling on more than dust. Connor cursed, his fingers flexing on the tomahawk. He'd made a bad situation worse with his warning. It had seemed like a right idea at the time. He stayed in the tree, watching the appointed scouts pass below him and the rest continue on down the sun lit road, Indian in tow.

He kept pace with the troop who now rode in strained silence, watchful. The hapless boy ceased his struggle after some time but he was not dead. Could not be dead. Or all his efforts were a waste. He would not let this just pass. Some would say it was only a boy, and a savage at that. Perhaps it was – but not to him. This stung. Deep down. He thought he'd gotten past that. He had been wrong. The past refused to leave.

Ahead the trees grew thinner. He'd have to hit the ground soon and finish this once and for all. His time was running out. He increased his pace, trees and branches and leaves flashing past his focused gaze. He was leaping off the tree at the leader of the troop before anyone could react. The man's chest caved in under the impact of the flying Assassin and the tomahawk that embedded itself in his ribcage. His flailing body fell from the bucking horse that bolted forward with a new hand at the reins.

There were cries of dismay and 'savage' behind him. He turned around with an expert hand, the horse beneath him responding to the touch of authority. The throwing axe in his fist dripped blood down his leg and to the ground. The militiamen faced him three abreast with the four scouts flanking the Assassin, rifles at the ready.

"Who are you?" one of the more aggressive militiamen demanded riding forward a few steps. "How dare you?"

Connor did not deign to answer, did not move at all.

"Are you deaf? Or just plain stupid?" inquired the spokesman sneering.

Connor touched his knees to the horse's flanks and the beast took a step forward. There was the sound of an indrawn breath, several men hissed in alarm.

"Stay where you are," the self appointed leader commanded, then twisted in his saddle and signalled to one of his men. The Indian boy was dragged forward, making no resistance. His head drooped. He was unconscious, something Connor found himself grateful for. This was about to turn ugly. For some obscure reason he did not want the boy to see it. Not yet.

"You want the runt?" the bearded militiaman asked holding the boy up by his hair. "Why? What is he to you, eh?"

Connor still did not say a word but simply regarded his adversary in dead silence. The horse he rode waited patiently for his commands, a well trained beast. He looked at the militiamen, from those to his left to those in front to those on his right – a calm regard that shook one deep inside. A sleepy owl hooted nearby. A cuckoo gave answer. A slow breeze rustled the greenery of the forest. He inclined his head to one side.

"Fifteen men," he said softly, the sound of his voice causing the horses to shy. "And one small boy." His lips twisted in a sneer. "Very brave you must be."

Dark scowls greeted his words. Muttering broke out at the back of the troop. The riflemen moved closer.

"You show a lot of nerve… for an Indian – and a lone Indian at that," the bearded militiaman drawled leaning slightly back in his saddle. "If you and your tribe want him back, well that's gonna cost ya."

Connor's eyebrow lifted but none noticed it. His horse whuffled, confused by the inaction of its rider, shook its head.

"Is this why you took him?" he asked keeping any inflection out of his voice. "To force his tribe to pay you ransom."

"We got a right to live," the militiaman bristled at not being able to frighten the arrogant savage. "Same as any man."

Connor cocked his head again. Did not say anything. The truth was dawning, a self evident one, on some of the faces before him. The Indian boy was human too. Yet they would deny it. Some would deny because they were followers and not perverted enough to think that skin colour mattered much. This went beyond skin colour though, Connor knew. This prejudice was about the difference of culture, of life. These men did not understand the Indians. And there were some who did not want to even try.

The bearded militiaman shook himself angrily.

"You want the kid or what?" he growled, eyes narrowing like a guard dog that was tired of the intruding cat's antics. The Indian boy was shaken again, none too gently.

"Release him." Connor again guided the mare with his knees. "Whatever it is that you want for him, the tribe won't give you."

"They won't eh?" the self-appointed leader glanced around at his men. "Then you will."

Connor rolled from the saddle, hitting the ground rolling to avoid the charging horses. Shots rang out overhead, there was a loud scream – he did not know if it was a wounded horse or a dying man, nor did it matter. His tomahawk chopped at stirruped feet and deflected the downward-swinging swords. Steel grated on steel. Gaining some ground he aimed the pistol in his left hand and fired it at the nearest horseman. Blood bloomed on the man's forehead, his hat flew off as he fell bonelessly from the saddle, his eyes rolling up in his head.

A shadow grew on his right, a sword tip just missing his cheek when he ducked back. The horseman rode past and tried to turn around but other horses blocked him, the riders intent on riding down the impudent Indian savage. The only man not involved was an older man who kept hold of the rope binding the still-unaware boy.

The remaining riders at last built a circle around the foot-bound Connor who stood still as if turned to stone. Yet the townsmen could sense the intensity emanating from him, the promise of danger. He had evened the odds a little. However, this was far from over. Between the legs of the restless horses he saw what looked like bodies of men and horses. He could not see the boy prisoner or his keeper.

"You do realize you've just committed murder many times over," the bearded leader ventured, in a tone that was just tinged with an edge of uncertainty. "Usually that's a hanging offence."

"So why not skip the pleasantries and simply shoot me?" Connor inquired calmly.
The deafening silence would have been comical if not for the dark barrels of guns pointing his way. Bravado was not something these townsmen were familiar with, at least not from Indians.

"Very funny, friend," another chimed in after an awkward minute. His gun pointed at Connor's chest. "You would give your life for a runt you do not know? Where would a savage like you who wears a hood no less learn of honour?"

"Since when has honour been the prerogative of only the white man?" Connor retorted levelly.

"Enough," the bearded man cut in. "Give up your weapons and come with us."

"Come and take them from my dead hand," the Assassin challenged and leapt forward, tomahawk swishing through the air, not to hit but to distract, to break a path through the horse-flesh press. The discharge of the firearms was loud, bullets whistled in the air as horses sidestepped the Assassin's charge. He flattened himself against one horse and sidestepped outside the circle – to see two men galloping away with the Indian prisoner in tow. He swore softly and whirled around to snatch the reins of an oncoming horse and drag it down. The startled rider yelped – then was shut up forever when Connor's boot came down on his neck, snapping it. The bay horse straightened itself with an annoyed shake of the mane – Connor was already in the saddle and directing his mount after the fleeing pair. Bullets flew past him, none hitting him yet.

The forest ended so suddenly that at first he did not realize he was out in the open. The tall grass waved sluggishly in the heat, flies buzzed all around, wings sparkling in the sun. He saw none of it and kept riding. The distance gradually closed between Connor and the two townsmen. They were burdened. He was not. His horse was a more enduring beast too – lucky that.

He knew that the rest of the militia were coming up behind. They were not important just yet. He had no intention of fighting any more this day if that could be avoided. One of the men ahead of him turned around and shouted something to his companion. Connor had no time to wonder at that for a searing pain in his left arm assailed his attention. He'd been hit, damn it. He chanced a glance down to see blood staining the front of his sleeve. The bullet must have gone straight through.

More shots cracked behind him and to the flanks. The militiamen were spreading out, attempting a military manoeuvre. He spurred the bay horse on, willing it to catch up with the pair who were separating now, one taking the boy and the other wheeling off to charge at Connor with his sword.

The Assassin did not slow down but instead straightened in his saddle and threw the tomahawk at the closing militiaman. The man's arms flew up as his horse stumbled and went down, forelegs folding under it – somehow Connor had not missed his aim after all. He was sorry to kill the horse. However, the choice had been either the man's chest or the bigger animal. He silently asked forgiveness of the spirits and the dead horse.

The militiamen closed in again, smoke from their rifles a thick cloud. Connor's horse was gasping, tiring. The townsmen's horses were faring no better. This would end on foot with steel – and he had only a long knife remaining. And his Hidden Blade.

The horse ahead of him was close now. He spurred his horse on, asking for one last effort, ignoring the crimson wetness on his left arm. The foaming horse obliged, straining its heart and muscle. He set himself carefully, coming level with his adversary with shouts from the others ringing in the air behind. The man twisted around, alarm in his eyes – then quickly snatched a knife and cut the rope from around his saddle. The boy tumbled from where he had laid across the horse's withers. Connor, who'd been just about to leap across, drew on the reins sharply. The weary horse slewed to a stop, roaring in annoyance.
Glancing around him at the converging townsmen, Connor dismounted and gathered up the boy whose twitching eyelids signalled his return to consciousness. Whipping out his pistol he fired a shot at the lead horse right between the eyes. The animal went down with a squeal of pain, the rider tumbling several times and lying still. Perhaps his neck had broken.
The circle of flesh was almost complete before he was in the saddle and making a break for it. The seconds seemed to pass slowly and yet too fast while the gap between the nearest riders narrowed more and more. His breathing was loud in his ears as he bent low over the horse's neck, protecting the boy's body from the townsmen's bullets. The thunder of hooves became louder and louder, overwhelming all else. He gritted his teeth, willing the horse through the gap and out. The choking point seemed to squeeze his lungs and tunnelled his vision. A moment in time. A frozen tableau of hunter and the prey, a desperate effort by the latter to escape its destiny, the inevitable end to their lives.

The moving air hit him like a wall. He gasped – they were out. Free. Miraculously. From behind cries of dismay and anger flew on wings of men's wills. The plain stretched out on all sides, tall grass whispering under the horses' hooves. The forest was on their left and a sea of green on their right.

He angled for the forest, the only refuge nearby, the dark undergrowth twisted and tangled. Their pursuers knew that they did not have to do much – just keep after them. And hope that eventually their prey would run out of breath.

The horse broke through the tangles of branches and turned to the right to avoid colliding with a tree. Connor drew on the reins sharply to go around another tree and cut the left, zigzagging around the old trees and ducking under branches. Connor kept on going, listening for sounds of pursuit that did not materialize. The townsmen must have thought better of entering a web of old branches and unknown dangers. They preferred to stick to the roads where it was safer.

He only stopped when the silence around them was absolute. The sweat on his body was cool. He shivered. It was darker here in the deeps of the forest, the old trees fallen and leaning against one another creating triangular passages that forced him to duck close to the waking boy's head. He was twitching now, his hands still bound and bleeding from the rope burns, his neck an angry red. He was alive, if a little battered.

In a small dim clearing, Connor finally came to a stop. The horse shivered, lowering its head to the ground and plucking some of the sparse grass. Connor slid from the saddle, only now realizing how fatigued the chase had made him. His arm twinged. When he put his weight on his right leg, he gasped as it buckled under him. He had to hold on to the saddle, stifling a groan. His hand reached down to his thigh to come away red.

"Damn…" he muttered. He had not even noticed the wound. Another bullet had struck him, probably during the last leg of the race.

His attention was drawn back to the horse by the boy's sudden movement. He had opened his eyes and was looking around blearily – like a sleeper waking. He blinked taking in his surroundings. When his eyes found Connor he let out a strangled yelp and tottered in the saddle. The Assassin caught him just in time to prevent him falling and helped him down to the ground, swallowing his own pain. Once the boy, who still had not said a word but simply stared at the hooded stranger, was sitting on the grass, Connor reached for his knife to cut the bonds.

"No," the boy whispered – in Mohawk. Connor almost dropped the knife in surprise. He had not heard Mohawk for such a long time. Not since… "Please…"

"It is to cut the rope," Connor informed him quietly. "I need to take a look at your wounds."

The boy's mouth fell open. The man had spoken in Mohawk. While his surprise paralysed him, the Assassin cut the blood and dirt-stained rope and turned over the boy's wrists. Opening one of his pouches he withdrew bandages and padding as well as Indian-crafted medicines.

"I'll get water," he said to the boy. "Stay here."

Now came the hard part. Standing up. Not easy with his leg pulsing pain as well as his arm. He made himself stand all the same, sweat beading his face. The world swam briefly before his vision. Not good. He'd lost more blood than he had thought.

After a few minutes of gathering his wits, he set off for the horse. It should have had a waterskin attached to the saddle somewhere. There were springs in the forest but the townsmen were not likely to know about them. They'd probably bring water supplies for a long expedition.

His guess proved right when his hands found a thick full leather bottle tied to the saddle. The horse ignored him completely while he extricated the much needed water and food packs from the saddlebags. It had found food and was busy devouring the greenery. Smart beast…

The boy was watching him from the shade thrown by the nearby pines, his eyes gleaming in the stray rays of sun. There was relief, fear, mistrust and hope in his face – a contradictory combination that was rather familiar to Connor himself. He had felt like this many times. Random kindness from strangers had never made him comfortable, rare as it was in occurring.

Putting aside his own injuries for the moment, Connor settled down to the task of washing the boy's wounds while the latter was munching on some of the dried strips of meat from the saddle pack. Connor forbore to ask the boy questions. That could come later. The why of his capture could wait.