Following the French - 25th Morning, Afternoon, Night

The rock did strike the horse's flank, and she did rear, which was fortunate since it helped her avoid the bayonet pointed at her. She swerved, with Hunter still hanging on and trampled the man who simply stood there, shocked. Unlike one would expect, the rock only enraged her. Hunter swung the sabre at the man who had been pointing the bayonet.

[OOC: Oh man, Hunter is too cool! XD]

Saint-Hilaire could only watch in horror as another of his men went down. The man, a common fussilier, a common soldier really, tried to flee and that had been his undoing. While he exposed his back, unguarded by a pack that might have stayed or slowed the strike, he was struck. A gash opened across from beneath his shoulder blade up to the other shoulder, both the fabric and flesh cut in.

He stumbled and fell. The last man turned tail, no longer caring about any orders, he wanted only to survive. Saint-Hilaire did not order him to stop, did not try to slow him down, but instead he had shouted to Hunter: "Leave him!..fight me!"

(poor Pierre and Chevalier! Bad, bad Hunter! ;P.)

Hunter reigned Firebird in with difficulty and rode up to Saint-Hilaire, though not close enough to be struck with a weapon. He was breathing harshly from his exertions and so was the horse. It was obvious that he was restraining the desire to continue killing.
"Fight you? As you wish." He jumped off Firebird and taking a couple of steps forward, stopping and waiting for Saint-Hilaire to attack.

Saint-Hilaire did not wait for Hunter to take his ground properly and lunged himself at the man, his sabre drawn. He slashed in furry, his strikes aimed at Hunter's arms and the injured leg which Chevalier had hurt earlier.

His earlier restraints fell. He just wanted Hunter dead and so attempted to use his agility and his size to the best of his advantage.

The younger man was too enraged to fight with much finesse, and Hunter managed to parry the blows aimed at him, although the pure force behind them was making it hard for him. His leg was still bleeding and hurt badly as he moved. He needed to do something quickly. As Saint-Hilaire lunged for his wounded leg, Hunter stepped a little to the side and aimed a blow with the sabre's pommel at the man's head.

Saint-Hilaire dove a small deal lower than he'd first expected to. It saved him from being knocked unconscious and yet it still made him fall. His sabre struck rock and mud as it missed its mark. His shoulder slid against the wet grass and dirt, and yet he was already trying to move again. He kicked out with his boot, the foot aimed at Hunter's injured leg. It's target was as clear as the young lieutenant's intent. Hurt and cause the amount of pain he was able to provoke.

"Bastard." He growled , his teeth gritted.

Hunter was in too much hurry, so the Frenchman's kick struck home. Hunter grunted, then fell onto his knees over the lieutenant, using his hands to press the man into the ground.

Saint-Hilaire pushed against the hands several times as he attempted to pull himself up and shove Hunter off. The weight of the other man was too great for that to be possible though. This he learnt when not even a twist to the side was made possible or a shove backwards, the hands and the shoulders staying neatly in place. His tactic then changed abruptly, and from trying to push off, his hands made to pull the man closer while his knee drove upwards under Hunter. He hoped he would strike something of use.

And as the knee went up, so one hand went for Hunter's throat, a thumb jamming at his windpipe if successful.

The knee connected but rather with the inside of Hunter's thigh, then between them, since he was leaning slightly to the side. The blow to his windpipe was more successful, Hunter felt himself choking, his vision beginning to blur. With remaining strength he hit the Frenchman on the temple.

Finally triumphant. The man would die. It made the young Frenchman smile, smirk even as his hand tightened its hold, feeling the restriction that it was causing, and the struggle of the man above him as his body tried to breathe. He observed the expression on Hunter's face.

And then everything went black. His hand squeezed tighter then fell from Hunter's neck and landed limply on the Frenchman's chest. His leg too dropped and bent at an angle that was not comfortable for a person awake, but quite natural, what the pull of gravity is concerned, for an unconscious one. Perhaps if he had not concentrated as much on what Hunter was feeling, he might've seen what he meant to do.

Hunter let himself flop onto the ground beside the unconscious Frenchman, trying to get his breath back. After a while, he sat up, untucked his shirt and ripped off a strip to tie around his leg wound. There would be bruised on his throat over the cut already there, he was sure of it.

Slowly he stood up, gathered his daggers from the bodies of dead Frenchman and tying Saint-Hilaire's hands, managed somehow to throw him over Firebird and then mount. The exertions and the wound were starting to take their toll. He directed Firebird in the direction of where he expected to find the army and hoped he did not fall asleep before he reached it.

His head was throbbing something awful. He didn't remember exactly where he was, and why he felt like something was pressing against his chest and belly in an uncomfortable manner. The last thing he did remember was fighting. His men were slain and then he came to challenge Hunter to spare a life of another or was it more? No, he thought he remembered one men who had been able to escape. So he hoped. What surprised him was that he himself was not dead. Why did their guide who proved to be nothing but a monster not kill him? Or was he now in a state , where he was dead and all he did see, was really what one would when their body was departed.

The ache was far too strong for him to be dead though. Slowly he turned his head a bit and tried to move his hands. They seemed to be held together by a string of something, possibly rope of some kind. He was still quite dazed. When he shifted his legs, if only a little, he realised that they could move separately. The knowledge was not very helpful, as he could not dislodge himself without the fear that he would fall, be trampled or break something. Even if he had tried, would he be able to run? Not really. Not with his orientation being to distroted, that probably he might've done best to move on his hands and knees, not to fall.

He tried to shift a little to ease the uncomfortable position that he was in. He wiggled, twisted his lower part of the body and then settled again. The motion of a horse's walk combined with much blood coming to his head, really left him with little more but the chance to groan. His trousers felt rather tight as they had been pulled and the fabric tucked under him more, during the right. His coat must've gone and arranged itself above his waist, as he felt more cool air there, right through the fabric of his shirt. He breathed in more harshly. He was alive atleast which was not to be said for the majority of his subordinates.