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Maxwell clung to the reigns his steed as its hooves beat hard the trail in the dim foggy hours of morning. The sun was warming the air, casting the first crimson rays, but its true brilliance was still far away. He alighted on the hill whose path would lead to the castle gates. The mount, considered undignified in regular combat, idled and huffed, thick gouts of steam issuing from its black nostrils. Maxwell was paid very well for his service. It was his continued services that surprised his employers. After a quick check of the immediate surroundings, Maxwell pushed a small barrel off the rump of his conveyance with its attendant rag aflame. It bounced and rolled merrily down the trodden road to the keep, all the while sparking and smoking away. Guards seemed to finally notice the thing as it bounced to a stop against a stone. One armored soldier prodded it with the butt of his pike but ignored it for the blaring of a trumpet on the hill. The helms of the guards strayed from the barrel to the man on the small horse upon the hill. That limited moment was all that was needed and the barrel exploded with a quick flash of red then expansive clouds of multicolored smoke. The guards, though unharmed, had received the message loud and clear. They joined others pouring from the open gate like angry bees from their threatened hive. Maxwell clicked his beast into flight and they were off back in the direction they had come. Over hill and field they gave chase to the small man in bright clothes who clung flat to the back of a painted zebra. This is what he was paid for. Most runners relay messages. He and his mount ran away. The greater parts of the chase were faltering. The lesser parts were gaining speed. His mount was unusual and fleet of hoof but under the pounding thunder of warhorses on the trail, Maxell optimized his time. Darting between trees and bounding tiny glens and streams, the zebra fled with his master (no, partner) these brutes on his expert hooves. Twenty minutes. The world to him and Maxwell was to last twenty minutes. Max had bet on pugilists before. His wagers were always on the level. Odds in. Odds out. The hulking bruiser was usually the favorite in the ring. Maxwell liked to bet the underdog. The little guy that gets taken for granted outside then takes you for all your worth when he's in. Trees flew by them as he wove through the forest. The ground was inclining. He'd crest the hill and most likely be gone from the grasp of his pursuers. On! On! He encouraged his striped steed to keep up. Just a little further. The warhorses and their riders rode on them closer still. Maxwell could hear the voices of the black hearted knights who had been his pursuers. He could hear the grunting breaths of their warrior steeds. A merry chase this! All, however, would not be well. The crest of the hill was merely that! The forested ground gave way abruptly to an angled cliff face most severe and a distance to the ground below beyond physical tolerance. The zebra nicked and panted as it paced the edge of the precipice. Its black eyes bulged frantically at the beating hooves of the brigade. Maxwell too was panting heavily. They would be upon him in moments! Sweet calming breaths filled the professional runner as he patted his zebra. They'd been through a lot together and always come up on top. The zebra knew that their options were ended and ceased its anxious trotting, knowing to trust in his partner as he had yet to be let down by him. They stood together, with the sun breaking the horizon in the east, when the soldiers finally caught up with them. The knights had harsh words for Maxwell as they began a haughty approach upon him. They yelled derision at him. Coward was not least upon their tongues. The sun was warm and Maxwell could practically feel the brilliance of it in his bones. Sure. He was called a coward a lot. He could only smile. How many men could do what he did? If he be a coward then it be with the deeply traced etchings of honor and esteemed heart. He was smiling as the rays of gold played on his face. His zebra felt it all too. The count in ownership of the castle had felt him dangerous enough to send the might of his forces against this small man and his painted friend. Maxwell was smiling, most pleased with his work this day. A terrible din ripped what remained of the peaceful morning to tatters. The soldiers who had so diligently pursued Maxwell all turned in horror as plumes of smoke rose from the direction of their castle. Maxwell sighed contentedly. His zebra finally let go of its stopped breath and sucked in greedily the relief that they'd bought the time needed. The forces who had acquired his services had breached their target. The castle would be theirs! His pursuers remained fixed on the sight for some long disbelieving moments before realization of the deception played upon them and the nature of the one who'd brought them there. They wheeled about, prepared to exact most terrible violence upon this enemy; this cowardly man who'd come to bring down their regime. Maxwell and his painted zebra had, however, made enormous strides in their escape. The bewildered knights could only stand in dumb frustration as the laughter rose out of the distance. No one was ever sure if the sound was Maxwell, the professional distraction or his zebra.