The right wing, isolated from the rest of the attacking force, were savaged as they tried to breach the defences. They fell back, leaving a number of their companions sprawled lifeless on the ground and on the barricade itself. Instead of being part of a co-ordinated attack along the entire line, they had paid the penalty for assaulting a well-defended position on their own.

Padraig raged at his men, urging his horse forward and yelling at the rest of the line to move up and close the gap. He sensed that the arrows were coming from his left but could see no sign of archers out there. From the number of his men who had gone down before the hail of arrows, he estimated there must be at least half a dozen archers, firing from the shelter of the trees. Through narrowed eyes, he saw a vague flicker of movement from a small knoll. Ten seconds later, three more men in the centre of the line were struck down by arrows.

He yelled at a squad of a dozen men in the rear rank. They were all armed with swords or maces, and most of them had shields. The squad commander looked at him, a question on his face, and Padraig pointed with his sword towards the knoll.

`Archers. Behind that knoll! Clean 'em out!'

Archers were always lightly armed, he knew. And they were cowards who'd slink away at the first sign of a real threat. They'd never stand against an attack by a force of armed men protected by shields. The dozen men dropped out of the line and bunched up behind their squad leader. He motioned them forward and they started towards the knoll with a yell of fury.

Halt saw Padraig stop and look. Saw him send the squad towards their position. No need to panic yet, he thought.

`The command group,' he told Will. 'Put them down.'

And while the younger Ranger sent a rapid volley soaring off at Padraig and his subordinates, Halt took the time to thin out the dozen men running towards them. A shield could only cover so much of a man's body and the outlaws had no idea of the accuracy that their opponents could achieve. An arrow through the calf, thigh or shoulder of a running man would stop him just as effectively as a killing shot, Halt knew. One after another, the running men began to fall or falter.

Will's first arrow was aimed at Padraig. But Will's luck was out that day. As he released, one of the outlaw's lieutenants urged his horse forward to speak to his leader and the arrow struck him from the saddle. Will swore as he realised Padraig was unscathed. He'd already sent another three shots off, aimed at the men around him.

In the space of a few seconds, Padraig found himself alone, surrounded by riderless horses, while his commanders lay writhing on the grass. Sizing up the situation, he slid from the saddle, placing his horse between himself and the knoll.

Will was nocking another arrow but Halt stopped him. `Save it,' he said. He had a better idea as to how Padraig should be dealt with. Besides, they had a more immediate problem. The remaining seven outlaws were getting closer now and he turned and waved to Horace, pointing at the running men.

`Horace! They're yours!' Then to Will, he said, 'Cover Horace if he needs it.'

Horace needed no further invitation. He clapped his heels against Kicker's sides and the mighty horse lumbered forward, gathering speed like a thundering juggernaut. He burst out of the treeline and the approaching outlaws saw him for the first time. They stopped in panic, eyes riveted on the bared teeth of the horse and the long, glittering sword in its rider's hand.

They began to back away but they were too late. Kicker smashed into two of them, hurling one to the side and trampling the other. Horace struck down at a man to his right, then, sensing danger on his disengaged side, he pressed his right knee into Kicker's ribs.

Kicker responded instantly, rearing onto his hind legs and spinning in a half circle. His shoulder slammed into an outlaw who had been about to thrust up at Horace. The impact hurled the man several metres away.

As the horse came back to all fours, another outlaw was already moving forward, a long-handled mace in both hands, drawn back for a killing blow. But Horace's reactions were lightning fast and his thrusting sword took the man in the shoulder, outside his chain mail vest. The outlaw staggered back, the mace dropping as he tried to stem the gush of blood from the wound.

Horace wheeled Kicker again to clear his back, the flashing forehooves ready to decapitate any potential attacker. But there was no need. A sixth outlaw was already sinking to his knees, staring with disbelief at the black arrow buried in his chest. His head drooped forward on his chest. The one survivor looked at his companions, scattered and broken, some of them lying still, others trying desperately to crawl away from the terrible horse and rider. Then he turned and ran, throwing away his sword as he went.

Horace wheeled his horse again, not sure what to do next. He looked back at the knoll and saw Halt pointing towards Padraig, still dismounted and sheltering behind his horse.

`Get the leader!' Halt shouted. He looked quickly towards the village. The bandits had "recovered after the initial disruption of their attack. It had cost them a lot of lives but now they were pressing hard at the defenders. The key to the situation was Padraig, Halt realised. If the outlaws saw him defeated, if they found themselves leaderless, they'd melt away.

Horace waved his sword in acknowledgement and spun Kicker again. He could see the outlaw leader sheltering from the arrows behind his horse. Horace's lips curled in scorn as he realised that Padraig was also staying well back from the battle at the barricade. He tapped Kicker with his heels and began to canter towards the outlaw.

Padraig heard the drumming of approaching hooves. He had watched in fear as Horace scattered seven of his men with absolute ease. Now the warrior with the sunrise insignia was coming after him. He decided he'd risk the arrows and scrambled up into the saddle, wheeling his horse and setting it to a gallop towards the south.

But Kicker, in spite of his slow initial acceleration, was faster than the outlaw's horse and he gradually began to make up the distance between them. Padraig heard the hoof beats growing closer. He looked back fearfully and saw that the young warrior was almost on him. He realised, with a shock of surprise, that his pursuer was merely a youth. The face was young and unbearded. Perhaps it had been a fluke that he'd scattered those seven men, Padraig thought. After all, his band were cutthroats and bandits, not trained fighting men, whereas Padraig himself had been trained as a soldier. He wheeled his horse to face his pursuer, drawing his own sword and settling his shield on his left arm.

Horace reined in Kicker a few metres short of his quarry. He saw the hatred glowing in the man's eyes, took in the set of shield and sword. Padraig knew what he was doing, Horace thought.

`Throw the sword down and surrender. I'll say it once and once only,' he told the bandit leader. In answer,

Padraig snarled and drove his horse forward, swinging an overhead cut at Horace. Kicker danced easily to the side and Horace deflected the sword with his shield. His answering stroke slammed into Padraig's shield and staggered the other man with the force behind it, nearly unseating him. But Padraig recovered, wheeled his horse clumsily and rode in for another attack. He flailed blindly at Horace and the young warrior took the blows easily on his shield and sword, content to let Padraig tire himself out.

Finally, Padraig drew back, chest heaving with exertion, perspiration streaming down his face. He stared in disbelief at his adversary. Horace was breathing easily, sitting relaxed in the saddle.

`We don't have to do this,' Horace said calmly. 'Throw down your sword.'