An alarmed shout from one of his escort turned Taim’s head eastward. The company of horsemen that he had seen before, far out on a distant slope, was arrowing in now. Like a falcon stooping for its prey, it came sweeping down upon the flank of the rout. Riders surged through the crowds, stabbing down with spears or simply trampling men under the horses. Two of Taim’s guards peeled away, kicking their mounts into a full gallop and making for safety.

The man who held the reins of Taim’s horse hesitated.

“Give me a blade,” Taim shouted at him, but he saw no comprehension in the warrior’s eyes, only panic. The reins fell loose, and suddenly Taim was alone, carried impotently through the mass of running men by his wild horse.

He seized the animal’s mane with both hands and hauled at it. They barged through a crowd of running spearmen, knocking several of them to the ground. Taim could hear the rumble of approaching hoofs, but did not dare to look around as he wrestled with his recalcitrant mount. A deep ditch yawned before and beneath them at the edge of a field. The horse veered sharply to the right rather than make the leap. Taim lurched sideways, but kept his seat. He saw Haig warriors scrambling across the reed-choked ditch, flailing through black water, clawing at the muddy bank. Everywhere, for as far as could see, the ground was thick with the remnants of Aewult’s army, in full, frantic flight.

He heard the Black Road rider coming, and his body was reacting before his mind had even registered the fact. He kicked himself free of the saddle, twisting in the air to get his arms in front of his face as he arced into the ditch. He crashed down into water and weed, plunging into mud with such force that he was momentarily breathless and lost. He rolled, and water flooded his mouth. He tried to rise, but his feet slid from under him and his bonds made his hands clumsy. When he did manage to haul himself erect, coughing, shedding muddy water and countless fragments of broken reeds, he saw the Black Roader turning her mount, coming back with spear descending slowly. She was hacking at her horse’s flanks with her heels, shouting. She was desperate for his death.

Taim did not trust his footing. Mud had him about his ankles. He stood quite still, and waited for her. She came faster than was wise, leaning out and down, extending her spear to reach him. He twisted sideways. The spearpoint cut a nick into his shoulder, but he got both hands onto its shaft and held on with all the strength he could summon. The horse bore the woman on along the edge of the ditch, and Taim was pulled violently off his feet, thrown forwards into the steep bank. But he did not lose his grip on the spear.

She should, by rights, have been unhorsed, but she was a skilled rider. As the spear twisted in her hand, it almost threw her from her saddle. She swayed wildly. At the last possible moment, she released the spear. She hauled herself upright on the reins. Her horse came to a skidding halt and reared. Taim scrambled up the bank. The sodden earth gave beneath his feet. The spear tangled with his legs and threatened to trip him. Too slow, he thought. Too slow. She was drawing a short sword, wrestling her horse around. Taim had a knee atop the bank. He knew he was too late.

But the horse stole a few precious moments from its rider. It stamped and tossed its head, stepping sideways for a couple of paces before she managed to kick it into another charge. It was not much; just enough for Taim to clamber onto level ground. The spear was the wrong way round in his hands, and with bound wrists he had no chance to turn it. He stabbed its point into the ground and dropped the butt into the horse’s chest just as it thundered down upon him. He heard the horse scream, felt shards of the shattered spear striking his face, saw the horse’s shoulder rushing into his face. The great animal smashed him aside and plunged on into the ditch.

Taim was not sure at first whether he would be able to rise again. He rolled onto his stomach and crawled towards the ditch’s edge. He could hear the horse thrashing down there amongst the reeds. When he looked down, he saw the woman there too, on her hands and knees in the water, dazed and spitting out soil. The sight was enough to put a last flicker of strength into his legs.

He threw himself down onto her and hammered her into the water. He got his legs clasped about her waist, and his hands together on the back of her neck. The fall had shaken her and robbed her of her sword; otherwise it might have been Taim who died. He held her face under the water. She writhed and beat at his arms and legs, but he did not yield. Her horse was still kicking and struggling on its side a little way up the ditch, tearing great chunks out of the banks with its hoofs. After a time, the woman stopped struggling.

Taim groped about in the mud, warily watching the horse’s flailing legs, and soon found her sword. He cut his bonds on it, sheathed it in his own scabbard, climbed out of the ditch and jogged away southwards.

VI

Taim’s first thought was to make for Kolkyre, but that was impossible. Chaos seemed to have risen up and taken hold of the world, and now shook it as if to break it apart. The army of the Black Road quickly spread itself across the whole plain, its every element rushing in disordered, hungry pursuit of its defeated prey. Every time he sought to turn towards Kolkyre, he found some obstacle in his path: a mob of Tarbains swarming over a couple of Aewult’s supply wagons on a farm track; Gyre riders quartering fields and chasing down Haig warriors who had tried to hide amongst the grass and ditches; a farmhouse burning, with a hundred Black Roaders herding cattle together amidst the smoke.

Taim ran, sometimes alone, sometimes amongst others fleeing from the battle. He kept a steady pace, wary of tiring himself. Others had not been so cautious, and he passed many solitary men who had fallen, exhausted or overcome by wounds. In a tiny copse of lean trees, he found two dozen Taral-Haig spearmen gathered, arguing over what to do. He stayed only long enough to beg a drink of water from one of them. They were full of fear and anger, and leaderless. They shouted at one another. Some wanted to fight their way through to Kolkyre, others to keep running all the way back to Drandar. He left them, and pressed on across the treeless ridges and shallow dales of Kolkyre’s hinterland.

Late on the day of the battle, when the scattered clouds out over the sea were already burning orange with the sun’s setting light, he paused at an abandoned farmstead that stood on a low finger of ground reaching out from the eastern hills. The valley of the River Kyre lay to the south of him, broad and open. He thought he could see movement on the road that followed the river’s course, but could not tell whether it was friend or foe. He could see Kolkyre, too: dark and distant down at the river mouth. Companies of men were moving back and forth across the plain around it, most of them streaming southwards. There was, though, order amidst the turmoil. He could just make out a great column forming up, outside the city walls. Kilkry-Haig, he guessed; Roaric attempting, too late, to limit the disaster that had befallen the True Bloods.

“What Blood are you?” someone asked behind him, and Taim spun around.

There were three men, smeared in dirt and blood, watching him with wary, hostile eyes. They must have been hiding somewhere amongst the outbuildings. Taim cursed himself for his carelessness. The one who had spoken did not, at least, have the accent of a northerner.

“Lannis,” Taim said flatly.

One of the men grunted and looked away northwards, no longer interested. Another sneered, “Can hardly call yourself a Blood any more, can you? As good as masterless.”