A couple of soldiers barrelled through the archway just before it broke.

Right over us, Snibril thought. As if something wants to kill us. But Pismire thinks Fray is just some kind of natural force we can't understand. Would that be any better? Thousands of us, killed by something that doesn't even know we are here?

There were a few people still visible outside the city, and nothing could hide the pones.

He looked at the hairs around Ware.

Which erupted mouls. He had time to turn Roland around and race back towards the city.

Bane's head poked up as Roland leapt over the ditch in the dust.

"There's thousands of them!"

"Wait until they get closer," said Bane.

Mouls and snargs were still pouring into the clearing.

Snibril looked along the ditch. At this point most of the defenders were Dumii bowmen, lying down calmly and watching the black wall moving towards them.

"Aren't they close enough yet?"

"Not yet," said Bane. "Sergeant Careus ... give the signal to be ready."

"Yessir!"

Snibril could make out individual creatures now.

Bane scratched his chin. "Not yet," he said, "not yet. The first shot is the most ... important."

There was a nicker on the mound of dust behind them. Snibril and Bane turned to see a white figure, staring intently at the onrushing horde. Then it vanished.

"Sergeant Careus?" said Bane quietly.

"Sir?"

"The moment is now."

Sergeant Careus threw back his shoulders and grinned.

"Yessir! Squad one ... wait for it, wait for it ... squaaaaad one ... fire! Squad one back! Squad two forward! Squaaaaad two ... fire! Squad one reload! Squad one forward! Squaaaaad one ... fire ... "

Not many people had even seen Dumii archers in action-or rather, they had, but since arrows had been heading towards them they'd never had much of a chance to make detailed notes. Their technique was simply to keep arrows flying towards the enemy. The bowmen didn't have to be good. They just had to be fast. It was like watching a machine at work.

There was a howl from the attackers. That was another Dumii lesson-hit the front line of a rushing attack, and the enemy had to spend too much time trying to avoid tripping over itself. Bowmen started hurrying along the ditch in both directions, leaving only a small squad to carry on the fight there.

Snibril went with them.

There had been archers all around the circle. Only in one place had the mouls been able to get right up to the ditch, and there were two fights going on-Deftmenes were fighting mouls, and other Deftmenes were fighting the first Deftmenes to get a chance to fight mouls too.

Deftmenes had a technique for fighting enemies three times as high as they were-they'd run up them until they got to shoulder height, and hang on with one hand and fight with the other. It meant that half the mouls were stabbing at their own heads.

There were two more charges before it dawned on the mouls that things had gone wrong.

They grouped around the hairs, and there were still too many of them.

"We could keep this up all day," said Brocando.

"No we can't," said Bane.

"We haven't lost anyone yet!"

"Yes, but do you want to go and ask the mouls if we can have our arrows back?" said Bane.

"Oh."

"We've got enough for one more charge, and that's it. And if it comes to hand-to-hand fighting-they've got more hands than we have."

"I thought we were four-armed."

"Figure of speech. We're outnumbered and outweaponed."

"Good," said Brocando. "We like a challenge."

"Here they come again," said Snibril. "Hang on-just a few of them. Look."

Half a dozen snargs were trotting out of the lines. They stopped halfway between the moul army and the remains of the city.

"They want to talk," said Bane.

"Can we trust them?" said Glurk.

"No."

"Good. I'd hate to trust something like them."

"But you should talk," said Pismire. "It's always worth talking."

In the end they rode out to the mouls. Snibril recognized the leader, who now had a crown of salt crystals and watched them imperiously. But Bane was more interested in Gormaleesh, who was among the party.

"Well?" said Bane. "What do you have to say?"

"My name is Jornarileesh," said the moul with the crown. "I offer you peace. You cannot win. Time is on our side."

"We have plenty of weapons, and plenty of men to use them," said Bane.

"And plenty of food?" said Jornarileesh.

Bane ignored this. "What kind of peace do you offer?"

"Throw away your weapons," said Jornarileesh. "Then we will talk further."

"Throw away my sword first?" said Bane, as if he was considering the question.

"Yes. You have no choice." Jornarileesh's gaze swept from face to face. "Not one of you. Accept my conditions, or you will die. You six will die here, and the rest of your people will die soon."

"You can't listen to him!" said Snibril. "What about Jeopard and the High Gate Land?"

"Throw away my sword," said Bane, slowly. "It's an attractive idea, though."

He drew the sword and held it up.

"Gormaleesh?" he said.

Bane's arm moved in the blur of speed. The sword slid through the air like a knife, hitting the moul in the throat. Gormaleesh dropped silently, staring in horror.

"There," said Bane. "That's how we throw our swords away in Ware. I did warn him. He just wouldn't listen."

He turned his horse and galloped back to the city, with the others trying to keep up. Jornarileesh hadn't moved a muscle.

"That was very un-Dumii of you," said Pismire. "I'm surprised."

"No. Gormaleesh was surprised. You were just amazed," said Bane. "He was drawing his sword. Didn't you see?"

"They're getting ready for another charge," said Glurk.

"I'm surp-amazed they haven't tried digging up from Underlay," said Pismire.

"Some did," said Glurk, with satisfaction. "They came up under Mealy's squad. They won't try that again."

Bane looked back at the worried faces of the defenders. "Their next charge, then," he said. "We'll make them remember it. Get the pones ready. We'll use everything we've got."

"Everything?" said Brocando. "Right." He trotted his pony back along the ditch.

They waited.

"How much food have we got?" said Snibril, after a while.

"Four or five meals' worth, for everyone," said Bane, absently.

"That's not much."

"It may be more than enough," said Bane.

They waited some more.

"Waiting is the worst part," said Pismire.

"No it isn't," said Owlglass, who wasn't even being trusted to hold a sword. "I expect that having long sharp swords stuck in you is the worst part. Waiting's just boring. When I say boring, I mean-"

"Here they come," said Glurk, picking up his spear.

"They've moved around," said Bane. Tutting everything they've got on one place. Right. Has anyone got a spare sword?"

In the end, it's people fighting. Charges and counter-charges. Arrows and spears everywhere. Swords cutting bits off people. Afterwards, historians draw maps and put little coloured oblongs on them and big wide arrows to indicate that this is where the Deftmenes caught a whole crowd of mouls unawares, and here is where the pones trampled some snargs, and here is where Mealy's Irregulars were trapped and were only rescued by a determined rush by a group of Munrungs. And sometimes there are crosses-this is where Bane brought down a moul chief, there is where Owlglass laid out a snarg by accident.

The maps can't show the fear, and the noise, and the excitement. Afterwards it's better. Because if there's an afterwards, it's because you're still alive. Half the time no-one knows what happened until it's over. Sometimes you don't know even who's won until you've counted ...

Snibril ducked and stabbed his way through the melee. There seemed to be mouls everywhere. One caught him a cut on his shoulder, and he didn't even notice until afterwards.