Harmodius raised his arms, and a ripple rolled from his hands like a flaw in glass, spreading outwards in a semi-circle like the ripple made by throwing a pebble in a pond, except that trees blackened and grass vanished and boglins fell like wheat under a sharp scythe before it.
Gawin, out beyond the edge of the bubble, charged his destrier straight at it. Random saw him put the animal into a jump, and they were up; down again in moments, having leaped the growing edge of the wave of destruction in a bound. And done it apparently unharmed.
‘Oh, well done,’ Harmodius said. ‘That’s a proper fellow.’
And then they were running back down the trail.
They ran, and ran.
When Harmodius couldn’t breathe, Gawin dismounted, put the Magus up on his destrier and ran along with them for a while.
And then, as if by common agreement, they all stopped running at a deep stream – the stream they’d crossed that morning at the break of day. There were a dozen wagons there, and all the mounted men on the far bank. One by one, the desperate men scrambled across, soaked to the waist, uncaring. Some stopped in mid-stream to drink from parched throats.
The mounted men began to weep, and Random ignored them.
But Gawin, alone of the panicked men crossing the stream, didn’t throw himself down in the illusory safety. He sheathed his sword.
‘I have run from terror, too,’ he said to the mounted men. ‘And it is three times as hard to regain your honour as it is to preserve it in the first place. But this is where we will all make ourselves whole. Dismount, messires. We will hold the river bank while these good men get to safety, and in so doing, we will find both honour and peace.’
And such was the power of his voice that one by one they dismounted.
Random watched with disbelief.
There were nine of them, all well armoured, and they filled the gap of the trail.
Guildsmen took their horses as more men came in – a dozen in one group, wild-eyed, and then in ones and twos, their jackets torn.
And then no more.
There were perhaps fifty survivors from the three hundred men who had awakened that morning.
They had a dozen wagons – mostly the horse drawn carts whose animals had stuck to the road, or followed the military horses. But as they waited for the next assault of the enemy, whose horns could clearly be heard – a boy appeared on the far bank, no more than fifteen years old.
‘I reckon I need some help!’ he called. ‘Can’t get these here oxen through the ford on my own!’
The boy had saved four wagons. He didn’t seem to know that he was supposed to be afraid.
‘They’re busy a-killin all the horses and cattle!’ the boy said. He grinned like it was all a great prank. ‘So I’m just walking up and taking any wagon ain’t got a bunch of ’em aboard!’
Random hugged him after they had the oxen across. Then he turned to Gawin. ‘I honour your willingness to fight here and get us clear,’ he said. ‘But I think we should all go together. It will be a long road back, and as dangerous as these woods – every step of the way.’
Gawin shrugged. ‘These men can go – although I believe they owe you a great service.’ A daemon appeared across the river, and a troll belled. ‘But I will stand here, for as long as God grants my hands the power to hold this ford,’ he said. And very softly, he said, ‘I used to be so beautiful.’
Harmodius nodded. ‘You, messire, are a true knight.’
Gawin shrugged. ‘I am whatever I am, now. I hear that daemon across the stream – I think I understand him. He calls for his blood kin. I-’ He shook his head.
‘You saved us,’ said Harmodius. ‘Like a knight.’
Gawin gave him a wounded smile. ‘It is an estate from which I have fallen,’ he said. ‘But to which I aspire.’
Harmodius grinned. ‘All the good ones do.’ He raised his hat. He was still mounted on the destrier, and he seemed a bigger man than he had before.
Across the river, the trolls belled again, and Random felt bile rise in his mouth.
But then there was the sound of a horn beyond the sweet horns of the boglins. A bronze trumpet call sounded through the trees.
South of Lissen Carak – Amy’s Hob
Amy’s Hob lay still.
He lay so still that ants crawled over him.
When he had to piss, he did so without moving.
There were boglins at the base of the hill. They were feeding. He tried not to watch, but his eyes were drawn, again and again.
They went to a corpse, covered it, and when they left it, there was nothing but bone, hair, and some sinew. A few fed alone, but most fed in a pack.
Beyond them, a pair of great horned trolls walked slowly down the ridge. Ten horse lengths from the unmoving scout, the larger of the two raised its head and called.
A dozen boglin horns sounded their sweet, cheerful notes in return.
Gelfred appeared at his side, and his face was as white as chalk.
‘How many?’ he breathed.
Amy’s Hob shok his head. ‘Thousands.’
Gelfred was made of different stuff. He raised himself on his elbows and scanned carefully from right to left. ‘Blessed Saint Eustachios stand with us,’ he said.
