hours, and I'd been helpless to do anything except hang on and mutter occasional words of encouragement. The riders, forced by the expediency of not running their mounts to death, were slowing too. Even the archers had lost some of their fervour. The chase would have seemed comical to an observer: a bend in the road would bring us within sight of each other, a few arrows would be fired half-heartedly, only to clatter into the dirt behind us, and another turn would separate us once more.
Nevertheless, nothing in the situation made me hopeful. Saltlick would grind to a halt eventually, and I'd have to continue, alone and on foot. My pursuers were sure to be faster, were vastly more numerous, and probably weren't half crippled with bruises. I didn't stand a chance.
Then, as we turned yet another corner, an alternative suggested itself. A large estate stood directly ahead, back from the road, a two-storey villa surrounded by corrals and outhouses. It was one of the many prosperous farms that clustered around Muena Palaiya. A line of lemon trees stood between it and the road and behind I could see fields of corn, with orchards mounting the hillside beyond. Either its owners were already in the fields or they were still lazing in bed while their labourers did the work, because it was past dawn and no lights shone.
I noticed other details. A hay barn extended from the right of the house, and abutting that were two fenced areas. The first, nearest the house, contained a herd of somnolent cattle. A pair of stallions stood in the second, taking an early breakfast on strands of grass that had slipped between the slats.
'Saltlick, head towards that barn,' I said.
He slowed a little, and tried to angle his head to look at me. Finding it impossible, he mumbled something instead.
'What?'
This time he said it more clearly: 'Run.'
His voice was hoarse, and as painstaking as a dying man's last gasp. I realised how utterly exhausted he must be. He hadn't lost his knack of communicating much with a minimum of syllables, though.
'It's all right,' I said. 'They won't catch us. I have a plan.'
Saltlick didn't seem very sure, but he took the turn-off between the lemon trees. He loped through the low- walled courtyard fronting the villa and came to a halt outside the barn. I clambered down the netting without waiting for him to kneel and dropped the last distance to the dirt, gasping as the impact jolted tortured muscles.
'You see the hay, Saltlick? You have to bury yourself in it, as quickly as you can. Then stay quiet, whatever happens.'
'Hide?' he asked doubtfully.
'Yes, hide. Stay hidden as long as possible. They'll chase me. They won't be looking for you. The moment they've gone past, you head up into the hills. I'll come back and find you, as soon as I can.'
I've always been an excellent liar. Still, something caught in my throat as I spoke those last words. To regain the initiative I shouted, 'Hurry, Saltlick! Do it now, or we're both dead!'
I'd estimated we had about a minute's lead. Most of that was already gone. Our pursuers would turn the last corner at any moment. So though there were other things I might have said, I neglected them in favour of turning and sprinting from the barn. I momentarily forgot the battered state of my body and vaulted the first fence, ran through the first paddock — drawing lows of alarm from the cattle — and clambered over the second fence.
The stallions turned from their meal and eyed me distrustfully. I slowed to a jog, hoping that would seem less threatening. Even so, they backed away skittishly when I came close, and shared a neigh of distrust. I had no time for niceties. I kept moving forward. The worst possibility was that one of them would panic and kick my head off, and I wouldn't be any deader than if Moaradrid's troops found me.
Luckily, they were well broken. They merely continued to neigh anxiously and retreat. I didn't have time for that either. I darted forward and swung up onto the back of the nearest before he had time to react, then clasped my arms around his neck and dug in with my knees as he tried to shake me off. It was a brief, half-hearted effort. The horse really had been broken, probably with more than a little cruelty. Though he was clearly on the verge of panic, he quickly accepted that he had no say in his own destiny.
I urged him towards the corral's gate with a sharp tap of my heels. I could hear the rumble of hooves in the near distance. When I looked, the lemon trees obscured my view. I reached for the looped rope that served as a latch, pulled it free, and gave the gate a push. It swung outward on well-oiled hinges. My mount seemed calmer, as though comforted by the familiar circumstances. I urged him through the gap, glanced over my shoulder — and my heart lurched up into my mouth.
I could see past the line of trees now, along the road, all the way to the corner, where twenty or more riders were tumbling into view, amidst a whirling sea of dust. I knew they saw me too. For an instant, it was as though the distance between us was non-existent. They were near enough that I could make out details of armour and weapons, even the expressions on their faces.
They looked pleased to see me, on the whole.
The moment we were clear of the gate I rapped hard on my mount's flanks, and shouted something indistinct in his ear. He surged forward, bewildered and terrified, narrowly avoided a tree, and then swerved when he struck the road, almost hurling me loose. An arrow thunked into the ground between his front hooves. Another ricocheted from the road ahead. Suddenly they were everywhere, lightning of wood and metal spitting up dirt in every direction. Something tore across my shoulder; it felt as though someone had carved the meat with a hot knife. I screamed, and my horse reacted with another terrified burst of speed. I didn't dare look at my wound. I lay as flat as I could, my face mashed into his mane, blind to everything but a small, blurred patch of road ahead. I had no idea what kind of lead we had. In my mind's eye, they were right upon us. At any moment, I'd be so riddled with arrows that passers-by would mistake me for some deformed, leafless bush.
The seconds passed. I remained alive. In fact, the cascade seemed to be slackening. Moments continued to stumble by, and with each, the rain of arrows lessened, from tempest to shower to drizzle. Finally, their clatter vanished altogether, to be replaced by distant shouts and curses.
I dared a glance over my injured shoulder.
I'd forgotten how the speed of our chase had been slackening for hours. It all came flooding back with the joyous sight of a horde of riders massed behind me, each trying to drive his horse to something faster than a trot. They had no hope of catching us. An expert archer on peak form would have had difficulty hitting us across that rapidly expanding distance. No one seemed inclined to humiliate himself by trying.
'Fools for ever crossing Easie Damasco!' I shouted at the top of my lungs.
Not only did that make my wound hurt more, it shocked my steed into another panic. Once again, I barely resisted being thrown. I realised I was better off concentrating on my course and on staying in one piece.
I couldn't help noticing one last detail, though, before I turned back. A detachment was peeling off from the main column, in the direction of the barn.
My wound didn't seem severe. That isn't to say it didn't hurt astonishingly, or that I was any less appalled to have received it.
The cut on my shoulder was really just a scratch, the arrow having grazed the flesh and carried on, but it was bleeding profusely and looked worse than it was. I could still move the arm, though it was already starting to stiffen.
I took a calculated risk on the lead I'd regained and drew my horse up by the side of the road. I climbed down, trying to favour my hurt shoulder. Pain still jarred through me when my feet struck the ground, from that and my countless bruises. I cried out, and a flight of crows erupted, cawing madly, from the roadside foliage. My horse winced, but thankfully didn't try to bolt. He seemed to have exhausted his supply of fright, and become indifferent to the whole business.
I cut a strip from the hem of my cloak and used it to make a tourniquet around my shoulder. It was next to impossible to tie the knot, or once tied to tighten it, and what I ended up with was little more than an embarrassing accessory. I could hear the rattle of hooves again by then, closer than I'd like, so I swung back onto the horse and drove him to a canter. Feeling suddenly sorry for him, I tried to be gentler, and even whispered some encouraging words in his ear. Perhaps my concern was misdirected, but I didn't feel like wondering what had happened to Saltlick.
It wasn't long before we'd outdistanced our pursuers once more. To my relief, I saw that we'd also come almost to Muena Palaiya. Though it was a while since I'd been there I remembered the area well. The road, having
