as he had intended, scattered the other horses, giving him a decent head start.
Navigating by the stars, he headed north. Once he reached the hills, he would kill the horse then trek over the mountains back to Estar. With dismay, he realised that the moon was rising.
Sooner than he had thought, the village men managed to secure their horses and join the pursuit. He heard their shouts and hoofbeats behind him. The rising moon betrayed him to the night.
'Ride, beauty,' urged Togura, slapping the horse.
He galloped the horse until it could gallop no more; fortunately, the riders behind him were having similar problems with their own mounts. The chase continued at a steady trot.
Suddenly, to his dismay, Togura realised that there were riders ahead of him. How had that happened?
He was still trying to work out what to do next when the riders up ahead dispersed. They disappeared into a little bit of hummocked land off to his left. He blinked, wondering if they were ghosts, or if he had imagined them all along. No matter. The way ahead was clear.
But behind him he heard hastening hoofbeats, and realised the village warriors were once more trying to close the distance. He urged his horse as best he could, but it faltered, stumbled, then fell, throwing him. He picked himself up and remounted, but by then it was too late. The village riders, fierce, eager, shouting, closed in around him.
'Togura!' shouted the headman.
The name was slurred, but Togura knew it for his own. The next moment, the headman slapped him, almost knocking him off the horse. Then there was an argument. Six riders had made the distance. Some, perhaps, wanted to butcher Togura on the spot. The headman finally mastered them to silence, then began to lead the way south. The horses, after all this hard treatment, could only manage a walking pace; they were not bred or fed to ride so far and so fast.
'Perhaps I'd better tell you,' said Togura. 'I saw some other horsemen back there.'
The headman, who did not understand his Galish, swore at him, and slapped him again. Togura, his nose gently bleeding, did not speak again. He had not been on horseback for ages; as a consequence, he was now saddle- sore.
They were some way back toward the village when, shadow on shadow, horses came screaming out of some hunchbacked wasteland. Arrows sang through the air. Lances rode home. Horses screamed, flailing down to their death. Togura urged his horse away. An enemy rode up beside him, jumped, grabbed himround the neck and took him crashing down to the ground. Togura felt a sickening pain in his right leg. The enemy drew a knife and tried to stab him. Togura fought with all his strength. The knife moved steadily, inexorably, toward his throat.
If Togura had been made of sterner stuff, he would have devoted all his energies to the struggle, and consequently would have died upon the spot. However, he didn't. He panicked instead, and screamed:
'Help help help!'
An enemy, whirling out of a skirmish, heard Togura's voice, and hurled a spear in his general direction. The spear slammed home, taking Togura's attacker fair and square between the shoulder blades.
Killed by his own side, the attacker collapsed on Togura, who, thinking him still alive, damaged him dreadfully. Togura had just realised the man was dead when a horse, mortally wounded, collapsed on top of him. Suffocating, he fought it. By now he had a knfie in his hand. The horse rolled away, staggered to its feet, managed a few steps, then dropped again and died – this time falling clear of Togura.
He breathed the sweet cool night air in lurching gulps, sweating with effort, trembling with adrenalin, his heart still doing a decathlon. Somewhere out in the night, someone was being killed, and the sound was not pleasant. Someone, close at hand, was groaning hideously. Togura tried to get to his feet. An agonising pain in his right leg persuaded him against such foolishness. After a little experimentation, he realised the leg was broken.
'Things are not improving,' muttered Togura.
Then he heard someone walking through the night with a strange, shuffling gait. He decided it was best to play dead. He lay there with his eyes tightly shut, listening intently. Shuffle-foot wandered, paused, wandered, then fell heavily, and did not move again. Slowly, Togura opened his eyes.
Old Scar Face, the moon, floated above him, cool and remote. Somewhere close at hand, someone was crying bitterly. Togura listened, carefully, and ascertained that it wasn't him. Despite his current predicament he was, for once, dry-eyed and clear-headed.
Out in the night, some unknown animal cried.
Togura was still trembling – but now it was not adrenalin which was responsible, but the cold.
He could see it was going to be another of those long, long nights.
Chapter 32
Togura slept fitfully, dreaming that he was lying out under the sun with a broken leg. He woke to find it was true. The morning was still young, but already the day was dominated by unseasonable heat. His mouth was hot, dry, dusty. Flies picked their way over his face. He shook them off.
The air was loud with the buzz of flies. Dead men, dead horses, discarded weapons, a confusion of tracks and bloodshed marked the scene of battle. Togura, careful not to disturb his broken leg, looked around. He counted five dead horses, a dozen dead men, the bodies being spread out over quite a considerable area.
Who won?
There was no telling.
Carefully, he examined his broken leg. It was the shin bone which was sore. He slit his trews below the knee so he could examine the break. To his relief, he found the bone had not forced its way through the skin. The area was very, very painful, but there was not much swelling. As broken legs went, this one was not very serious. But there was no way he could walk on it.
'Togura,' said a familiar, slurred voice.
It was a bit early in the piece to be having hallucinations, so Togura looked around. One of the bodies had moved. It was the village headman, who was lying on the ground a dozen paces away, both wrists bent at a strange angle. Togura could only presume that the headman had broken both wrists in a fall.
'Come and help me,' said Togura, though there was not much hope that the headman would understand Galish.
The headman urged himself forward on his elbows, moved half a pace forwar then stopped, his face a mask of pain. Obviously he hadn't just broken his wrists. Something else was smashed. Leg? Legs? Pelvis? Spine?
'Togura,' said the headman. 'Dosh.'
What did 'dosh' mean? It meant 'go.' Togura knew that much.
'I can't,' he said, hurt by this totally unreasonable order. 'I've got a broken leg.'
The headman repeated himself.
There was, or so Togura supposed, some sense in the order. The attackers, to judge from their dead, were of the same tribe as the assassin who had tried to kill the headman – Togura could tell that by their hairstyles. They might have been a scouting party, or they might have been part of a much larger war party. If any had got away alive – and quite possibly the enemy had had the better of the battle – then they might come back with reinforcements. The area was unhealthy.
'If I had half a chance of getting anywhere,' said Togura, 'then I'd go. As it is, I'm staying.'
'Dosh,' said the headman, his voice intimate, urging, commanding. 'Togura, dosh.'
They could go on like this all day. It was very frustrating arguing with someone who didn't speak your language.
'All right then!' shouted Togura. 'Dosh dosh dosh dosh!'
His throat was sore. He wished he hadn't shouted so loudly. He saw the headman smile.
'Ssh-schaa,' said the headman; Togura recognised that as an expression of satisfaction.
'This is crazy,' said Togura.
But, despite his reservations, he looked around for something he could use to splint his leg. The nearest suitable object was a spear sticking out of the back of one of the enemy dead. Togura wrenched it out, disturbing a hubbub of flies in the process. Using a knife which was his by right of combat, he cut it down to size. He cut into the
