When he still didn't move, I did instead, lurching off at my fastest sprint. A moment later and Saltlick fell in behind. I cursed through gritted teeth. Whatever chance we'd had of a quiet exit disappeared the moment those massive feet began hammering the ground. It sounded like cattle were stampeding in my wake. I knew he could have overtaken me in a single bound, but he hung back. All I could hear was the slap of his bare heels in the grass.
It was probably all anyone in the camp could hear.
My fears were confirmed by a muffled cry from our left, where the tents were clustered. Another followed it, more urgent. I could make out the rhythm of other feet now, drawing closer. Lights blossomed, close enough to show the faces of their bearers. In an instant, the camp filled with streaks of orange and flickering shadows.
Three figures appeared ahead, as if from nowhere. One was on horseback, a bow in his hands, an arrow nocked. One held a drawn scimitar, and the third carried their torch. They looked as worried as people about to confront a creature twice their size should be, but they weren't about to move. The archer sighted. He'd know as well as I did that a well placed shot would put Saltlick down long before he got close enough to fight back.
He squeaked, dropped his bow, and tumbled over. The torchbearer was forced to leap aside to avoid him. The horse shied, catching the last man with a flailing hoof, and he staggered backwards, blood streaming from his ruined nose. By then we were on them. The one still on his feet made a vague gesture with his torch, until Saltlick swatted it away and shoved him after it. As we plummeted past, I noticed the arrow sticking from the archer's torso.
Before I could wonder how it had got there, the shouting started. It was coming from our left: one or two voices at first, then a high-pitched scream that seemed to open the floodgates. Suddenly Moaradrid's campsite was in an uproar. I couldn't begin to guess what was happening. I wasn't about to wait and find out.
A clatter of hooves started ahead, thundering rapidly nearer. It sounded like at least half a dozen horsemen, more than enough to cut off our escape. I was beginning to realise that the chaos on the edge of camp must have something to do with Estrada. We were close enough to the cliffs that a handful of good archers could wreak substantial damage, at least until their opponents realised and extinguished the torches that were making them such easy targets. It was a bold move.
It wasn't going to save us.
I ducked, in a hopeless bid to stay alive a little longer. The riders plunged past in a deluge of noise, so near I could feel the heat from their mounts' flanks. I heard the animals complain as they wheeled behind us, muffled shouts, and then hooves churning wet ground as they urged forward. An instant later, we were flanked on both sides, running in a corridor of equine bodies. I bent low and kept going, dizzied by the scream of my exhausted muscles, knowing it was useless.
An arm thrust towards me. I ducked, stumbled, and rolled headlong into the grass, yelping with pain. Saltlick swerved to avoid me and skidded to a halt, carving long ruts in the earth. Too exhausted to fight back, too exhausted to beg, I stared up at my murderer-to-be.
He looked surprisingly familiar.
'Damn you, Damasco,' shouted Mounteban, leaning half out of his saddle to reach for me, 'do you want to be rescued or not?'
CHAPTER 9
I discovered later that there were a mere dozen archers perched on the cliff-side. However, they were all of them fine marksmen, and with their sturdy Castovalian bows and excellent vantage point, twelve men could wreak havoc. A hundred archers and a cavalry charge might have decimated Moaradrid's undersized army and ended the war in one fell swoop, but Estrada didn't have those resources to play with. Even chancing her few good bowmen was a terrible gamble.
It was a bold move, a desperate trade-off between future gain and immediate disaster. It had purchased Mounteban and his men as much as a minute in which to penetrate the camp, find us, and get out again.
It was nowhere near enough, of course.
' This is the plan? The mayor is a donkey-bred idiot, and you're worse for following her!'
Mounteban didn't bother to respond. He was focused on charging the last distance to the campsite border, and probably wondering how he was going to negotiate the small but well-armed force gathered to cut off our escape. It may also have been that my terrified grip around his waist made it hard to speak.
I wasn't about to let that stop me. 'You're insane! We're all going to die. We could have cartwheeled out with more chance of success!'
I had more to say but suddenly no time to say it. A rider to our left went down in an incomprehensible blur of hooves and showering dirt. The beast's scream seemed to go on longer than it had any right to. I looked away, in time to see the man on my right jerk into thin air, as though suspended by ghostly hands, while his mount pitched from under him. He was spread-eagled on the ground before I saw the fletching jutted from his chest.
The squad of troops ahead was three deep now, painted in inhuman colours by the shivering torchlight. Not one of them looked like they planned to get out of our way. We might have been able to ride down the scimitar- wielding front row; but behind I could make out the cruel glint of spears.
Something passed us, a blur of movement against the sky. The other riders sheered away, barely in time. A rhythm like war drums drowned out our horses' thrashing hooves. I'd only just registered that the shadowy colossus was Saltlick when he struck the first line like a boulder rolled into a haystack.
Most of Moaradrid's men had the sense to dive out of the way. Those that didn't he batted aside. One sailed past us, his strangled cry echoing behind him, blood streaming from his forehead. A spear-bearer was brave and stupid enough to prod his weapon toward the giant. Saltlick caught it without breaking his stride, plucked up man and spear together and hurled them effortlessly over one shoulder. He broke through the last rank without pause and plunged on, indifferent and terrible as an avalanche.
Those Northerners still conscious and relatively whole were just beginning to reform when we struck in Saltlick's wake. One made a half-hearted swipe at us, and received Mounteban's boot in his face for thanks.
As we hurtled clear, I fought down a whoop of joy at the sheer outrageousness of our escape. That was until I glanced over my shoulder, in time to witness the remainder of our band meet the remnant of the defenders. Shocked and disordered though they were, they'd had an instant to recover. It was all they needed. The front rider was torn down by a forest of spears, which sprung up as if from nowhere. The other two reined in to avoid his staggering mount and lost — in quick succession — their momentum, their saddles, and their lives.
The exultation turned bitter in my throat.
If Mounteban knew what had occurred, he didn't let it show. He veered to the left, leaning low over his mount's neck, placing the bushes and short slope that bordered the road on our right. Saltlick, who'd come to a halt there, fell in behind. Mounteban threw us into another sharp turn, this time up the incline. Our horse nearly stumbled, then caught its footing and burst through the tree line.
I couldn't see what had guided Mounteban to this particular spot, but there was a faint trail visible through the undergrowth. There was just space enough for us to pass at a canter. Saltlick pounded along behind us. As branches lashed into my face, I wished Mounteban had had the foresight to make him go first.
Almost immediately, I became aware of a light ahead. I couldn't identify its source until we came out right upon it. A crevice split the cliff face, men with torches guarding it to either side. They looked more surprised than pleased to recognise Mounteban. They'd likely had as much faith in our chances of survival as I had.
'The others?' one called.
'The same way we'll all be if you don't get inside,' snapped Mounteban.
As my eyes began to adjust, I saw how great stones had been piled to both sides of the entrance, amidst mounds of broken foliage. The passage had obviously been sealed and hidden, and only recently cleared. When we dismounted and ducked into its mouth, I noticed ropes leading from the beams supporting the roof.
Further in were the two disgruntled mules to which they were attached. Mounteban's companions were trying to drive them forward, with hard slaps to the rump and a stream of curses. One chose to understand and strained forward, shifting its prop a hand's length inward. The other dug in its hooves, baring yellow teeth in a stubborn grin. The first heehawed appreciatively and followed its example.
