Lugos looked like he wanted to kill me for my stupidity. Instead, he caught my arm and broke into a run.
Our shattered platoon had dissolved into a sheep pen with a dozen wolves at one end. The Castovalians knew why we were there, and that every moment's delay would cost them dearly. So they were herding us. A few had hung back to keep the way open while the remainder drove on for the hilltop. The stragglers continued to plunge through us like a sword through butter, spreading waves of bodies to either side. One rider swung so close that I could clearly make out the tang of his horse's sweat and hear its laboured breathing.
Lugos followed its passage with his eyes and happened to notice his shoulder, with the fletching protruding there.
'Shit,' he said quietly.
This time, I gripped his arm — the one that wasn't leaking blood, sadly — and led him. 'The giant,' I reminded him.
When he looked up his eyes were glassy. 'There's an arrow in my arm,' he said resentfully.
'We all have our problems,' I replied, and kept dragging.
The giant still hadn't moved by the time we reached him. Both sides were avoiding him now. The last few horsemen were almost past us and my erstwhile colleagues, despite fleeing every which way, had somehow managed to leave this one area clear. I saw him properly then for the first time. Apart from a cloth skirt around his waist, he wore nothing except a leather harness strapped around his shoulders and chest. It supported a sort of wooden platform, like a horizontal stocks, that fitted round his neck. Poor Leon dangled from a tether attached to one corner, his last expression one of total bafflement.
'Hello again, Saltlick,' I called.
The giant ignored me.
'How do I make him listen?' I asked Lugos.
His concentration had drifted back to the wound in his shoulder. I shook him gently.
'Lugos, we need the giant. To protect ourselves.'
He looked at me.
'To protect you, sir,' I corrected.
'The giant?'
'That giant.' I pointed.
'Oh.' He looked up. 'Saltlick. Saltlick. Listen to me, you pig's arse.'
Saltlick's gaze drifted towards us. I couldn't read any expression on those vast, impassive features.
'It's me, Lugos. Lugos, who was appointed over you by Moaradrid himself. This man here…' He paused, and hissed, 'What's your name?' Then, 'This man, Easie Damasco, is your new rider, do you hear? You'll do whatever he tells you, until you hear otherwise from Moaradrid or me.'
Saltlick nodded slowly.
'Good,' Lugos said, 'that's good.'
He crumpled backwards.
I assumed he'd just fainted, since his wound didn't look mortal. My first urge was to kick him, but glancing downhill, I saw Moaradrid's main force drifting up the slope. If I were going to make good my newfound advantage, I'd have to do it quickly. I gave Lugos's prone body a rueful glance and turned back to examining the giant. There was no obvious way up his front that didn't involve climbing Leon's corpse, so I darted round to inspect the back. The harness there included a net that hung as far as the hem of the cloth skirt. That still left a gap nearly as high as I was. I began to wonder seriously about my plan. What if the giant wasn't as passive as he seemed? What if he took badly to me climbing his back? One swat would turn me to paste.
Moaradrid's troops were getting nearer. Saltlick was my best hope for escape, and even for revenge. That suddenly seemed a real and pressing concern, for — standing there amidst broken bodies, some of whom I'd been playing cards with a few hours ago — I felt an uncharacteristic anger building. Who was Moaradrid to behave like this, to drag me into his wretched plans? Suddenly I was almost shaking with fury.
I leaped up, caught the lowest cord of the netting, and scrabbled with my feet against Saltlick's thigh. He didn't flinch. I put all my strength into hurling one arm up for a higher hold, brought the other in behind and, bunching my body, managed to get a foothold. It was relatively easy from there. Not once did the giant try to help or resist me.
I clambered to the platform. The webbing continued across its width, and there was a pole jutting from the outer edge, both presumably intended for the rider to hang onto. Suddenly aware of how high up I was, I did just that. For a few moments I could only kneel there, hanging on for dear life.
Then somebody called out nearby, and I knew somehow it was directed at me. When I dared to look up, I saw that a large force was still pursuing the Castovalian escapees — pretty hopelessly, I thought, since they were out of sight now — and that a small detachment of horsemen had broken off towards us. Their leader was pointing and shouting in my direction. There wasn't much left of my platoon. Those still standing had spread over quite a distance, and were wandering aimlessly. Odds were that the new arrivals were on their way to restore order before anyone got any funny ideas.
It was a little late for that.
'Saltlick, can you hear me?'
No answer.
'Saltlick, are you listening?'
'Listen.'
I'd never heard his voice before. It was astonishingly deep. The syllables rubbed together like millstones grinding.
'Good. Saltlick, how would you feel about getting out of here? Going home? No more fighting, no more being told what to do?'
He took a while to respond, and I wondered if he'd failed to understand again. For all I knew he liked being there, and would turn me in right then, or just crush my skull for disloyalty.
'No more fight?'
'Not if I can help it. Would you like that?'
'No more fight,' he agreed.
I grinned, and slapped him firmly on the shoulder.
'Then, Saltlick, it's about time we got out of here.'
CHAPTER 3
I'd made enemies of two armies in the space of less than a day.
The survivors from the Castovalian force wouldn't look kindly on my serving against them, however much I might point out that I'd been coerced and done nothing by way of actual fighting. At least the odds of my ever being recognised were slim. Moaradrid's party were a more immediate concern. With the battle over it wouldn't take them long to do a head count and notice one of their giants was missing. I had a decent start, but that wouldn't help much. Fast riders could run us down in no time. All in all, it was a bad fix I'd got myself into.
I was about to make it far worse.
I'd taken a gamble, and directed Saltlick back towards our campsite of the night before — or more precisely, towards where the handful of tents still stood. I reasoned that, while it would lengthen our route if they came after us, there was a chance our pursuers would think we were on some official business and leave us alone.
Sure enough, the horsemen who'd been tailing us turned back before we'd gone very far. I heaved a sigh of relief and called for Saltlick to stop.
We were on the edge of the camp proper, some way downhill from where we'd spent the night. There were two dozen tents of various sizes, accompanied by carts, wagons and the oxen that drew them, grey ghosts of campfires, and countless piles of refuse. The ground had been churned into mud, by feet and hooves last night and by the rain this morning, which had eased now to a fine drizzle. It looked more than anything as if the river had flooded and subsided in the space of a few hours. I was pleased to note that there weren't many people around. Those who hadn't been involved in the fighting, craftsmen, menials and the like, had gone to gawp at the battlefield
