Estrada fell back, as though the effort of so much rage had drained the last of her strength.
Moaradrid's troops were shouting on every side, all at once. Their feet were already churning the road into a quagmire, but no two men were moving in the same direction. The general drift seemed to be away from us, towards the mouth of the ravine. Someone cried out nearby and was abruptly cut off.
My whole body felt taut. I hardly dared to hope.
I recognised the hum of arrows beneath the other, louder sounds. The shots were coming from above; for once, we weren't the ones being fired at. Hooves thundered, but the racket was approaching, not receding. The cries from around us were becoming an overwhelming wave of panic. The thought of being trampled frightened me more than the clamour of violence rising from every direction. I closed my eyes and threw my arms up over my face.
'Keep still!'
I opened my eyes to a blade a hand's breadth from my nose. Just before I started to scream, I realised it was Estrada's stiletto. Her searcher clearly hadn't been as rigorous as mine.
'Put your hands out. It's the Altapasaedan Guard, Damasco.'
I thrust my wrists out where she could reach them. 'Ow! Be careful.'
The stiletto wasn't designed for cutting. Estrada's slip had nearly cost me my thumb. Fortunately, the rope was cheap and rain-sodden. Another slash sent it flapping away in coils.
One of Moaradrid's Northerners chose that moment to stumble backwards into the pile of our weapons, scattering them in every direction. Most clattered beneath the feet of his companions, adding to the chaos, but one short sword skittered within reach. I darted to grab it before it was kicked away. A clumsy slash dealt with the cord around my feet.
'Give me that.'
Alvantes had his hands free, presumably thanks to Estrada. He tore the sword from my fingers, severed the binding around his ankles and leaped to his feet. He was just in time to block a blow swung for his neck — a Northerner had noticed our escape attempt. Regaining his balance, Alvantes edged to protect us. The soldier swung for his shoulder and he parried, with more confidence this time, then drove forward. It was a wild blow, easy to defend, but powerful enough to push the Northerner back. He managed three rapid steps before he stumbled over the remains of the weapons pile. Alvantes's second blow killed him before he reached the ground.
Alvantes barely paused. He swung his cloak off and bundled swords into it, then darted back to distribute them. I found myself, seconds later, amidst a ring of armed men. The main fighting had drifted away from us, towards the mouth of the gorge. The Altapasaedans must have deliberately struck from that side to draw Moaradrid's troops away. Their initial panic behind them, those troops had formed up near the ruined coach, while the Altapasaedans, seeing their initiative lost, had retreated part way up the western bank.
With even my limited grasp of warfare, I could tell the fight wasn't going their way. With both sides massed together, it was clear how outnumbered they were. There might have been two hundred Altapasaedans; Moaradrid's force boasted five times that number. The only thing that stopped them completely swamping the small band was lack of space. With the carriage, the rock formations at the gully mouth, and their own horses all behind them, the Northerners could hardly manoeuvre.
The Altapasaedans had left a handful of archers on the western brow, who continued to pour down a steady stream of arrows. Yet now that Moaradrid's force had rallied, most of those shots deflected from shields and armour. Even the higher ground wasn't doing them much good. They were fending off sallies from both sides, and only Moaradrid's inability to bring his numbers to bear kept them from being overrun.
The stalemate couldn't last. As I watched, a company of Northerners peeled off from the main body, to retreat through the valley mouth. They'd be hunting for another route to the high ground. Once they found it, they'd have no trouble cutting down those few archers, and the Altapasaedans would be surrounded. All Moaradrid had to do until then was keep them pinned.
As for our Castovalians, they looked only fractionally more intimidating now that they were armed and on their feet. In bare numbers, they more than doubled the Altapasaedans' strength. But numbers were misleading. Most of them had probably never handled anything sharper than a plough. Every third man lacked a weapon. They looked bewildered and scared.
Moaradrid's troops would eat them alive.
If Alvantes saw how hopeless the situation was, he hid it well. Stood at the head of his ragtag brigade, he shouted, 'Stay together. Push towards the centre. Stop for nothing!'
Then he turned and ran towards the fighting, before anyone realised this was all the speech they'd get. His entourage of Altapasaedan guardsmen fell in behind him. The Castovalian irregulars were slower on the uptake, and had to sprint to catch up.
I was shocked to see Estrada moving after them.
I caught her arm and cried, 'Where are you going?' She jerked to free her arm, but I hung on. 'What are you going to do, stab them with your pocket knife? Don't be stupid.'
'Let me go!'
'You're no good to anyone dead.'
'They're going to get slaughtered.' All the strength had gone out of her voice, but it was replaced by a cold determination that was almost worse.
I could see she'd rather die than watch the massacre she'd helped orchestrate. Struggling for an argument, any argument, I said, 'What about Saltlick? You promised him.'
Her eyes flitted to where Saltlick sat, immobile despite the havoc around him.
'Your boyfriend can look after himself. Can Saltlick?'
'He's not my boyfriend.' Estrada shrugged her arm free and marched towards Saltlick.
I couldn't help glancing toward the battle as I followed. Moaradrid must have forgotten his captives in the face of the Altapasaedan attack: the Castovalian thrust was wreaking chaos on his flank. I could make out Alvantes within the press of bodies, hacking his way towards the centre of Moaradrid's force just as he'd said he would. The Altapasaedans, exploiting their sudden advantage, had sallied against the Northerners who'd almost hemmed them in. Their archers, too, were making the most of the distraction, finding easier targets now their enemies were defending on two fronts.
Perhaps they hoped the struggle had swung in their favour. I could see the bigger picture, and I knew better. The Northerners would reorganise at any second, and bring their greater strength to bear. Alvantes might be a thorn in their flank, but a thorn could be torn out and pulverised. He'd never struck me as the reckless type. Didn't he understand how hopeless this was?
Then I realised where he was heading.
I hurried to join Estrada, and found her deep in one-sided conversation with Saltlick.
'I know he said you can't move, but what are you going to do, stay here forever? Sit until you starve to death? How is that going help your people or your family or anyone? You're being ridiculous! Moaradrid isn't your chief. He stole the stone from you. You don't owe him any loyalty.'
'He won't listen,' I told her. 'That stupid stone, I wish I'd thrown it in the river when I had the chance.'
I thought Saltlick's eyes flickered at that.
'What can we do?'
'I don't know. Hope our side wins, I suppose.'
I turned back to the drama behind us. I'd been right, surprise had offered only the briefest advantage. All momentum had gone from the Castovalian thrust, and now the Northerners were regaining ground and taking lives with equal ease. Alvantes's farmers were suffering the worst, but even the Altapasaedan guardsmen were taking horrible losses. Only Alvantes and his entourage continued to advance. The Castovalian irregulars were more a distraction than an actual help, but it was a distraction he was making the most of.
Moaradrid, though he'd drawn his scimitar, was concentrated on retreating through the press of his own forces. His troops tripped over themselves to clear a path for him without risking their own lives. He'd already had to abandon the centre. Each step was taking him closer to the western bank, where the fiercest fighting was.
That was Alvantes's plan. It always had been. He couldn't win the battle, but perhaps he could end the war.
Moaradrid realised it in almost the same instant I did — understood that he was being herded towards the Altapasaedans. His reaction was as rapid as it was astounding. He hurled himself with a ferocious cry at Alvantes,
