David Tallerman - Giant thief

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 run roughly southeast for the last few miles, was forced aside by a cliff of grey-white stone and baked red mud, the western rim of the mountains. It continued in the shadow of the rock face, while the land sloped steadily down on our right. A line of stubby trees cut off my view, which otherwise would have been spectacular in the pale dawn light.

Not that I felt much like sightseeing. Muena Palaiya meant the end of my acquaintance with the horse, which I was starting to grow attached to and — perhaps through slight delirium — had nicknamed "Lucky". There are few more serious crimes than horse-thievery in the Castoval; a man can steal another's wife or rob his gold and still hope for leniency from the law, but if he's caught on a horse that isn't his he may as well lock himself up and throw away the key. It wouldn't pay for me to try to ride into Muena Palaiya.

I waited until the way broadened out. I knew it would split beyond the next bend, with one fork continuing along the cliff to the gates of Muena Palaiya, and the other dipping lower to skirt the town on its west edge. An open, grassy area marked by the occasional tree lay before the gates, where travellers who couldn't afford the local hospitality were prone to camp. It offered little in the way of concealment, and I'd be visible approaching from the gates. I didn't want to have to answer any questions or risk meeting old acquaintances, most of whom would be likely to arrest me. I didn't want anyone to be able to identify me to Moaradrid's troops, either, or to confirm my presence in the town. Fortunately, I knew another way inside. If it was more difficult, it would be infinitely more discreet.