The stallion gave a buck and surged ahead, leading with his left leg, neck straining forward. The first soldier was within touching distance of the door. The Don mare had flung him backwards. He swung his rifle towards me but overbalanced, falling sideways into the snow, loosing a shot above my shoulder. The second soldier – a barely visible ghost crouching in the winter whirlwind – brought his barrel to bear on me as I raised mine to him. But he was too slow, too far behind me. I fired. The bullet went high and hit him in the throat. The third soldier had been knocked flat on his back. Flailing in the snow, grasping for his weapon, he was out of sight within seconds.

I cantered north-east towards the lights of another farm, coming out on the lane a few hundred metres beyond the burning Lada. Although Boynou took the snow in his stride, hacking straight across country was a no-go: one buried rabbit hole and we’d both come a cropper. I’d have to stick to paths and ride like Fear na gCrúb – the Man with the Hooves himself. The stirrups were too long, and I couldn’t get my heels down, but Boynou carried me lightfoot across the fresh powder. I shortened the rein and sat hard in the saddle, slowing him to a trot and then to a walk around the houses. Tactical torches flicked fingers of light into the falling flakes to my left. I patted Boynou’s golden flank.

‘Easy, boy.’

We stood in the shadows of a frozen yard, steam streaming from his nostrils, front hooves pawing the ground.

If I turned on to the lane, whoever was behind those torches was going to have a clear shot: one round in Boynou was all it would take. But straight ahead, at right angles to the lane, there was another path leading back into the woods. It was clear enough of snow to try it. The stallion started to step sideways, tossing his head. I tightened the reins, bunching them in my left hand, threading them between my fingers. I squeezed gently, and clicked my tongue, urging him to walk on. We edged around a barn and then I dropped my hand forward and pressed my heels into his ribs. My shoulder met his, unbalancing me for a moment. Then he leapt out, into the road. Two strides and we were across, following the trail between the trees. The shooting started again immediately. Streams of tracer fire fanned out, first along the road and then through the trees. Branches cracked. Burning bullets ricocheted off tree trunks, zapping this way and that, filling the woods with a lethal green cat’s cradle. After a hundred metres I took a sharp right. The path ended. Boynou picked his way through the snow, cautious, lifting his hooves high, shaking his head.