Haral was quick to draw up, and he twisted in the saddle and with a shout commanded the wagons to one side, to let the riders past.

Orfantal looked upon those unknown faces. He counted eleven men and women, all well armed and bearing none of the ragtag equipment he would have expected among bandits. Nor did the strangers accost them, but Orfantal felt their sharp eyes gauging the caravan and its handful of guards. Beside him Gripp was silent, head lowered as if in deference.

A few, Orfantal saw as they plodded past, wore the colours of Urusander’s Legion, charcoal grey half-capes piped in gold, the high leather knee-guards that so faithfully copied Urusander’s own armour. He knew this from his grandfather’s kit, which he had examined countless times. Others seemed to be carrying the same gear, but rolled up and tied to the backs of their saddles.

‘Hunting bandits?’ Orfantal asked Gripp after the last rider had trotted past. ‘There were Legion—’

‘Quiet, boy!’ rasped Gripp, and Orfantal saw how pale the old man was, his mouth pinched, the lips dry. He was staring ahead to Haral, awaiting the command to resume. ‘Send us on, damn you!’ he said in a hiss.

Orfantal twisted on his saddle to look back at the strangers.

‘Turn round!’ Gripp snapped. ‘Now, let’s go. Ride on, boy, ride on. Eyes forward!’

‘What’s wrong?’

Ahead, Haral had swung his mount round, watching the wagons rock back on to the centre of the road.

Orfantal could see Gripp’s watery eyes fixed on Haral’s, as if seeking a sign.

It came when Haral frowned, and then straightened in his saddle. A moment later he half rose on the stirrups, confusion writ plain on his features.

‘That’s it, then,’ growled Gripp. He pulled his mount close alongside Orfantal’s. ‘Listen to me. They’re coming back.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Because they shouldn’t be here, that’s why. At least three of them were from a disbanded unit.’

‘But—’

‘Ride ahead, Orfantal – and once you’re on the straight, kick that hag of yours into a gallop and don’t look back. No more questions!’ he added as horse hoofs sounded behind them, fast approaching. ‘Go, son, ride.’ And he slapped the hag’s rump, jolting the beast forward into a startled canter. The motion almost unseated Orfantal and he gripped hard the reins, which only slowed the beast.

‘Kick her on!’ Gripp shouted, and there was the sound of swords being drawn.

Punching the flanks with his heels, Orfantal pushed his mount back into a canter, and then a heavy gallop. Disorientated, he rocked in the saddle. He heard harsh shouts behind him. Someone screamed like a dying pig.

Mouth dry, heart hammering, he leaned forward. ‘Oh, run! Run, you, oh run …’