They reined their horses around and rode downhill in a breakneck gallop, towards the river. After fording it in showers of mud, they were pinned by another five Riders emerging from the right flank. Reynevan had already managed—despite riding hard—to wind up his hunting crossbow; now he pushed the stock against his cheek and released the trigger. Mindful of earlier lessons and experience, he didn’t aim at the man but at the horse. Struck with a bolt, the black stallion reared up and lost control, throwing onto the ground not just its own rider but two others, wreaking havoc among the rest, allowing Reynevan and Rixa to dart through. And now they charged, spurring their horses’ sides, downhill through the valley, towards a plain and the white ribbon of the Via Regia. Clods of turf flew around, churned up by their hooves. And the pursuers bore down on them.

“Adsumus! Adsumus!”

More Riders—five to be precise—came charging out from the ravine on the right, so close that Reynevan saw one of them was a girl. I know her, I’ve seen her before, he thought. And hunched over in the saddle just in time as a hurled javelin brushed his arm.

“Adsuuumuuuus!”

With a thudding of hooves, they hurtled onto the Via Regia and drew further away in a crazy gallop. But the Riders were right behind them. Reynevan watched in horror as one of them moved towards the head, galloping with a cloak flowing out behind him like demonic wings. He knew who it was. He knew before he saw his face. Reynevan bent his head over his horse’s mane and dashed on in a wild chase, following Rixa, whose bay mare was bounding like a stag. In spite of their frantic efforts, the Black Riders began to fall back. Only slightly to begin with, then more and more visibly. They were left behind but didn’t let up. Reynevan knew they wouldn’t desist. Rixa, too.

“Customs!” she shouted over the wind. “House!”

He understood. The control point in Tomaszów they had wanted to avoid could now be their salvation. A crowd of people could mean their survival. But there remained a considerable distance to cover. And their horses, though fleet and still not allowing the Black Riders to shorten the distance between them, weren’t made of iron, after all.

Reynevan sensed magic. And heard it.

The Wallcreeper, still galloping, raised a hand and shrieked out a spell. Reynevan and Rixa’s horses neighed wildly in answer.

The road ahead of them—the Via Regia running between an avenue of trees—until then as flat as a table, now suddenly reared up. Where a moment before it had been level and even, it now rose up sharply ahead. A steep hill with no end in sight.

“It’s an illusion!” screamed Reynevan. “It’s a spell! It’s not there!”

“Tell the horses!”