The horse bolted in great leaping strides, not quite bucking, then flattened out, running fast enough to bring tears to his eyes. Arcolin caught a blurred sensation of movement to his left, but they were past it before he registered the sudden appearance of five men on horseback and the flash of sunlight on drawn swords. Hooves thundered behind; he could not tell how many. His horse pinned both ears and quickened again. Arcolin switched hands on the reins and drew his own sword, though he doubted any bandits had mounts as fast as this one.

Then he remembered the foot-travelers. Were they there merely to slow riders like him, or were they in danger? And what about that caravan? Surely its guards would be enough to hold off a few brigands. He glanced behind. Two riders, kicking hard, but their horses could not keep his pace. More behind them turning back to the westbound path. A quick glance at the road showed nothing ahead; behind, when he looked back again, he saw dust rising, saw one of the brigands lean out to strike at someone on the ground.

Arcolin sat back, hauling his mount down; the two chasing him yelled in triumph. He swung his mount to the right, jumped the ditch between the footpath and the road, and reversed back down the road, passing the brigands before they could change direction. He heard his pursuers’ horses grunt as they too jumped and the clatter of their hooves behind him.

The odds weren’t good, Arcolin saw, as he neared the altercation on the footpath. One of the women was on the ground—dead or injured, he couldn’t tell. The men, trying to fend off armed horsemen with walking staves, showed some training, but the four brigands were ahorse and armed with swords. He reined in as he passed the fight and jumped back across the ditch on the Valdaire side. Two of the brigands had noticed and turned to meet him. One of his pursuers tried to jump the ditch, but his horse refused, and plunged uselessly in the muddy bottom.

Arcolin charged straight at the fight. The two facing him spread apart; Arcolin reined for the one nearer the trees, then, with a shift of his weight, sent his horse at the other, who had committed too early to attack his flank. One stroke of his sword took the man’s arm. His own horse squealed and bucked, as a clang reminded Arcolin where his helmet was—on the saddle instead of his head. He heard the solid THWACK as his horse’s hind hoofs connected with the brigand’s horse.

Now he was in the thick of it, hoping the foot travelers would realize he was on their side, but with no time to explain. No time to retrieve his helmet, either. He felt like a fool, but the helmet had saved his horse an injury. He parried a sword stroke meant for one of the travelers. One of the men, using his staff expertly, managed to unhorse a brigand; the other woman smacked the downed man on the head. If he could only get them in order, they were now four to four, but—he parried a stroke aimed at him, and on the backstroke came so near the brigand’s face the man flinched back and accidentally reined his horse away. Arcolin shifted his weight and signaled his mount. His horse reared, hopped forward, and struck the rider with front hooves, knocking him out of the saddle. The man’s sword flew from his hand, and his horse bolted away.