He charged them, Daria not slowing as she hit the embankment, powering up the small slope. Heartbeats before collision Tukul threw his axe, at the same time nudging Daria to the left. He saw the axe smash into a face, the warrior falling back, blood erupting, and he slashed at another with his sword as he pounded past, felt the blade cut through leather and flesh. Then he was beyond them, hooves clattering on the stone of the road. A mounted warrior appeared from amongst the wains, saw him and charged. Tukul raised his sword two-handed over his head. Sparks flared as their blades clashed, the momentum of their mounts carrying them past each other, Tukul back-swinging, decapitating his enemy. The horse carried on, disappearing down the embankment, its headless rider slowly slipping off its back.

There was a thunder of hooves; he looked to his left and a horse crashed into him, its rider slashing at his head. Pain exploded in his leg. He blocked, a part of his mind disapproving his technique. Daria neighed wildly as she was bludgeoned backwards, hooves slipping, scrabbling, almost falling. She bit the enemy’s horse in her frustration and Tukul grabbed his opponent’s wrist, pulled and stabbed his sword up, into the man’s armpit, piercing chainmail and sinking deep into flesh. He fell away, Tukul ripping his sword free, blood spraying his face.

Daria righted herself and with a grimace he sent her plunging deeper into the battle. He slashed either side, great looping strokes, left a trail of blood and dying men in his wake. Blows came at him but the stark clarity of battle had taken him – everything bright, sharp, every blow seen as if in slow motion. Men came at him and they died.

Abruptly Daria was sliding, plunging downwards. Tukul felt a moment of disorientation, then realized they had cut their way across the wide giant road and were sliding down the embankment on the far side. For a moment Tukul could see the river, the meadow before it heaving with battle. Then they were hurtling towards a press of warriors looming before him, mostly men on foot. Daria collided with a solid wall of flesh, their momentum stalled, and then Tukul was hurtling through the air, thrown from his saddle. He fell into a warrior, bones crunching – not mine – he thought, then he was on the ground, rolling clear, somehow still clutching his sword.

He came to his feet, his left leg throbbing, sword held in the stag’s guard, met a surge of blows, his blade parrying and striking faster than he could think, his years of training and discipline taking over, counteracting more rapidly than conscious thought. In a matter of heartbeats half a dozen men lay dead or dying about him. He stood frozen, sword raised, breathing hard.

I am getting old.