The bad feeling that Ulfilas had ignored reared up now, a flare of fear and foreboding, and he ducked low in his saddle as the air whistled over his head and something sharp missed him by a handspan. He kicked his horse on. It was well trained and it stepped agilely to the left and leaped away, sending those about it reeling, friend and foe alike. For a handful of insane moments the horse rose and fell, forging its way through the battle like a leviathan through stormy seas, then it burst into clearer ground.

Battle still raged here, but it was islands of violence upon the plains surrounding Drassil, rather than a constant sea. Everywhere Ulfilas looked the red-cloaked men of Isiltir were falling to giants and to sword-wielding Jehar. He saw a tall dark-haired warrior in blood-spattered mail, at first thought him a giant, but then realized he was a little too short, and too slim and elegant, too graceful in his death dealing. Even as Ulfilas watched, this warrior cut down three men of Isiltir in as many breaths.

Further away he saw more of those shadow-demons appearing in the air, hovering like a dense mist as they screamed their rage and then drifting apart in the wind. He knew by now that their appearance marked the death of one of Nathair’s Jehar.

Whatever they are – and I’m not sure I want to know – I do know that this battle is lost.

Always the pragmatic man, Ulfilas looked to the north, saw the remnants of the old road they had followed here. The prospect of fleeing through Forn was becoming more appealing with every redcloaked death around him.

Run, live a little longer; stay and die very soon.

It wasn’t much of a choice.

He lifted the banner of Isiltir from its harness on his saddle and dropped it to the ground, then spurred his horse to the north, moving at a trot, calling men to him as he went. Within a hundred paces he had close to two hundred men following him, then another hundred. He reined in as the land began to rise and looked back over the battlefield.

The warband of Isiltir was breaking apart, men beginning to turn and run, heading towards the perceived safety of the trees of Forn. Soon it would become a rout. He glimpsed Jael on the far side of the conflict, still in his saddle, a knot of warriors about him as he moved steadily southwards towards the treeline.

Looks as if he has the same idea as me.

With a shake of his head Ulfilas spurred his mount up the slope, towards the trees.

Then the ground in front of him exploded.

Fifty paces or so up the slope turf and dirt erupted into the air, beneath it something dark and round emerging from the ground.

Ulfilas swayed in his saddle, jerked away, then realized what it was.

A huge trapdoor.