Seeing how few of Blackstone’s men there were, De Hayle’s men set themselves into a defensive position, shields at the ready to take the shock wave about to strike them.

They didn’t know the power of men the size of Meulon and Blackstone.

The impact rattled men’s teeth. The attackers struck the routiers’ shields with such force that a half-dozen men fell back into their comrades. It was a wound opened in their ranks and the ferocity of the two men who led the assault scythed into them. Blackstone’s men flanked left and right, suffocating de Hayle’s, hemming them in so they could not break free. Rats in a trap with no escape. The bellowing cries of violence forced strength into men’s sword arms. Killbere’s right flank held fast, striking against men determined not to die. Kill and stride forward. Kill and move again, trampling over the fallen, pressing boots into necks and torn wounds, ramming sword points down to still the squirming men.

Cold, hard rain hurtled down from the mountains, flaying men’s faces, blinding the attackers, who ignored the discomfort. Swords raised and fell. Shields slammed into men’s faces, bones broke, teeth and blood were spat free of mouths gulping for air. Blackstone and Meulon’s strength had forced more men aside. They turned back to back, covering each other. Meulon and Blackstone slashed through de Hayle’s men while John Jacob stooped low, shield high, jabbing below men’s raised arms or sweeping his sword across hamstrings. Blackstone’s men executed a cruel but efficient slaughter. Men cried out, wallowing in the churned mud, weeping in pain; someone in the mêlée’s midst cried out: ‘De Hayle! Help us! Where are you?’

Blackstone looked through the lashing rain. Blood trickled into his eye from a cut above his eye. Rain washed it clear, stinging the small gash. They were caught amidst the heaving men, their legs entangled in the dying. They saw horses rear as lightning streaked down into mountaintops, booming thunder slapping the air with immortal power. The gods of war’s drumbeats urging on the butchery.

Blackstone couldn’t see de Hayle. If he was among the horseman attempting to escape, he was out of sight. The wind shifted. It swirled the stench of blood towards the riders, who already struggled to keep their mounts from bolting at the overhead thunderclaps. Once they smelled the blood-letting, they would panic still further.

‘On me!’ Blackstone yelled. The half-dozen men nearest to him kicked and slashed their way clear. If Blackstone could reach the panic-stricken horses, he could kill de Hayle.