When the last of the ambushers had fallen, Sparhawk wheeled Faran to go to the aid of Bevier and Kalten, but saw that it was largely unnecessary. Three of the men who had come charging out of the elm grove were already down. Another was doubled over in his saddle with both hands pressed to his belly. The other two were trying desperately to parry the blows of Kalten’s sword and Bevier’s Lochaber axe. Kalten feinted with his sword then smoothly slapped his opponent’s weapon out of his hand, even as Bevier lopped the head off his man with an almost casual backhand swipe.

‘Don’t kill him!’ Sparhawk shouted to Kalten as the blond man raised his sword.

‘But –’ Kalten protested.

‘I want to question him.’

Kalten’s face grew bleak with disappointment as Sparhawk rode back across the littered turf towards him and Bevier.

Sparhawk reined Faran in. ‘Get off your horse,’ he told the frightened and exhausted captive.

The man slid down. Like that worn by his fallen companions, his armour was a mish-mash of unmatched pieces. It was rusty and dented in places, but the sword Kalten had knocked from his hand was polished and sharp.

‘You’re a mercenary, I take it,’ Sparhawk said to him.

‘Yes, my Lord,’ the fellow faltered in a Pelosian accent.

This didn’t turn out too well, did it?’ Sparhawk asked in an almost comradely fashion.

The fellow laughed nervously, looking at the carnage around him. ‘No, my Lord, not at all the way we expected.’

‘You did your best,’ Sparhawk said to him. ‘Now, we’ll need the name of the man who hired you.’

‘I didn’t ask his name, my Lord.’

‘Describe him then.’

‘I-I cannot, my Lord.’

This interview is going to get a lot less pleasant, I think,’ Kalten said.

‘Stand him in a fire,’ Ulath suggested.

‘I’ve always liked pouring boiling pitch inside their armour-slowly,’ Tynian said.

Thumbscrews,’ Bevier said firmly.

‘You see how it is, neighbour,’ Sparhawk said to the now ashen-faced prisoner. ‘You are going to talk. We’re here, and the man who hired you isn’t. He might have threatened you with unpleasant things, but we’re going to do them to you. Save yourself a great deal of discomfort and answer my questions.’

‘My Lord,’ the man blubbered, ‘I can’t – even if you torture me to death.’

Ulath slid down from his saddle and approached the cringing captive. ‘Oh, stop that,’ the Genidian said. He raised a hand, palm outstretched, over the prisoner’s head and spoke in a harsh, grating language Sparhawk did not understand but uneasily suspected was not a human tongue. The captured mercenary’s eyes went blank, and he fell to his knees. Falteringly and with absolutely no expression in his voice, he began to speak in the same language as Ulath had.