The Umroth were clear of the gonnes. To their left and right, they were still having trouble with the stakes and the ditch. They were stalled, as if something had sapped their will, but in the center they came on and still Tom held his counterstroke. Francis Atcourt’s charger pranced forward, out of the line, and Tom turned his head. “Wait for it!” he called.

Atcourt reined in hard, his lance tip bobbing, his face white with fear under the visor of his heavy helm.

The smoke around the gonne position was clearing. There were a dozen of the great hulks down, and the ones behind shambled over them.

And then they gathered speed, a rumbling charge, and the earth shook, the dust rose, and the horrid stench of corruption filled the air . . .

“Aim fer the head!” Tom called.

Four of the monsters came through the dust and smoke, their eyes burning black in their black and glistening heads. Then, in a leap as fast as a lion’s, they were all headed for Mortirmir and the casa banner.

Bad Tom felt he could almost see the will come upon them.

“Charge! Lachlan for Aa!” Bad Tom exploded forward like any skilled jouster, and his destrier crossed the ground like black lightning. Tom’s lance swept down, steadied with his weight change as he leaned forward, and struck the lead not-dead beast dead center of its skull as the solid lance exploded, the pressure of the strength of man and horse too much for twelve feet of oak, but the steel point, a hand-span long and widening from a needle tip to a breadth of four fingers, cracked open the ancient skull even as man and horse crossed to the target’s right and danced off beneath the tusks. The great beast plunged forward, fell to its knees, and then the whole edifice of bones began to unknit.

Tom leaned as far as armour and saddle allowed him to the right, plucking his war hammer from his saddle bow without conscious thought as Francis Atcourt followed him. Tom’s destrier jumped the left-hand carcass, armour, man, and all, and they brushed past the wheel of the left-hand gonne . . .

Atcourt’s lance tracked the second Umroth; his horse stumbled, or shied in terror, but Atcourt’s jousting skill was beyond terror; his point dipped, came up, and went in an empty eye socket; the shaft levering front and rear of the skull for a moment; the bone and the lance shattered together; and Atcourt’s terrified horse ran full tilt into the behemoth, even as its unmaking came upon it. Falling bone struck Atcourt a massive blow, but he kept his seat and was suddenly through and into the choking, stinking dust beyond the gonnes.