Now there were a great many dead knights. Indeed, Gavin’s heart almost broke; a third of the Order lay there, and twenty more knights, some dead, some terribly maimed, and their horses screamed and kicked, impeding any further attempts to force the bridge. The Knights of the Order had erected a shield of shimmering gold-green; even as he watched, a great gout of ops slammed into it.

There was something on the bridge.

“Prior Wishart is wounded,” Ser Ricar Orcsbane reported. The young, usually silent knight was also wounded. “My lord, we cannot defeat this thing. Weapons will not bite on its hide, or armour; its weapons cut our steel like paper.”

“Cave trolls,” Grazias said, unnecessarily, at his shoulder.

Even as he watched, a Knight of the Order rode forward. His warhorse, despite massive armour and a heavy rider, leapt over the tangle of bodies that choked the bridge, and the horse’s steel-shod hooves struck sparks from the stones that looked like fire in the falling darkness, and the knight’s lance lined up with the great antlered thing’s chest, and struck home, and the antlered demon was rocked back . . .

. . . but the lance shattered, and the dark thing struck back with an axe, killing the knight’s horse in a single blow. The knight was thrown against the bridge. He didn’t rise.

“Where is Ser Gregario?” Gavin snapped. He’d left Lord Weyland in charge when he’d ridden back to look over the battlefield only an hour ago.

“Attempting to turn the position from the north,” Orcsbane said.

Another Knight of the Order saluted, made the sign of the cross, and charged. His horse sailed over the tangle of dead and dying and his lance, either perfectly managed or lucky, struck the antlered man in the forehead, between the sprouting antlers that stood out roughly parallel to the ground, two long black spikes. The thing had a dark coat, like matted sheepskin, and fire came from its mouth, and the lance knocked it flat, and the Knights of the Order on the road gave a great cheer.

It rose, muscles rippling, as the knight swept past and threw its axe, casually, and the axe split the knight’s head all the way to the root of his neck and he slumped forward and his body burst into flame, a dark, smoking flame that immolated corpse and horse, and his fine stallion shrieked in terror as he burned.

The thing on the bridge turned, faster than a man could turn, caught the handle of his axe, and pulled it from the corpse-torch and brandished it, and all along the streamside, the bogglins and daemons and irks cheered. There were thousands of them.

Gavin rode to the Prior of Harnden as yet another young knight launched his charge.

“We must retreat,” Gavin said. “This is foolishness.”

The prior looked up. He lay against a tree with his right arm gone from the elbow.