Someone was shooting at him!

He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and screamed. Now the arrow hurt. It hurt like a flaming brand rammed through his leg. His mount jerked forwards on the rocky path and he lost his grip on the reins, bounced once in the saddle, the hand clutching the order flailing at the air. Then he hit the ground, teeth rattling, head spinning, tumbling over and over.

He staggered up, sobbing at the pain in his leg, half-hopped about, trying to get his bearings. He managed to draw his sword. There were two men on the path behind. Northmen. One was walking towards him, purposeful, a knife in his hand. The other had a bow raised.

‘Help!’ shouted Lederlingen, but it was breathy, weak. He wasn’t sure when he last passed a Union soldier. Before he came into the gully, maybe, he’d seen some scouts, but that had been a while back. ‘Help—’

The arrow stuck right through his jacket sleeve. Right through his arm inside it. This time it hurt from the start. He dropped his sword with a shriek. His weight went onto his right leg and it gave under him. He tumbled down the bank, jolts of agony shooting through his limbs whenever the ground caught at the broken shafts.

He was in the mud. Had the order in his fist still. He tried to get up. Heard the squelch of a boot beside him. Something hit him in the side of the neck and made his head jolt.

Foss Deep plucked the bit of paper out of the Southerner’s hand, wiped his knife on the back of his jacket, then planted a boot on his head and pushed his face down into the bloody mud. Didn’t want him screaming any. In part on account of stealth, but in part just because he found these days he didn’t care for the sounds of persons dying. If it had to be done, so, so, but he didn’t need to hear about it, thank you very much all the same.

Shallow was leading the Southerner’s horse down the bank into the soggy stream bed. ‘She’s a good one, no?’ he asked, grinning up at it.

‘Don’t call her she. It’s a horse, not your wife.’

Shallow patted the horse on the side of its face. ‘She’s better looking than your wife was.’

‘That’s rude and uncalled for.’

‘Sorry. What shall we do with … it, then? It’s a good one. Be worth a pretty—’

‘How you going to get it back over the river? I ain’t dragging that thing through a bog, and there’s a fucking battle on the bridge, in case you forgot.’

‘I didn’t forget.’

‘Kill it.’

‘Just a shame is all—’

‘Just bloody kill it and let’s get on.’ He pointed down at the Southerner under his boot. ‘I’m killing him, aren’t I?’

‘Well, he isn’t bloody worth anything—’

‘Just kill it!’ Then, realising he shouldn’t be raising his voice, since they was on the wrong side of the river and there might be Southerners anywhere, whispered, ‘Just kill it and hide the bloody thing!’