‘What do you want from me? Who sent you?’ I shout, for it is plain they are here on the instructions of another. These are not schemers or planners, not men of thought and guile. These are brute weapons, wielded by one who hides in safety while they go about his or her work. These are nothing more or less than instruments of death.

The first blow misses me only because I hear the sound of the sword cutting through the air as it descends, and spring to my right. The first rider wheels his horse about, while the second charges straight at me. I time my jump poorly, and though his sword does not find its target, his horse catches me a glancing blow and I am knocked to the ground. I leap to my feet, slicing at the leg of the nearest attacker. He screams curses. I press home my advantage, raising my arms and shrieking a hex as I run at his horse’s head. The animal is spooked by the combination of my voice, the harsh words and my wolf headdress, sending it skittering sideways, so that the rider momentarily loses control of the horse, distracted as he is by the blood that begins to gush from his wounded limb.