‘What do you think?’ Serrah whispered. ‘Eighteen, maybe twenty?’

‘About twice our strength, yes. Could be worse.’

The whole convoy was on the straight now. Alert to the danger of a narrowing road with cover on either side, it began upping its pace to get through quicker. Soon it would reach Serrah and Reeth’s hiding place.

‘Easy,’ he cautioned, eyeing the glamour she clutched. ‘Watch the timing.’

‘All

right

,’ she hissed. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

‘And plug your ears.’ He offered her a small ball of wax. She had to slide the glamour into her armpit to free a hand.

The escort was scanning both sides of the road, wary and nervous. Caldason worried that the convoy’s gathering speed might just get it through before his men could do what had to be done.

A second later the two lead paladins hit the trigger point.

‘Now!’

he yelled.

Serrah struck the base of the glamour hard against her thigh, setting it off. The wailer gave out an ear-splitting scream, a note so shrill and intense it cut to the bone. Reeth and Serrah had to restrain their horses from bolting. From all around, flocks of screeching birds took flight.

The convoy’s mounts shied and faltered, too, slowing progress. Their shocked riders struggled to control them in the confusion. Several had the presence of mind to draw weapons, and the bowmen nocked arrows.

Serrah’s glamour expired and she tossed it away. The abrupt silence was almost as painful as the din itself. She aped Reeth and gouged out the earplugs.

The wailer was supposed to act as both a distraction and a signal to the rest of the band. But nothing seemed to be happening, and the convoy was still moving, though in disarray. It was almost level with Reeth and Serrah’s hide.

‘Damn it!’

she snapped. ‘What the hell’s keeping -’

A new sound rent the air. The crack of splintering wood and a growling creak as something ponderous slowly toppled.

Ahead of the convoy a massive tree crashed down and blocked its path. Taller than the road was wide, the tree’s upper third smashed through a barn on the far side, completely demolishing it. Branches bounced as they struck the road and swirling clouds of dust were liberated from the crushed building.

The charging convoy struggled to rein in, drawing up just short of the roadblock. The sudden stop made the first wagon slew to one side, finishing at an angle across the lane. One of the militiamen following on was unsaddled.

At the rear of the convoy the riders tried turning their horses about. But they were still churning and shouting when there was another thunderous crash. The band had felled a second tree, cutting off retreat and boxing in the convoy.

‘Let’s go!’ Caldason spurred his ride and burst out of cover.

Serrah was right behind him, whipping her blade free.

If they’d been privy to each other’s thoughts, they would have known they shared a similar feeling at that moment. It was as though their senses were as keen as blades.

Band-members erupted from their bolt-holes. They rode out of the trees, emerged from buildings, came in from front and rear. A small force, but well placed to strike at the trapped tax gatherers.

An archer on the second wagon reacted swiftly. The shaft he released whistled past Serrah’s ear. He quickly drew and shot again. This time the bolt was intended for Caldason, missing him only when he ducked with a fraction of a second to spare. The arrow buried itself in an oak, quivering.

‘He’s mine!’

Serrah shouted, heading for the wagon.

Caldason had his own goal. One of the band had been wounded and pitched from his horse. As he struggled to his feet, a paladin was moving in to finish him. Reeth galloped their way, knocking aside the paladin’s descending blade with his own. The band-member scrabbled clear. Leaning out from their saddles, Qalochian and paladin began trading blows.

The archer Serrah targeted was obscured by fights that had broken out around the wagon. A militiaman appeared from the melee clutching a barbed spear. Holding it level, he rode at her. She swerved, avoiding the strike. As the rider passed she lashed out with her sword, slicing the lance in two. Enraged, he discarded the broken shaft, drew his sword and came around for a second charge. Serrah bobbed and his blade glided harmlessly above her head. Hers hacked into his chest. He screamed and fell. The riderless horse stampeded on.

Caldason was locked in a tit-for-tat exchange with his paladin foe. They battered each other, blocking passes, chasing an opening. Their spooked horses snorted and pawed. Reeth broke the deadlock when he got through and scoured his opponent’s sword arm. A swift follow-on saw his blade in the paladin’s heart. Slumped on its bolting horse, the corpse was carried off, scattering allies and enemies.

Serrah cracked the skull of a militiaman. As he went down, she saw the archer clearly again. He was alone on the wagon, the driver having been sucked into the fray. His drawstring was taut and he had a bead on one of her comrades. There was no time to act. The arrow flew to its mark, ending a duel the band-member would have won.

She flipped her sword from her right hand to her left. From her belt she plucked a snub-nosed throwing knife. She aimed and flung it hard. The blade thudded into the wagon’s wooden enclosure, a handspan from the bowman’s head.

He looked around wildly, spotted her and reached for his arrow sheath. She felt for another knife. He teased out a bolt and notched it. She drew back her arm. He pulled on the bow. She lobbed the blade. He loosed the arrow. It sailed over her right shoulder. Serrah could swear she felt its plume tickle her as it passed.

The archer still stood. But she realised that was just temporary. The hilt of her knife stuck out of his collarbone. A red patch was spreading across his grey tunic. He swayed, then toppled.

She goaded her frightened horse towards the wagon. Somebody on foot rushed over and tried to pull her down. Kicking out, she booted him back into the scrum. At the wagon, she scrambled onto the driving board. The bow was there, along with the quiver. Serrah took it and looked to the brawl going on all around her.

In the thick of it, Caldason was facing two opponents. He had a mounted paladin alongside and a militiaman on foot harrying him with a mace. His defence had to be alternate, swiping at the rider one minute, the mace-man the next. He was holding them off but making no progress.

Then an arrow came out of nowhere and struck the paladin in his back. As the man fell, Reeth glimpsed Serrah standing on the wagon, directing bolts into the fracas. His attention went back to the man with the mace and he disarmed him with a couple of downward strokes. Caldason’s next swing proved a killer blow.

A moment’s lull, as strangely happened in even the most furious of engagements, allowed Reeth to snatch an overview. He judged that his side had the better of it. There were fights everywhere still, but the tide seemed to be running in the ambushers’ favour.

He noticed one of the remaining paladins, on foot and moving away from the convoy. In his hand was an object that looked very much like a distress glamour. That was something they could do without. Reeth headed for him.

Serrah had one arrow left. She singled out a likely target. It winged the man, spun him off his feet and dumped him in the road. She dropped the bow, took up her sword and leapt into the battle.

Reeth’s duel with the paladin was frenzied and short. Wrenching his sword from the body, he looked around for the glamour. He found it in the long grass at the road’s edge and ground it under his boot. It gave off blue sparks and wisps of orange smoke as it died.

He turned and saw that all but six or seven of the convoy’s escort had been downed. The holdouts were bunched together, on foot, in front of one of the lane’s shabby buildings. They were retreating in the face of an advancing semi-circle of band-members. As Caldason made his way over, the beleaguered group had their backs to the wall.