And then he faltered.

Will saw the slight stagger in his step, the loss of rhythm, the slackening in the blinding speed. If only they'd waited, he thought bitterly. Tug had been too eager. But now the twenty-metre lead would be enough to carry the exhausted Sandstorm across the finish line ahead of his equally exhausted opponent.

He had barely had the thought when he felt Tug accelerate beneath him.

All the power, all the certainty, all the balance was back in his stride as he went to another level of performance, a level Will had never seen before. Tug stretched out and reeled in Sandstorm as if the taller horse were standing still. An amazed Will crouched low over Tug's neck, little more than a passenger. He realised that he had never had any idea of how fast Tug could run. It seemed there was no upper limit. Tug would simply run as fast as the situation demanded.

He realised that Tug had controlled the race, pretending to falter when he did to goad Sandstorm into a final spurt. The loss of stride and balance had been a feint and Sandstorm had swallowed the bait, accelerating away and exhausting his last reserves just thirty metres too soon. That was the gap between them when Tug rocketed over the finish line.

Will had already dismounted, and was hugging the little horse's neck when Sandstorm, now slowed to a canter, sweat-streaked and blowing, staggered wearily over the line behind him. And now the Bedullin did cheer for the foreign horse. Because they loved good horses and they realised they had just seen one of the best. And besides, since none of the bets were predicated on Tug's winning, nobody had lost any money to anyone else – although those who had bet on a thirty-metre margin were tempted to claim their winnings.

Umar took Sandstorm's rein when Hassan slid down from the saddle. Before the young man could speak, the Aseikh slapped him on the shoulder.

'You did your best,' he said. 'Good race.'

Others were echoing the sentiment when Hassan pushed his way through the crowd to offer his hand to Will. He shook his head admiringly.

'I was never going to win, was I?' he asked. 'You knew that.'

Will, grinning widely, shook his hand. 'Actually, I didn't know it,' he said. He jerked his head at Tug. 'He did.'

Halt estimated that there were approximately thirty men riding down the slope towards them. 'They're coming this side too,' Evanlyn said behind him. A quick glance over his shoulder showed a similar number of riders sweeping down behind them, fanning out to encircle the waiting Arridi troops. Halt faced front again. He and Gilan took a moment to read the approaching speed of the riders. Then they moved as one.

'Now,' said Halt quietly and they both drew and shot once, then twice, then three and four times, lowering the elevation each time to compensate for the rapidly reducing range. After four devastating two-arrow volleys, Evanlyn called out behind them:

'Fifty metres at the back!'

The two archers pivoted one hundred and eighty degrees and sent more arrows ripping into the charging Tualaghi behind them. Already, half a dozen riderless horses were running wildly with the group charging from the front, their riders lying in crumpled heaps in the sand behind them. Now another five joined them from the rear group before they drew so close to the shield wall that Halt and Gilan had to cease fire. Evanlyn marvelled at the highspeed accuracy of the two Rangers. Eleven enemy troopers out of the fight in a matter of seconds! That was an attrition rate no commander could hope to sustain for long.

Now it was the turn of the waiting men in the shield wall as the riders crashed into it.

But few of the horses made direct, head-on contact. The bristling fence of lances, their sharpened heads gleaming in the sun, forced most of them to swerve aside at the last moment, in spite of their riders' urging and whipping them to continue their head-long charge. The riders rapidly lost momentum and found themselves at a disadvantage as the Arridis' long lances thrust up at them. Most of them dismounted, leaving their horses with comrades detailed for the task, and joined the fight on foot. The battle became a heaving, shoving, hand-to-hand melee, with curved swords rising and falling, hacking and stabbing along the line. Men cried out in pain on both sides as they went down. Then cried out again as comrades and foes trod them down in their efforts to reach the enemy.

Horace scanned the shield wall, eyes slitted in concentration, looking for the first weak spot where the Tualaghi might break through. To the left front, an Arridi trooper slipped and was cut down by one of the Tualaghi, who instantly moved into the gap in the line, hacking wildly to left and right, widening the breach so that two of his comrades forced their way in and the line began to bulge inwards.

Horace drew in breath and turned to the four troopers with him. Before he could act, however, there was a bull-like roar from beside him and Svengal went forward at the run, the huge axe whirring in a circle above his head. Realising he'd only get in the Skandian's way if he joined him, Horace relaxed and gestured for the four men to stand fast as well.

Svengal hit the Tualaghi who had broken through like a battering ram. He smashed into them with his shield, and in spite of the pressure of the men behind them urging them forward, hurled them back, off balance and staggering. Then he began dropping them left and right with sweeping blows of his axe before they could recover.

Almost as soon as it had appeared, the breach in the wall was restored and the line closed up. Svengal returned to the point where Horace was waiting.

'Let me know any time you need a hand,' the young warrior said mildly. Svengal glared at him. There was a dangerous light in his eyes.

'Unlikely,' he said shortly. Then he was off again as the Tualaghi threatened to break through in another spot, slamming into them with shield and axe, forcing them back, trampling over one who had fallen under his charge. But this time, Horace had no time to watch. He was needed at another trouble spot and he led his four men in a wedge formation, running to the point where a group of Tualaghi had forced their way inside the wall. As Horace approached, one of them went down with an arrow in his chest. Then Horace and his men were on them, forcing them back.

There was no time for fancy swordsmanship. It was shove and cut and cut again and parry with the shield and hit and hit and hit! Horace's amazing dexterity stood him in good stead as he rained blows down on the Tualaghi with bewildering speed and force, forcing them back in growing panic.

It was a panic that spread through the attackers and they began to stream away from the shield wall – first in ones and twos, then in larger groups. They retrieved their horses, mounted and fled up the slope, pursued by triumphant jeers and catcalls from the defenders.

Gilan raised his bow and looked a question at Halt, who shook his head.

'Save your arrows,' he said. 'We'll need them later.'

'Can't say I like the idea of shooting men in the back,' Gilan agreed. He replaced the arrow in his quiver.

Selethen was approaching them. His white outer tunic was ripped and stained with blood and dirt. He was cleaning his sword blade as he came.

'That hurt them,' he said. 'You shot well,' he added, nodding in acknowledgement to the two Rangers. Their rapid-fire archery had disconcerted the attacking troops, he knew.

'I doubt they'll try another frontal attack,' Halt said and the Wakir nodded agreement. He gestured to the rim of the hill, where a group of three horsemen were watching, raining abuse on the retreating troops as they rode past them. At one stage, the tallest of the three leaned over in his saddle and struck at a retreating soldier with his riding whip.