Banners in the Wind Page 0,72

as those warriors weren't too stiff and slow after waiting in the winter cold. As long as they could catch whatever force of renegades was making a dash for freedom along the Deflin Road. Otherwise all this long murderous night could have been for nothing. When he finally saw the Triolle Road Gate ahead, the cold air burning his lungs, Tathrin tasted bile at the back of his mouth.

He spat it out and shouted at the Adel militiamen tending their wounded in the soiled slush. 'Every third man fit to fight, follow me!'

That gate was still securely held but he could not risk stripping away all its defenders lest whatever renegades remained within got some second wind.

The stretch of wall now separating them from the Deflin Road Gate was longer still. They ran on. Gren veered to avoid bodies spilling out of one of the narrow passages piercing the wall.

Tathrin saw two men slam the oak shut and brace themselves against it while a third jammed it closed with a broken sword. He could only assume they were his own and ran past without a word.

Blue light cast eldritch shadows across snow stained with blood. Bodies sprawled still and broken. The fight for the Deflin Road Gate had been fierce. Who had won?

Tathrin saw that only half of the double gate stood open. The other door was still resolutely closed, jostling figures within the archway silhouetted against the burning town. Tathrin could hear shouting but he couldn't make out the words.

A man ran from the shadows, brandishing a blade. Tathrin saw the militiaman's yellow and cream kerchief and tugged at his own, knotted around his neck.

'Peace for Lescar!' His words were lost in a cough as the wind swept smoke into his face.

The oncoming militiaman hadn't seen the kerchief any more than he'd heard Tathrin shout the day's battlefield password. Yelling ferociously, the man swept his arm back, ready to bring the blade crashing down.

Tathrin stepped in close and punched him hard in the chest, sending him staggering, sword flailing uselessly.

'Peace for Lescar!' he snarled at the man. 'What's happened?'

'Captain Sayron?' The hapless man gaped. Hastily gathering his wits, he gestured towards the gate. 'Reskin's and some Boot Snakes, veterans, they rushed us on horseback. They got through, and some on foot, but we drove the rest back,' he insisted.

'Where's Sergeant Andarise?' Even as he asked the question, Tathrin changed his mind. 'Never mind.' He turned to the men who'd followed from the Triolle Road Gate. 'Half of you, strengthen them here. The rest, with me!'

At least the escaping renegades had left an easy trail to follow, hobnailed boots and hooves alike pocking the unsullied snow. Each sapping step should slow men and horses both. Tathrin could only hope so.

He hoped his own strength would hold out long enough to catch them, and that of the men valiantly following him through this endless night. Even Sorgrad and Gren were looking grimly weary now.

Tathrin led his small force into the darkness. They soon left the blue reflections of Aldabreshin torches and the ochre glow of the burning town colouring the snow. He struggled to pick out the line of the smothered road across the moonlit ground ahead. The countryside was latticed with hedges and patched with copses, black against the white.

What had the escaping renegades decided? Would they be lying in wait to attack? Hiding up in hopes of dawn? Or getting as far away as they could?

'Horse!'

As Sorgrad shouted, everyone halted.

A handful of mounted men appeared from the far side of a coppice, black cloaked against the cold.

Men surged up behind Gren and Tathrin. Halberds bristled, one blade cleaving the moonlight perilously close by Tathrin's head. Lescar's militias had learned hard lessons on defending themselves against cavalry over these past few seasons.

Instead of charging them, or taking to the hazardous fields in hopes of cutting around to the town, the riders slowed to halt a prudent distance ahead. The foremost threw back his hood, moonlight gleaming on his shaven head.

Sorgrad shoved a halberd pole aside and stepped forwards. 'Hanged Man?'

Now Tathrin saw the pale smudge of a badge on the riders' black tabards: the gibbeted corpse of the Gallowsfruit blazon.

The tall mercenary captain rode closer. 'Captain-General Evord's compliments and we hold the Deflin Road. You may conclude your business in Wyril.'

Sorgrad laughed. 'He must know your birth festival's Winter Solstice, long lad. He's brought you an early gift!'

As the weary warriors behind Tathrin raised a ragged cheer, the Hanged Man