two women went down behind the falling horses.
Wynter’s scream was echoed by Sól’s. Even as she galloped towards the place where Alberon had fallen, she twisted her head, trying to catch a glimpse of the women. Sól was galloping towards them. Still screaming in horror, her face hot with tears, Wynter was engulfed in a choking billow of acrid smoke.
Up ahead, one of Alberon’s remaining soldiers took aim at the machine. It spat its mindless fire and he toppled back onto his horse’s rump, his eyes wide and staring to the sky. Behind him, Alberon climbed unsteadily to his feet. He looked about for Anthony, who still sat, frozen in horror, on his little horse. Oliver was pulling his own frenzied mount around, trying to put himself between the boys and the machine. He was yelling at them, his voice drowned by the barking gun. He lifted his eyes to see Wynter thundering towards him and swung his arm in dismay, shouting soundlessly for her to get back.
The machine barked.
Oliver jerked a rattling puppet-dance as a series of shots caught him. He fell momentarily from view, and Wynter screamed his name, her voice a painful scratch in her abused throat. Then Oliver rose into sight again as he dragged himself back into the saddle. Slowly, he pulled his horse around to stand between Alberon and the gun. Wynter stood in her stirrups. She screamed Oliver’s name once more. Alarmed by her bellowing, thunderous advance, Alberon’s last soldier raised his bow and took shaky aim at her.
‘No!’ she cried. ‘No! We’re on your side.’
The machine swung back for another sweep. The soldier lurched as a shot caught him under his arm. He loosed his arrow as he fell.
Wynter ducked. The arrow shot past. She glanced behind to see Jonathon fly from his horse. He hit the ground, the bolt jutting from his shoulder, and rolled just in time to miss being trampled by Christopher’s little mare. Razi jerked his own horse to a skidding halt and galloped back to his father.
Ozkar stumbled and Wynter was thrown without warning. She flew through the unresisting air and hit the ground with a violent smack. There were stars and blackness. She rolled head over heels on the rough ground, staggered to her feet and kept running – heading blindly through the smoke and the fear, heading for Alberon.
The harsh sound of the gun ceased without warning. In the sudden, unexpected silence, Ozkar thundered past, trailing smoke as he headed for the trees. Wynter flinched but kept running. Her ears rang with the aftershock of the gun; she only dimly registered the sound of horses and men screaming in pain around her. Her own heart was the loudest sound; that, and the name Alberon, repeated constantly in her head.
A stray horse loomed, its shoulders black with gore, and Wynter slapped it aside.
Above the chest-high pall of smoke, Anthony sat atop his little horse – a small boy drenched in blood. He was gazing at the men in the forge house as they released the spent barrel-ring and hoisted a fresh-loaded one into its place. Their crewmates carried the first away to be reloaded. The gun crew heaved the lever to engage the new barrels, and Anthony watched with no emotion as they swung the gun around to face him.
Alberon rose from the river of smoke and reached for the child. Shoving his hands beneath the boy’s armpits, he dragged him from the saddle, and Anthony slid like a sack of loose grain into the Prince’s arms.
Spinning with the limp child cradled to his chest, Alberon looked for somewhere to go. Anthony’s little head lolled to his shoulder, his eyes wide and blank and staring. Desperate, the Prince glanced up at Oliver, who still swayed protectively in the saddle above him. Alberon’s expression fell as he registered the knight’s chalky face. Oliver’s tunic was scarlet from shoulder to hip. A sheet of blood coated his horse’s side and dribbled in a steady stream to darken the ground at its feet.
Alberon roared in wordless horror. Oliver, still gazing down upon him, slid slowly sideways from the saddle.
‘Albi!’ screamed Wynter, still running. ‘Albi! Run! Run before they can fire!’
Razi’s deep voice cut above the residual whine in her ears, a muffled bellowing somewhere behind her: ‘STOP, YOU CRETINS, IN THE NAME OF THE KING! IN THE NAME OF THE KING!
’ Deaf from the gunshots and blinded by the smoke, the men at the forge took careful aim and