hauled the lever to release the spent barrelring and allowed the next one to clang into place. All the time, Razi was thundering towards them. He shouted ‘hup’ and his huge mare launched from the ground. There was silence as she tucked her legs and sailed across the tumbled remains of the wall. Rider and horse trailed ribbons of smoke behind them, as if they were made of cloud, descended from the sky.
At the sight of all that great weight of horseflesh bearing down on them, the terrified men lifted the muzzle of the reloaded gun. But it was too late, and as they released their first shots, Razi and his beautiful horse crashed down on top of them. Wynter howled in despair as gun, men and horse toppled sideways in a horrible screaming tangle and fell behind the wall.
‘Razi!’ yelled Christopher.
Wynter staggered to her feet and stumbled forward through the smoke. Within the ruins, Razi’s big mare was kicking and neighing, trying hard to gain its feet. There was a man screaming in there somewhere, and Wynter was sure he was caught beneath machine and horse, that massive weight grinding him against the ground. Suddenly, and with a huge surging effort, the mare lurched upright. Clumsy, staggering, the big animal managed to haul herself from the wreckage of the machine and back over the wall. Clattering her way across the uneven scatter of rocks, she sank to her knees on the grass and toppled to her side, shuddering in agony and fear. She was a terrible mess, her lovely body torn, her legs ruined. Wynter staggered past her, blinking against the tears and the smoke. That poor man’s screaming ceased abruptly. Without his voice, it was very quiet. Out of sight behind the wall, someone began a piteous moaning.
Wynter dropped to her hands and knees and began an awkward clamber across the fallen stones, wanting and not wanting to see what lay on the other side.
It took a moment for her to register a man’s hoarse voice, calling over and over on the battlefield behind her: ‘Alberon! Alberon!’
She paused and looked back. Jonathon, the arrow still jutting from his shoulder, was staggering towards his son’s body.
As the King lurched past, Christopher pulled himself to his elbows and twisted anxiously to look over his shoulder. Sólmundr was carrying Hallvor’s body across the field towards them, his face streaming with tears. The warrior strode through knee-deep smoke, his blood-soaked friend held out before him like an offering. Hallvor’s head lolled in the crook of his arm, her long hair hanging to the ground. Mary stumbled along behind, her hand knotted in Sól’s tunic, her eyes fixed on the healer’s lifeless face. ‘Tá sí marbh!’ cried Sól. ‘Tá Hally marbh!’ and Wynter had no doubt in her mind that Hallvor was dead.
Gravel rattled loosely behind her, but Wynter didn’t turn. She could not take her eyes from Jonathon, who was just then falling to his knees at Alberon’s side. She dropped down onto the sun-warmed stones and watched as the King turned his son over. Jonathon knelt for a moment, his hands poised, staring down at Alberon’s limp body. Then he grabbed his son’s tunic, pulled him into his arms, and screamed at no one in particular.
‘He breathes! He breathes! Save him!’
There was a small movement at Wynter’s side, and she turned to look into Razi’s dusty, bloodstained face. He blinked at her, those big brown eyes, flecked all through with gold.
‘Razi,’ she whispered, ‘save him.’
PADUA: FIVE YEARS LATER
THE LITTLE boy ran, fear and excitement spurring him on. It was the first time he had been allowed to travel this journey alone, and the city had never seemed so big. He clutched the crackling parchment note to his chest as he dodged through the heedless citizens, his small feet flying in their green leather boots.
Breaking from the gloom of a crowded arcade, he emerged into the harsh light and sun-blasted stillness of the big piazza. It was midday, and the open spaces were relatively deserted. Even the shadows stayed close to the feet of the buildings, waiting for the heat to pass.
Pigeons scattered from the uneven ground as the boy skirted the bronze statue of the Man on His Horse. ‘Honeycat’, his mama called him. That always made the little boy smile; he loved the taste of the word in his mouth. Honeycat. It seemed such an odd name for so imposing a man.