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an arrow hit the cart next to her. She seemed not to notice. Another zipped into the ground not three paces from him. “ Come on! ”
    “But you know Zadar! We won’t be harmed.”
    “Yes, but I don’t know the arrows, do I?”
    “Oh really, Elliax. Come back here and—”
    “This is happening now ! Stop complaining about it and fucking come on !”
    Finally she began to climb heavily from the cart, which had now trundled about a tenth of the circle that would bring it back to the bridge. Not waiting for her, Elliax sprinted across the bridge and didn’t stop on the other side. He didn’t turn until he was a good way up the slope to the hillfort. Vasin was panting her way towards him across the riverside pasture, a beacon of brightly dressed fatness in the muddled stampede of young and elderly who’d been nearest to the bridge. She stopped, bent over with her hands on her knees and panted. She looked behind her, seemed to be reminded of her predicament, and lumbered on as tiny children raced by.
    Cromm fucking Cruach, thought Elliax.
    The cart was halfway across the bridge. King Mylor was still sitting on his chair and looking about smilingly as if on an outing to view autumn leaves. The carter was whipping the oxen like a madman, but if they felt his urgency, it didn’t show. The vast majority of Barton’s people were stuck behind the cart on the wrong side of the river. Zadar’s forces were advancing steadily, slaughtering as they came.
    The six horse archers who’d started the battle broke from the Maidun line and wheeled in a wide galloping loop around the fleeing Barton people. Reaching the river, they raised their bows as one and shot the oxen. The beasts bellowed and bucked, kicking chunks of flesh out of each other and smashing the cart’s front wheels to pieces. The cart pitched forward. The oxen panicked and surged, trampling several children. The splintered axle of the cart jammed into the stonework, pulling the cart sideways and blocking the bridge.
    With the bridge jammed, it was safe for Elliax to wait for his wife. He watched Zadar’s forces advance in their organised line, chopping Barton’s bakers, fieldworkers, chandlers, smiths and bards into piles of meat.

Chapter 3
    U lpius brushed a lovely tress of hair from his face as he watched the Maidun troops’ massacring advance through the population of Barton. By Mars it was a sight. Was there a better way to spend a day than sitting on a sunny hillside with his brothers in arms – well, brothers in thievery, rape and murder – and watching a battle? It was as if it had been arranged for their entertainment. Ogre had been right, as usual. Ulpius normally loathed authority figures, but Ogre was like some druid with his ability to foresee opportunities and sniff out pickings. He’d known not only that this battle was going to happen, but he’d also worked out a great place to watch it from. The others said Ogre was a living legend. Ulpius wouldn’t go that far – about anybody, ever – but he was prepared to allow that the man had some talents. He was content to be in his gang, for now.
    The sounds that drifted up to them – the cries of the horses, the screams, the clang of metal on metal, the chop of iron through old wooden shields – made his arm hair stand up and sent shivers of glee up his back. Best of all was watching some fleeing fool being run down by a chariot. It was like someone trying to escape a wave on a beach. “Oh oh oh ooooooh!” they’d all shout together as the pathetic figure was running one moment, disappeared the next, then reappeared as a corpse. Best of all were those who sat up with their lower legs missing, looked around, spotted their own feet some distance away, then collapsed. Such fun. The gang loved it too. They whooped and cheered and pointed out bits that the others might be missing, and acted out amusing little skits of life without feet. It was this sort of fun that brought them together.
    All of