The sun was at its zenith and I had settled under a tree to eat. The road had widened shortly before noon and in front of me it now continued in a gentle slope, then turned sharply half a mile further on to disappear behind the wall I was walking along. On this section there were perhaps fifteen spans between the cliff and the ravine, but at the spot where I had stopped an ancient scree had caused a mound of earth and rock to fall against the cliff. From this mound emerged three gnarled pine trees and a large shard of grey stone. I had set up my gear in the dew-dampened brush, then took a slice of my bread, using the edge of the rock as a cutting board. The trail was a little lower on my left, brown and dirty and bathed in sunlight. My muscles were still warm. My whole body radiated that feeling of fullness and well-being that one feels after a healthy effort. I was chewing my food and watching a flock of red-feathered birds fly over the woods when, to the south, I heard the drumming of hooves.

The following events have often been misrepresented, sometimes by myself, but more often by others, so it's necessary to recall a few facts before moving on. First of all, I didn't expect to meet anyone on the lonely road I was taking, and I wasn't then employed by any lord, as I have sometimes heard. Secondly, if I was indeed alone, the riders were not twenty or thirty, or some other nonsense: they were seven, and they came at a trot, with a scout ahead of the others. Those who followed rode in pairs, a hundred spans behind. It's true that I was well fed, that I was young, and that I had spent the previous year with the cera warriors of Su-Lanté. However, the balance of power was so unfavorable to me that only a fool would believe that what happened next was my doing. Finally, and in spite of everything, I'm pleased to say that I have no regrets to this day, except for the fact that I had no choice in the matter. Even as a former henchman, as an outlaw and an escaped slave, I had the right to live, and I piss on anyone who would say otherwise.

As I listened from the mound, the first emotion that came over me was disbelief. I thought at first that I was mistaken, that I might be dealing with a herd, before I heard the clanking of iron. As the shepherd who had shown me the way had not made a good impression on me and as I figured that this kind of trail wasn't often used by honest travelers, surprise gave way to distrust. I knew I had nowhere to run or hide, and I didn't want anyone to misunderstand my intentions. I pulled myself together, then quickly removed my cloak and unhooked my gear from the haversack. I cocked the crossbow, wincing under the effort, and slid my favorite bolt into the weathered notch. I then put it back next to the club, close to the rock where I had cut the bread earlier. A little later, not very comfortable, I walked to the middle of the path, to be able to hail the troop when it would come. I hoped that I was dealing with an amuban patrol, although it seemed just as likely that they were brigands. If that was the case, and they were wealthy enough to own horses, then they might not be willing to bother me. I had put my purse on my belt. If it would keep me out of trouble, I was willing to give it up. I waited like this, my hands on my hips and my heart in my throat. My eyes kept moving reflexively in search of a way out that didn't exist. I cursed the shepherd who had deceived me, because he had told me that no one else knew this road, and I cursed myself even more for believing him.

The lead rider appeared at a trot around the bend, spear high. I was relieved to see that he was wearing a helmet of brownian steel and a long hauberk. No rogue would ever have been able to afford such treasures. His mount was a large black mare. Glistening with sweat, the beast was beautiful and had a white star in the middle of its forehead. I squinted to see if I could identify the rider's coat of arms as he approached, and quickly discovered that he wasn't wearing one. The mystery only increased when the next six horses came up behind him. There were riveted mails, plate armors, a whole fortune of gleaming equipment, but not one of the horsemen wore his coat of arms in plain view. I took a few more steps toward them, because I wasn't sure if anyone had noticed me and I didn't want to cause any alarm. Suddenly the front-runner stopped on the trail. About fifty spans separated us. I saw the glint in his eyes under his helmet, and I flashed a half-smile, raising my arm as a greeting. The mare danced, gnawing on her bit. I noticed a rust-colored splash on her withers up to her shoulder, then the man lowered his helmet, lowered his spear, and charged me at a full gallop.

Incomprehension made me hesitate for a heartbeat, then I turned on my heels and started to run. There was panic at first, a confused and visceral terror. Then, as I ran, the salutary ice squirted through my veins, flooding me from belly to fingertips. The world slowed down. The probable death became a distant and secondary thing. Nothing mattered but the present, not even the clatter of hooves behind me. When my boots finally bit into the earth of the mound, I was only about ten spans ahead of the rider. I threw myself flat on my stomach on the crossbow and pivoted as fast as I could. There was an amalgam of movements too quick to catch, the mare's eyes, her ears down, the shadows of the trees brushing the enemy's helmet and the glint of the long steel spike under the zenith. I pulled the trigger too fast and too low, clenching my teeth as I made the mistake, my body tense, ready for the bite of the metal.

The bolt didn't have time to whistle. The projectile shattered the kneecap of the mare who stumbled. I saw the big spine bend. The spear went down. It stuck in the ground three paces in front of me, then snapped as the horse rolled over. The bodies brushed against me in a dark whirlwind, and I remember the front-runner's scream was brief and muffled by his helmet. They crashed against the rock, the rider underneath. The mare broke her neck and her other leg in the process, and turned over in agony. Her hooves were flogging the branches and ferns. I struggled to get back on my feet and away from the mound and the chaos, dragging the crossbow in one hand and my ammunition in the other.

On the path, the light seemed blinding. Dazed, I put one foot on the stirrup of the crossbow and, with trembling hands, I cocked it again, spitting under the effort. Behind me the jerking of the horse calmed down. Further down, the indecisive troop was regrouping like a fan. In my hand, I imprisoned the tailplane of a war bolt. I heard the hoarse sound of their voices, I saw the fingers stretched out. One of the men, the frailest of all, put his foot down and grabbed the bridle of the two beasts that had been in the middle of the others. I then noticed the curious posture of those who were riding them, the unnatural way in which they were bent over their necks. Wounded or prisoners, I thought, before opting for the second hypothesis. It seemed to me that my own thoughts had no resonance in me. My ears were ringing.

"Osmon!" roared someone in a crazy voice. "Osmon!" Febrile, I ran my tongue over my teeth before wedging my bolt into the groove, certain now that there would be no other way out than violence. One of the riders, the one furthest to the right, had a large black beard and commanded in a confident, authoritative tone. A nobleman, I thought, and those with him must be his bucellarii. I wondered briefly which of them would give me the fatal blow. The lord grabbed the shoulder of one of the bent men with a gesture that showed ownership. On the ground, concealed as he was, the whippersnapper was casting anxious glances all around. They must have been thinking of an ambush. The two warriors who remained in the saddle swung their mounts around. The white steed and the dapple charger came racing towards me in a rolling gallop. I made my peace and hoisted the crossbow, knowing I wouldn't have time for another bolt.

The man riding the charger had frizzy, graying hair. His face was hard and implacable and he carried his spear and his shield well. At his side his companion was shouting, stretched forward as if he hoped to hit me with the point of his sword. This one had a beautiful barbute with a chain mail gorget that lay on his coat. He looked young and angry to me, and it was him who had shouted the name of the fallen man. I knelt down and aimed at the veteran, because he was left-handed and didn't wear a helmet, and he had a better reach and the bearing of a soldier. Had I had more experience with the crossbow, I probably would have aimed at the horse, and probably would have died. As it was, my bolt hissed when they were thirty spans away, but my hands were shaky, and the road was deepening at that point. My shot missed by an inch and went over the veteran's shoulder. I threw the crossbow into the bushes growing under the cliff, and then, since there was nothing else to do but die well, I drew the knife and took my defiant but laughable fighting stance. The veteran lowered his spear. I breathed out like a dying man. I had already seen the vaïdogan at work against infantry, and I knew exactly what was coming next.

It was the second rider who saved my life. His face was twisted, and he tried to come at me from the outside to split my skull. As the veteran lined up his spear against my heart, the white steed hit the right side of the charger, who threw his head back, teeth out. The grizzled man barked in annoyance, lost his composure, and the iron he intended for me deflected to the left just as it should have skewered me. I passed between the spear and the horse and leapt to grab the rider. The shock drove all the air out of my lungs. I lost my dagger in the process, was dragged for three bumpy strides, then the man I was holding emptied the stirrups and we fell on the road. I found myself on top of him, growling and putting all my weight on the edge of the shield as my opponent struggled like hell to get out of the way. His free hand fumbled for his belt and the dagger that hung from it. I was looking for a weapon too, but I wasn't burdened with mail and I had shoved his own shield into his teeth. I pulled the blade from its sheath, then tipped over to crush his left arm, which was now begging for a grip on my doublet. My fingers grabbed his jaw. The veteran roared with fear and rage and tried to bite me. I struck twice vertically, through the mouth, then the eye socket. The tip broke on the other side. I got out of the way of his sputtering jerks as the white steed turned around and came back at me.

The veteran's spear lay on the stone, within reach. My heart pounding, I grabbed it, wedged the shaft into a rock crucible, and arched my back against the thunder of hooves. I kept my eyes wide open, as Ulrick had taught me. At the last moment, the rider saw that I wasn't going to run and slowed down, but it was too late. It was a good spear, probably the best I had ever held, three and a half spans of steel-reinforced elm, and facing it was a good horse, which did everything it was asked to do until the end. He was hit between the chest and the neck with the iron. The shaft vibrated but didn't break, and the spear came out under the saddle. I was knocked over by the shoulder of the screaming steed, and landed on my belly a little further away. The dying horse knelt down, vomiting a red stream, then jerked and fell sideways as the rider tried to dismount. The man was crushed under the shivering side of his mount. The fall had damaged his barbute. He had broken his arm but not dropped his sword. A trickle of blood snaked around his nose and he fluttered his eyelids like a simpleton. Stunned, I stumbled to rip off his helmet before he could recover and, since I had nothing else, I smashed his skull with his own barbute. Livid and panting, sprinkled with hemoglobin, I then had to break his knuckles to get the sword. The polished leather hilt settled in the palm of my hand. I turned around blind, brandishing the blade to face those who remained.

No metallic lightning was waiting for me. No tensed body was trying to erase my life. There was only the blue sky and an idyllic horizon. On the road below were three horses where there should have been four, and not one was charging at me. Behind me, the veteran's mount was limping on the stone. A cool gust of wind danced across my sweaty face. Without understanding, I lowered the sword to run my hand over my eyes. The stooped prisoners had not moved, nor had the beasts that carried them, but no one held their bridles. The frail individual who had been in charge of that was now crouching on the edge of the precipice. The scene seemed frozen. Nothing was moving except his cape, which was flapping in the wind. High above, oblivious to the carnage, I could hear the chirping of red birds nesting in the gaps of the cliff. I gasped, took a deep breath, and glanced back at the carmine flows, the motionless figures, the impaled horse rolling its eyes for the last time. When I had seen enough, I clumsily put the sword on my belt and limped toward the crossbow and the scattered bolts. I thought I would run out of strength to reload, but the string finally locked onto the nut with a snap. I notched a third projectile, and moved towards the coterie, praying to the brownian spirits that they weren't the vanguard of another troop.

When I was ten steps away, the kneeling young man turned a waxy face toward me and tried to stand up. He was younger than I was, with dark, curly hair that stood out under a beautiful barbute that was a little too big for him. He put a trembling hand on the hilt of his sword. I raised the crossbow to let him know this was a bad idea. "Where is..." I said, before I suddenly realized that the lord had fallen over the ledge. It was a long drop to the forest below and I didn't need to look to see what was going on. "Your father?" I then asked, pointing to the chasm, and the boy nodded. We stared at each other for a while without saying anything. His eyes were red and his lips pale and trembling. The ice that had filled me was quickly melting away. I felt tired and confused, and I would have given a lot to exchange all this for the bribes and queues on the road to Ac-Pass. "Who are you, kid?" I whispered, glancing at the gagged men who were tied tightly to their saddles. "Oliv Furk," he croaked. "Heir of Awv." I nodded with a grimace. So the lord in the ravine was one of Hill's five lieges. "Oliv," I said slowly, "I don't understand any of this, but I've killed enough for one day. If you want to leave in peace, then do so, I won't stop you."

The young man hesitated, then took a step towards his horse. "No," I said flatly. "And you'll leave the other mount too, the one that's walking over there." He swallowed and frowned. I thought he was going to do something stupid, but he finally turned and walked away with a stiff gait down the path I had come from. My mind vacant, I looked at the two prisoners and the elaborate tangle of ropes that bound them. Then I spat and swore as I turned around to aim the crossbow at the fleeing figure, but my aim was shaky and Oliv Furk was already too far away for the bolt to have any chance of getting through his mail. I held him at gunpoint for a few moments before changing my mind, then shrugged my shoulders and put the weapon on the edge of the precipice, trying to steady my breathing. Lacking a dagger, I finally drew the sword, and used it awkwardly to free the two captives, who fell on the road one after the other.

When they were freed from the bonds, capes and gags, I saw that I was dealing with a red-faced, emaciated fifty-year-old man, whose bald forehead was wrinkled with worry, and a man of my age, with a robust physique and an ingenuous look that made him sympathetic. As they massaged their aching limbs without saying a word, but without taking their eyes off me either, I let them know that if they tried to get weapons without my permission, then I would kill them without a second thought. When I had ensured their cooperation, I carefully tied the horses to one of the twisted shrubs that grew against the cliff, and sat down on a large broken stone that flanked the precipice, with the sword across my knees. I drank copiously from the wineskin I had found on Oliv's horse, my eyes staring into the void. My fingers were speckled with splashes that turned brown in the sun, and they twitched with jolts. Below, at the edge of the fir trees, lay a grotesque, twisted centaur, which I stared at without really wanting to. In the middle of the horse's black coat, the clear tailplane of my lost bolt was as bright as a star in the night.