Bourne fell sprawling. Hanse ran – for Bourne’s horse. He knew Bourne could
outrun him so long as he was laden with the bags, and he was not about to part
with them. In a few bounds, he gained a great rock and from there pounced on to
the horse’s back, just as he’d seen others do. It was Hanse’s first attempt to
mount a horse. Inexperience and the weight of his ransom carried him right off
the other side.
In odd silence, he rose, on the far side of the horse. Not cursing as anyone
might expect. Here came Bourne, and his fist sprouted fifteen inches of sharp
iron. Hanse drew Bourne’s other dagger from the sheath on the saddle and threw
the small flat knife from his buckskin. Bourne went low and left, and the knife
clattered among the stumbled stones of Eaglebeak. Bourne kept moving in,
attacking under the horse. Hanse struck at him with his own dagger. To avoid
losing his face. Bourne had to fall. Under the horse. Hanse failed to check his
swipe, and his dagger nicked the inside of the horse’s left hind leg.
The animal squealed, bucked, kicked, tried to gallop. Ruins barred him, and he
turned back just as Bourne rose. Hanse was moving away fast, hugging one
saddlebag to him and half-dragging the other. Bourne and his horse ran into each
other. One of them fell backwards and the other reared, neighed, pranced – and
stood still, as if stricken with guilt. The other, downed painfully in mail for
the second time in two minutes, cursed horse, Hanse, luck, gods, and himself.
And began getting up.
However badly it had been handled, Bourne had horse, sword, and a few paces