battle. Tempus had made a choice. He ducked and threw his weight sideways,
reining the horse down with all his might. The sword, a singing one, sonata’d
over his head, shearing hairs. His horse, overbalanced, fell heavily, screaming,
pitching, rolling onto his left leg. Pinned for an instant, he saw white
anguish, then the last hawk-mask was leaping down to finish him, and the grey
scrambled to its feet. ‘Kill,’ he shouted, his blade yet at ready, but lying in
the dirt. His leg flared once again, then quieted. He tried it, gained his
knees, dust in his eyes. The horse reared and lunged. The hawk-mask struck
blindly, arms above his head, sword reaching for grey, soft underbelly. He tried
to save it. He tried. He tackled the hawk-mask with the singing sword. Too late,
too late: horse fluids showered him. Bellows of agony pealed in his ears. The
horse and the hawk-mask and Tempus went down together, thrashing.
When Tempus sorted it out, he allowed that the horse had killed the hawk-mask at
the same time the hawk-mask had disembowelled the horse.
But he had to finish it. It lay there thrashing pathetically, deep groans coming
from it. He stood over it uncertainly, then knelt and stroked its muzzle. It
snapped at him, eyes rolling, demanding to die. He acceded, and the dust in his
eyes hurt so much they watered profusely.
Its legs were still kicking weakly when he heard a movement, turned on his good
leg, and stared.
Shadowspawn was methodically stripping the hawk-masks of their arms and
valuables.
Hanse did not notice Tempus, as he limped away. Or he pretended he did not.