Greyleaf brought his horse to a stop upon sighting Thistlemead. All seven of those following him, five men and two women, stared in terror; the single prey they were chasing looked to be accompanied by thirty, maybe thirty-five, others.
‘Thistlemead!’ he cried, ‘I see you have newfound friends.’
‘Aye,’ the large man responded, ‘happens I do.’
Then he raised his hammer into the air, letting out a shout of command. At once, his force made for the company of eight. Greyleaf pulled at his horse, kicking at it; with a sharp slap at its side, the horse bolted.
The remaining seven, now leaderless and terrified, broke; none could run quick enough and all were cut down in moments.
Greyleaf could still hear cries (those of victory and those of pain) when he was taken by an arrow; quite suddenly, one cut deep into his stomach. He fell, being dragged across the rough ground by his horse. As the beast slowed down to a halt, he heard a hoarse, sharp voice. ‘You wish to leave the fight so soon?’ the voice asked, almost mockingly. The voice was that of a tall thin man with a rough beard and a brown cloak.
The man approached Greyleaf, who could not even muster the strength to move, taking hold of the arrow to pull it; with Greyleaf’s cry of pain came blood. The thin man turned and ordered, ‘Bracken, tie something around that wound; he is not to die, else you’ll join him. Redleaf, take the horse and report to the master.’
The thin man approached Greyleaf, stomping his face with a hard-leather boot. The world grew dark almost immediately.
Redleaf removed Greyleaf’s foot from its position in the horse’s stirrup before mounting with great speed; he rode for the north.
