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hiding.
      The camp had been out of sight all morning thanks to a low mound just beyond its southernmost boundary. It came back into view as we started up the fringe of the Hunch, flecks of black and occasional colour in the far distance shifting like an ant nest. About a third of the way between the camp and us, a column was threading along the white surface of the road. I estimated a hundred men on horseback. It seemed incredible that they would be after us. The obvious and sensible course would have been to send an officer and at most a dozen fast riders. Saltlick and his brethren might have been formidable in the confines of the battle, but out in the open we'd be helpless to archers. One well-placed shot – through my head, say – would settle any fight. To commit any more men than that made no sense. They'd travel more slowly, and if they kept together they'd be easier to evade.
      Perhaps that column was heading south for some other purpose, then. Yet that didn't make much sense either. It was too many men for an envoy, and far too few to stand a chance against any decent-sized town, even one that had committed most of their defenders to the morning's battle.
      Still, those troops were there for some reason, they were heading our way, and they weren't taking their time. The sooner we got higher up the Hunch and gained some decent cover the better.
      There was, however, another more immediate consideration – and that was the severely bruised state of my arse. I'd taken to sitting backwards, with one leg slung down Saltlick's back and the other stretched behind his neck, my right arm bent behind to hold the pole, my left tangled in the netting, and my torso twisted round so I could see ahead. It had practical benefits, that I hadn't fallen off being the most obvious, but it was far from comfortable. I ached through every inch of my body, my fingers and toes throbbed with the pain of hanging on. My backside, though, had suffered worst. I'd convinced myself through mile after mile that it couldn't get any worse. My rump had been pounded into mince and that was that. For mile after mile, I'd been proved wrong.
      Finally, I called through gritted teeth, "Stop, Saltlick! Stop while there's still a chance I'll walk again someday."
      We were perhaps a third of the way up the Hunch, and the road was gently inclining. The fields of the lowlands had given way to small rock outcroppings, ragged bushes, and the occasional wiry tree jutting out from the red earth. The sun was at its apex and viciously hot, having burned away most of the morning's cloud over the last few hours. I was drenched in sweat, and Saltlick reeked, something like a horse but worse.
      I cursed myself for not acquiring some supplies during our escape; a couple of skins of water, perhaps even some food. It wouldn't have been difficult. Saltlick could probably have dragged a whole cart without much loss of pace.
      I eased myself down onto a ledge of rock beside the road, whimpering as my bruises made contact. I glanced at the column, which was now about half way between the camp and the beginning of the Hunch. It was still a fair distance, but I swore they'd closed the gap slightly over the last hour. It would have to be a short break.
      "Have a rest, Saltlick," I said. "We've a long way to go yet."
      The giant grunted, marched over to one of the small trees, and snapped off a branch. He stripped the leaves with one ham-sized fist and crammed them into his mouth.
      "Hey, don't eat that!"
      He looked at me quizzically.
      "That won't make you sick? Eating leaves?"
      "Good," he said, through a half-chewed mouthful.
      "Well all right, you enjoy it then," I said, a little peevishly. Saltlick wasn't about to starve, even if I was. At least I didn't have to worry about finding giantsized portions of food. I still intended to ditch him once I was certain we were in the clear, but in the meantime, I couldn't have him dropping