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all back to me now, excited horses and excited people, the chafing of the thighs, the force of impact, the delicate dance of the moving weight and edge that is the sword, round helms and pot helms and leather helms and the forest of spears and axes and the occasional sword coming up at an angle that must be avoided.
    Apple responded to me as if we were one being, moving to put all his weight behind my thrusts.
    That was only my second real fight. I was still a little surprised at both how like and how unlike it was from practice, how I struck at the spot under and to the right of a man's collarbone and an instant later he slid off my sword no longer a man whose snarling face and weighted club were a threat but only another obstacle on the ground. I remember laughing at the expression on one Jarnsman's face as Apple bit and worried off the man's nose and he dropped his spear, clapping his hands over his face in surprise. I fought as well and as hard as I could, going from instincts bred from long training, remembering always what Duncan had told me, that cavalry must always keep moving and never hesitate.
    Although their line had broken as the lances hit them there was some hard fighting before they fled. They rallied to their leaders and made solid stands in small clumps. I found myself in a bad corner at one point, parrying two axmen at once. A horseman rode up to help me, a broad-shouldered man with a white cloak, so light-skinned I would have taken him for a Jarn were he afoot. Our swords fell together, aiming and striking. Blood sprayed up. He grinned across the dead foes at me as Apple wheeled away, then frowned, realizing he did not know me. I laughed again, and just then Apple reared up and lashed out at a Jarnsman. He went down, but I was struggling for a moment to keep my seat and when I was steady again they were all fleeing and we were pursuing, keeping them running until they were flinging themselves down on the ground panting and puking in the mud. Most of them were dropping their weapons and pulling off their helmets in the
    Jarnish sign of surrender. I killed a few stragglers who were disinclined to stop running.
    The river was in sight by the time those of us following took out the last of these, a silver glimmer ahead in the twilight. I could see the dreaded dragon-prowed shapes of pirate ships, two large ones and three smaller ones looming among the willows on the bank. This was a raiding party, then; they were not coming to settle but for loot. The ships were a sign that they did mean to leave.
    As I rode back a woman rode up to me. She had just sent a small group of a dozen or so riders off in the direction of the ships. I drew up Apple beside her. She was clearly a leader among the cavalry and was wearing a white cloak embroidered with gold oak leaves on the shoulders. I had seen her in the very forefront of the charge. She was broad-shouldered and long-nosed, and her skin was as pale as a Jarn's. Her eyes, however, were dark and human. Apart from the one man I had seen in the battle I had never before seen anyone who was not clearly of one race or the other, although I had of course heard of diplomatic marriages made with barbarians. She slid down from her horse, holding on to the reins, and politeness compelled me to do the same. My legs were rubbery as I hit the ground, but it felt very good to be standing and not astride.
    "I am Marchel ap Thurrig," she said, bowing. As she straightened, I saw that she was not tall, perhaps a span shorter than me. "I am praefecto of the ala of Caer Gloran. And who in the White God's name are you? And how did you come here to fight so fortuitously?"
    Behind her the man in the white cloak walked away from the prisoners.
    They were being roped together. He came towards us.

Page 16
    "I am the eldest daughter of Gwien of Derwen." The polite incomprehension on Marchel's face was a revelation to me. Lords must give their names, and I had never thought my father's name would