The sound of cracking leather.

The hornface again.

A snap from his shoulder.

A jab of pain.

His muzzle smashing into the ground.

Blood in his mouth.

Two curving teeth knocked loose.

And then, an explosion within his head as something heavy kicked into it.

His head whipped sideways. His neck felt like it was going to snap.

Crunching sounds.

More pain.

Indescribable pain.

A scream from the roadside.

More teeth knocked out.

Afsan was unable to breathe through one nostril. He felt as if that whole side of his upper muzzle had been crushed.

Running feet.

Afsan let out a moan.

A stranger’s voice: "Are you all right?"

Afsan tried to lift his head. Agony. His shoulder blade was a knife, slicing into his neck. His head was slick with blood.

The high-pitched voice of a youngster: "It’s Sal-Afsan!"

Another voice. "By the Face of God, it is."

And a third voice: "Oh, my God. His head — Sal-Afsan, are you all right?"

More running sounds, toeclaws sparking against paving stones.

Agony.

"You ran right over him!"

"He stumbled in front of my chariot. I tried to stop."

Chariot. The wheels he’d heard. The hornface must have been drawing it. The kick to his head — a hornface’s forefoot. Afsan tried to speak, but couldn’t. He felt blood coursing out of him.

"The left side of his face is smashed," said the youngster. "And look — there’s something funny about his shoulder."

Another voice. "Dislocated, I’m sure."

"Is he dead?" called a new voice.

"No. Not yet, anyway. Look at his skull!"

Afsan tried to speak again, but all he managed was a low hiss.

"Someone get a healer!"

"No, it would take too long to fetch a doctor; we’ve got to take him to one."