For a while they rode on in an uneasy silence, though Sylvriss noted that the black horse was still carrying its rider rather than being ridden. Every now and then, it would increase its speed and ease forward, but Sylvriss reached over and took its reins.

‘You’re not whole yet, horse,’ she said. ‘Your duty’s done for now. Take my guidance.’ Isloman did not interfere.

Gradually the horse became quieter, and Isloman too seemed to lose a little of his fearful preoccupation, though he kept turning round.

‘I’m sorry, Muster woman,’ he said, eventually. Sylvriss looked at him sharply, but did not speak.

He continued. ‘I saw you come out of the trees like a saviour out of an old legend. I thought you’d kill yourself for certain, riding down that hillside the way you did. It was unbelievable.’ He looked down. ‘I couldn’t help you. I’m sorry.’

‘You were hanging on to the horse,’ Sylvriss said, understandingly.

Isloman nodded his head a little and then looked at her sadly. ‘I was indeed,’ he said. ‘But I couldn’t help you because I was petrified. I was so frightened I scarcely remember leaving Vakloss.’

Sylvriss looked at him intently, questions again bubbling up inside her. ‘Shouldn’t we look to your friend now?’ she said.

Isloman hesitated. ‘He’s alive,’ he repeated. Then, almost childishly, ‘I don’t want to stop. Not yet.’

Sylvriss’s eyes opened in a mixture of horror and anger at the man’s tone. Even in this fearful state, Isloman did not radiate cowardice. Further, a black sword and a black bow hung from the horse, indicating that he or his inert companion was a warrior of some kind. And the horse was a splendid line leader. What could have happened to reduce such a trio to such bewildered and terrified flight? And again, why would such a beast willingly carry them?