Now the road curved sharply, vanishing around the rocky flank of a steep wooded hill. As Blade followed the road around to the right, he came to a small wooden bridge leading across the ditch. Beyond the ditch a flock of sheep milled about aimlessly. In the middle of the flock the slight form of a shepherd boy was sprawled on the ground. He lay on his back, his dark hair spread out around his head and his cap fallen to one side. His crook lay in three pieces beside him.

Blade ran across the bridge, crouching low and scanning the landscape for signs of movement. He noticed as he ran that some planks of the bridge were scarred and gouged by iron-shod hooves and that the ground on the far side bore a tangle of hoofprints. Some of the riders had come across the bridge only a few minutes before. They'd killed the shepherd boy, then apparently ridden away without doing anything to his flock-which made no sense.

Blade pushed through the sheep, who scattered with plaintive bleats. He knelt beside the shepherd and with relief discovered the boy was not dead. He had a nasty lump on his head and blood was seeping from a cut under one eye, but his limbs were straight and his chest rose and fell steadily. Blade stood up and started looking for shelter. The boy would come to no further harm if he could be dried off and warmed up.

Then an explosion of new sounds cut through the dying rain. Men and women were crying out in fear, children were screaming wildly, sheep, goats, and cattle were all bleating or lowing frantically. Other men were shouting angrily, and the hooves of fast-ridden animals splashed and thudded.

Blade had caught up with the riders. Somewhere over on the other side of the wooded hill, they were going into action. Whatever they were doing involved many more people than a single shepherd boy.