A skirmish in a mordant wood -
A canter down a darkened pass -
Two thousand gold of chivalry
Drops to a five-copper shaft!
The creaking of trees, the glutinous groaning of webs under weight, the scuttling of goblins in the undergrowth and cries of his companions – all faded into a single roaring sound. A waterfall with a heartbeat. Lan reached up and touched the strange lever that had grown from his sternum, through the broken links of maille, frowning at the unfamiliar pain as he pulled it too and fro, making the roaring increase in furor. This lever seemed to have the power to move the entire world, however, because when he yanked at it the trees all at once pivoted to the side, growing from left to right in his vision. The sky seemed, strangely, to be on his right flank now, his shield somehow pinned against the sour dirt of the Spiderfell, which was at his side instead of under his horse's hooves.
There was a woman's voice calling a name he should know, inaudible over the thunder leaking from his veins. Then a man dropping from steed to his side, a man who looked somehow familiar, like he had seen his profile on a coin, or hewn from marble. Lan mouthed something weakly, grasping for a truth as the man's hands moved over the arrow jutting from his ribs.
"My... my..."
Ogre tossed his mane as the Boy toppled from his back. Ogre did not care for the Boy. He was slack with the reins, indecisive with the spurs, loud, ungenerous with apples and brush. Unlike the Man, who Ogre had ridden with on many sorties and in to many battles, whose hand he trusted and weight he knew.
But Ogre cared even less for goblins. They smelled of wolves and cruelty. Ogre scraped his hooves on the earth, whinnied a challenge, and burst into motion at the goblin that had pricked the Boy, a living battering ram of iron-shod muscle...