Romford tried to recall what he had felt and seen, but his thoughts came only in scraps. He knew there had been a time when he was scrambling on the ground among feet and hooves. Another when he had been deafened by some weapon that gave out a great roar and belched billows of smoke that stank like rotting eggs. He remembered shooting an arrow through that rank smoke. He remembered the smell of piss and horse dung. The scratch of dust and grit in his throat and nose. His lip split by a stray boot. His smarting eyes meeting those of the dying and dead.
