A few paces away, a half-goat Trolloc, with a man's face and horns, fell writhing as Ivaltern's blade slipped under the leather plates and chain mail to find the gaps that existed for mobility. A second was down, thrashing in its death throes, its goat's legs kicking. More Trollocs still surged around them, shrieking and howling. Alim lunged for his sword, the Trolloc with the bear’s snout was there, claws sweeping down for the gleeman. Suddenly the creature convulsed into stillness with a Whitecloak spear through its heart.

A stocky Whitecloak, no less grim-faced than the rest, pulled the spearpoint free even before the Trolloc hit the ground and stabbed again for another. Behind him, more Whitecloaks cut through the Trollocs, hewing with their swords, forcing the dark creatures back toward the bottom of the slope.

For a moment the gleeman just lay there as his rescuers worked and struggled around him, struggling to recover his wits. As always at moments like this in the dream-like way of combat, he seemed to remember everything at once: the Trollocs on the slope, the Whitecloaks saving them, and what had happened to lead up to the charge. Alim shivered as he picked up his sword. That was not likely to leave his memories any time soon.

He managed to get up, but he kept his eyes away from what was happening to the Trollocs to either side.