252

You are wiping the sweat from your brow when, suddenly, with bloodcurdling cries, a mass of horsemen burst from the trees behind you. They are armed with shortbows, hooked lances and curved swords. Their weathered yellow faces with oriental eyes and black moustaches are creased with the joy of slaughter. Many have conical helmets, spiked with a plume of horsehair at their centre. They wear painted strips of ox hide, laced together for armour over leather jackets and breeches. There seem to be hundreds of them boiling from the cover of the trees, too many for you to use your mental powers. Will you: