The clatter of hooves, the rush of bodies and his name all sound irrelevant as all the nerves in his body scream a protest at their treatment - sand streams into the open wounds on his back, his ribs jostled painfully as he struggles to get from his knees to his feet. Kalten is wheeling around for a second approach, and through the ache and the sand and the rush of his own blood in his ears, Martel is relatively sure he can catch the reins this time.

He grasps Jim's arm when they reach each other, and his voice is rough and low when he says, "You'd damned well better be able to steer," because they need to get away from here and his head is still ringing where stone rolled down his back and left a bloody lump before it hit the ground and drove dust up into his eyes.