Gallop towards the foothills nearby, hoping to lose yourself in the maze of valleys

You rise up in your stirrups, wishing you had discarded some of your meagre armour to reduce your weight. But your steed is strong and reliable, hurtling across the scrubland at speed and dancing over rocky obstacles and thorny bushes alike as the ground begins to rise. Your braid is streaming behind you and you risk a peek back over your shoulder to see any pursuit. Dust is screening a view of the main battle and your heart goes out to those you left behind, hoping done escape and wishing the rest a warriors ****. A band of enemy horses have followed you but are straggling a long way behind for the most part. One rider has closed on you though, her steed slighter and even speedier than your own. You fancy your chances over the rougher terrain but you don’t want to take that risk. You whoop as a swiftly loosed arrow skitters off her armour, wobbling and slowing the determined pursuer. She falls slightly behind but is making up ground when your next arrow finds her chain Mail squarely. You doubt it would penetrate deeply at this range, but at this speed the rider loses control and topples from her mount in a fountain of dust.

You grin grimly and tighten your thighs about your own steed as the shadow of the first valley entrance looms. Something catches your eye though and you glance up to see a whirl of metal and steam tracking your position. Try as you might, you can’t seem elude the contraption which hisses and whirs in your wake. You try an arrow but it just clatters off the side of the thing. You are unwilling to divert your focus from riding or to stop to try your magic. You hope to find more twists and turns within the canyon ahead and somehow cross the hills and turn back to where you hope the bulk of the elven forces will be.

And then a noise which makes your heart sink. A horn sounds.. then another.. and the faint drum of hooves. They cannot be tracking you through the stony valleys so quickly.. you glance up at this thing marking you like a beacon with a scowl and a sense of desperation. But you have no way to escape it.

As your horse tires the pursuit gets closer. You can test shouts and growls and more horns. You put your back to a cliff face and send your horse on it’s way, resolved to a last stand. The war horse might make an extra weapon, but it might be more useful as a message.. if it is found by the right people.

They come for you in numbers.. edged weapons sheathed, clubs and nets and hooks the order of the day. Your magic cuts through several, burning nets to ash, shattering armour. Your blade spatters blood across the rocks. But there are too many. Eventually a thrown cudgel catches your temple and you are on your knees before you know it. And then blow after blow rains down. You are bound, stunned and the world fades away..