Company of Liars by Karen Maitland

no place that could; the only hope was to try to outrun it and pray that a miracle would happen and somehow it would be stopped before it swept them away.
    Getting out of the town that night wasn't easy; the townspeople may have wanted us to leave and we to go, but there were only three gates out of the town. Merchants andpeddlers had been arriving in a steady trickle for days before the fair, but now they were all trying to get out at once. Only a few who were desperate to get back to wives and families were taking roads leading south or west; the rest of us – wagons, carts, people, cattle, sheep, geese, pigs and horses – were squeezing and jostling through the one remaining gate. The roads, already waterlogged with all the rain, were becoming impassable as livestock and wagons churned up the mud, and every few yards the way was blocked by floundering carts and beasts.
    Fortunately, I knew my way around those parts and, once we were clear of the gate, I led Rodrigo and Jofre off on a side path that connected to a parallel road which bypassed the town and so we were able to escape from the crowd. The road descended through a gorge. It was ancient, and though wide enough for carts, was seldom used any more. It had been dry once, but since winters had grown wetter, its low level meant that it flooded often, so the only people who used it were those on foot or horseback. No carter or herdsman would be foolish enough to attempt it unless the weather had been dry for weeks.
    It had taken us so long to get out of the town that night was drawing in before we reached the road. We trudged along in silence, concentrating on keeping upright on the slippery track. Our clothes were soaked through and our boots were so heavy with mud, it felt as if we were wearing leg-irons. The rain drops beat down, drumming out their own psalms of contrition as if we were the condemned on the way to the gallows. We passed no one on the road and as darkness gathered around us, I hoped it would stay that way, for there are many kinds of traveller, human and worse, who stalk lonely roads after dark. And I had no desire to get acquainted with any of them.
    Then, rounding a bend, we saw a solitary wagon ahead of us. It was stuck deep in a water-filled rut, listing heavily to one side. I recognized both the wagon and its owner immediately. Zophiel, the great magician, was up to his calves in glutinous mud, trying to hoist the wagon upright with his shoulder and push it forward at the same time, but the mud sucked on the wheel, pulling it down. The horse had long since given up trying to pull the wagon forward. It stood between the shafts, head down in the rain, trying to reach a solitary clump of grass that still remained upright in the mud. With Zophiel at the back of the wagon, there was no one to lead it forward, and none of his curses or threats was having the slightest effect on the beast.
    Jofre's miserable expression melted into a grin of delight when he recognized the figure floundering in the mud. ‘Serves him right,’ he muttered.
    Rodrigo, striding on ahead, didn't hear him and was not meant to either. I guessed Jofre, wisely, hadn't told Rodrigo about his wager with Zophiel.
    Jofre nudged me. ‘I say we lean on the wagon as we go by and push it down even further into the mud.’
    ‘And I say it's better to help him. It puts him in our debt. You don't want to rush revenge, my lad; it always tastes sweeter if it's brewed slowly.’
    But before we could draw level with the wagon a young man suddenly emerged from the shadows on the track ahead of us. Despite his preoccupation with the wagon, Zophiel sensed the movement and whirled around, whipping out a long thin dagger and jabbing it towards the young man's stomach. The man sprang back and held up his open hands in a gesture of surrender.
    ‘No, please, I mean you no harm. It's my wife.’
    Hands still raised, he gestured with his chin towards theclump of trees from which he'd emerged. There