Stefanos raised his own spear, the end planted in the ground, just as he had always done to repel cavalry on the battlefield, but he missed and tumbled out of the way, the wheels tearing by his head only by inches.
Then there was a scream to cow even the bravest of men, choked by blood, and followed by a gloating laughter.
"Kratos!" he yelled, but his voice was hoarse, his throat cold and tight. He stood in the middle of the road, shaking, looking after the last driver until it was quiet again.
It took him some moments before he became aware that he was still standing on the roadside. He felt a nudge on his forearm, and looked down to see what looked like a satyr skitter away behind a tree, the dark eyes and heavy brow peering at him from behind a mountain oak.
Leave now! the satyr war
