The church roof had been burning since the assault began. Thick smoke drifted across the courtyard until it hung at the height of a mounted man's chest, forcing anyone riding through it to see the battlefield through a shifting gray veil.
The burning thatch gave off a different smell than heavy timbers. It was lighter, drier, with a faint sweetness beneath the char. The packed earth under the horses was uneven, broken by smooth stones worn down from years of traffic, but the guards' mounts barely noticed. They had crossed rivers, climbed embankments, and carried riders through battles. A church courtyard offered no challenge.
Fifteen meters away, six men still held their ground.
