The windlass creaked.

Five seconds too late Jaimihr gathered up his reins, spurred, wheeled, and shouted to the men behind him.
The great gate rose, like the jaws of a hungry monster, and the nine--streaking too fast down far too steep a slide to stop themselves--burst straight out under it and struck, as a wind blast smites a poppy-field.
Jaimihr was borne backward--carried off his horse.

Alwa and the first four rode him down, and crashed through the four-deep line beyond; the second four pounced on him, gathered him, and followed.

Before the lines could form again the whole nine wheeled--as a wind-eddy spins on its own axis--and burst through back again, the horses racing neck and neck, and the sabres cutting down a swath to screech and swear and gurgle in among the trampled garden stuff.
They came back in a line, all eight abreast, Alwa leading only by a length.

At the opening, four horses--two on either side--slid, rump to the ground, until their noses touched the rock.