He didn’t wait for them, instead hurled himself at Wispy, startling him, slicing down with his sword as he ran. Wispy shuffled back, more stumble than swordcraft, managed to raise his own sword, deflecting Drem’s blade, though it still cut a red line into Wispy’s arm through his fur cloak. Drem swung again, a wild blow, his momentum carrying him on, his blade chopping into Wispy’s torso, leather and fur deflecting the blade, but Drem heard the distinct sound of ribs breaking, and then Drem was crashing into the man, both of them stumbling, falling to the ground, limbs tangled, Drem’s sword spinning away. Wispy cursed and spat, tried to headbutt Drem, failed, tried to bite him instead, managed to latch onto his ear. Drem felt the pain, but as a distant thing, utterly focused on inflicting as much damage upon this man as was possible before he ran out of time. He managed to connect a punch to the back of Wispy’s bald head, felt him loosen for a moment, teeth dropping away from his ear, and Drem pulled free, climbed to his feet.

Something clubbed him across the shoulders and he collapsed back on top of Wispy, felt his strength leaking away, but still managed to put a knee in Wispy’s groin and rolled away as the club came down again, missing him and driving into Wispy’s gut. Drem remembered his bone-handled knife, still sheathed at his belt, wrapped a fist around it, slashed across someone’s leg planted in the snow before his eyes, saw a spurt of blood, swung his seax wildly about him as he tried to scramble to his feet, slipping in the snow-churned mush.

A boot in his gut drove the air from him, sending him crashing back down. There was a thud in the small of his back, the worst pain so far, and he gasped, not enough air to scream. Slashed with his seax again, someone crying out, a shouted oath, a boot stamping on his forearm, his grip abruptly empty. Blinding pain in his wrist, a scream this time, breath or no breath. Kicked in the mouth, the taste of blood, kicked again in the chest, rolled onto his back. Something cold and sharp at his throat. Opening his eyes to silhouettes against the bright sky.

‘Get him up,’ a voice snarled. Wispy, he guessed. Drem didn’t care, was in a place beyond caring, he’d done his best, slain more than he believed possible. Smoke billowed in the sky above him, and Drem saw a shape highlighted by the black clouds.

A white bird, circling.

Is that death, come for my spirit? What form of bird does death take? That looks like a crow!

He heard it cawing, a raucous squawking.

Then he was being hauled to his feet, a noose wrapped around his neck.

Not this again.