‘Step away from my boy,’ his da said, voice tight, cold as frost-bitten iron.

‘Stay out of this, old man,’ a voice answered, a new pair of boots stepping over Drem. The bald man.

Old man? Is he talking about my da? The thought shocked Drem, even through the fog of pain that was pulsing through him, but as he looked at his da he saw a man whose hair was mostly grey, deep creases around his eyes and mouth, weathered and worn by living in the wilderness, his body lean and wiry.

He didn’t speak like an old man, though.

‘This is over,’ Olin said. His eyes flickered to Drem, then across the men before him, five of them still standing, by Drem’s counting, and finally back to the bald man. ‘I’ll ask you again. Step away from my son.’

‘I don’t take orders from the likes of you,’ the bald man said, taking a step towards Olin and spitting on the ground.

‘Not ordering, just asking,’ Olin said. ‘I’ll not ask again.’

Drem tried to get up, needed to get up, knew these men were not going to back down, and he didn’t want to see his da beaten to a pulp like him, or worse. But only his fist opened and closed, and one foot scraped the dirt. He dribbled blood and spittle.

‘We’re not finished with him,’ the bald man said, jutting his chin at Drem. ‘So fight us or leave, old man.’

Olin stretched his neck left and right, bones clicking. ‘I’ll fight you if you wish. But know this: I am old for a reason.’

‘Ha, listen to the o—’ the bald man began, but then he was staggering backwards and choking. Olin had lunged forwards and punched him in the throat, strode after him and followed up with a fist to the chest, and the bald man tripped over Drem and went sprawling. Others rushed at Olin, a burst of violence as punches flew, too fast for Drem to follow. He heard grunts of pain, a loud crack followed by an even louder scream, the thud of a body hitting the dirt. The chaos cleared for a moment, Drem seeing his da duck a punch and step in close, land a blurred combination of blows to the gut and head of Wispy, who it seemed had climbed back to his feet. An uppercut from his da lifted him from the ground and then he was lying in the dirt again beside Drem.

Men backed away from Olin, three left on their feet, panting, spreading in a half-circle. Olin stood with his feet spread, balanced, blood on his knuckles, a thin trickle of blood from a cut below his eye.

How is he still standing?

‘He’s broken my arm!’ someone screamed beyond Drem’s vision.