‘Quiet now,’ the man urged, his accent strange. ‘No talking yet. Hard to access anything here but I think I can stop the bleeding.’

He was bleeding? He pursed his lips, managed to croak in an exhalation: ‘Who …’

A smile touched the man’s lips. ‘Same as you. A hiresword working for these Icebloods. The Losts. We have to stick together, hey? You’re with the Sayers, yes?’

Orman nodded his head weakly.

The man grunted. ‘Good. I fix you up and you go back to the Sayers and let them know the Bains are broken. They’ve retreated halfway up their Holding. Soon us and you Sayers will be flanked. Understand?’ Orman nodded. ‘Good. Now, let’s see what I can do.’

The man bent over him. He slithered his warm hands up under Orman’s shirt to press against his chest. Something happened then and Orman felt strength flow into him. His breathing eased. The man pressed a hand to his face and the searing yammering pain there dulled to an aching throb.

‘There,’ the fellow said. ‘Best I can do. I’m no expert at Denul.’

‘Thank you,’ Orman managed in a hoarse whisper.

‘No trouble. I’ve seen worse.’ He helped Orman stand. He tottered on his feet, but remained upright. He touched a hand to his neck and hissed, snatching it away. ‘Nasty that,’ the man said. ‘But it will heal. Sorry about the eye, though.’ Orman blinked at him. His eye? He raised a hand to investigate but the man caught it. ‘Don’t touch. Not yet. Let it get a scab.’

Lotji had taken his eye. He might as well have killed him. How could he fight now?’

‘Name?’ he croaked.

The man just shrugged. ‘Call me Cal. Listen, sorry I can’t take you with me, but any lowlander army comes advancing up here maybe we can pinch it between us, hey? Put it to the Sayers. We’ll keep an eye out.’ And the fellow saluted him: a hand to the brow swept down and out.

Orman just nodded, still a touch confused and bewildered. The fellow jogged off to the east. As he watched him go Orman realized that everything he wore, his hooded cloak, his leather armour, was stained a deep dark blood red. He found that he could not move. Perhaps he should simply remain here upon these rocks until his very flesh rotted away and his bones fell between the cracks and gaps of the stones.

For a brief time he thought he’d found something. Something worth fighting for. Now he’d thrown it away. Lotji had taken his eye, but he hadn’t taken his honour … that he’d thrown away himself. He should’ve died this day. Should’ve died fighting the man. Only that could have redeemed him.

Now it was too late. The valley blurred as his eyes burned and smarted. He felt as if he could no longer breathe – something new was binding his chest from expanding.

Why hadn’t he? Why?