“Could you get on and kill this bastard?” wheezed Cosca.

“Doing my best. You go left.”

“Left it is.” They moved apart, herding Ganmark towards the statue. He looked spent now, blowing hard, soft cheeks turned blotchy pink and shining with sweat. She smiled as she feinted at him, sensing victory, felt her smile slip as he suddenly sprang to meet her. She dodged his first thrust, slashed at his neck, but he caught it and pushed her away. He was a lot less spent than she’d thought, and she was a lot more. Her foot came down badly and she tottered sideways. Ganmark darted past and his sword left a burning cut across her thigh. She tried to turn, screeched as her leg crumpled, fell and rolled, the Calvez tumbling from her limp fingers and bouncing away.

Cosca sprang past with a hoarse cry, swinging wildly. Ganmark dropped under his cut, lunged from the ground and ran him neatly through the stomach. Cosca’s sword clanged hard into The Warrior’s shin and flew from his hand, stone chips spinning. The general whipped his blade free and Cosca dropped to his knees, sagged sideways with a long groan.

“And that’s that.” Ganmark turned towards her, Bonatine’s greatest work looming up behind him. A few flakes of marble trickled from the statue’s ankle, already cracked where Monza’s sword had chopped into it. “You’ve given me some exercise, I’ll grant you that. You are a woman—or have been a woman—of remarkable determination.” Cosca dragged himself across the cobbles, leaving spotty smears of blood behind him. “But in keeping your eyes always ahead, you blinded yourself to everything around you. To the nature of the great war you fight in. To the natures of the people closest to you.” Ganmark flicked out his handkerchief again, dabbed sweat from his forehead, carefully wiped blood from his steel. “If Duke Orso and his state of Talins are no more than a sword in the hand of Valint and Balk, then you were never more than that sword’s ruthless point.” He flicked the shining point of his own sword with his forefinger. “Always stabbing, always killing, but never considering why.” There was a gentle creaking, and over his shoulder The Warrior’s own great sword wobbled ever so slightly. “Still. It hardly matters now. For you the fight is over.” Ganmark still wore his sad smile as he came to a stop a stride from her. “Any pithy last words?”

“Behind you,” growled Monza through gritted teeth, as The Warrior rocked ever so gently forwards.

“You must take me for—” There was a loud bang. The statue’s leg split in half and the whole vast weight of stone toppled inexorably forwards.

Ganmark was just beginning to turn as the point of Stolicus’ giant sword pinned him between the shoulder blades, drove him onto his knees, burst out through his stomach and crashed into the cobbles, spraying blood and rock chips in Monza’s stinging face. The statue’s legs broke apart as they hit the ground, noble feet left on the pedestal, the rest cracking into muscular chunks and rolling around in a cloud of white marble dust. From the hips up, the proud image of the greatest soldier of history stayed in one magnificent piece, staring sternly down at Orso’s general, impaled on his monstrous sword beneath him.