They tangled again, Friendly weaving round an axe-blow and darting in close, hacking with the cleaver. Shivers stepped into it, caught it on his shield then charged on, sent Friendly stumbling back against a table, metal rattling. Shivers grinned, until he saw the table was covered with knives. Friendly snatched up a blade, arm going back to throw. Shivers dropped down behind his shield, felt the thud as the knife buried itself in the wood. He peered over the edge, saw another spinning at him. It bounced from the metal rim and flashed up into Shivers’ face, left him a burning scratch across the cheek. Friendly whipped up another knife.

Shivers weren’t about to crouch there and be target practice. He roared as he rushed forwards, shield leading the way. Friendly leaped back, rolled across the table, Shivers’ axe just missed him, leaving a great wound in the wood and sending knives jumping in the air. He followed while the convict was off balance, punching away with the edge of his shield, swinging wild with his axe, skin burning, sweat tickling, one eye bulging wild, growling through gritted teeth. Plates shattered, pans scattered, bottles broke, splinters flew, a jar of flour burst open and filled the air with blinding dust.

Shivers left a trail of waste through that kitchen the Bloody-Nine himself might’ve been proud to make, but the convict dodged and danced, nipped and slashed with knife and cleaver, always just out of reach. All Shivers had to show for his fury by the time they’d done their ugly dance the length of the long room was a bleeding cut on his own arm and a reddening mark on the side of Friendly’s face where he’d caught him with his shield.

The convict stood ready and waiting, a couple of steps up the flight leading out, knife and cleaver hanging by his sides, sheen of sweat across his flat chunk of face, skin bloody and battered from a dozen different little cuts and kicks, plus a fall off a balcony and a tumble down some stairs, of course. But Shivers hadn’t landed nothing telling on him yet. He didn’t look halfway to being finished.

“Come ’ere, you tricky fucker!” Shivers hissed, arm aching shoulder to fingers from swinging his axe. “Let’s put an end to you.”

“You come here,” Friendly grunted back at him. “Let’s put an end to you.”

Shivers shrugged his shoulders, shook out his arms, wiped blood off his forehead on the back of his sleeve, twisted his neck one way then the other. “Right… you… fucking are!” And he came on again. He didn’t need asking twice.

Cosca frowned down at his knife. “If I said I was just going to peel an orange with it, any chance you’d believe me?”

Victus grinned, causing Cosca to reflect that no man he had ever met had a shiftier smile. “Doubt I’ll believe another word you say. But don’t worry. You won’t be saying many more.”

“Why is it that men pointing loaded flatbows always feel the need to gloat, rather than simply letting fly?”