The rat didn’t try to run, it just bunched up, then leaped.

They collided with a meaty thump, Pots twisting, trying to get his jaws at the rat’s neck. They rolled on the dusty ground, teeth snapping, spittle flying, then parted, skidding in different directions, Pots’ feet scrabbling for purchase.

The rat found its balance first, darted forwards, and the two animals were a swirling mass again. Abruptly there was blood spattering the ground, an animal whine. Haelan closed his eyes, scared, saw a memory of blood flying in a dark tunnel and quickly opened his eyes again. The fighting animals crashed against a hay bale. Haelan saw the rat’s jaws clamped around Pots’ shoulder, the dog squirming frantically, teeth snapping, head twisting as he tried to get to the rat.

Pots shook violently; the rat flew off with a ripping sound, bouncing off of a hay bale.

The two animals stood staring at one another, Pots holding a front paw in the air, blood pulsing from a ragged gash in his shoulder.

He’s going to die, Haelan thought, knowing Pots killed with speed. That was gone now.

‘Help him,’ he whispered to Swain.

‘I can’t,’ Swain said, looking on in shock.

Sif buried her face in Swain’s breeches.

The rat approached Pots, slower this time, nose twitching. Pots lunged forward, teeth snapping and stumbled, the rat leaping aside, then it was on Pots’ back, teeth gouging, Pots crying out, high-pitched. Haelan screwed his eyes shut, clenched his fists, trying to blot out the sound. Memories surged, Pots’ screams becoming deeper, morphing into something else, something worse; the sound of men dying in a dark tunnel, blood flowing. He grabbed his head, fingers squeezing, trying to stop the sound, but Pots’ cries of pain filtered through everything. Distantly he realized he was moving, a hand grabbing at him, but he shook it off, voices shouting at him, then his arm was rising and falling, faster and faster, warm liquid spraying his face, in his mouth, blurring his vision.

Then silence; only the heaving of his breath, a dog whining.

He wiped blood from his eyes, saw Swain’s hatchet in his hand, slick with blood. The rat was a twitching mess on the floor, hacked into savage ruin, intestines spilling about Haelan’s feet. Pots had crawled away, watching him.

He looked up, around the ring, saw faces staring back at him, mouths open. Sif was crying.

‘Not fair,’ Trigg said. ‘My rat was winning.’ Swain stepped into the ring and picked Pots up.

Haelan felt tears bloom, leaving tracks through the blood on his cheeks. His shoulders started to shake.

‘Come on,’ Swain said, putting an arm around Haelan. Sif came and took his hand.

‘Look at my rat,’ Trigg said, frowning. ‘I would have won. You put him up to it.’

Swain stopped and turned, then took the hatchet from Haelan’s grip and threw it at Trigg’s feet.