Don’t give them time. He knew from the pits that to hesitate against many was to die. With a snarl he swept forwards and to the left, one knife high, the other low, cutting, blocking, slicing, always moving. Time slowed, each heartbeat a lifetime. He felt cuts appear on his arms, his thighs, thin lines of pain burning like flame as his attackers managed to get past his guard. He stabbed, hands slick with blood. A blow high on his back staggered him and he fell to one knee, rolled forwards from it, a sword slicing a handspan from his face. He had no idea where Fidele was now. Could only hope that she was still close. He kept stabbing, every face he saw superimposed with the features of Lykos or Jael. He killed them both, countless times, a feral grin on his face. One of his knives stuck between ribs, was ripped out of his hand as his victim fell away. He pulled another blade from his boot, powered on, blood splattering his face, blurring his vision, the taste of iron in his mouth. Someone grabbed his arm; he spun on a heel, sliced a hamstring, the man falling, still clutching him, pulling him down. A blow crunched into his gut, low, above his right hip, felt like a punch. He snapped an elbow into a face, heard cartilage snap, took a step forwards and suddenly he was falling, his right leg numb, the ground rushing up to him, his head slamming onto the blood-slick ground, his knives skittering away. He pushed at the ground, tried to rise, but his legs weren’t working properly; he just managed to roll onto his back. He sucked in air, the sky a bright blue above him. Numbness pulsed out from the blow to his gut. He reached there, fingers coming away dark with blood.

Is this death? He felt no pain, just weariness settling upon him like a heavy cloak, his limbs suddenly filled with lead.

A face loomed over him, blotting out the sky, a Vin Thalun beard thick with iron rings, face twisted in a snarl, iron glinting. He thought about moving, fingers twitching to find one of his knives, but it was all too much effort. Then the face was falling away, Fidele replacing it. She dropped to her knees, shook him, face contorted with fear.

‘Run, you idiot,’ he said, though he wasn’t sure how loud he said it, or even if the words had passed his lips at all.

Hands gripped his head, Fidele lifting him onto her lap. Tears stained her cheeks, dropped onto his face. He tasted the salt on his lips. Her fingers brushed at his hair, wiped blood from his eyes. Her mouth was moving, her voice filling his head, but he couldn’t distinguish the words.

‘It’s all right,’ he tried to say. His eyes fluttered closed.