For a heartbeat, two, three, four, there was no sound of pursuit from Braith, then a snarl and heavy footsteps. Without looking, Camlin hurled his sword behind him, heard a clang as Braith struck it from the air, a curse as he stumbled, then Camlin was diving, rolling, one hand grabbing his bow, the other scrabbling for an arrow from his quiver. He came out of the roll on one knee, looking back, saw Braith bearing down upon him, sword raised high over his head, six paces away, four, Camlin’s death in his eyes.

He nocked his arrow, drew, two paces, the sword swinging down in a glittering arc.

Release.

The arrow punched into Braith’s gut, stopping him like a kick from a mule, sending him staggering back a handful of paces, sword swinging wild, hissing through the air before Camlin’s eyes.

Another arrow from those scattered from his quiver. Braith snarling, cursing him, lurching unsteadily towards him.

Nock, draw, release. This one slammed into Braith’s chest, sending him crashing onto his back, blood erupting.

Camlin stood, breathing hard, still wary.

Braith rose to one elbow, then to one knee.

Another arrow, nock, draw, release, throwing Braith flat on his back again.

‘Stay down,’ Camlin yelled, relief starting to seep through him. Another arrow.

‘He’s finished,’ Vonn said, walking close. Camlin saw Rafe’s back as the lad crashed through reeds and long grass, sighted his arrow, gazed along the feather and smooth shaft, iron tip to Rafe’s back, raised it, adjusting for distance, to the left for the wind, all a process that was as natural as breathing, done in a handful of heartbeats.

‘Let him go,’ Vonn said in his ear. ‘He’s a misguided, scared boy, nothing more.’

‘He’s sat his Long Night, made his choices as a man,’ Camlin growled, but he hesitated and then Rafe was gone, claimed by the mist and marshes.

Camlin lowered his bow and strode over to Braith, who was still trying to get up. Camlin made sure he stopped out of arm’s reach of the woodsman.

Braith’s woollen shirt was soaked with blood, leather vest stained dark with it, the snow around him churned pink.

‘Looks like our score’s settled,’ Camlin said, looking down at his old chief.

‘Not supposed to end like this.’ Braith wheezed as he made a final effort to rise. Only his head moved. He coughed blood and lolled back into the snow.

‘We don’t always get what we want,’ Camlin muttered and stood there, watching Braith’s chest rise and fall, the gap between each breath growing longer. Blood bubbled from Braith’s mouth and Camlin waited for another breath.

It never came.

Camlin looked about, saw his sword and picked it up.

‘This time you’re staying dead,’ he said to Braith’s corpse and he hacked down once, twice, the third time Braith’s head rolling free from his body.