Camlin looked between Dun Crin and the lakeshore, decided there was nothing he could do for Edana now except kill those enemies of hers that were closest to him.

He nocked an arrow and ran at a crouch towards the streams, veering around the wall of flames.

He burst into chaos, the world rapidly constricting to a score of paces at most in any direction. The blockade was still burning, but even if it hadn’t been, no boats were getting into the lake now, as the first two this side of the firewall were roaring infernos, blocking the stream completely, dark shapes twisted within them. Further along the stream more fires raged. Some of the enemy were splashing in the stream, being skewered like fish with spears by Camlin’s companions from solid ground. A few boats had managed to make it to the stream bank and their cargoes of flesh and iron and harmful intentions were unloading rapidly. Fifteen, twenty men, more on another boat behind them. Camlin recognized one dressed in black leather and wool, cloak of sable and a silver helm.

Morcant.

The old first-sword of Rhin led his men along the bank, cutting down two of Edana’s warriors before they even realized the enemy were ashore.

Camlin ran to higher ground and started to loose arrows into them, knowing their strength of numbers could still sweep him and his dozen or so warriors from this side of the stream in short order.

Morcant was lost from view for a moment, so Camlin settled for winnowing their numbers.

One warrior spun and fell back into the stream with an arrow through his heart, another collapsing onto the ground, hands around the shaft through his throat. Then men spotted him and changed their direction to cut him off. He released another arrow, saw it punch into a thigh, then he was moving, pushing through a thick curtain of willow branches, circling right, into thicker reeds, pushing on to reappear on the stream bank, but behind the warriors who had been running at him. They were cautiously moving through the willow curtain. He put an arrow into a warrior’s back, close enough for its iron head to punch through a leather cuirass and deep into flesh, nocked another, drew and released into a face as the enemy turned, teeth flying as the arrowhead tore through his mouth and into his brain. Then Camlin was running again, his fingertips brushing his quiver as he ran.

Three arrows left.

He weaved through long grass, jumped and squeezed through a coppice of alders, circled slowly around to his left, hoping to do the same thing to his pursuers.

He saw the willow tree he’d ran past earlier and headed for it, cautiously peered through the dangling branches, but could see no enemy warriors. The stream bank was hidden from view here, but the din of battle seemed less, now.

Is it nearly over?