Maquin let go of his knife.

It smashed into the warrior’s face, slicing through the warrior’s eye, piercing his brain. He dropped without a sound, one leg twitching.

Maquin slipped from the branch and landed on the path, tugged his knife free and set off after the other warriors.

Six left.

Maquin was surefooted and light on his feet, his training in the Vin Thalun pits having raised his strength and stamina to new levels, his reactions faster than they had ever been. He ran quickly, the flicker of torchlight ahead guiding him, and in a handful of heart-beats the Vin Thalun were in sight. They were moving in single file, the trail constricting them. Maquin slowed as he drew closer, focusing on the last warrior, who gripped a spear and was using it as a staff, his head down, concentrating on where he was putting his feet. Maquin caught up with him, silent as mist, slipped a hand about the man’s face, clamping over his mouth, in the same breath sawing his knife across the warrior’s throat. Blood jetted, the man slumped, Maquin holding him upright and lowering him gently to the floor.

Five. His heart pounded in his head as he waited for the warrior in front to turn, but the man continued walking.

A cry went up from further along the column, bringing the Vin Thalun rippling to a halt. Maquin saw the last warrior turn; this one held a flaming torch. He saw Maquin looming out of the darkness just in front of him and let out a cry as Maquin’s knife slammed into his belly. Both of them tumbled to the ground, Maquin using his momentum to rip the knife upwards, slicing the Vin Thalun from belly to ribs. They both screamed, crashing to the floor, blood exploding in Maquin’s face.

Four.

Maquin rolled to his feet, came up running, snatching at the burning torch.

‘It’s the Old Wolf,’ a cry went up. Maquin saw fear-filled faces but knew that these men were warriors. They were not so easily defeated. They turned to face him, drawing swords, levelling spears. Surging forwards he hurled the torch at the man trying to circle to his left, sending the warrior stumbling into the undergrowth. Maquin drew his other knife, a blade in each hand, and then he was amongst them.

He ducked a sword swing, punched one knife into a thigh, left it there, powered on. He swayed away from a spear thrust, grabbed the shaft and pulled the warrior off balance, putting his knife in the man’s eye, the blade sticking.

Three. Then he was through them, one dead, one injured, maybe bleeding out. Both his knives gone, he drew his sword.

The older warrior was stood before him, short sword in one hand, torch held like a weapon in the other. The man Maquin had thrown the torch at had extricated himself from the undergrowth but was keeping his distance, eyes glancing between Maquin and the old leader. The warrior with Maquin’s knife in his thigh was upright; it didn’t look as if Maquin had hit the artery that would have put him down. They all stood, frozen for a dozen heartbeats, then thunder crackled overhead and Maquin was moving again.