‘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.

He went for the leader, covered the distance in a few strides and swung at the man’s head. His blade was blocked and he swerved right, avoiding a torch in the face. Instead it caught his shoulder, pain searing through him. He grunted, spun away, saw the warrior from the undergrowth closing in, the one with the knife in his thigh stumbling after them.

Not good. I need to finish this quickly. The old Vin Thalun clearly had other ideas. He backed away, sword and torch raised, making time for his comrades to close on Maquin.

Can’t just stand here waiting to be killed. Gritting his teeth, Maquin charged at the old warrior, who stepped forward to meet him, sword high, torch low.

Knows what he’s doing. Maquin skidded, leaning back. The torch whistled over him, a trail of sparks streaming past his eyes and then Maquin’s feet were crashing into his opponent, the two of them going down together, rolling. The torch went spinning through the air, both warriors trying to bring their swords to bear, snarling and grappling. The old Vin Thalun gouged a thumb into Maquin’s burned shoulder. Maquin grunted and headbutted the man. The pressure on his shoulder disappeared.

Wish I hadn’t left my knives in other men.

Footsteps thudded; the other two Vin Thalun were close.

‘Hold him still,’ one yelled.

‘Trying to,’ the old man grunted.