Maquin glimpsed a warrior standing over him, sword raised. With a burst of effort, he rolled away, dragging the old man with him. Maquin felt his sword slip from his grip. They punched, kicked, bit and clawed at each other, then a knee landed in his gut, knocking the breath from him, his limbs weakening for a moment. The old man slid away, staggering to his feet. Pain lanced along Maquin’s ribs and he saw the glint of iron. Blood sheeted his side.

Get up, or you’re a dead man. He pushed, made it to one knee.

‘Finish him,’ the old man yelled at the Vin Thalun standing behind Maquin. His sword was stained red.

‘MAQUIN!’ a voice screamed. They all paused, looked up the trail. Lightning exploded overhead, for a heartbeat transforming the forest into a place of light and shadow.

Fidele stood twenty paces away, spear in hand. ‘Finish him,’ the old Vin Thalun said, ‘I’ll fetch Lykos’ bitch.’ He grinned and strode towards Fidele. Then he staggered, stumbled forward, sinking into the ground. He looked back, twisting at the waist, a look of terror on his face. With a jerk he sank deeper, as if someone were tugging at his feet from beneath the ground.

The sinking hole.

Maquin heaved himself upright, grabbed the sword-arm of the warrior over him. They wrestled back and forth. Maquin twisted the man’s wrist, the sword dropping from his grip. They slammed against a tree. Maquin wrapped his fingers around the man’s throat and started squeezing.

The Vin Thalun lifted his knee, connected with Maquin and suddenly he couldn’t breathe, was fighting the urge to empty his stomach. Still he would not loosen his grip. The Vin Thalun’s eyes bulged, his fists punching into Maquin’s ribs again and again.

Then a spear stabbed into the man’s chest. Fidele stood with the spear in her hand. She stared at the dead man, her eyes fierce, breathing hard. Then she flung the spear down as if it had burned her.

Maquin glanced about, remembering there had been another, the one with Maquin’s knife in his thigh. He saw him half a dozen paces away, lying twisted on the trail, face pale, eyes staring. Knife clipped his artery, then. Maquin gripped his blade and pulled it free.

He put his hand to his ribs – a sword cut, not deep but bleeding heavily.

‘Thanks,’ he said to Fidele.

‘You came back,’ Fidele said to him.

‘Aye. Well, seems you’re not the only fool in this forest.’

She smiled weakly at him, then twisted away and vomited.