The three killers sensed rather than saw the man surging towards them as they raised their eyes, squinting through firelight. Meulon barged the first man, arcing his knife hand so that the blade cut through the neck of the second man, who fell writhing into flames as the first rolled in agony from a displaced shoulder and broken ribs. Their companion lunged with his sword at the wild giant but where the man had stood a heartbeat before was now space. He saw the blur of an arm and then felt the burning tear across his throat. As he sank to his knees, clutching his pulsating blood, his killer despatched the first routier and was out of sight. There had been no cry of alarm from any of Meulon’s victims. None of the mercenaries knew that the flitting shadow that ran among them was a killer exacting his own justice. When his victims saw his blood-flecked bearded face looming from the shimmering darkness, it was too late. That heart-lurching moment was their last.

A dozen men lay dead. Meulon urged surviving villagers to run for the forest as he killed. He had not yet drawn his sword but the tide was turning against him. Men across the village finally realized he was attacking their own. They turned, yelling commands, and ran towards him, blocking his escape.

Meulon backed against a cob-and wattle-hovel. Fire consumed the thatch and walls as he made his stand. He unsheathed his sword and held the killing knife in his other hand. The men were wary, unsure whether to rush him, and Meulon took the initiative with two great strides forward, inflicting vicious wounds on the first man. He used the burning hovel to protect his back as they lunged. He knew they would soon overwhelm him but they faltered as the roof collapsed in a torrent of sparks.

Men behind his attackers began to scream, the sudden commotion causing confusion among those pressing Meulon. He took advantage of it and cut low, taking men’s legs from under them, and then saw why the routiers were panicking. Barely a dozen strides away, a shield bearing a familiar blazon forced routiers aside as savage blade strokes maimed and killed. Renfred’s attack splintered the group; only three of the ten men survived. They turned and ran.

Meulon’s great fist knocked the nearest to the ground. Blackstone needed at least one man alive. One was enough. Several villagers rushed from their hiding places; clubs and scythes brought down the remaining two. They hacked the killers to death, the routiers’ screams satisfying a lust for revenge.

Meulon and Renfred watched.

‘It’s done, my friend,’ said Meulon. ‘Death came close for me. I’m grateful you stayed.’