Hunting in packs, predators cut out the weakest animal from the herd, run it to ground and then move in for the kill. The Oneida were applying the same tactic. Either they had detected from Lawrence’s spoor that he was injured or they’d been watching from the trees for some time, waiting until he showed signs of fading before launching their attack. Two of the remaining three Indians were running towards him. The third had Hawkwood in his sights.

The hatchet was a weapon for which he’d found little use in either his army days or in his career as a Runner. Some skills, however, were never forgotten. They simply remained dormant until called upon.

The first warrior was less than five strides from Lawrence when Hawkwood let fly. The Oneida crashed to the ground with the tomahawk blade embedded in the back of his skull.

Which left Hawkwood without a weapon, save for the stiletto in his boot. It wasn’t enough. He reached for it anyway.

The carbine’s report sounded incredibly loud. Hawkwood felt a sharp, searing blaze of pain across his forehead. As he went down, he caught a brief sight of Lawrence jabbing his musket at one of the remaining attackers, while at the edge of his vision he saw the fifth warrior – presumably the one who’d shot him – draw a knife from the beaded sash at his waist.

Hawkwood tried to rise. Through the blood that was seeping into his eyes he saw Lawrence stumble. As his adversary let out a triumphant bray and raised the war club above his head to deliver the coup de grâce, Hawkwood heard another, closer, crow of victory and looked up. The shooter stood above him.

With great deliberation the Oneida laid his gun to one side, drew his knife and placed a knee on Hawkwood’s chest. Taking hold of a clump of Hawkwood’s hair with his free hand, he pulled it tight. Pain shot through Hawkwood’s skull. Half-blinded, he pawed weakly for the top of his boot, knowing the stiletto was out of reach. The Oneida bent and pressed the point of his knife against Hawkwood’s scalp and grinned.

From behind them came a piercing scream, followed by a swift pattering sound.

Lawrence! Hawkwood thought despairingly.

And then the grinning face above him shuddered under the impact of a war club, crushing the side of the skull. So fast and so vicious was the strike that Hawkwood’s attacker made no sound. There was only a sickening crunch followed by a loose thump as his body sagged sideways on to the snow.

And then a deafening silence.