Hawkwood looked up, taking in the bloodied war club and the hand that held it. A dark form, dressed in a buckskin coat and broadcloth leggings floated into view. Behind it, other similarly clothed figures were moving among the bodies. Hawkwood recoiled as a hand reached towards him. A fresh bolt of pain ripped through his head as he tried again to reach his knife.

Then a voice spoke. It seemed to come from a long way off. “She:kon, Kahrhakon:ha. Skennenko:wa ken?”

Kahrhakon:ha.

A name from the past. Hawk.

Hawkwood blinked away blood and tried to focus. His skull felt as if it was on fire. A face materialized above him, unpainted. Strong, stern, almost haughty features, not young, set below a shaven scalp surmounted by a topknot decorated with two white feathers.

Weakly, Hawkwood looked to the side and saw that the Indian who’d been about to dash Lawrence’s brain to a pulp was sprawled on the ground, a dark stain spreading across the snow beneath him. Lawrence had collapsed against a boulder, musket in hand. He was staring at the body before him and at the three Indian warriors who were examining the scattered corpses. He turned towards Hawkwood, a look of total bafflement on his face.

Hawkwood squinted upwards. The figure hadn’t moved. As he made to wipe the blood from his eyes so he could see, the action sent another white-hot bolt of lightning through his skull and the figure began to dissolve. Then a hand took his.

Feeling the strength in the grip, Hawkwood focused again and stared at the tall warrior and the war club he was holding, dripping with the Oneida’s blood. A knot formed in his throat. It couldn’t be, he thought. Tears pricked his eyes and then his vision blurred again.

In the same language as before, the voice commanded: “Lie still little brother.”

And darkness descended.

13

Crouched on Hawkwood’s chest and no more than a foot from his nose, the mouse stared back at him through bright, black eyes. As rodents went, this one wasn’t that big; five inches of sleek furry body, complemented at the sharp end by a large head and impressively pointed snout and at the blunt end by three inches of shortened tail. It looked more curious than alarmed, until Hawkwood raised his head, at which point, with a nervous twitch of its whiskers and a quick flick of its tail, it was gone.

Hawkwood closed his eyes and sank back down. It took a couple of seconds for the realization to sink in that, when he’d lifted his head, it hadn’t hurt; well, not much. Which made a change. He tried again. Willing himself to sit up, he got as far as resting his weight on his elbows – a small victory in itself and more than enough to be going on with.