Hearing a scream of rage, Hawkwood turned in time to see Quade’s sword slashing down towards him. He hurled himself to one side. The stiletto was in his hand, but he needed a more substantial weapon. He had no idea where his own tomahawk had fallen, but Cageaga’s was there in full view. Transferring the knife to his left hand, he scrambled towards it, his wounded shoulder screaming in protest.

He was halfway to his feet when Quade came in again, blade held high, to deliver a vicious downward stroke that would have cleaved bone had it connected, but by then Hawkwood had the tomahawk in his right hand and was able to parry the strike away. As he rolled, the heavy blade sheared past his injured arm, missing it by a hair’s breadth.

Using the tomahawk as a brace, Hawkwood pushed himself up. His head was swimming and the world, which seemed to be enveloped in nothing but smoke and noise, tilted alarmingly.

There was a fresh cut on Quade’s scalp, probably a graze from a musket ball, and blood now covered most of his face. He was breathing hard. With a manic cry, he attacked again: a reverse cut to Hawkwood’s right side. Hawkwood, managing to recover his balance, sucked in his stomach and slammed the tomahawk against the descending edge. Shock ran through his arm as steel met with steel. Sparks skittered along the colliding blades. From all sides there came shouts and crackles of musketry.

And then Quade’s injured right leg suddenly buckled and his boots lost their grip.

It was enough of an opening. Hawkwood’s moccasins gave him the traction he needed. Reversing his hold, he rammed the stiletto into Quade’s right bicep. Quade shrieked and pulled back, sword dropping. Letting go of the knife, Hawkwood pivoted. Curving the tomahawk round in a full-blooded strike, he drove the blade deep into Quade’s neck.

Quade made a sound halfway between a sob and a gurgle. Blood spurted as Hawkwood pulled the hatchet free. Quade’s body collapsed on to the snow.

Hawkwood tossed the hatchet aside and sank to his knees as chaos continued to erupt around him. The pain in his shoulder was exquisite. The blue uniforms were pulling back as more grey uniforms appeared, wreathed in smoke from the guns. Other figures were there, too, running among them; scalp-locked warriors, brandishing clubs and guns.

Tewanias.

Desperately, Hawkwood crabbed towards him.

Blood oozed out of a rent in the back of Tewanias’s coat. He groaned as Hawkwood pushed the trooper’s body aside and turned him over. Then his eyelids flickered and he opened his eyes. “Mat-huwa?”

“I am here, rake’niha.”

Tewanias grunted and tried to rise. Hawkwood held him down, pressing his hand against the wound.