And they were gone.

Agrick was looking down at something, not far from the fire. Staring down, axe in one hand, helmet in the other. Craw didn’t want to know what he was looking at, but he already knew.

One of Hardbread’s lot was crawling away, making the grass thrash as he dragged bloody legs behind him. Shivers walked up and split his head with the back of his axe. Not that hard, but hard enough. Neat. Like a practised miner testing the ground. Someone was still screaming, somewhere. Or maybe it was just in Craw’s head. Maybe just the sighing breath in his throat. He blinked around. Why the hell had they stayed? He shook his head like it might shake the answer out. Just made his jaw ache worse.

‘The leg move?’ Scorry was asking, squatting down over Brack, sitting on the ground gripping a bloody hand to one big thigh.

‘Aye, it fucking moves! It just fucking hurts to fucking move it!’

Craw was sticky with sweat, scratchy, burning hot. His jaw was throbbing where his shield had cracked it, arm throbbing too. Dodgy knee and ankle doing their usual whining, but he didn’t seem hurt. Not really. Not sure how he’d come out of that not hurt. The hot glow of battle was fading fast, his aching legs shaky as a new-born calf’s, his sight swimming. Like he’d borrowed all the strength he’d used and had to pay it back with interest. He took a few steps towards the burned-out fire and the dead packhorse. No sign of the saddle horses. Run off or dead. He dropped down on his arse in the middle of the Heroes.

‘You all right?’ Whirrun was leaning over him, great long sword held below the crosspiece in one fist, blade all spattered and dashed. Blooded, the way it had to be. Once the Father of Swords is drawn, it has to be blooded. ‘You all right?’

‘I reckon.’ Craw’s fingers were so tight around the strap of his shield he could hardly remember how to make them unclench. Finally forced ’em open, let the shield drop into the grass, its face showing a few fresh gouges to go with a hundred old wounds, a new dent in the dull boss.

Wonderful’s stubbly hair was matted with blood. ‘What happened?’ Rubbing her eyes on the back of her arm. ‘Am I cut?’

‘Scratch,’ Scorry said, prodding at her scalp with his thumbs.

Drofd was kneeling beside her, rocking back and forward, gripping tight to his arm, blood streaked to his fingertips.

The sun flashed in Craw’s eyes, made his lids flicker. He could hear Yon screaming, over by the stones, roaring after Hardbread and his lads. ‘Come back ’ere, you fuckers! Come on you bastard cowards!’ Couldn’t make no difference. Every man’s a coward. A coward and a hero, depending how things stand. They weren’t coming back. Looked like they’d left eight corpses behind. They weren’t coming back. Craw prayed to the old dead Gods of this place they weren’t coming back.