Rennic pushed the glaive toward Chel and snatched the crossbow from the prince’s hands, along with the lever and a handful of bolts, and raced to one of the arrow-slit windows. Chel was an instant behind him, glaive and sword cradled uselessly in his hands, eye pressed to the next window along. There was the duke, sidling across the stable-yard, his step hesitant, his gaze over his shoulder at the lower door. Presumably waiting to see if it was safe to come back, or if he was being pursued.

Rennic dropped to one knee, working the lever into the crossbow’s notch and drawing the creaking string, then slotted in a bolt. He sighted along its length, through the arrow-slit, at the oblivious duke. Chel looked down at the weapon. The quarrel was warped, the string fraying.

‘It looks pretty old, are you sure you can—’

‘Princeling,’ Rennic growled over him, ‘find another crossbow and load it.’

He pulled the trigger.

The bolt twanged from the bow, swishing through the air and smacking off the packed, frozen dirt several feet from the duke. The duke squealed and took to his heels, making for the wide gate that led to the main courtyard.

‘Fuck! Rancid fucking crossbows! Give me another!’

He slung the crossbow aside, and Tarfel scurried over to press another into his waiting hand. Chel could only watch, his arms already full of weapons. Rennic checked the quarrel, raised and fired. The bolt skittered away, pinging over the duke’s shoulder and into the ground, setting him squealing anew.

‘Another!’

Tarfel passed him another weapon and he sighted along it. The duke had reached the wide gate and was trying to open it. It was shut fast, and the noise of the confession beyond appeared to be drowning out his hammering wails. Rennic lined up the bolt and pulled the trigger.

The string snapped.

‘Fuck! Another!’

The duke had spotted the wicket gate.

‘Another!’

The duke ran to the wicket gate, first trying to push, then pull.

‘Another! What the fuck!’

Rennic swung around. Tarfel had the last crossbow, feebly trying to lever the string back. He looked up in misery. ‘I think it’s stuck, I can’t—’

In the stable-yard, the wicket gate swung open, and the duke darted inside. He was gone.

Rennic’s gaze swung back to the prince, and his knuckles went white.

‘You useless fucking shit-heap!’

He threw himself at the prince, fists swinging. He landed only a couple of blows before Chel was on his back.

‘Stop!’

Rennic stood, levering Chel clear of the ground, spinning and wrenching. He threw him clear, but Chel leapt straight back, a fresh scrape along one arm and a nasty throb in his shoulder.

‘Stop! Stop. Hitting. Him.’

Rennic swayed on his feet as the rage seemed to drain from him. He seemed at once very tired. Tired and old. Chel pressed his advantage.