Rennic tried an attack, a feint then a slash with the knife toward Hurkel’s bloodied face. Too quick, the confessor’s arm was up, then Rennic was falling backward as the club hissed past his arm. He turned back toward Chel, meeting his eyes, opening his mouth to speak. This was the signal. Chel tried to stand, to be ready, but he could not force the air down inside him.

The club hit Rennic square in the back, and with a cry, he flew. His body lurched across the platform, crashing into the boards at its edge, slumping and sliding and slipping from sight. For a moment, he was there, then his legs were over the side and he vanished.

Chel stared, open-mouthed, his winding forgotten. He felt cold all over, frozen in space.

Hurkel took a step toward where Rennic had disappeared, then stopped, and brayed a honking laugh over the gorge. Behind him, at the wagon’s end, the confessors had paused their chant, but now it resumed with greater urgency. Hurkel swivelled his ponderous form toward Chel and began a slow stomp toward him. He was chuckling.

‘Sand-crab! At last we shall attend to your soul. Prepare to make your peace, and receive the Shepherd’s mercy!’

Chel forced himself to stand, sucking in thin breaths at last. The mace felt brittle in his hand. He wondered if the archers were still behind him in the rubble, whether one would be able to land a hit on Hurkel’s unarmoured parts. It seemed a faint hope. How strange, he thought, after everything he’d experienced, to be killed by Hurkel in the end. Had the Norts not arrived when they had, Hurkel could have resolved this in Denirnas lowport and saved everyone a lot of bother.

The sky had gone black, and the wind had dropped. He felt the first delicate patter of rain.

His eyes prickled with tears.

I was supposed to be lucky.

Something moved in the blurred corner of his vision, something at the platform’s edge. A dark-clad figure hauling itself back onto the timber, moving slowly, painfully. Bright hope bloomed in Chel’s chest. He tried not to alert Hurkel, but already the confessors were shouting, their chanting fallen away.

The Pentarch turned as Rennic pulled himself clear, then up onto one knee. He was breathing with great difficulty. Part of Chel smirked at the irony.

‘Didn’t I kill you once already?’ Hurkel bellowed, taking a step in Rennic’s direction.

Wincing, Rennic ignored him. ‘Little man,’ he called, his voice strained. ‘Keg.’

Chel looked down at the keg, his seat until a moment before.

‘Throw me the fucking keg!’