The knifeman’s body jolts like he’s had an electric shock.

‘It’s HAAAAAARRRBYYYYYYYY’S!’ I yell at the top of my voice, and I leap across the hollow over the dead woman and charge the knifeman, the point of the spear aimed at his belly.

The knifeman catches the shaft of the spear with one hand and yanks it out of my grip. He flings it to the ground and grabs me by the throat. He lowers his face so that it’s right next to mine and I can feel his breath on my skin.

‘WHERE HARBY?’ he yells at me, squeezing so tight I can barely breathe.

The knifeman flings me to the ground. I land on my torn shoulder and pain shoots through me. Coughing, gasping, I rub my throat. I roll over, try to reach Harby’s spear, but the knifeman stamps on my hand. I cry out in pain. He gets off my hand and crouches down next to me. His eyes glint.

‘Where? Harby?’ he says slowly, like he’s talking to a small child. ‘Where Harby?’ he says again, a little louder this time. I see his knuckles turn white as he tightens his grip on his knife.

‘Harby’s dead! And you … he’s dead because of you … because of what you did … it was you he was afraid of … it was you he was running from … you killed him!’ I say. I’m trembling all over with fear and fury.

The knifeman stares at me coldly. Quicker than a snake, he grabs my hair and hauls me to my feet. I scream with pain. He snaps my head back and presses the tip of his knife into my throat. My blood pounds in my ears and I feel as if I’m going to pass out. I look up at the blue blue sky. Images flash before my eyes, fast as a flick book: Mum and Dad and Dara. Beaky and Lamont and Nero. Wolf and Bear and Lynx. Harby and Mothga.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper, and close my eyes.

The knifeman’s blade presses in.

WORD

I wait for the blade to pierce my skin, for everything to just stop.

Then I feel the knife tip drop away and the knifeman’s grip loosen.

I open my eyes and look up. He’s heard something. At the same moment he flings me away from him and I fall, coughing, to the ground.

Then I hear it; a voice, faint and fragile and familiar.

‘Cholliemurrum!’

I lift my head up and stare, because stumbling into the glade, cut and bruised and filthy, is Harby. Harby! Harby’s alive!

But the knifeman is charging towards him and I try to scream Harby’s name, to tell him to run FAST! FAST! but all that comes out is coughing. I scramble to my feet and grab Harby’s broken spear but the knifeman has nearly reached him. And Harby’s just standing there, looking at him, not even trying to get away.

‘Run, Harby!’ I wheeze, but it’s too late and I know he’ll never outrun the knifeman.