The Nail clenched his jaw, fixing his eyes on the city. More men ahead, and not running so easily. Starting to gather into something like a line, facing away from Carleon. Facing him. He took a ripping breath, and blew out blood, and smiled wider than ever. The easy killing was done.

Now came the hard killing.

“Make a line!” roared Trapper.

He’d been heading for the walls, steeling himself for the climb, when he’d seen the men sweep down from the south. Now men were pouring into their rear from the west as well. Black Calder had been caught with his fucking trousers down and no mistake, and they all had their arses out with him.

“Make a fucking line!” he snarled, catching a running man by the shoulder.

“You make a line!” A fist caught him on the side of the jaw, knocked him stumbling.

He couldn’t even tell who’d thrown it. He had no more’n a score, all of ’em facing different ways, staring numbly at the chaos. He had to drag ’em into place, but he hardly knew which way the line should face. Towards the city, or away?

“What do we do?” someone whimpered.

There were enemies everywhere. Trapper wasn’t sure who they were. Where they’d come from. That witch Rikke must’ve witched ’em up out o’ hell. They’d laughed at the Long Eye, back in Currahome. No one was laughing now.

“Shields, you fucks!”

They stared at him with wet, wide, terrified eyes. A horse charged past, dragging the shattered remains of a wagon. A man gave a great squeal, an arrow in his side. Another was on his knees, clutching, clutching, hands clamped to his bloody face. “I can’t see, I can’t see!”

“Shields!” roared Trapper, not knowing what more he could do than shout. But his men were already running. Even the ones he’d gathered. The little knot flying apart in every direction, tossing down their weapons. Trapper would’ve run, too, if he could’ve seen anywhere to run to.

Men were charging at him. Cutting, hacking, driving running figures ahead of them. At the front was a tall, lean bastard with an axe and a sword and a shock of pale hair, his snarling devil’s face all dashed with red.

By the dead, the Nail. That mad bastard was supposed to be miles away. Trapper dropped his shield.

There was nowhere to run to.

He ran anyway.

Sholla had thought they’d be far from the fighting on this little hillock in the eaves of the woods. A nice tump with a big flat rock sunk into the lush green on top, a perfect spot to sit and shave some cheese on a happier day. Here they’d be safe, and could get a good view of the carnage, and a sound lesson in why battles are things best avoided.

She’d watched Calder’s men and the Crinna bastards move forwards, set their ladders, start to climb. Then everything had fallen apart. First what looked like men of Uffrith had come pouring down from the far hills to the south, then what looked like men of the West Valleys had swept in from the west, ripping through the baggage, splitting Calder’s forces in half. Some of ’em were pressing in not too far from where Sholla and Flick were standing.