There’s the trouble with avoiding battles. Sometimes they reach out and find you anyway.

Calder’s guards had made a ring of shields about the top of the hillock, and on the crest beside the flat stone where Calder’s standard was set—the same sign Bethod used to fight under. The great man himself stood in its shadow, arms grimly folded, watching his army and all his hopes crumble.

Clover lurked not far off in that hunched way of his, like he was trying to fade out o’ sight. Sholla was glad he was there, though she didn’t let it show. She liked Clover. He was a reasonably good chief. He was a reasonably good man. And that was about as good as chiefs and men got, in her experience.

“You all right?” she asked him, her bow in one hand and an arrow in the other so she could at least look like she might be some help.

“Thus far. You?”

“Apart from… all this.” And she waved the arrow towards the furious fight not a hundred strides off now. “Where did they come from?”

“The West Valleys, I reckon. The Nail and his boys. Seems he didn’t fall out with Rikke after all.” Clover rubbed his jaw with something close to admiration. “Reckon she laid a smart trap and we’ve all blundered into it. Knew I should’ve stuck with her.” He put a hand on Sholla’s shoulder, leaning close. “Might be a good move for you and Flick to head into the woods.” There were a lot of other folk heading into the woods. Heading as fast as their legs’d carry ’em. Most of Clover’s boys had already melted away. It was about what their chief would’ve done, after all.

“What about you?” muttered Sholla.

Clover glanced sideways at Calder. “I’ve a sense our chief would rather I remained.”

“I want to stay,” said Flick, weighing his sword in his hand.

“No, you don’t,” said Clover, simply. “Here’s your last lesson. Winning battles is bad enough. Never hang around to see one lost.”

Sholla liked Clover. But nowhere near enough to die for him. She gave him a nod, shrugged her bow over her shoulder, then caught Flick by the shirt and dragged him off towards the trees, arrow still clutched in her sweaty hand.

Downside was watching it all with his teeth angrily bared as they passed, turning the haft of his axe around and around in his hand. Plain he couldn’t wait to get stuck into the mess, the mad bastard.

Sholla wouldn’t miss him.

“When’s our moment to be?” grunted Scenn, frowning through the wind-shook greenery towards the battle. Not that you could miss the battle, if you had your eyes open.

’Twas a vast battle. Ten battles put together. Biggest he ever saw by far. Bigger’n any his father saw, in spite of all his bloated boasting, which had been one o’ the man’s many failings. His father once claimed he killed two hundred men at Yarnvost and Scenn later learned there’d only been a hundred with both sides put together. Thinking of his father made him smile. He’d hated that fat bastard, but he’d been quite the laugh in the right mood. Beloved of the moon, he’d been. Beloved of the moon, and laughing with the moon now, no doubt, as they smiled down fondly on the slaughter.