Calder’s standard-bearer stood a few strides off, a young lad with eyes big as cartwheels at all the battle and death, not to mention the duel that had broken out right under his nose.

“You!” shouted Calder. “Kill him.”

The standard-bearer numbly drew his sword. He looked at Clover. He looked at Calder. He looked at one of Calder’s guards, crawling through the grass with an arrow in his shoulder while the others shuffled to plug the gap. Then he let go of the standard and sprinted for the trees. Calder stared after him. A little wistful, almost, as his standard toppled over and slid down the hill. For twenty years, his authority had been iron-forged. Now it was cobwebs in a storm. All it takes is one lost fight. Clover could’ve told him that, but he was a little busy.

He gasped as Downside rushed at him, managed to dodge the first whipping axe swing. Clover looked for an opening he could stab at but the big shield came at him fast, the rim crunching into his mouth, snapping his head up. He got his bearings just in time to see the axe flashing at him the other way and staggered clear, heavy blade hissing past and knocking a great chunk from the stone. Clover stumbled away, trying to shake the throbbing from his head, from his jaw, nearly blundered into one of Calder’s guards as he ran wild-eyed for the trees. Downside grinned over the bright rim of his shield. Clover stuck his tongue into the sore hole where a tooth used to be and spat blood.

The truth was, a stubborn splinter of Jonas Steepfield was still buried in him. Buried so deep it could never be worked free. Buried so deep that it stung at him whenever he backed down, whenever he ran away, whenever he changed sides. And now it worked its way up to the surface. Worked its way up and came out in a long, low growl.

“All right, fucker,” he snarled, fist tightening around the grip of his sword. “Let’s have you.”

“Have me?” sneered Downside. “Can you even—”

An arrow came looping from the trees and stuck into Downside’s shoulder. It didn’t stick deep. Just lodged in his mail. Probably didn’t even draw blood. But it was enough to make him turn his head, for an instant.

In the end, the only thing a man can really do is pick his moment. Watch for the opening, and recognise it when it comes, and seize it.

Clover feinted left, switched right, heard the grunt of surprise as Downside’s axe thudded into the turf where he might’ve been. Clover was already rolling across the flat stone, came up turning, edge of his sword flicking out and catching the back of Downside’s boot, below the hem of his mail coat.

Downside hardly even noticed, growled as he turned, lifting his axe, stepping forwards. Then he lurched sideways with a surprised hoot, clutching the edge of the stone with his shield hand. Clover reckoned that was the tendon snapping at the back of his ankle.