“Hey, Trapper,” he said, friendly as he could. Always keep it friendly, if you can.

“Clover? That you?”

“I believe it is, though these days I’m sure o’ nothing.”

“Where the bloody hell have you been?”

“That there is quite a story.” Trapper’s men were poking around, but not too carefully. It was chilly, and they were drifting over to the warmth, and that homely smell of cooking meat. “Sailed to Midderland with the Great Wolf and the Young Lion, felt seasick on the way over, got caught in a storm, fought a battle, lost, felt seasick on the way back.” They’d gathered about the other side of the fire, now, off guard. “Then Tricky Rikke sent me down here to have a word with you lot. Some doubts over where the border’s at, apparently.”

Took ’em a moment to catch up. Then the one with the grey beard hefted a big axe. “You’re working for that witch?”

Clover scratched gently at his scar. “Honestly, the situation’s a little…

changeable. Trying to pick my way to solid ground, as usual. I was hoping to offer you lads some meat. A token of good intentions, you know.” He pushed his knife into the carcass and the juice leaked bloody. “Don’t think it’s done yet, though. Unless you want to come back later?”

Trapper shifted one hand to sit on the pommel of his sword and slowly shook his head. “Don’t think we can.”

“Then I guess we’ll have to do this hungry.” Clover gave a sharp whistle and an arrow flitted from nowhere and stuck quivering into the carcass.

His hope had been they’d stay calm, realise they were surrounded, do the sensible thing. But thinking about it now, the sensible thing’s a lot to ask once arrows start flying, even into things that are already dead.

“Fuck!” someone shouted. The old boy with the grey beard whirled about, axe all over the place. One of the others had to dodge it, nearly fell, stumbled back and kicked a shower of sparks from the fire. Trapper drew his sword. Another in a lambskin cloak took off running like a hare at a handclap. Total shambles.

“Whoa!” said Clover, holding his palms high. “Everyone, whoa!”

The one with the helmet took a step at him, raising his spear. An arrow stuck into his shoulder and he breathed in hard and gave a great squeal, spear dropping into the fire and sending up more sparks. He twisted around, reaching over his shoulder, then under, trying to get to the arrow, but his fingertips couldn’t quite touch it.

“I’m shot!” he hissed between his gritted teeth. “They fucking shot me!”

“We see,” said Clover, pointing around the farm. “I’ve got men in the barn there, and over there. And in those trees, and those. All around you, shafts nocked and strings drawn.” There was only Sholla and a few others, really, but Clover had no problem with a lie that saved lives. Or any other kind, for that matter. “Unless you all want an arrow you can’t reach, my strongly worded advice would be to stack your weapons neatly over there and come join me at the fire, so we can all have a little chat without the distraction of the Great Leveller breathing on our necks.”