“How do we know you won’t just kill us?” asked a scratty-haired young lad beside Trapper. His version of Flick, it appeared, both in age and sense, or lack thereof.

“’Cause if the purpose was to kill you, I’d have ordered ’em to shoot while you were still blundering up the road. Believe me—and Trapper’ll confirm it—I’m not one for taking unnecessary risks with my person. All I want is a chat. No call for further bloodshed.”

Now Downside came striding from the trees, dragging the one with the lambskin cloak along with one big hand, heavy axe gripped in the other.

“Chief,” he grunted, and threw the man down next to the one with the arrow in his shoulder.

“I’m shot,” whimpered the one with the arrow in his shoulder.

“I’m clobbered,” groaned the one with the lambskin cloak, a bloody hand clapped to his bloody head.

“We see.” Trapper lowered his sword and dug it point-first into the ground. With bad grace the others swung bows from backs, pulled out axes and knives, set down spears, till there was quite a little armoury heaped up in front of the farmhouse.

Clover gave a satisfied nod. “Don’t that feel better?”

“Not really,” said Trapper, frowning at Downside’s axe.

“Well, it does for me, I can tell you that.” Clover whistled again, and Sholla, Flick and a couple of others slipped from the hedgerows, from the barn, from their hiding places and padded over, arrows still nocked to their bows, while Trapper and his men dropped in a reluctant half-circle around the far side of the fire, like children about to listen to a story.

“Now then,” said Clover. “Why don’t we start with what Black Calder’s about? What’s his mood, what’s his strength, what’s his thinking, you know. And naught but the truth, if you please.”

“Truth?” said one of Trapper’s men, the one with the big grey beard. “Truth is there’ll be a price to pay for this, Jonas Clover.” And he curled his lip and spat in the fire, and might have caught the carcass, too, which was somewhat of an annoyance. “Man can’t just flip sides whenever the wind changes.”

Clover rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “There’s always one.”

“Black Calder’s going to win back the North!” the old man growled. Quite the voice he had, rough as a throat full of gravel. “No fucking painted witch and no fucking Long Eye’ll change it.” He glanced up at Downside, standing over him. “When he does, the lot of you will—”

There was a sharp crack as Downside buried his axe in the man’s head and dragged him over backwards. His leg kicked so hard he kicked his boot off and it went flying high in the air, onto the roof of the barn, and that was the last move he made.

Downside leaned over, working his axe free. “That boy had a big mouth,” he grunted, by way of explanation.

“He did rather,” Clover had to admit. He spread his hands at the men on the other side of the fire, all staring at their dead comrade’s one bare foot. “But could we all work at making that the last corpse we leave here? Reckon we can all agree if there’s one thing we got too much of in the North, it’s corpses.”