The German had his spatha held up, arm bent, ready to stab forward at eye level. Ferox watched, saw the slightest betraying flicker in the man’s bright blue eyes and jumped back. His left foot landed on the next stone, the right boot squelching in mud, as the warrior jabbed at air. The centurion wrenched his foot out, feeling the leather uppers break apart as he left his boot in the clinging mud, and had his soaking sock on the stone. It was one of the larger rocks, wide and deep enough for him to stand, left foot forward and right behind, waiting. Better still, it was just a little nearer to the stone he had left than the one the German was on.

With a bellow of rage the warrior jumped, this time scything his blade in a great downward sweep. Ferox raised his shield, felt the wood cracking under the blow, and thrust, down low again, hit the edge of the red shield, went past and he felt it jar as it struck the mail rings. At least one had broken, and the long triangular tip speared through cloth and flesh. He pulled back quickly as the man slashed down again, going for his right hand.

Ferox had struck a blow, but doubted that it was enough, for there was only a little blood on his sword and he knew that the wound was not deep. The German swung again and he took the blow on the boss of his shield, feeling it dent in and the round piece of metal shudder. His own stab aimed higher than the last, only to meet his opponent’s shield cleanly and be blocked.

The centurion was already tired, his breath coming in pants, while the German looked as if he was only warming up. Another downward hack and half the little shield fell away. Ferox made another attack on the same spot and it was blocked again. The sword swept down and more of the wooden board crumbled. There was little more than the boss left now. His own blade had scored the red shield, but not weakened its defence.

So this was death, the beckoning of the Otherworld. There was little for him here, but he still feared the journey to the land of shadows. He wondered whether his grandfather would speak to him or turn away in disgust. Would she be there? She had not believed in such things, but what did that matter?

Someone screamed in pain and either Vindex or his opponent must be down. The beardless youth was calling to the big warrior in a tongue he did not understand. It sounded urgent.

The German cut again and Ferox jumped to the side, slashing low as he dived into the mud and rolled. It took the warrior by surprise, and he felt his sword strike and cut the man’s shin.