The giant bats the blade away with a simple chop of his axe and the sword is wrenched from the Dean’s grip. The giant raises the axe to kill him, but Thomas has found Riven’s staff and runs at him. The giant sees him and diverts his axe to catch Thomas’s clumsy blow. He flicks his wrist, catching the staff under the steel pick, smashing it from Thomas’s grasp. Then he swats Thomas with a backhand punch that sends him scrabbling in the mud. Strange whirling lights fill his vision. The giant moves towards him.

The Dean takes up the staff, cracks it against the fourth man’s skull, who reels away, and then he flies at the giant, diverting him while Thomas rolls out of his reach. Riven is up, but still bent and clutching Thomas’s planted staff for support. Thomas shoves him backwards, unplugs the staff and turns back, just in time to see the giant block another of the Dean’s attacks. The giant takes the blows on the fleshy part of his arm without even flinching.

The Dean steps back, looking up at the giant with something like awe.

‘Run, Brother Thomas!’ he shouts over his shoulder. ‘For the love of God, just run!’

Then he wades in again, hacking at the giant, and again the giant parries the blows with ease. The giant has a blank smile on his lips as he aims a swipe that would have taken the Dean’s head off. But now the fourth man is up again, coming at the Dean from behind. Before Thomas can move he smells wine and feels something touch the skin below his ear. The point of a knife.

Riven.

‘See what happens, shall we, hey?’ Riven says. ‘Against the law to kill a bull without first baiting it, you know?’

It is over soon enough. The giant feints. The Dean doesn’t fall for it. The fourth man swings at him and the Dean blocks it and even pushes him back, but then the giant feints again. This time the Dean is drawn. He dives forward, aiming his staff at the giant’s throat, but the giant steps aside and swings his axe blade down and there is a noise like that of a shovel in dirt.

The Dean’s bellow of rage turns into a wailing scream. He staggers forward with blood guttering from a gash from throat to sternum. He manages a few steps before dropping to his knees in a slew of blood. His wrist hangs to his knees. Blood is everywhere. He falls forward into it, and it seethes on to the muddy grass where he lies twitching. A moment later he is still, the blood slows and its smell drifts in the breeze.

There is silence. The canons stand in a row, their faces a line of pale coins.

‘Well, that went all right,’ Riven says. ‘Now it’s your turn.’