Something thudded onto the ground beside him. Salach’s head, dark hair matted with blood, one side of its face a bloody pulp. Balur came to stand at Ethlinn’s shoulder. How can it come to this? It cannot be ending like this. I have drunk from the cup. “Mercy,” he cried. Ethlinn’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t deserve it.” Then her spear-blade lunged forwards, and he saw it sink deep, dark heart’s-blood welling. He took a rattling breath that didn’t seem to work, and then the world was growing dim, narrowing to a tunnel of light, Ethlinn’s grim face at the end of it, and he was falling…
