Crane was struck by how still the wizard was lying. He hardly seemed to be breathing at all! It was a little uncanny, he thought. A little bit spooky, the way the others were all lying so perfectly still, as if they'd been murdered in the night. All except Spooner, he thought with an inner chuckle. Of all the people to survive a night time massacre, it would have to be him.

     He was close enough to see the wizard's face clearly now. The glittering was just where his eyes would be if they weren't closed. Two wet, smooth surfaces reflecting the dancing flames of the fire... They were his eyes, he suddenly realised. His eyes were open! He must also have been awoken by the noise and had decided to just lie there while he tried to get back to sleep. And he was lying so still. So uncannily still...

     He looked up just in time to see Cotton lunging at him with the knife. He threw up his arm, intending to deflect it, and the blade opened a long gash across the palm of his hand as it plunged downwards. Crane threw himself to the side, crying out in alarm, and tripped over Quills body, falling to the ground with a heavy thump. Cotton threw himself upon the other man and stabbed again, and this time the tracker couldn’t stop it from entering his body. It slipped between the ribs on his left side, but he barely felt it. All he knew was that there was suddenly no strength in his body. He could only watch as the ex poacher pulled the knife out again and tensed up for the killing blow.

     “What on the name of...” cried Spooner angrily. “What are you doing?” An invader had entered the camp, he suddenly decided. Someone was attacking them! He jumped to his feet and reached for his pistol, but was confused when he saw that it was Cotton and Crane struggling on the ground. Some kind of idiotic horseplay? They'd wake the whole camp! “Cut that out, you idiots! Stop...”

     The flames reflected from the knife in Cotton's hand, and Spooner saw blood dripping from it. Cotton glanced across at Spooner, then plunged the knife deep into Crane’s body. The sound it made as it tore through living flesh was unmistakable to any serving soldier, and Spooner was paralysed with shock as he finally realised what was going on. He looked around at the other men, still lying peacefully on their backs despite the ruckus, and now he noticed the smell of blood as well. How could he have missed it? It filled the camp, and it was so strong! Overpoweringly strong, as if every man had been drenched in it.

     Cotton saw the shock registering on Spooner's face and took advantage of it, drawing his pistol before the other man had a chance to recover. Spooner snapped out of it just in time and reached for his own gun, rolling to the side as the other man's gun gave a thundering detonation and a bullet tore through the spot he'd just left. He pointed his own gun and fired off a couple of shots, to hold Cotton at bay for a precious couple of moments while he scrambled back to his feet, but instead of taking cover Cotton just ran at him, still shooting and with the knife still in his other hand. It was man against man in a stand up fight now, and even though he was confident of being able to defeat Spooner in any kind of fight, he knew that his best hope of victory was to keep the other man off balance.

     More by chance than design, one of Cotton's bullets hit Spooner's gun hand and he dropped the weapon with a cry of pain and a curse. Cotton took a moment to aim the gun properly and pulled the trigger, but he'd forgotten to count his shots and there was only a dry click as the hammer fell on an empty chamber. He dropped the gun and lunged with his knife, but Spooner lashed out with his fist, connecting solidly with Cotton's chin, and the former poacher was sent sprawling to the ground.

     Spooner almost dove after him, but even in his flustered state he knew better than to tackle a man armed with a knife while unarmed. His own bedroll was far out of reach behind the former poacher, but Blane’s corpse was right beside him, and right beside it was his backpack and weapons. He reached a hand towards the Sergeant’s pistol, but it was at the bottom of his pile of belongings and Cotton was already picking himself up, raising his knife. The Sergeant's knife was right on top of his backpack, so he pulled it from its sheath and turned to face his traitorous former comrade.

     “You murderous shit!” he screamed. “You killed them all! Why?”

     “Nothing personal,” replied Crane. “I rather liked them. Even you, after a fashion, but I had a mission and you can't let personal feelings get in the way of the mission.”

     “You sold us out! How much did they pay you?”

     “I did no such thing,” snapped Cotton angrily. “I am no common traitor. I’m a deep cover agent, placed within your ranger corps years ago. It's an honourable mission...”

     “Honourable!” Spooner staggered forward, driven by pure fury. “I'm going to kill you, you little shit! And you have no idea how much I'm going to enjoy it!”

     He lurched forward, driven by an almost overwhelming need to kill the other man, his heart pounding in his ears and his knuckles white where they gripped the knife. Somehow, though, the quiet voice of sanity managed to whisper in his ear. Cotton killed four men in their sleep, the voice said. What kind of man could do a thing like that? Even Spencer himself, psychotic though he was, wasn't capable of that kind of cold blooded murder. He was clearly no common soldier, and certainly not a ranger. That man is a trained killer, he thought. An assassin, and if I try to take him on in a knife fight, he’s going to kill me, probably without even needing to exert himself.

      He paused, therefore, and with an effort of will he made himself see the other man with clear eyes. He was just standing there, blood dripping from his knife, watching Spooner with eyes that glittered coldly in the light of the camp fire. He's waiting for me to go to him, he realised. Of course he is! In a knife fight the defender has the advantage, if he has the training and the self control to take advantage as the attacker extended himself, and Spooner had no doubt that Cotton had both. He would fend off his attack effortlessly, with a sneer of contempt, and then plunge his blood-soaked dagger deep into his side. Spooner would fall, dead, and Cotton would gaze down at his corpse for a moment, contemplating the life he'd taken, before forgetting him as if he'd never existed and going about his business.

     Spooner didn’t mind the idea of dying, but the idea of being dispatched so casually horrified him. If he was going to die he wanted it to be in an epic battle that his opponent would remember for the rest of his days. More importantly, though, he wanted to kill Cotton. He needed to kill him! Pure red hatred flared up inside him, a pressure that filled his head like boiling blood. He trembled with the need to attack, but the need to kill was stronger. He paused therefore, and made himself think it through.

     He'd used up all the bullets in his gun, as had Cotton, but there were five more loaded guns lying around the camp. The nearest was Harper's, lying just a few feet away. He looked at it out of the corner of his eye, not wanting to turn his head in case it tipped the other man off. The gun was still in its holster, strapped to the dead man's waist, but out of sight beneath his sleeping blanket. Spooner would have to throw himself at the dead ranger, pull the blanket aside, pull the gun from its holster, aim it... Could he do that before Cotton ran across and stabbed him in the back?

     No, he realised, but then he froze in excitement as he realised that he wouldn’t have to. Seeing him going for the gun, Cotton would have no choice but to attack him, and then Spooner would be the one defending himself, the one with the advantage. Grinning with savage fury, therefore, he brandished his knife at Cotton, making the other man tense up in preparation to defend himself, and then Spooner threw himself at Harper's corpse.

     It took Cotton a moment to realise what Spooner was trying to do, and then he ran forward in sudden fear. All his combat training would be useless if the other man had a gun in his hand. Spooner fell across Harper's body, but then froze, preparing himself, his fingers tight around the hilt of his knife, his breath coming fast with excitement at being so close to killing. Cotton saw the truth at the very last moment, saw that the other man was making no attempt to pull the blanket aside, that he wasn't going for the gun. By then, though, Cotton had too much momentum and couldn’t stop himself as his body fell towards Spooner's waiting knife.

     Spooner thrust the knife with insane, murderous strength towards his traitorous former colleague, and there was nothing Cotton could do to avoid it. He felt a sickening wave of despair as the razor-sharp blade penetrated his clothing and his flesh, feeling like a splinter of ice, but the former poacher had twisted his body around in a desperate attempt to avoid death and the knife succeeded only in tearing a long gash in his skin. Cotton recovered quickly, and his own knife slashed down, plunging between Spencer's ribs and slicing his lung almost in half.

     Spooner cried out in sick horror and frustration. He knew Cotton had killed him, but instead of fear he felt only a wild, insane fury that gave him the strength for one final lunge. He would not be denied the chance to kill! He would not! All his life he'd fantasised about taking a life. Not with a gun, as he'd done many times, but with a knife. To actually feel the life ebbing from his victim. He'd never had the courage to actually do it, but then, unexpectedly, the chance hard come. Not to murder, and be denounced as a criminal, but to take a life in the line of duty and be a hero. It was as if Those Above had heard his prayers and given him this gift. He would not be denied it. He would not! He pulled the knife back, therefore, and stabbed again with the last of his strength.

     Cotton caught his wrist with his free hand and forced it back. “Not bad,” he admitted. “You almost had me there. They have a saying, you know, in fencing. Better to fight the best swordsman in the world than the worst, because the worst is unpredictable.” He pressed a hand to the wound in his side. “I'll have a scar here to remind me of that valuable lesson.”

     “You... Little... Shit...”  Spooner gasped out the words, weeping with frustration. His lungs were filling with blood and he coughed it up in a pink foam. “Kill... You...” Somehow, he managed to tighten his fingers around the knife one last time. Cotton stood, though, and put his boot on the wrist of the other man's knife hand. Spooner struggled to free himself, his eyes mad with rage, blood spurting from his mouth. His body convulsed with coughing, but finally his eyes glazed over and, with a final sigh of escaping breath, he lay still.

     Cotton examined the body to make sure it was really dead, then pulled his clothes open to examine the wound. It looked bad, but it was not much more than a tear in the skin and would sew up nicely. He could use that, he decided. His mission had been to prevent the Brigadier from finding a cure for the Princess, back when it had been important that the royal marriage not take place, and it meant nothing to him that the Princess’ condition was now irrelevant to Carrow. It was a matter of personal pride. He'd been given a job, and he was going to do it. The Brigadier was still out there, and could still deliver the cure to the palace, so Cotton had to find him and kill him. His story would be that Spooner had been the Carrow Agent, and the wound would lend weight to his story nicely. No, not Spooner. Everyone had known that he wasn't right in the head, and a deep cover agent would be inconspicuous, blend in. Crane, he decided. He'd say Crane had been the agent.

     Around the camp, the sounds of night creatures were beginning to return as Cotton fished out his needle and thread, sat close to the fire so he could see what he was doing and sewed up his wound, surrounded by the corpses of his former travelling companions. He winced every time he pushed the needle in, and the pain meant that it took him almost until dawn to finish the job. Sighing with relief, he tore up a blanket to make bandages to wrap himself in, then got carefully to his feet. Now that the fighting was over and the adrenalin rush was passing, the ache was quite intense and he hunched over to minimise it as much as possible.

     The sky was brightening in the east as the sun got ready to rise, and Cotton ate a few strips of dried meat for breakfast. Then he went to saddle one of the horses. He saddled it, and then untied the others, slapping them on the backsides to send them galloping away.

     He packed his belongings and got ready to ride out. Just as he was about to leave, though, a thought came to him and he went back to where Quill’s corpse was still lying beside the dying fire. Cotton opened the wizard's saddlebags, found the bluecap mushrooms and threw them on the fire. They smoked and curled up at the edges as they started to burn, and Cotton watched to make sure they were completely consumed. Only when there was nothing left of them but glowing ashes did he return to his horse and climb into the saddle.

     He looked back one last time at the camp, now occupied only by the dead. Then he turned his back on it and headed back the way they’d come, hoping to intercept the Brigadier on his way back to Helberion.