Ward dropped his backpack into the shadows and picked up the grapefruit-sized rock he had seen in the moonlight. Then he turned to face the Brother.

The Brother's knife shone in the moonlight. It curved, terminating in a wicked point like a needle. The Brother held it in an unusual way: parallel to his forearm, the point aimed at his own body, the cutting edge to the ground. The knife seemed a part of his body, as if he had been born with it in his hand. It was as if it wasn't there. Perhaps this was the intended illusion.

There was a moment during which they simply looked at each other. Then, with terrifying silence, the Brother was upon him. He slid noiselessly forward, bringing his elbow up, the knife slashing upwards with it. Ward leapt back just in time. If he had not he would have been gutted like a fish. The Brother turned to face him and lowered his elbow again. His face was like that of a man operating a machine.

Ward edged around, his back to the cliff-face. If he could reach the bottom of the track he might be able to escape back up it. But the knife was already coming at him again. He saw it flash in the moonlight, and he whipped around a cleft, the knife screeching against the rock and throwing bright sparks into the night. That could have been my face, he thought. Had there been no moon he would not have seen the knife at all. He would be dead already.

The Brother had still not said a word, or shown any sign of exertion. He simply turned on his heels and followed Ward into the shadows cast by the cliff.

Ward, knowing he was cloaked by the shadows, took careful aim, pulled his arm back, and hurled the rock. It hit the Brother's eye with a sickening chunk. The man staggered, clapping his free hand to his face. Blood seeped out between his fingers. But he didn't drop the knife.

Ward knew he wouldn't get another chance. He broke into a sprint and threw himself at the Brother. The man, already off-balance, staggered backwards towards the edge of the shelf. Ward, unable to check his momentum, went with him. For a moment they were locked in a strange embrace, as if dancing, and all the time Ward waited to feel the knifepoint slide between his ribs.

The ground fell away from beneath his feet. A brief rush of air. Then a smack as they hit the water, and the sudden, shocking cold as it enveloped them.

They sank together into the dark water. The Brother's hands tightened over his wrist until he thought his bones might break. Ward tried to twist away, but it was no use. It occurred to him, distantly, that the Brother was not trying to hurt him, but was panicking – that he couldn't swim. The pressure built in Ward's ears as the Brother's weight dragged them both to the bottom.

When they hit it the shock made the Brother momentarily loosen his grip – Ward pulled out of it like an octopus and kicked for the surface. There was no air left in his lungs. He could already see stars flashing at the edge of his vision, a kind of blackness was creeping in, and he could taste blood in his mouth. His limbs seemed to slow as his strength fled. If he had had time to think about it he would have drawn a deep breath before hitting the water, but he had been thinking only of the knife. And now, stupidly, he was drowning.

And now, admirably, you are voting.