I press myself into the trench. Dirt. Blood. Bones.

Above me — war.

A ball of lightning tears past. Or a ballista bolt. I don't know. It hits the ground nearby. The shock throws me against the wall.

"Keep your head down!" Don Juan shouts.

Arrows. Everywhere. From the left. From the right. From above.

Steel rings. Bones grind. Dogs howl.

I look back. The cleaner. Still there. Closer now. Walking. Slow. Deliberate.

"He's still on us," I say.

"Then lose him. Now."

I crawl through the trench. Elbows. Knees. The dragonling pressed to my chest.

A ghoul drops into the trench ahead. Rotting. Eyes empty. It turns toward me.

I roll. It hits the wall. I scramble past.

"Faster!"

"I'm trying!"

I keep crawling.

"We're not soldiers. We're not theirs. We're nobody. Don't draw attention. Don't look anyone in the eye. Don't run in the open."

"That's it?"

"That's everything."

I reach the end of the trench. I risk a glance over the edge.

A soldier. Not far. He sees me. He raises his sword.

"Don't let them see you," Don Juan says. "Because whatever we're carrying — one side will think we're the enemy. And the other side will think we're a spy."

I duck. The sword cuts the air above me.

I crawl out of the trench. The field is chaos. Blood. Bone. Steel.

I run. Not toward the castle. Away. Anywhere.

Behind me — the cleaner. I can hear his armor. His steps. Steady. Patient. "He's still there." "Then lose him." "How?" "The field is full of people trying to kill each other. Let them do the work." I weave between bodies. Dead. Dying. Fighting. A beast-man swings at me. I duck. A ghoul reaches. I kick it away. The cleaner follows. Closer now. I stumble. Fall. Roll. The cleaner raises his sword. Then — a sound. A whistle. Short. Sharp. The cleaner stops. An arrow. In his head. Through the helmet. Through the skull. He stands for a moment. Then falls. Forward. Into the mud. I don't move. I don't breathe. "Stray arrow," Don Juan says. "Lucky." "Or not." I look around. No one. Just the battle. Just the dead I get up. I run