Da always knew where to hit where it hurt most, with fists or with words. He brings me to a blind rage with threats and insults and then thinks he can trick me into a pitfall with feints and tricks. After years of his fakery, I've learned very well how to put my head down and stumble after a hard blow, acting dazed, then roar back with a vengeance at the last possible moment. He grunts with surprise when I grab him and haul him up off his feet. It surprises me too, that I have the strength to lift a man of his girth. How fury can make a monster of a man! To show just how powerful I am, I hold him up for all to admire before letting him down for a bone-crashing landing.

All the breath whooshes out of him. He crumples and lies very still. Everybody stops their hooting and cawing. I bend over him and -

Wham! I fly backwards through the air. Everything is dark red pain and fury. Far, far away I hear Winter Mist screaming for me to keep fighting, a frenzied wail with no words, as if her sweet, tender lips are sealed shut. The thought of that brings me leaping back up again. I can't see, there's a wall of blood before me. I shake my head a few times and I see Da bent lower than I ever seen him but still on his feet. Blood drips down the back of my throat and gags me. I summon up a mouthful of slime and spit at Da. He growls and shuffles towards me.

We circle each other again. He rasps and gasps. It reminds me of Doran's neverending whining whetstone. Da's face is about the same color as the whetstone too. He staggers, coughs and claws at his side like he forgot he threw down his sword before we started.

I don't want to kill Da. It was bad enough thinking he was dead for almost a year. I stop and hold out a hand.

"You win, ya reekin' maggot-hatch! Lay off now afore y'beat me to a pulp. Let me live to tell yer tales, Da, to the ones who'll know their Daideó as the one and only chieftain of Magh Croimor," says I through a spew of gore and snot.

Nion says nothing. His mouth falls open but nothing comes out. He's staring past me at whatever's making a scuffle in the bushes. I can't make out who or what it is, peering through a purple curtain of swelling bruises.

Somebody laughs and hollers, "An Cailleach na Muir! It's the old sea hag herself!"