A horn rang out, two short blasts, and within a heartbeat Riv’s wooden blade was drawn and she was stabbing out through the small gaps above and below her shield. She felt resistance, heard a grunt and smiled. She tried to peer out past her shield to see if it was Balur she had struck, but saw nothing but fur and the byrnie rings of a mail shirt.

Another combination of horn blasts rang out from the rear, a signal for the wall to prepare to march, then one more long note and Riv took a staggering step forwards, pushing against the pressure upon her shield, Vald keeping pace beside her, the rest of the wall rippling forwards, gaps appearing between the shields as the pace varied, but closing up quick enough.

The horn blew again, the sound initiating a movement Riv liked to think of as the death march, when the enemy was close to breaking and the advance of the wall aimed to crush any spirit remaining amongst those that fought on. Riv continued to stab over and under her shield, sweat stinging her eyes, dripping from her chin, Vald holding his own beside her.

A shouted command from the other side of Riv’s shield, muffled, and then the pounding against the shield wall stopped, followed by one more horn blast, long and lingering, and the wall rippled to a halt. Riv lowered her shaking shield; those about her were doing the same, all of them sweat-soaked and aching, bruised and battered by Balur’s assault. One-Eye and his companions were grinning at them, his empty eye socket puckered with mirth.

‘Well, they weathered the storm of iron,’ Balur called out loudly to ringing cheers that spread amongst the onlookers around the field. Balur dipped his head to Riv and the others about her.

Apart from Jost, Riv thought, looking at one of her training companions as he was carried stumbling from the field, one arm hanging limp and broken.

There was just time for Riv to wipe the sweat from her brow, run her fingers through her short-cropped hair and enjoy the sense of relief at finding herself still standing, and then there was the beating of wings. Several Ben-Elim rose from behind the crowd and swooped down onto the field, landing gracefully between Balur and Riv. Israfil, the Lord Protector, was first amongst them, clothed in gleaming mail, hair ravenblack, eyes like coals. He strode straight towards her, a wooden practice sword in his hand. His companions spread about him to engage Riv’s companions in the final trial.