Then large hands were around his attacker’s neck, hauling it off, the creature tearing chunks of flesh from his shoulder, as Alcyon held the spitting, snarling thing in the air then hurled it away. It hit stone, rolled, scrambled to its feet far too agilely and then it was running at them. Alcyon stepped in front of Bleda with a roar, his twin axes windmilling, hacking into the creature’s shoulder and waist. It collapsed, howling, Alcyon putting a boot onto its head to wrench his blades free. The thing on the ground twisted, tried to bite into his foot, somehow still refusing to die.

Another axe blow and it spasmed, one foot drumming, then was finally still.

Behind Alcyon Ben-Elim were sweeping through the wide-open doors, White-Wings beneath them in a shield wall, marching out of the darkness of the courtyard, down the stone steps into the blue-flicker madness of the Great Hall.

‘Here, lad,’ Alcyon said, offering the blood-soaked shaft of one of his axes for Bleda to pull himself upright. His shoulder was screaming its pain at him, nausea lurching in his belly, but all he could think of was his bow. He’d dropped it, had glimpsed it skittering across stone.

There.

He stumbled down a dozen steps, over halfway to the chamber floor now, and swept it up.

Someone grabbed his arm, spun him around.

‘You could have died!’ Jin said to him furiously, looking as if she wanted to slap him.

‘Still could,’ he muttered, pulling his arm free, the battle din echoing loud and furious.

The new wave of White-Wings, giants and Ben-Elim had hit the battle on the chamber floor, and though the fighting was fierce, it did not look as if it would last long, the Dark-Cloaks and their Feral companions outnumbered and flanked now. Although, even as Bleda stared, he saw the shrinking line of giant guards around the statue of Asroth and Meical fracture and break apart into islands of melee-like combat.

One figure drew his eye. A tall Dark-Cloak, hood falling back as he leaped onto the dais. Slim and athletic, fair hair shaved to stubble on his head. He drew a sword from a scabbard; something about it was strange, the metal a dull, sheen-less black. The warrior strode to the figure of Asroth and lifted the blade. His lips moved, the clamour in the chamber was too great to hear anything, but again, there was something wrong about it.

No!

Bleda reached inside his quiver, only one arrow left, and nocked it. Drew it, an explosion of pain in his shoulder where the Feral had bitten him.

Black smoke hissed from the sword.

Bleda gritted his teeth, drew and loosed, hoped his aim was good.

A moment as he held his breath.

The arrow struck the man in his shoulder, staggering him, dropping the sword.

Bleda grinned.