‘I owe her a debt,’ Bleda said, the quickest, no, only way for Ellac to understand what he was doing. He pulled his arm free and padded into the melee, an arrow loosely nocked on his bow. Ellac and the others followed as Bleda weaved through the carnage, the stench of blood and faeces thick in the air. For a few moments he lost sight of Riv and Kol, then saw Aphra reach them, the warrior throw herself to the ground beside her sister and mother, then look up at Kol, who was shouting orders to Ben-Elim, orchestrating the madness, though Bleda could tell it was swinging towards Kol and his rebels.

A coup amongst the Ben-Elim, the puritanical Lore-Givers.

Never before had he thought of rival factions amongst the Ben-Elim; it was something that he filed away for further consideration at a more opportune time.

If I come out of this alive.

He was close now, could hear Aphra’s wail of grief as she held her dead mam in her arms, for a terror-filled moment thought that Riv was dead, too, but then he saw her chest rising and falling, though her eyes were closed tight.

Unconscious, then.

And he heard Kol shout orders to Adonai, the wingless Ben-Elim who had killed Israfil.

‘Take that little bitch prisoner,’ he cried, ‘throw her in a cell until I have time to deal with her.’

‘No!’ Aphra yelled.

‘She tried to kill me,’ Kol snarled at her, ‘I cannot ignore that. I am the Lord Protector, now.’

The dark-haired warrior strode to Riv, bent down and grabbed a fistful of her short hair.

And Bleda loosed, his arrow thumping into Adonai’s chest. As the Ben-Elim reached to pluck at the feathers, another arrow punched into his throat. Four more arrows slammed into his torso in rapid succession from Bleda’s men. Adonai toppled backwards, crashing to the ground.

‘You dare!’ Kol roared.

‘There’s another one here for you,’ Bleda snarled, nocking a new arrow.

Kol stepped away, into the madness of the battle.

‘Take her,’ Aphra yelled. ‘Get Riv out of here.’

Bleda looked from Kol to Aphra to Riv.

‘Please,’ Aphra cried.

‘Where?’ he said.

Two White-Wings converged on them, Bleda shifting his aim, but he recognized them as Riv’s friends, the bull-man, Vald, and the stick, Jost.

Aphra yelled directions to Bleda, and orders to Vald and Jost. Then she stood and drew her sword, stalking into the mayhem. Vald swept Riv up in his arms and turned to Bleda.

‘Lead the way, Dead-Eye.’

And Bleda did, his honour guard driving a wedge through the chamber, and soon they were spilling out into the corridor beyond Israfil’s chamber.

The sounds of battle echoed from all directions, the chamber behind them, the street below.

Ellac stepped close, whispered in his ear.

‘We could use this. Strike now . . .’