“Don’t just stand there, Sarjeant! Armour up! Everyone, armour up!”

She had a point. We all subvocalised the activating Words, and just like that the War Room was full of gleaming golden figures. It felt good to be back in the gold again, to feel strong and fast and sharp. Sometimes putting on the armour is like snapping fully awake from a long doze. Everyone not preoccupied at a workstation peered suspiciously about them, ready for action, golden blades and other weapons extruding silently from golden fists. There was a rising tension in the War Room, a strong feeling of something coming, pressing inexorably closer. We could all feel it, pressing in on us from all sides at once. Molly stood close beside me, her arms lifted in the stance of summoning, ready to throw seriously nasty magics at anything even remotely threatening. Mr. Stab looked . . . politely interested. And the Armourer, not surprisingly, had pulled a really powerful-looking weapon out of nowhere and was swivelling it back and forth in search of a target, while everyone else hurried to get out of his way.

Heaven help anyone who dares to face the Droods on their own territory.

A rising babble of voices filled the War Room as the various technicians struggled to understand what was happening. Whatever was coming slammed through layer after layer of protections, and the tension in the air was almost physically painful. Martha Drood, back in armour for the first time I could remember, moved from station to station, peering over shoulders and dispensing a cautionary word or a bracing murmur, as required. If she was reduced to rallying the troops, we really were in trouble. A rising tone rang out on the air, sharp and distinct, as though approaching from somewhere inconceivably far away.

“It’s here!” Howard shouted. “It’s materialising!”

“Where?” said Martha. “Where exactly in the Hall?”

“Here!” screamed Howard. “Right here in the bloody War Room!”

The rising note peaked, a shuddering vibration that reverberated inside all our heads, despite the shielding armour. We all clapped useless hands over our ears and staggered back and forth, and then we all flinched back as the world itself split apart in the very centre of the War Room . . . and Janissary Jane came through. She threw herself through the gap, her combat fatigues blackened and scorched and actually on fire in places. Explosions and brilliant lights and raised angry voices spilled out of the split in the air, and then all of it was cut off as the split slammed together again. The tension in the air was gone in a moment, and we all armoured down just a little sheepishly as Janissary Jane stood shaking and breathless before us. She was weeping violently, and looked like she’d fought her way through Hell itself to get back to us. She raised a bruised face, sniffed back tears, and glared at me triumphantly, and then she sat down suddenly on the floor, as though the last of the strength had just gone out of her legs.