‘Something. Anything!’

It didn’t take them long to reach the battle zone. The corridors had been bypassed; holes had been blown in the walls and four Ratts and as many robots were blasting at the Astingir with an enormous high-tech cannon across some sort of nightmarish operating theatre. The equipment was in ruins, and centaurion corpses lay in dark sticky puddles. More of the Astingir were firing hand-weapons from behind golden shields, or rearing up to loose disruptor bolts from their armoured fetlocks.

Graham saw one Astingir take a shot to the side, screaming as her armour melted and seared her hide. He ran up behind the Ratts and swung the bat down on the cannon. There was an explosion of coruscating sparks and the unprepared Ratts fell back yelping – where Yaz turned their own stick-weapons against them, stunning one after another, shocking them into submission on the floor.

The robots turned on Graham, then. With a yell of anger, he swung the bat and smashed one into another. The third whipped out a mechanical line towards him, too quick for him to dodge. He felt it tighten around his throat.

Then the robot was torn apart in a barrage of power from the Astingir survivors as they pushed forward. Graham fell to his knees, choking and grappling with the metal cord at his neck. Yaz knelt beside him, calmly working her fingers underneath the steel before finally ripping it free.

Then the centaur-creatures were looming over them, panting, their armour blackened, hides patterned with blood and scurf.

Graham looked up and recognised the head of the herd, Legate Aquillon. Her plaited mane had been half-burned off, her face scarred raw.

He cleared his aching throat. ‘Maybe now you’ll accept we’re not your enemies?’

Aquillon snorted and turned to the centaurion beside her. ‘Take them,’ she hissed.

Ryan’s cold sweat really kicked in when the gunfire stopped. The battle had ended, but which way had it gone? ‘Yaz!’ he shouted. ‘Graham …?’

‘We’re all right, son,’ Graham called back.

‘Sort of,’ Yaz added.

Ryan caught a heavy, animal stench and felt his heart sink as eight Astingir clattered into sight. He hardly heard the cries of the abductees, the sound of their plastic suits scraping the stone as they tried to back away. All he could see was Graham and Yaz in the grip of the horse-creatures – and Legate Aquillon leading the way.

She swept her gory horse-head from side to side, taking in the scene, and her eyes came down hard on Ryan. ‘So. The war criminal cowers here, defending Wraith assets.’

‘They’re just people,’ Ryan said. ‘Kids, mostly. Kidnapped. Terrified.’

There was a pounding of hooves behind her as two more battered Astingir charged up. With a quickening of his pulse, Ryan saw one of them was Centaurion Masst.

‘No contact with the Chariot, Legate,’ Masst said sullenly.