“Then she can send them to bolster our line. I can end this. Send the whole damned lot of them running back to the border!”

Drumbeats crashed back. The shield wall tensed. Taut gazes scoured the empty, arrow-studded slope searching for the first banner, the first spear tip.

“Deliver my words, Morvinna, or join the line.” Sark swept his sword down and shouted to be heard over the din. “Stand firm, lads and lasses! Third time’s the charm!”

The line rippled. The second and third ranks braced against a new swarm of arrows.

None came.

A banner-pole broke the crest. A silken flag followed, the silver moon at its centre shining even at a distance. A woman in emerald robes and delicate golden scale bore it aloft from the back of a caparisoned rowan horse. Sark was more used to the sight of cataphracts. Tall, broad-shouldered men in heavy scale, their horses as armoured as they.

“It’s a woman,” muttered Morvinna.

“Shadowthorn slatterns don’t fight,” said Sark. “Unless it’s over coin changing hands.”

More figures appeared on the crest. More women. Close-fitting white robes and half-masks, and not a sword between them. Sark wracked his brain for lessons long-forgotten. Holy women, weren’t they? Lunassera. Like serenes, but immodest in their mode of dress. Just as Ashana, the goddess they worshipped, was less modest in all manners than radiant Lumestra.

The banner-woman’s horse began its descent. The others followed behind like mourners behind a funeral procession. Song drifted into the gorge. The words were sharp-accented and heathen. The notes bound to close-harmonies that were mournful, and yet somehow thick with joy.

“The men are too scared to face us,” Sark crowed. “So they’ve sent their wives and daughters.”

If the shadowthorns thought he shared their quaint belief in the sanctity of womanhood, they were destined for an unwelcome surprise.

“Down shields!” he roared. “Take aim!”

Heavy crossbows readied in the rear ranks and were set upon the shoulders of those in front. Sark eyed the oncoming lunassera. They were right on the edge of killing range, but a little blood would cool their ardour. And there’d been plenty of time to reload.

“Loose!”

Triggers slapped against stocks. Death hissed through the air.

No lunassera fell. If any staggered, Sark did not see it.

“Reload!”

Still the women came on. Not at a run, but at that same, purposeful walk. The crest behind filled with the emerald robes and golden scale of shadowthorn warriors. Not in formation, but in the manner of an expectant crowd. Sark’s unease fanned to fear.

“Loose!” The word almost caught in his throat.

Again, the air filled with quarrels. Again, they passed through the lunassera like wind through a meadow.

The banner-woman hauled her horse to a halt. She let the reins fall to her saddle. Her hand found the grips of her sword.

“Reload!” bellowed Sark. “Release the simarka!”