“That’s different. I didn’t hate you – I hated the nightmare I made of you. It’s not the same.”

He grunted. “So long as she stands the line.”

Calenne’s wry smile did little to hide her nervousness. “She’s also spent the last fifteen years fighting a lost cause. Today’s no different.”

Viktor stared out across the gently swaying wheat. Hadari spear points gleamed in the wan light. Emerald pennants twitched in the wind. If only there’d been more time to prepare. Alas, fate mocked intent. You could divert the river’s course, but not cease its flow.

A babble of whispers interrupted his thoughts. A towering, hunch-shouldered form lumbered into sight across the field. Thrice the size of a horse, its leathery, wrinkled flanks and stocky legs were almost hidden beneath a caparison of scale and silk. The beast’s head hung low between its shoulders. A thick horn curved upward from its broad snout. A chariot rumbled into view, drawn thus by a thick yoke across the beast’s neck.

“What is that?” breathed Calenne.

“A grunda,” Viktor replied. “They roam the Empire’s eastern plains. It’ll crash clean through our lines if we give it the chance.” He raised his voice. “Crossbows will bring it down. If they don’t, kraikons will.”

Or one of the ballistae hurriedly dragged from Cragwatch, he added silently. They’d four of the machines, two each in the Katya and Kevor redoubts. The kraikons would need the help. Viktor glimpsed heavy-handled war hammers among the Immortals’ spears. A strong man working a war hammer’s tail-spike could prise the armour apart and set the magic loose. No magic, no kraikon . . . and no hope.

“We hold the line,” he said. “They’ll tire themselves out. Happens all the time on the border.”

Grey heads nodded. Old soldiers from Zanya and the years before. They gave him hope. Experience. Calm. Discipline. These counted for more than youthful vigour.

Viktor raised a fist. “Shields to the fore!”

The line rippled. Shields the height of a tall child slammed into place, forming an unbroken king’s blue line. Short swords slipped from scabbards. Halberds, too cumbersome for the front rank, were readied in the second and third. Viktor would have liked a fourth, but their numbers were too sparse. Already, the back ranks held more militia than he’d have liked. Steel didn’t make a soldier.

Calenne’s horse champed restlessly. “Is it me,” she asked, “or are you enjoying yourself?”

“What makes you say so?” Viktor replied.

“You seem less . . . I don’t know . . . conflicted.”

“I prefer battle’s simplicity,” he admitted. “I’d sooner face a man with a sword in his hand than talk him out of its wielding.”

“So much for Viktor Akadra the silver-tongued charmer.”

“Who says I’m that?”

“Captain Kurkas, for one.”