The militia line had buckled, but it had held, if at terrible cost. Too many of the dead wore blue tabards. The old soldiers upon whom he’d relied to hold the line together. They’d not disappointed him, and they’d paid a heavy price.

The horns sounded again. The Hadari were returning. The line wasn’t ready.

They needed time.

“Lady Trelan!” he shouted. “Re-form the line!”

“Why? Where are you going?”

He caught the tinge of dread. “I have business with the Hadari!”

Offering a low bow, he rested the flat of his claymore against his shoulder and strode across the tideline of dead.

“Raven’s Eyes! What is he doing?”

Calenne watched Viktor go, scarcely able to believe her eyes. He was already two-score paces from the shield wall. Much further, and a galloping cataphract would run him down long before he’d hope of reaching safety.

“He’s offering a challenge,” Armund af Garna rumbled from the level of her booted knee. “It’s a canny move. Saran’s prized Immortals just bounced off a wall of farmers. His pride’s got to be hurting.”

She stared down at the rust-haired Thrakkian. Like his sister, he’d not left her side since Viktor had joined the line. Another subtle attempt at keeping her safe. But gruff as the twins were, she was grateful for their presence. Calenne knew enough of Thrakkian honour to know it for a tangle of incomprehensible and contradictory rules. But Thrakkian loyalty, once given, was unbreakable.

“You mean the prince might actually fight Viktor?”

“Doubt it.” Anliss set her axe spinning about its haft like a wheel on its axle. The intricate knot-work of wood and metal blurred. “Saran’ll send a champion. Hadari carp about honour, but they don’t really understand it. It’s one thing to fight for someone else, it’s another to let someone else fight for you.”

“As I’m letting Viktor fight for me?”

Armund laughed and slapped his generous belly. Chainmail jostled the ridged leather of his breastplate. “From the look on your face, you didn’t ask him to.”

“And you’re Tressian,” said Anliss dourly. “No one expects honour from you.”

Calenne bristled. She’d nothing to prove. But the fluttering phoenix-banner – her mother’s symbol – made lie of her unspoken claim.

What if Viktor lost? If he died? The army would look to her for guidance. More than ever, Calenne knew she’d none to give. Horrible as that realisation was, it was nothing to the sick emptiness at the prospect of Viktor’s death.

With an effort, she pulled herself back from the brink of panic. That wasn’t how the Phoenix comported herself, nor a lady – whether she bore the name Akadra or Trelan. “What can I do?”

“What his lordship asks,” said Armund. “Get the line into shape. Win or lose, they’ll be coming back.”