Keldrov nodded and scurried away. Kurkas swore to himself and stared north. To the flood of fugitives streaming away from leaping white flame. He liked none of what he saw, least of all the motionless, frozen kraikons. The Raven only knew what had made them react so. If nothing else, it meant he couldn’t rely on the pair attached to his own beleaguered garrison.

“You daft bastard,” he muttered. “If you’ve gone and got yourself killed . . . ? If you’ve left me in charge of this mess . . . ?”

The thought of Akadra being gone? Unthinkable. The man had the Lord of Fellhallow’s own luck. Kurkas scratched at his eyepatch. But luck ran out, didn’t it? And battle seldom went the way you expected. He couldn’t even find solace in the thought that Revekah Halvor was likely already dead on the field. Serve the harridan right.

“Grunda!”

Yesterday’s battles scattered at the sentry’s bellow. Hand steadied against the barn, Kurkas vaulted onto the wall and stared southwards. Lumbering beasts crested the rise. One on the road, another to either side. Each pulled a heavy wagon whose axles shrieked like souls in torment.

“Doesn’t this keep getting better and better?” Kurkas let his voice blossom to a roar. “Crossbows to the southern wall! Bring those grey bastards down! Sergeant Brass! I want your company at the gate! And someone wake up Proctor Gillart!”

The courtyard filled with running feet and the bellow of repeated orders. Kurkas jumped down from the wall. He missed his footing, righted himself, and found a very much awake Gillart staring at him with disdain.

“You had a request?”

What was it with proctors and their delicate pride? Fussy as a serene in a barracks. “I want our kraikons at the gate, braced and ready.”

“They can’t stop a charging grunda!” Gillart couldn’t have looked more appalled if he’d been asked to set his infant child in the grundas’ path. “They’ll be crushed.”

“They stand a damn sight more of a chance than the rest of us.” Kurkas grabbed a handful of the proctor’s golden robes and shoved him towards the gate. “Bloody do it, or I’ll have you staked down in their stead.”

Gillart scurried away towards the nearest kraikon. Kurkas shook his head. “Raven’s Eyes! Major Keldrov! I want those brutes in the dust! Now!”

The rush and clack of crossbows hastened as Kurkas made his way to the gate. His fingers itched with inactivity. He longed to snatch up a crossbow and join the volleys himself, but while a one-armed man could load and shoot – just about – he’d been a terrible shot long before he’d lost his eye.

Arrows hissed out from behind the approaching shields. A pavissionaire to Kurkas’ left collapsed without a sound, a black shaft buried in her throat. Another pitched from the stable roof with a thin cry.

“Hearthguard! Get your bloody shields up!” roared Kurkas.