Calenne stared at the stocky woman. She realised for the first time that Anliss used no reins to control her horse, but the goading of her knees. “It’s that obvious?”

“First time’s always a shock.”

Armund drew up alongside. His chainmail was a mass of twisted rings at the left shoulder. His face was bloodied. He grinned. Like his sister, he disdained the need for reins. “No fears. It gets easier.”

Calenne stared across the bloodied field. At the motionless bodies, and those who wailed for aid. “I hope not.”

“Then cast your eyes behind, not ahead,” said Anliss.

Calenne did as bidden. To the west, the trampled expanse between the redoubts was alive with fleeing militia. Men and women who’d now be dead but for her actions. Death served many purposes. Sometimes it served life.

“We should rejoin the others,” she said.

But the Knights Essamere were already on the move. Their scattered formation reformed and spurred east. A motley array of cataphracts and white-robed women cantered to meet them, the latter mounted on horned steeds of light and shadow. And at their head, the moon-banner and the blaze of white flame that had wrought Viktor’s doom.

“I don’t like the looks of that,” Armund muttered.

“Surprised Lavirn’s not turned tail,” said Anliss.

“He can’t. They’ll run him down. It’s head on or nothing.” He spat on the ground. “And when he’s gone, the cataphracts will finish what these buggers started.”

Calenne stared again at their foe. This was no longer mere battle. This was magic, and legend and all manner of things she didn’t come close to understanding. But it was also painfully simple. She couldn’t turn back. She’d made her moment. She had to seize it. She’d finish what Viktor had started.

Melanna rose up in her stirrups, moon-banner held high. “Ashanael Brigantim!”

She urged her horse to the charge. It leapt the narrow gorge without slowing and galloped down the hillside to the open plain. The uneven silhouette of Blackridge Farm loomed away to the south-west. Its swan-banner fell, replaced by Kos Devren’s serpent.

Melanna’s blood raced with the thrill of it all. She’d claimed the heights and broken the centre. The redoubts yet stood, islands in a sea of spears. Her spears. And beyond, not even an hour’s ride distant, the prize of Eskavord.

In all the years a Saran had ruled the Empire, a woman hadn’t led as she now led. Hadn’t inked her right to rule in the blood of her foes. The thought quickened her blood to fire. She felt no fear at the onset of the galloping knights. Was she not a Saran, blessed by the divine and destined to rule? The goddess would not let her die.

“Ashanael Brigantim!”