At last, Josiri recognised her. The reeve of Ardva. She’d been at Branghall for last year’s Ascension. Riotously drunk.

“What about Akadra? My sister?”

Masnar winced and shook her head. “You can see everything I can.”

Indeed Josiri could, and he liked little of what he saw. Further down the slope, the Hadari were in full retreat, but beyond that? Saran’s owl-banner was moving, the blaze of gold growing brighter as other war bands formed around it.

“We were doing fine until those witches showed up,” said Masnar. “Our constructs just . . . shut down. I don’t know who you’ve got controlling your simarka, but you’d best warn them.”

“I’ll make sure he knows.”

Josiri glanced back up the hill to where Gavamor and Anastacia made a careful descent. Gavamor because of his age, and Anastacia because, in her words, I don’t run.

A crowd gathered at Masnar’s back – one every bit as motley as his own. Tail-coated marines. Hooded wolf’s-heads. Labourers with mattocks, billhooks and even the odd shovel. All of them, like her, looking to him for leadership.

Not for the first time, Josiri felt like a fraud. But what else could he do? Calenne was down there. And if he didn’t fight now, there wouldn’t be a Southshires much longer. He’d have failed everyone.

Masnar offered the wry smile of a woman glad to pass her problems elsewhere. “Waiting on your orders, your grace.”

“Form up,” he said. “This isn’t over.”

Kurkas squatted beside the rotten birch and peered out through the ferns. “Well, that’s a sight.”

The distant northern heights were alive with running battles. The mish-mash of blues, greys and murky browns were dull against golden armour and emerald robes, but they outnumbered the beleaguered shadowthorns, and they were winning. For the first time since his mad scramble from Blackridge, Kurkas felt a rush of grim joy.

Halvor followed his gaze. “Josiri. He must have talked Crovan round.”

She looked a decade younger than when he’d found her. Nothing like a little hope to smooth away the years. “The duke? Had him down for a bottle-dweller.”

“Mind your tongue!” She winced an apology. “We all lose our way. He’s a good lad.”

Kurkas stifled a smile. They were all children to Revekah Halvor. Hard to imagine one of the northern nobility sticking their necks out for their beliefs as she had, and at her age. Might be she’d more in common with Lord Akadra than she reckoned.

He pointed north-east, to the owl-banner that claimed dominance of the battlefield’s centre. Remnants of the cataphracts and a sole grunda chariot flanked the marching ranks of Kai Saran’s Immortals. “Dead lad, if he’s not careful.”

“Give Josiri some credit. Better yet, we’ll give him some reinforcement. The redoubts are intact. We can scrounge up a couple of hundred . . .”