Eskavord’s north gate had held firm against bandits, a farmer’s revolt, belligerent Thrakkians and the floods of ’76. But its stalwart timbers were as nothing beneath the impact of Anastacia’s shoulder. On the third strike, the crossbar split with fury worthy of a storm from winter skies. Sunlight flooded the benighted streets, the fires of Ashana close behind.

They struck at the gallop, twelve riders on twelve horses. Ten Knights Essamere, a princessa of Empire, and a duke returning in sorrow to a slighted home. Josiri alone slowed his steed on approach, and then only long enough for Anastacia to regain her station behind his saddle. By the time she had done so, bodies lay thick about the gateway and the battle had moved on.

Familiar faces gazed up from blood-slicked cobbles. The folk he’d conspired and fought for his whole life.

“This is not how I imagined my homecoming,” said Josiri. “These are my people.”

[[Not any longer,]] said Anastacia. [[Now they are Malatriant. You cannot help them. You can only set them free.]]

Reluctance to draw blood faded with the first desperate parry. His backswing opened the thrall’s filthy scalp to the bone. The shudder of shared pain parted the press of bodies long enough for his horse to barge a path.

“Ashanael Brigantim!”

White fire blazed at the Highgate crossroads where Melanna Saranal fought from her borrowed horse. Thralls shied from the holy light.

“Until Death!” came the bellow of Essamere.

Death had already found one of their number, who lay in the gutter’s grime, surcoat torn bloody. Another fell from her saddle, dragged by grasping hands. Steel gleamed silver in the backwash of Melanna’s sword, then crimson as the blade bit deep. A serene fell, other thralls echoing her hollow cry. Then the knight was gone, swallowed by a surge of the crowd.

Rosa stood tall in her stirrups. “Don’t stop! Stop, and you’re dead! We’re here for Lord Akadra, not martyrdom!”

The mass of green divided. Knights galloped east and west along Highgate, the firestone lanterns upon their saddles a precaution should their search lead them too far from Anastacia’s light. Melanna spurred west, Rosa east and Josiri straight across the tollway.

He hauled hard about an abandoned cart. Hooves skittered on cobbles. Fingers hauled on Josiri’s leg. He hacked down, and the pressure vanished.

Even the Dark itself fought back. It spat and crackled on the edges of Anastacia’s light, flowing through the streets like blood from a wound, only to hiss into vapour. The hollow screams of thralls howled beneath the eaves like ill-tidings on the bleakest wind. Josiri caught snatches of other voices too: Melanna’s strident cries, Rosa’s bellowed orders.

Darkness retreated over the Grelyt bridge.

[[There!]] said Anastacia.