Mother Manai grips Evie’s shoulder briefly with her remaining hand, then draws a large, gleaming, finely forged rendition of her favored meat cleaver fashioned for her by the same Sicclunan armorist who made her spike.

“I think that armorist does fancy you,” Evie says to her.

Mother Manai winks at her, and the old woman says no more. This is not a time for good-byes.

Evie looks from her face to Lariat’s, then Bam’s.

“Die well,” she bids the three of them.

Lariat laughs. “What else do we do, little Sparrow?”

By now the Skrain and Savage Legion taskers know what’s coming, and they’ve ordered their Legionnaires to advance, hoping to make as much ground as possible before the field is cut off.

“Bring me their fuckin’ heads!” Lariat yells down the line, and hundreds of howling blue-rune-covered faces surge across the valley.

The rebel Savages aren’t marching, they’re charging, and their Legionnaire counterparts soon pick up their pace to match that ferocious speed. The Skrain are visible up and down their battle line now, armored scales blazing in the sun. Their Savages should be able to wrap around the smaller force of rogue Legionnaires like a snake once they meet, but the sheer animal energy of Evie’s Savages makes the odds appear slightly more even despite the disparity in number.

After the two armies of Savages clash there’s no telling them apart, not if you’re watching from either side’s battle line. There’s no stoic holding of the ranks to counterpoint the feral attack of the Legion. This is war without technique or pretension or mechanical unity. This is the chaos of human nature given form, and it is an ugly, horrific thing to witness. Bodies are being shredded and torn apart everywhere there is to look. Savages don’t retreat, they don’t regroup, and neither side is going to be recalled from this fight. They’re battling to the last of them and they know, and the brutality of their fight is a reflection of that.

Evie doesn’t want to watch, but neither can she justify looking away. She is responsible for this. She committed to this course of action, and if she’s not there in the midst of it she must at least see it through.

In truth, the battle of the Savages lasts no more than fifteen minutes. Such unrestrained combat easily breaks bodies not packed in armor, but the sheer violence of the encounter makes it feel like what they’re witnessing goes much longer.

Neither side wins, not really. The Skrain’s Legionnaires do not overwhelm the smaller force. They are two wildfires lit to meet and snuff each other out, and that’s precisely what happens. The fighting is soon reduced to small pockets of groups, then single combat here and there. Even those are only the final, weak throes of a dying giant.