He tried to use potentia to move the tree. The pain from his leg was so distracting that he hadn’t even managed to open his visor when the first daemon appeared, sprinting in heavy-footed majesty, leaping through the branches.

Gabriel watched it come. He stretched out his right hand for his ghiavarina.

It was too far.

He worked to summon it. He couldn’t even get into his palace. He reached for Prudentia and a wave of pain thrust him back into bloody reality.

The daemon’s stone axe swept up. He saw its open beak, heard its scream of triumph.

He thought quite a few things—about Amicia, and Irene, and Master Smythe.

And then, despite the last efforts of his straining right hand to grab the ghiavarina, the axe fell.

The daemon’s weapon seemed to slide around his head. It missed.

Gabriel didn’t pause to consider the ramifications, although he was fully aware that he should be dead. He got his right hand on his baselard and drew it. Its effect was tonic—he steadied. The baselard itself held power—

The daemon—so close as to be like a lover and smelling of burned soap and flowers and spring hay—cursed. Even in the alien language, his curse was obvious—the great axe flew up again—

Gabriel dived into his place of power. He leaped onto the bronze disc set in the floor and pulled the lever. This simple symbol governed a nested set of pre-prepared workings, each cascading into the next.

Gold and white and green light flared in a set of nested hemispheres over his prone body.

Zac saw the fireworks and drew the correct conclusion—loosed a shaft with the daemon nearly at the point of his arrow, whirled and loosed again over his shoulder even as his magnificent pony leapt the downed tree and then he was turning.

But the wardens were running. One of their number lay with his feet drumming in the final dance and one of his best warriors, Lonox, was down, cut from the saddle for being too daring, but the wardens wanted no more of the fight.

Kriax, a woman with a face so tanned it seemed made of leather, reined up. “We have them!” she shouted and gave a whoop of pure delight.

Zac pursed his lips. “If I set this ambush…” he said, and waved.

She turned and looked at him. Her eyes were slightly mad with unexpressed violence.

“… I’d have a covering force,” he said. “Back to the road and break contact.”

She saluted with her sabre as her left hand flicked her bow back into the case at her hip. She gave a specific scream—an ululating yell.

Like a flock of starlings, the whole line of Vardariotes turned all together and rode away, leaving the pages—exhilarated and terrified—to follow. Zac bellowed for them in his version of Morean.