Gas-a-ho, behind them at the crest of the ridge, unleashed a wind that slammed into the surviving moths. It blew Aneas flat on the damp stones of the causeway; Irene almost went into the lake. But the moths had no defence and no weight; one was spun out into the lake, and the other had its wings bent right back. It bounced on the island, slammed into a tree, and fluttered limply.

Aneas got to his feet. Irene was just beyond his reach; a moth settled on her and she screamed, her arms scrabbling against the proboscis.

Black Heron drew a black arrow from his deerskin quiver. The head was of amber flint painted red. He licked it. And then, fluid, he nocked, drew, and loosed.

The magic arrow punched into the velvet skin.

The moth seemed to collapse; its fluids leaked, as if boiled from the inside, and Irene was coated in a thin black syrup that smelled of turpentine.

One of the black-armoured figures was dragging itself from the lake. It bore the marks of arrow and fire, but it was still coming up the bank of the island, limping.

Aneas took his axe from his belt, and threw it.

It struck blade first, and bounced.

Aneas ran forward, committed, trusting his friends, as it turned to him and grew two swords. Aneas saw it happen; a sword emerged from each arm. Aneas raised his green shield and rolled, passing the thing on his left as his shield of green ops took a massive blow and vanished with a pop.

He came to his feet, turned, and drew his long sword.

With his left hand, he unleashed a gout of fire into the creature’s visored face.

It cut at him.

He stepped off line and parried, and his sidestep saved his life as the black thing’s sword went straight through his, cutting it in half.

“Jesus,” Aneas said aloud into the silence.

He threw the stump of his sword at the thing’s head and tried a lightning bolt. Neither had any effect.

“What the fuck are you?” he shouted. He could hear his voice dimly inside his skull.

Its purple-green sword cut down and he made a buckler of gold to cover his head, and then he was lying on his back. When the purple met the gold there was an explosion of force. Even his adversary had been driven back.

He rolled before the thing could gut him, breaking the strap on his shoulder bag and losing his quiver. He got to his feet with nothing but a curved knife more useful for skinning game than fighting monsters.

All Aneas could think was, What the fuck is this thing?

Then Looks-at-Clouds appeared behind it; there was a flicker, and it lay full length on the leaf mould. A massive kinetic blow.

But it rose again.