His horse’s hooves began to ring on stone, and he was in the rubble of the abbey’s little town, and then his steed was running up the paved road to the great gates three hundred feet above him. Arrows flew, darts were hurled, but Ash’s legions were hesitant, their master’s intent muddled, and Orcsbane’s band rode on.

A sudden wave of sorcery rose against them at the very edge of the walls—an obliterating mass of power of all colours and intents, unleashed by a horned figure close on the slope as they went past in a shower of hoof sparks.

The sortie gate opened. A single crossbowman emerged and loosed a massive arbalest bolt downslope as Orcsbane pulled savagely as his charger’s bit, pulling the horse back on its haunches.

“Go! Go!” Orcsbane roared.

The slim woman in the black cloak rode directly through the low gate without dismounting, as if into the maw of a monster.

There were daemons coming up the slope, and a cave troll. Lightning played over them, and Orcsbane parried it. Fire fell past them—mundane fire, mere flaming oil, but the burning oil splashed the huge Saurians and the cave trolls generously.

“In!” Orcsbane roared.

Men passed him: a squire, leading two horses, another knight. Then another.

He kept the shield up; he could feel something downslope preparing . . .

He threw his lance. He couldn’t think of anything else to do, and he needed to interrupt the caster; his lance flew, struck the antlered figure a sideways blow, and the thing turned.

It was another antlered man, and at the sight of him, Orcsbane prepared to sell himself dearly.

In the middle of the burning hell of Penrith, the Duchess Mogon stood with her household, unbeaten, under a shield that glowed emerald in the fire. Her knights were surrounded by the dead. To her left stood the bears—unbowed, dirty, and terrifying to their foes. To her right stood the royal foresters who had survived the dragon’s fire. Mogon was pleased with them; for mere men, they were brave,

But she could feel the black presence coming. She thought perhaps that she was too tired to make him pay; she didn’t even know if it was Ash in person. She only knew that it was the end; that the battle was lost. Her people had given everything for a cause that was now done. To her left, everything was gone; the lines of militia across the fields were swept away, the knights who had charged to the rescue driven back or eaten.

In front of her, Teskanotokex swung back his stone axe and killed another one. Or three.

She nodded.

“You are my brothers and sisters, as much as my nestlings,” she said. “When we fall, may we go together to the swamps of the hereafter.”