John pricked his ears.

The attacks coming at the face of his square were uncoordinated, the creatures clearly Odine-animated. Gabriel watched the army unfold; there was confusion early on when the casa wheeled up into line as the Venikan marines came up on their flank; almost a half-century of Venikans died, caught moving by a flood of imps and a tide of sorcery, before Peterarcha stepped forward and countered it. Conte Simone was surprised by another assault coming from behind the gate, because it had a two dimensional quality that was evident only to the hermeticists; but the Etruscan knights were all fully armoured, from toe to groin to helm, and the imps found them almost invulnerable, and even a man pulled down by their horrible strength was cut free without loss.

Despite the setbacks, it was not a battle, or if it was a battle, it was one of near constant movement. The army fed through the gate, and the army advanced, filling in from the flanks, scouting the ground fifty paces ahead. It called for constant management; a bad decision could result in fifty people lost, or taken but the company stepped forward, stepped forward again, shaking off the counter attacks and occupying the ground and the magisters began to shift from defensive to offensive and the rate of movement increased.

Gabriel began to feel like a spectator. He rode back and forth along his line, making corrections, but he avoided the aethereal. He was on the edge, and he knew it; and he was damned if he was going to God before his task was finished.

But when the immediate ground of the gate was clear, his staff pulled themselves out of their combat roles; Michael was back at his side, and Tom Lachlan, and Sauce, and Milus.

Michael looked at the imperial standard flapping over their heads in Toby’s fist.

“Like old times,” he said to Sauce.

She gave him a grin. Her face seemed lit from within with the ferocity of her joy, and that look was reflected in every archer, every man-at-arms, every marine and every waggoner. The golden emperor raised his sword and pointed; Adrian Goldsmith sketched rapidly with charcoal in his book, and Francis Atcourt prayed.

The line moved forward.

Gabriel rode up a little hill that resembled a protruding tooth. “We’re behind them, and our surprise is complete. Have you found the target, Mortirmir?” he asked.

“Target?” Sauce said.

Michael shrugged. “Long story. We figured the last gate had to be held by Odine, ready to back Ash. Or the will. Or both. Had to be, really.”

Andromeche Sarrissa, one of the Morean students, was with the banner. She said, shyly, “We’re looking for the Odine Will, my lady.”

Sauce nodded. But her eyes were on her Etruscan infantry; their line was starting to trail off into the increasingly low ground to the right. “We sound really cocky,” she said. She smiled. “Tell his nibs to keep me up-to-date on what to kill.” She turned and rode off to the right, already shouting orders.