"Lord of the Sky, woman, what else is it?"

Rogan and his hundred men were crouched in a clearing, hidden from the road by a screen of trees. He had taken his men as close as he was able, but the frequent patrols of the enemy meant he couldn't be as close as he would have liked.

Rogan stood, all efforts at silence forgotten. "Men," he cried. "Do you see that light? That's the light of a brave woman and her fellow prisoners who are at this very moment rising up to give us this one chance, and to give us this beacon to tell us they are ready, and lead us to them. Are you with me?"

"Yes!" shouted Rogan's hand-picked Halrana.

Rogan drew his zenblade and pointed it ahead. He started to sing, his voice a deep baritone, and first his zenblade and then his armoursilk lit up with fiery colours of emerald and gold and starbursts of purple. He began to run, heedless of how much noise he made, throwing off the shackles of the hushed resistance, finally able to take the battle to his enemy's heart.

Rogan's men rushed past him like a wave of the ocean splitting around a tall rock. He ignored the pain in his leg and the stitch in his side, the occasional faltering of his voice and the way he had to lean on Amelia to keep up with the slowest of his men. He was running, and once again his weapon was in his hands.

Rogan settled into a wincing, lumbering gait, but eventually he was able to wave Amelia away, and was pleased to see he could stay with his men. He allowed his bladesinger's song to fade; it was simply too difficult. Soon all Rogan could hear was the puffing and panting of the men as they ran. He concentrated on putting one leg in front of the other, listening intently. Finally he could hear it.

"Do you hear?" Rogan asked Amelia, who was handling the mad dash surprisingly well. "Sounds of fighting."

"It mustn't be far now," she panted.

Ahead the dirt road passed a guard station, the black-clad warrior who manned it looking in the direction from which the sounds were coming, scratching his shaved head as if wondering what to do.

Rogan's lead man cut him down with a single slice at his legs, the next brown-clad warrior then opening up the guard's throat, barely pausing as they ran past.

Rogan felt proud then. He knew these men, all of them, and a few months ago most of them had never held a sword. They would remember this moment until the end of their days.

The shouting and clashes of metal grew louder, and Rogan could now distinguish screams of agony from roars of triumph, the shrill cries of women from the calls of people holding on to their courage with every bit of strength they possessed.