A steel wall suddenly barred their way; they had arrived! Rogan prayed it wasn't too late. Through the bars Rogan could see people fighting, falling, fleeing, and dying.

Rogan's men threw themselves at the gate, but it held fast. Through the narrowly-spaced lines of steel, some of the Black Army's soldiers could be seen turning to take stock and prepare themselves for this new threat.

"Make way!" Rogan roared, even as he brandished the zenblade over his head.

In that moment the difficulty of his song, the searing pain in his chest, and the aching of his leg were as nothing. Rogan was the blademaster. The activations poured from his throat, strong and clear, and Rogan planted his legs on the ground, took his zenblade in both hands, and swung once, twice, and a third time. It was a move Rogan had devised to fight Veznan nightshades and Tingaran avengers.

With a sound like a tree being struck by lightning, the zenblade cut through the steel as if it was nothing. Sparks flew in a fountain, raining down on the black-clad soldiers on the other side of the gate, and Rogan completed his arc, kicking fragments of molten steel out of the way and then leaping through to the other side.

Against the blademaster, the stunned prison guards didn't stand a chance.

Rogan's men poured through the opening he'd created, taking the enemy warriors down one-by-one. The superior numbers of the Halrana and Rogan's training instantly began to tell, and with renewed vigour those of the prisoners who held swords continued the fight. Rogan despatched one man with a thrust to the upper chest, and then turned on his heel, making a complicated twist of his wrist and taking a second Black Army soldier's head clean off. A Tingaran with a blood-drenched sword and the sun-and-star tattooed across his shaved head came at him with his sword raised; Rogan opened him up with a sweeping blow.

They kept coming at him, and Rogan kept taking them down. The corpses piled at his feet, and as again Rogan thought about what he'd heard went on in this camp, he snarled and launched himself at another soldier, taking the battle to them.

Rogan's song came strong and fierce, and the blood slid away from his armoursilk as the magic prevented it from sticking, so that he looked new and green as a blade of grass, lit up by the morning sun.

"Marshal, there are a bunch of them in their own camp nearby," a male voice called, cutting through Rogan's battle haze. "They're fleeing into the forest."

"We have to let them go," Rogan said, panting. He lowered his zenblade, realising there weren't any more of the enemy to kill. The pain came to him then, and he grimaced as he felt the soreness in his leg come back a hundredfold, his throat hoarse and his chest wheezing.

"Rogan?" a soft voice said behind him.