He pressed his hand to his belly and his throat. ‘Feather Calan, welcome. For the glory of the Empire and the holy Setatmeh, you have been gifted the feathers of command. Use them wisely, learn from your elders and betters, and fill me with pride when next we go to war.’

‘For the Singer!’ Calan shouted, returning the salute and then bowing her head at Pilos, unable to disguise the width of her grin. ‘For the holy Setatmeh, for the Empire, and for High Feather Pilos.’

Pilos permitted himself another small smile; he should probably put a stop to it, but the war in Yalotlan had been bloody, and the Melody had taken to chanting his name when they achieved victory.

As long as mine comes after that of Singer, Empire and Setatmeh, I suppose there’s no real harm.

‘Back about your work, eagles, there’s a lot to be done. Atu, I want the first of the new slaves brought up; they’ve been stewing in their own filth long enough. Let’s see how many are willing to fight and die for their Empire. We may as well make a start on them while we’re still here.’

‘Yes, High Feather,’ Atu said, and dismissed the eagles to their barracks and training. On one side of the huge drill yard, dog warriors trained under the watchful eyes and eager whips of their Coyote commanders, the rain washing the sweat from their bodies.

On the other, the new hawk caste worked their way through basic spear forms. They were slow and awkward, but they were eager, knowing it was their only chance to put their shame behind them and regain honour and status again.

Pilos’s view of the hawks was cut off by the appearance of hundreds of stumbling, squinting, filthy, chained men and women: the Yaloh warriors who had survived the first battles and been captured. Pilos had left them baking in the underground cells for the last five moons, coated in their own filth and scrambling for the rations dropped through the slats from above.

Only the strongest would have survived that, and the sound of more Yaloh being forced into the neighbouring pits month after month as the war progressed would have hardened them and given them an edge like the finest obsidian. Only those who were proven or suspected warriors were at the fortress. The rest – the old, the children, and the obvious non-combatants – had already been sold. For moons, this batch of slaves had listened to the pitiful cries and bravado-filled curses of their way of life ending, filtered, always, through the glory of the song that showed them what they could be, how great they could be. Now Pilos needed to turn the remains of their hate and rage against a target other than the Pechaqueh who’d defeated them and the Empire that would, given time and good service, raise them up to heights they couldn’t imagine.