Lilla lay in the leaf-litter with the others, some huddled together against the chill, the rest separate, as far as the ropes would allow them to get. Together or apart, each was alone, locked in a private misery of hurts and fears.

Footsteps passed his head and Lilla tucked his chin to his chest and tensed his sore muscles. Nobody hit him this time and slowly he uncurled and blinked at the greying dawn and the small fire where the dog warriors of the Empire of Songs were clustered.

‘… awake? Lilla, you awake?’

He knew that voice. Maybe. Blearily, and wincing at the clicking in his neck, he turned his head. A woman. A warrior. Scar on her chin. Couldn’t remember her name.

‘Are you with us? We’re going to do it today. In an hour, just before we start to march. All right? You’re with us, Fang, yes?’

Lilla put his head down in the leaf-litter and closed his eyes. Fang? The constant whine in his head was a little quieter today; perhaps whatever had broken inside him was healing. Would heal faster if he had some water. So thirsty.

Daylight bright behind his eyelids and sudden chaos. Lunging and shadows flickering. A wrench on the rope around his neck, the one that tied him to the others, and Lilla’s eyes opened and he squinted. Eight lines of twenty. Eight long ropes with twenty warriors on them. He knew that; he’d counted that. Yesterday?

The warriors on Lilla’s rope were on their feet, kicking and lunging, trying to scramble away or grab weapons from the dog warriors, but it was hard; everyone had a second rope around their waists, and their hands were tied to it. They had some movement, but not enough to wield a knife at anything other than the closest of quarters. The dogs guarding them, of course, didn’t need to get close. They had spears.

He rolled onto his knees, pain lancing through his head so he made a noise low in the back of his throat. He stayed there a few seconds, fighting down nausea, and then planted his right foot and pushed, stood wobbling.

‘Fight,’ screamed the woman with the scarred chin. ‘Lilla, fight.’ But then she couldn’t say any more because there was a spear in her chest and it had stolen her words and her breath. Her heart. Her life. They ripped the obsidian out of her body – a pretty green glass, unusual and winking in the sun where it wasn’t stained red – and she fell, and all over the clearing other people were falling, strings of them, one after another or in clumps. Some were screaming or praying and a few simply cowered, and everyone on their feet was cut down.

The man next to him pulled back onto his knees. ‘Stay down. It’s over. Fucking over,’ he said. Young, he was, and big. Lilla didn’t know his name.