Calan let Sarn go and shoved him away, back down the trail. She wiped her hands deliberately on her armour before accepting the sliver of glass back.

Pilos walked through the last of the ambush site, cleared of traps by those who’d died and those who’d secured the perimeter before the High Feather arrived.

‘They know we’re here, yet they’re not pushing in. They ambushed us, now they’re allowing us to regroup. Why?’ he asked the trees.

And that, of course, was when the true attack came.

Pilos hadn’t anticipated it, as such, but there was less surprise than admiration in him as arrows whined out of the trees to north and west and he threw himself into a stand of young chay, taller than he was and densely packed. A two-pronged attack on his position, and they’d held back long enough to ensure Pilos was barely guarded. They recognised him as High Feather and thought cutting the head from the snake would kill the body.

They were wrong, and not just because Atu was ripping them apart in the east of Yalotlan. Even if they killed every Feather in the Melody, he would still trust his eagles to bring them under the song.

Sarn sprinted down the track, calling for aid, his disgrace notwithstanding, while Calan came charging to her High Feather’s defence. Sarn would bring everyone – eagles who wouldn’t be held back from aiding their High Feather – and his elite would crush these bastards. They’d claim another stick of land, that little bit closer to Tokoban and peace.

Pilos just needed to hold out for a few hundred breaths and the fury of the Melody would fall on the enemy. He huddled in on himself as darts and arrows thudded into the soil and shredded the chay leaves, releasing their familiar scent and milky sap. Pilos wiped it carefully from his eyebrows and mouth. Such a small amount would do little harm unless it got in his eyes, but the situation was risky enough without adding in poison.

His armour, salt-cotton for the most part, like that of his warriors, was inlaid front and back with strips of painted mahogany in the same style and appearance as the toughened plates gracing the belly and back of the holy Setatmeh. It wouldn’t stop a spear thrown from close range, but for now they weren’t closing, so he had a chance.

And armour will do fuck all for me if I get a dart in the neck, he thought as one hit and bounced among the woody stems.

Calan was under a fig to his left, pressed against the trunk and watching him for orders. He could see her debating whether to sprint to his side and make herself into a shield, so he held up a flat palm, ordering her to stay still.