A scream from nearby, ragged and protracted – a bad wounding, maybe a poisoning. One of his warriors. The arrows and darts flittering across the clearing were coming from three sides now as the attackers kept them pinned down and worked their way around. They all knew it was a race to get to Pilos before reinforcements did. He wondered how many of the enemy had followed Sarn and whether his warning would reach the rest of the Melody at all.

Another scream as a second eagle found her cover insufficient against the new angle of attack. Pilos would be next, he knew. The chay was dense but the growing stems were slender and green, flexible, not enough to do more than disrupt line of sight and slow the arrows a little. He wormed further into their midst and then watched behind him. It was the only direction left open to them now and he knew all weapons would be trained on him the moment he broke cover.

A scattering of arrows and javelins whirred through the glade in the macaws stationed between here and the main camp below. The missiles pinning him down faltered, then grew even heavier as they tried to kill him before reinforcements got to him.

Pounding feet and the Pechaqueh war cry, and then the distinctive crack of wood on wood signalling hand-to-hand fighting. Pilos wiped his palm on his armour and gripped his club again; then he took his chance and joined the fray, leaping from cover and sprinting to the aid of a dog warrior. The head of his club crushed a Tokob warrior’s shoulder and he fell at the feet of the dog; the man finished him, nodded shocked thanks to Pilos and then stepped between him and the flicker of a thrown spear. The weapon tore through the outer layers of his salt-cotton, its force stolen. It staggered him back two steps, into Pilos who caught him, grabbed the spear and wrenched it back out. A spray of blood followed.

The warrior grunted, then shook his head and pushed away from Pilos, hand pressed to his side. ‘Go, High Feather. We’ll cover you.’

Three Pechaqueh flowed around him, armed with small shields – eagles. ‘No need, dog,’ Pilos said and grinned as battle-joy surged within him. ‘Kill them all,’ he bellowed and the five of them charged the treeline, where the stutter and flow of movement gave shape to the enemy. To stay in the open was certain death; better to close with their attackers.

More eagles joined them, appearing from the trail or the surrounding jungle, and the dog warriors pulled back, let the eagles take their places around Pilos. Macaws ascended into the trees to support with darts and arrows of their own, shot from above.