Something hit Ilandeh in the back and she went down hard, attacker on top of her and the side of her face slapping mud. They rolled together a few strides down the slope with Ilandeh pinned inside arms and legs thick with muscle and her spear flailing as they tumbled. They came to a dizzy stop and the Whisper dragged her knife out of her belt; the fall had broken off part of the obsidian blade and the remnant was shorter than her little finger, but with two jagged, wicked points. She rammed it into the leg that was pressing on hers and dragged upwards towards the hip.

The scream set Ilandeh’s ear ringing but he let go and she let momentum carry her over, rolling until she faced him again. There was a lot of blood but not enough to indicate she’d hit the killing place, and he had a knife too. It hit her in the chest, punching into – through – her salt-cotton so she felt it slide, hot and agonising, across her collarbone. That was a killing place too, but her knife was already in his armpit, slicing muscles and nerves and taking the strength from his hand.

It fell away and she reared up, trapped his hand under her knee and slammed her broken knife down into the side of his neck. She paused over the dying man and then pulled away the top of her armour. It was staining red already, redder than the feather in her hair, hot and throbbing and hurting to breathe. Ilandeh put the wood-and-cotton handle of her knife in her mouth and bit down; then she drew the Tokob blade out of her chest. Only the tip was red, perhaps the length of her thumb-joint; her armour had stolen most of the force. Still, the wound bled freely.

She breathed experimentally, but couldn’t hear or feel any bubbling. She ripped a wad of cotton from the medicine pouch on her belt and stuffed it against the wound, tightened the strap on her armour to hold it in place, and checked her surroundings again.

More were coming.

The sun told her two hours had passed. Corpses littered the hillside, all the tribes gathered to fight for or against the Empire adding their blood and life to Malel’s sides until the thin skin of soil on her flank was a red slurry and fighters slipped and skidded and fell and died.

A distant roar as Calan finally committed her eagles, reinforcing the dog warriors who’d pushed the defenders back along the eastern line. The enemy had seen them too and shouts of alarm rose up. There was a collective shuffling together, a searching for orders, longing gazes cast towards the city. She scanned her own section of the battle and found it disciplined and holding firm. Below, some of the Tokob facing the eagles ran for safety.