Detta’s mouth dropped open and Ilandeh’s cheeks reddened as she took it; her fingers trembled against his.

‘High Feather, my blood is—’

He cut her off with a gesture. ‘Gather your supplies and go. Now. All haste,’ he emphasised.

Ilandeh snapped out of her reverie, meeting his eyes. ‘Yes, High Feather. I won’t let you down. Under the song.’ She touched belly and throat, stared at him one last time, awed and afraid at the status she held between her fingers, and then she was gone.

‘Detta, this ends now. We’ll disengage at dusk as usual, wait for them to settle, and then throw everything we’ve got at those walls through the night until we’re in. Rotate the warriors at the walls for as long as you have to, but do not stop. I’d wanted to maximise the number of slaves we’d take, but that’s a secondary concern now. Just get them beaten.’

‘Yes, High Feather.’ Detta was shocked at what he’d heard, but he was an eagle and an officer. He touched belly and throat and raced away, calling Feathers and Coyotes to his side and issuing orders with crisp authority.

‘Citla, rest as long as you need to and then get yourself back into the song. It’s doing you no good being out here.’

The Listener nodded, weary and haunted, but she didn’t move and he let her be. It was halfway between highsun and dusk. Pilos sucked his teeth, tapping the club gently against his calf as he watched the sway and crimp of battle below. The Tokob had begun to understand the Melody’s tactics and replicate them on this side of the city. Reports said the Yaloh were learning to do the same in the east. Where before they’d fought in supported groups of thirty or so, now they strung out in lines three deep, like the Melody’s. It had made the fighting more intense. It had forced his warriors into a bloody, long-drawn affair that they had no time for.

Pilos swapped his club for a spear and shield. The slope was slippery and he picked his way down with care until he reached a flatter section where the lines strained and shoved at each other and the din of battle beat against his eardrums. A man peeled out of the rear rank with blood turning his face into a crimson mask. He staggered past Pilos without recognition, heading for the shamans. The High Feather took his place, rolling his shoulders and his neck, circling his wrists and breathing deep to prepare for the rotation into the front line.