He stepped into a gap between two warriors, slid beneath the strike of a spear and batted it upwards with his own. It shivered in the Tokob hands and Pilos followed up with a kick that sent his opponent staggering back into the warriors behind. The enemy’s lines were ragged, their instinct to break into small groups warring with the knowledge they’d be cut down if they did. This close up, they were neither one formation nor the other, and Pilos’s line exacted a terrible toll for their hesitation.

Only the sheer number of two tribes allied against him – and the fact that half his Melody was with Feather Atu securing Yalotlan – had held defeat at arm’s length this long. But they were fighting farmers and potters as often as warriors these days, and the lack of quality was beginning to tell.

Pilos jerked sideways as another spear came for his face then lanced his own back along its trajectory. This warrior was faster and sidestepped, her spear jabbing again, and then once more. Pilos slipped the first but the second caught him high up on the chest, juddering over the wooden plates and into the salt-cotton of his armour.

He twisted sideways so it slid on past, tearing through armour but not flesh, and then struck over the top, a downward blow that went into the top of her shoulder, not enough to reach the lung or even a big vessel, but it weakened her arm and she squawked and he used the opening to rush her, ramming his spear up under her armour into her hip. He was lucky, the blade missing the pelvic bone and sinking deep into meat instead. There was no squawk or scream this time; she grunted, guttural and low, animal-like, and Pilos ripped it back out. She fell. Another took her place.

Pilos grinned as his spear tip blocked the swings of an axe, too short to make ground against him. This one fought defensively, knowing he was outmatched and hoping the warriors to either side would come to his aid. They didn’t, too busy keeping themselves alive, and it wasn’t long before his shrill scream was added to the rest, splitting the air, an offering to glory.

Melody warriors could fight in line and individually, in small packs, in arrowhead shapes, in ambush and at night. The right formation for the right ground and the right enemy. Thousands of hours of practice made them the best killers the world had ever seen and they proved it now.

Word had spread that High Feather Pilos battled with them, and a chant started far down at one end of the line. A chant of praise, of might and majesty, glory and triumph. A chant to lift the heart while the song, the true song, was absent.