He saw the boy—he’d utterly forgotten him in the fight—watching him, frozen where he stood about ten feet away, wide-eyed with not much less terror than he’d had of the dwenda. Ringil shook his head and found himself laughing, an insane, dribbling little chuckle.

“Dragonbane’s right,” he said vaguely. “They fall down just like men.”

The boy’s eyes shifted, left over Ringil’s shoulder, and he darted away like a spooked deer. Ringil swung about and found himself facing one of Rakan’s soldiers. Relief stabbed through him.

“Ah. How you doing?”

The man made a noise. He was wounded all over, but none of it looked too bad. He still had his shield, but it was buckled and split, and he was down to a long knife for a weapon. Ringil turned and pointed, still breathing heavily.

“See that ax? If you can get it out of that motherfucker’s head, it’s yours. Then we’ll go see what’s going on at the blockhouse. Okay?”

The Throne Eternal stared at him. “They, they . . .” He gestured wildly over his shoulder. “They’re fucking everywhere, man.”

“I know. And they glow in the dark, too.” Ringil clapped him on the shoulder. “Should make it easy, huh?”

EGAR CAME THROUGH THE BLOCKHOUSE DOOR WITH BITS OF DWENDA intestine on both blades of the staff lance, just in time to see Archeth stabbed to the floor. Fury detonated through him like an instant high fever. He yelled, berserker shrill and full, and leapt in on the two dwenda without thought. The first turned just in time to get the lance blade through the belly. The second stumbled back a step, as if from an actual blow, then came in swinging its sword. Remorseless, Egar drove the impaled dwenda back until it tripped over Archeth’s body. He caught the swing of the other’s blade on the lance shaft and kicked its legs summarily out from under it. He leaned hard on the embedded end of the lance, twisted the shaft back and forth, and the wounded dwenda screamed in his helmet and thrashed. Egar judged the damage well enough done, jerked the lance free, crouched and swung about to face the other dwenda just as it climbed back to its feet.

“You want to die, too? Come on then, motherfucker.”

The dwenda was very fast. It whooped and leapt high over the lance thrust, cleared it entirely, lashed out with one foot and kicked Egar in the face. He staggered, didn’t quite go down. Blood in his mouth, felt like a broken tooth, but—

The dwenda had landed only a couple of feet away, was twisting about to bring its long-sword to bear. Egar rushed it, slammed the lance shaft up and into the creature’s chest, and bore it backward across the room until they both fell among the bodies and broken chairs. The dwenda dropped its sword. Egar rammed the lance shaft desperately up under the jut of the helmet. He got to his knees. The dwenda had a long slim knife from somewhere; it slashed at him but the lance shaft had its arms pinned and ineffectual. Egar got on his knees, rammed the shaft up again, and bore down with all his weight. The dwenda made an awful gurgling sound. The slim knife slashed again, gouged into his side, slid off a rib. Egar snarled and let go of the lance, grabbed the featureless helmet, and smashed it against the flagstone floor. The knife stabbed him again, felt like it got through this time. He gasped, struggled for purchase on the helmet’s smooth sides, felt another fiery lash of pain along his ribs, stabbed out with a knee to hold the arm off. He gripped the helm’s surface, squeezed and twisted with everything he had left. The dwenda thrashed and squawked. Egar bared his teeth in an awful grin, and kept on twisting. His voice grated from his throat.

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Nearly—done—just a—”

—the knife again, he barely noticed through the rising red mist, his voice came out small and tight with the effort—

“—little more—”

—the thing was screaming now, battering at him with the knife and a clenched fist, kicking, didn’t matter, didn’t matter, ignore that shit—

“—little more—”

Crack.

And the dwenda’s head was suddenly loose and lolling in his hands. The creature’s arms dropped to its sides. He heard the knife clink free on the stonework.

“That’s it,” he hissed. “Quiet down now.”

He drew a hard, panting breath, yelped immediately at the flare of pain as his ribs moved. His eyes teared up. He blew breath through pursed lips as if he’d just swallowed something that was too hot.

“Ah fuck, that hurts.”

“Tell me about it.”

He turned about and there was Archeth, on her feet, limping toward him clutching one shoulder. But there was a bloodied knife in her hand on the injured side, and she seemed to be hanging on to it okay. He coughed a laugh, then wished he hadn’t.

“Hey, you’re alive.”

“For the moment.” She nodded behind her. “Finished your other pal for you.”

He heaved himself up off the dwenda’s body, looked under his left arm at the blood and grimaced.

“That was nice of you. I thought he was pretty much done. Saw his guts come out, that’s for sure.”

“Well.” She shrugged and winced. “Aldrain magic, you know. Best to make sure. What’s it like out there?”

Egar took a couple of careful, testing breaths. He ground his teeth and snarled in frustration. Bent to pick up his lance.

“Don’t know, these motherfuckers are coming out of the dark everywhere you look. Saw at least five of your Throne Eternal boys down in the street, no idea if they took any bad guys with them. It’s not good.”

Archeth peered about on the floor for her other knives. She spotted Wraithslayer, crouched awkwardly, and picked it up.

“We’d better get out there, then,” she said.

“Yeah, I was afraid you were going to say—”

And then they heard it, and at the sound the Majak’s face lit up as if someone had magically wiped away all his pain.

Ringil’s voice, bawling hoarse but crystal clear in Tethanne, out in the street.

“Stand! Stand your fucking ground! They fall down just like men! Stand with me! STAND!”

FAILEH RAKAN LAY DEAD IN THE STREET, HEAD SPLIT BY AN ALDRAIN AX. He’d accounted for a brace of dwenda—they lay about his feet—but the third was too fast. Ringil, jogging rapidly up the street toward the blockhouse with a mauled squad of survivors, saw it happen but got there too late to do anything about it.

The dwenda who’d finished Rakan spun about at the sound of his footfalls. Ringil rushed in. Shield up to block the ax, heave and shove it aside. The Ravensfriend chopped in for the thigh. He’d learned, in the past frantic quarter hour, that the Aldrain armor was strong below the knee, like some kind of incorporated greave under the material, rising to knee height. Above the knee, strength gave way to flexibility; the black leg garb was thinner. Human steel might not get through easily, but the Kiriath blade chewed it apart like rotten sailcloth. He hacked the width of a hand into the dwenda’s leg, withdrew, and stepped back. Watched the creature fall to its knees and then skewered it under the helmet.

It was beginning to feel practiced.

He looked wildly about. What was left of Rakan’s patrols had pulled back to the blockhouse as planned, but hard-pressed on every side by the encroaching dwenda. He counted four men—no three, there went another, spun about and down into the mud off a dwenda blade, spurting blood from a half-severed neck—and he had four more at his back, one of those in none-too-good shape.

And from all angles, still shedding tiny blue flickering flames as they moved, the rest of the dwenda came on. The krin hammered through his head, wrote the answer in fire behind his eyes.

He put a boot on the dead dwenda’s helmet, tipped it back, and hacked down with the Ravensfriend. It took three desperate, brutal strokes, but the head came off. He bent—felt an odd, crooked smile slip onto his mouth—and plunged his left hand into the gory mess at the helmet’s opening. Meat and pipes and there, the rough central gnarl of the severed spine. He grasped at the ragged bone end, picked up head and helmet, and strode to the blockhouse step.