“Enough,” she said calmly.

“Enough for what?” the shieldman muttered in exasperation.

Orisian had sword and shield ready now. He stayed in a low crouch, trying to ignore the fluttering heartbeat he felt in his throat, the cold sweat on his brow and his palms.

“Where’s Varryn?” he asked.

“They are coming,” Ess’yr said. She spun, still sunk down on her haunches, and sighted along the length of the great tree trunk. A figure rounded its far end, where its root plate stood tall: a Kyrinin, a man with a tattooed face. Then Ess’yr’s arrow was lodged in his chest and he was pitching backwards.

“Behind you,” Ess’yr hissed, casting aside the bow and taking up her spear.

Rothe and Orisian both looked over their shoulders. Another White Owl warrior was leaping over the tree trunk, little more than a spear’s length away. Rothe surged up before Orisian could move. Shieldman and Kyrinin crashed together. Orisian heard gasps of violently expelled breath as the two of them fell in a tangle. The White Owl was faster, more agile, than Rothe; he rolled and swept up onto his feet, already in a low fighting stance. Rothe was still scrambling to get upright.

Orisian rushed at the back of the White Owl. He knew at once that he was too slow. He could see the Kyrinin turning, the tip of his spear snapping round at stomach height. Something else hammered into Orisian from the side, knocking him flying. He hit the ground clumsily, his sword pinned beneath him. He was distantly aware that his shin had smacked against a sharp-edged rock, but the pain was carried away, for now, on the flood of the moment.

He sat up, managed to get his sword out from under him. A blur of closing movement gave him enough warning to lift his shield. It took the spear thrust close to its centre and trapped the point there, holding it fast. Orisian tried to roll onto his feet, but the White Owl still had hold of the spear. A single hard tug was enough both to twist Orisian onto his knees and to pull it free of the shield. Orisian watched the butt of the spear sweeping towards him. He could see it coming, it seemed slow, it seemed that he had plenty of time to block it with his sword; yet his arm was only now beginning to move, far too late. The moment passed. The butt of the spear leaped into his face. He felt the skin under his cheekbone split. He felt a rush of hot, wet blood in his mouth. One eye was awash with blinding light. He slumped sideways, flailing with his shield. A blow landed on it. He blinked and saw the White Owl standing over him, readying another stabbing lunge. He slashed at the Kyrinin’s legs with his sword. The Kyrinin sprang out of reach.

Ess’yr came from behind and drove her own spear into the small of the White Owl’s back. He arched, his mouth silently stretched open. Ess’yr tripped him and pinned him to the ground. Orisian swayed onto his feet. He still could not see properly. He spat teeth onto the muddy grass. Blood and saliva trailed from his mouth. Through the showers of blurry lights that cascaded across his vision, he saw White Owls spilling over the huge fallen tree. Rothe was still fighting, bodies at his feet. Ess’yr tried to wrench her spear free, but it resisted. She released it and turned to meet the wave of assailants with a knife.

Orisian stumbled forwards. The White Owl that Ess’yr had impaled was stirring, clawing at the ground. The spear protruding from his back jerked and swung about. Orisian hacked at the back of his head, felt the blade meet bone, and stepped over him. There was a terrible anger howling inside his skull, a vast roaring filling his ears.

Ess’yr dodged the thrust of a spear, stabbed its wielder in the groin. A second White Owl reached her before she could untangle herself, knocked her down. Orisian cried out, bloody spittle filming his lips, and sprang forwards. There was no room in his mind for thought, but his body took over, leaped up, brought the sword down on the Kyrinin’s shoulder. Orisian heard the clear crack of bone breaking. The White Owl fell, within reach of Ess’yr and her knife. Orisian rushed on beyond.

He ducked behind his shield and charged, meaning to drive his way to Rothe so that he could stand back to back with his shieldman. One Kyrinin darted out of his path; the next, he crashed up against and pressed to the thick bole of the dead tree. The White Owl writhed and strained, gripping the rim of Orisian’s shield with one hand and pulling it this way and that. Another was coming from the side. Orisian managed to turn aside the incoming spear with a wild sweep of his sword, but the movement left him open with his blade down and wide. The Kyrinin recovered more quickly, brought the spear back up, then jerked. An arrow was in his side. Another darted in beside it. He fell. Orisian had no time to think. The White Owl he had pinned against the great log was too strong for him to hold. He hacked at the exposed legs below his shield until the Kyrinin went down.

He saw the na’kyrim woman they had come for curled up against the tree trunk like a child, a dead White Owl laid out beside her almost as if they were a sleeping couple. He saw Varryn coming sprinting from amongst the trees, and behind him human figures: Torcaill’s men. He saw Ess’yr, a spear in her hand once more, trading blocks and blows with an opponent. And he saw Rothe, down on one knee, shield up to block one attack, sword parrying another, nothing left to block the third that punched a spear deep into his shoulder.

Orisian lunged forwards. He was in amongst them. Blows landed on his shield, on his hip. Someone went down on his left. He looked, terrified, but it was not Rothe. The shieldman had got back to his feet. His shield arm was hanging limp, defeated by injuries old and new. He cut down one of the White Owls in front of Orisian, stretched out sword and arm, pushing Orisian back.

“Stay clear,” Rothe said. Then something hit him at the base of his neck. There was blood there. The shieldman’s eyes flared for a moment. Varryn brushed past them, spear and elbows jabbing and stabbing. One of Torcaill’s warriors crashed by. Rothe took an uncertain step backwards, and toppled.

Orisian heard the clatter of spears, the gasps of pain and exertion, felt the impact of bodies falling or feet stamping. He saw only Rothe. He dropped his sword and fell to his knees at his shieldman’s side. Rothe was watching him. Only his eyes moved. He coughed and blood bubbled out across his lips and beard. Orisian shook his shield free, cast it away. He cupped Rothe’s face in his hands. Strands of blood were falling from his own mouth. The wound in Rothe’s throat was gurgling. Rothe blinked, again and again. His gaze never faltered, never left Orisian’s eyes. Orisian pressed a hand to Rothe’s neck. The blood flooded slickly out between his fingers and across the back of his hand. Dark. Remorseless.

“Wait, wait,” Orisian heard himself saying.

Rothe blinked once more. And then never again.