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‘Torj!’ Wilder shouted over the pandemonium. ‘We need archers to the gates!’

‘You heard the man,’ Torj bellowed, pointing to Wilder. ‘Archers to the gates!’

Within moments, Torj was there, this time hurling a spear towards the attackers. He pierced two at once, the lance skewering the second man through the first.

‘We need more arrows,’ he said.

‘They’ve not sent a volley our way yet?’ Wilder asked, thrusting his sword through a man’s belly.

‘Not yet.’ Torj threw another spear at the men holding the battering ram below, his archers raining arrows down on them. The Bear Slayer noted Wilder’s furrowed brow. ‘What is it?’

Wilder hauled an attacker off one of their men and threw him over the wall. ‘There’s nowhere near the number of wraiths I expected. There were more attacking us in the woods…’

‘This is just the first wave,’ Torj ventured.

‘It is. But how much of their forces are they holding back —’

He was answered by an explosion to the north.

The entire castle rumbled beneath their feet, huge chunks of stone soaring through the air from the rear of the fortress.

‘Fuck,’ Wilder muttered.

‘Did they just blow a hole in our defence?’

‘Looks like it.’ Wilder gripped Torj’s shoulder. ‘You good to take the lead?’

‘I was born to lead, brother.’

‘Just as well,’ Wilder replied, already surging for the northern ramparts. ‘Swordsmen, Thea, you’re with me!’ he called over his shoulder, not bothering to see who obeyed.

He slayed as many enemy soldiers as he could while he ran, beheading them, shoving them from the wall, slicing at their vulnerable tendons and leaving them screaming on the ground, ready for someone else to finish off.

This was the brutality of battle.

Already the stone steps were slippery with blood.

‘Shit,’ he muttered, skidding to a stop as he reached the northern perimeter.

The wall was gone. Or half of it, at least.

Torchlight and fires illuminated the dust billowing into the air and the masses of rubble crushing countless men, ally and enemy alike. Attackers spilt into the castle courtyard through the maimed wall.

And at the heart of it was Audra, her expression formidable, her knives carving through the madness and bringing down their foes.

‘To the breach!’ Wilder heard himself shout, already halfway down the stairs to defend the inner walls of Notos.

The Warsword didn’t think; he simply moved through the utter bedlam, slicing, cutting and thrusting his mighty blades through the weak joints of armour, into exposed sides and necks. With his prowess on the battlefield, he rallied his own forces behind him, inspiring a fearlessness in them, for they fought with the Hand of Death.

Wilder barked orders at several commanders to secure the kings and queen, to ensure their safety at all costs, before throwing himself back into the fray.

He found himself shoulder to shoulder with Audra, who shot him a challenging glare. ‘Tell me to go back to my books, Hawthorne, I dare you.’

In spite of himself, Wilder laughed, a madman’s laugh. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ he replied, cutting down an opponent. ‘Glad to have you. Sometimes I forget the warrior you were.’

Audra slayed one man, then another, blood spraying. ‘There’s no forgetting who we truly are, Warsword.’

And then she was off in another direction, leaving soldiers begging for death in her wake.