For as much as Lyrua hated Bartholomaeus, it must be said that he managed wonders keeping his men from fleeing the battle. For better or for worse. How did the guards witness such slaughter, and not flee for their lives?

The Spellwards who were escorting her and her son had changed a few times as they travelled, and the men who were with her now used wide street brushes to push chunks of flesh from their path.

They reached another square, with another statue of Balaans, this one tainted only by blood. He was depicted holding a clenched fist towards the heavens, and an inviting palm towards the earth. It was identical to the last, before it was destroyed, but less imposing than the one Balaans had left on the Queen's Way.

Their boots splashed in fluids half an inch deep as they walked, and the stench of death had begun to attract carrion birds. Crows perched on rooftops silhouetted against the night sky, swivelling their little heads as they waited for the battle to end so they could feast. It occurred to her that she had not seen Ove for some time, but she trusted that the woman would be in a shadow somewhere nearby, diligently watching over them.

Mounds of corpses clogged the square, and Lander bid her remain where she was. Spellwards were running in from the north, where Lyrua and Athen had just come from. They ran across the square to join the others in pushing the King’s Army back south to the Dust Quarter. A couple of bolts struck the street from a rooftop, startling Athen to tears. He clutched his Maybreth doll under his chin for comfort. She could not make out what fired them, but Wards on the roofs were already tossing corpses to the street.

From the depths of the city beyond the veil of night, came a piercing elegy that rattled her bones. The entire plaza froze in the wave of silence that followed. Spellwards flooded the square, returning from the southward roads, and the city shuddered from the pounding of something pursuing them.

A call rang out in Toldremand’s familiar voice as he followed behind them. “Mana!” At once, the Wards reached for vials of Dew of the Moonflower Tree, scores of them sparkling like stars. They imbibed the Dew in unison, and left the vials to splash in the carpet of blood that drowned the square.

A man trotted up to them and saluted her awkwardly. “Shame about your trip, my Queen.” he said, turning his salute into a soldier’s bow by folding at the waist over his arm. The crests of Light and Air on his chest blended with his tunic in the blood both were coated in. “But the war is not over yet. The dawn is nearly upon us, and they have played their final card.”

“What in Soulhollow does that mean?” Lyrua snapped.

“Honestly, I’d rather be in Soulhollow. Would be a mite safer than this place, even if Faaldet were there.” He turned to look behind him.

Many of the Spellwards fought for breath, bracing themselves on their knees or taking what sliver of a moment they could to lean against a wall. The captains were dashing about, organising them so the most wearied Wards were at the rear, while others lay spells on them to suppress their exhaustion. They had been battling for hours by this point, and some had already been awake all day.

“... Sorry,” he continued, clutching his elbows for warmth as though the words chilled him, “they have shrills. Whatever those are. Really good at making stalkers, I hear. But with what remains of the Army still about, we can’t take you out of the square. That’s the only bad news. For the better, we’re sure they’ve played their whole hand. If we defeat the shrills, we win, but if we haven’t defeated them by dawn… then I’m afraid we win anyway. I wasn’t told why.”

“Shrills lose their power during the day you lummox,” Ove’s beak clacked from somewhere nearby, “go and find some thing useful to do!”

“I am, Ove,” Dag said. “Lander and the ten of us… and you Ove, I suppose, need to watch over the Royals while the others mop up the shrills.” Nine more Spellwards quickly took positions near them. Three of them leaped onto the rooftops, and Dag turned to follow, rushing after them in a burst of air.

Athen began sobbing into her blouse.

A deep reverberation rattled debris on the streets, growing louder with each resounding thud. The pounding breached at the edge of the square, and two monstrosities twice Lander’s height emerged from the dead stillness of the night, their ridged carapaces lurching as they dragged their wiry legs. Each scraped the ground with five clawed hands as they lumbered forward, puffing black smoke edged with rose from between their teeth like frosted breath.

They looked towards Lyrua and her son as they loomed from the mouth of the alleys, forty long fingers grasping the buildings like webs of bone. Their gazes burdened her with tremendous weight, pulling her with such force that her knees buckled, threatening to wrench her from her feet.

The Spellwards stole their attention with bolts of fire and lightning, but every spell that came near the monsters disappeared into a cloud of darkness that appeared to swallow them. Light were the only spells that punctured holes through to strike the horrors, but they offered only irritated shudders in response.

A shrill leered at a squad of Wards, and their legs slipped out from under them like sickled wheat. They fell to the blood-flooded ground.and a well of Dark opened beneath them, drawing in blood like a drain while the Wards scrambled for purchase along the edge.

Reacting with honed reflexes, Spellwards took hold of their comrades before the dark pit swallowed them. As they dragged them clear of the rift, a scratching bouquet of shadowy arms sprouted to grasp them by their ankles, pulling appetently to feed the void. A burst of light from Dag banished the shadows long enough for them to pull away and return to formation.

The dark-shelled creature reached for its face with the hand that grew from the top of its shoulder. It took hold of its awful jaw, lined with long teeth like ribs, and tore it open with a petrifying snap, releasing a howl into the night. The shrill’s three pale eyes swivelled in its head as it screeched, and Athen fell limp in Lyrua’s arms. The wail cleaved her thoughts, rending them from her mind. Only the image of the three pale red eyes spinning in ridged sockets remained, and it took every ounce of will she could muster not to collapse.