The Year of Our War

by Steph Swainston

Genres: Fantasy; Epic Fantasy; Action & Adventure; Science Fiction

Synopsis

The most exciting, original and important new fantasy novel to be published since China Miéville's PERDIDO STREET STATION. A breathtakingly skilful debut.

A superb work of literary fantasy. In a truly original imagined world of breathtaking, sometimes surreal beauty, fifty utterly alien but disarmingly human immortals lead mankind in a centuries-long war.

Jant is the Messenger, one of the Circle, a cadre of fifty immortals who serve the Emperor. He is the only immortal - indeed the only man alive - who can fly.

The Emperor must protect mankind from the hordes of giant Insects who have plagued the land for centuries, eating everything and everyone in their path. But he must also contend with the rivalries and petty squabblings of his chosen immortals. These will will soon spill over into civil war.

Steph Swainston has written an astonishingly original literary fantasy. She writes beautifully. Her novel places her in a tradition of writing typified by Mervyn Peake, M. John Harrison and China Miéville. This is a breathtaking debut novel of the finest quality.

Release date: December 23, 2010

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 384

Sample

As soon as I arrived in Lowespass I bought a newspaper and read it in the shadow of the fortress wall –

Castle Calls for Reinforcements –Rachiswater Offensive Continues

The Castle has demanded eight thousand fresh troops to be raised from the Plainslands to join the Awian Fyrd on the Lowespass front. Awian soldiers led by King Dunlin Rachiswater have forced the Insects westwards, exposing the remains of Lowespass town, which was lost in the Insect advance last year.

In a joint press conference held on Friday with Comet representing the Castle, King Rachiswater announced that five kilometres of ground had been recovered. He pointed out that this was the first time the Wall had been pushed back in twenty years. His Majesty appealed for ‘our brothers of the Plainslands’ to send reinforcements so the advance could continue. Comet reported that the Emperor was ‘pleased’ with the success of the Awian operation.

Lowespass town now presents a dramatic sight, shocking to those who have not seen the works of Insects before. To the scorched walls and timbers – the town was burnt before evacuation – Insects have added their complex of grey paper constructions with pointed roofs resembling houses. The ground is riddled with their tunnels.

Awian losses in the last two weeks were heaviest in the infantry, with one thousand fatalities and as many injured. Five hundred of the cavalry were killed, while the archers, all under Lightning’s command, suffered twelve injured. None of the immortals has been harmed, and they continue to encourage the troops. Veterans of the campaign have been promised settlements in newly recovered lands.

Comet said that despite such determined efforts the terror of an Insect swarm appearing remains significant. He reported that the buildings stretch for kilometres behind the Wall. He said, ‘Flying over it is like –

I knew my own words, however badly reported, so I flicked to page five, where there was a cartoon with a surprising likeness of Lightning. The cartoon grasped desperately at a beautiful girl who was carrying a guitar. Her figure dissolved like a ghost into little woodcut hearts. The caption underneath read: Swallow? In your dreams.

Giggling, I folded the newspaper and shoved it into the back of my belt. I strode away from the fortress wall towards the cliff, hearing the river torrent below. Two strides, and I started running. I forced at the ground, accelerating, faster and faster to the edge of the cliff. Three, two, one. I spread my wings and kicked over the edge as the ground fell away. I turned in a long calm arc down towards the camp.

By day the Lowespass outpost filled the river valley with sound and splendour. Tents covered the ground completely, coloured like scales on a butterfly’s wing. Troops patrolled the Insect Wall, covered wagons drawn by exhausted horses rolled in along the rutted road. They unloaded at the fortress, took the wounded away. From the air, carts were the size of matchboxes, parked in a line. Shouts carried from the soldiers at training; those at rest sat in groups on the grass, or in the canvas city, under awnings, around fires. Pennants, which marked Fyrd divisions, twisted like vivid tongues on the blunted mountain breeze. They were blue with white eagles for the country of Awia, a scallop shell for Summerday manor, a clenched fist for Hacilith city, stars, ploughs and ships for the Plainslands manors. The Castle’s flag was set in the centre of the camp, a red and gold sun-in-splendour. Our symbol of permanence now shines on land reclaimed from the Insects, and soldiers passing beneath it glance up, smiling.

I flew in at midnight, practically blind, trying to remember how deep the valley was. I hurtled down it, balancing on long wings. The river looked like a strand of silver mirror behind the slashed black hillside, and not too far distant I could see the Wall.

Too fast. I’m going too fast.

Good.

Dividing the valley, Lowespass Fortress on its rocky crag soared above me as I dropped. The dark ground was spotted with red, the campfires of the Fyrd. Closer still, I could see pale faces surrounding them, but no more. I felt unnerved that Lowespass was populated with silent soldiers. I slowed, flared my wings and landed neatly on a patch of ground not two metres from a cluster of sleeping bags, which yelped.

I made my way on the damp ground between bivouacs and tent pegs to the Castle’s pavilion. Lamplight shone in a thin beam from the slit entrance. I stood for a while hearing the chatter coming from within, before remembering that those who listen outside tents rarely hear any good about themselves.

‘Welcome back, Comet,’ said Dunlin.

‘You can call me Jant,’ I said. As my eyes got used to the light I saw three men sitting around a thin table, playing cards. The pavilion was so large that the edges were in shadow; the central pole was wound with red and yellow ribbons. I bowed to King Dunlin Rachiswater, and to his brother Staniel, and I said hi to Lightning, the Castle’s Archer.

Lightning nodded curtly at me. He was sorting his cards. ‘What’s the news?’

‘Diw won two-nil against Hacilith.’

He gaped. ‘Can’t you ever be serious?’

Dunlin leant forward. ‘Have you been successful?’

‘Of course. Your Majesty, there are five thousand soldiers on their way from the coast. They’ll take a week to ride here. In addition to that, I went to the Castle and spoke with the Emperor, and he greatly favours what we’ve achieved and backs all the plans you asked me to report –’

‘Wait, wait. Didn’t we say eight, not five?’

‘I can pull another three thousand from Awia if you give me time.’ I was slightly ashamed that I had spent the last few days at the Castle visiting my wife rather than working. King Dunlin Rachiswater is the only man I know who has enough stamina to remain at the front for weeks on end without feeling the need for a night with a woman.

He shook his head. ‘It has to be the Plainslands. Not Awia. Who’ll feed us?’

‘My lord, there are few soldiers left at the coast, and most of them are too young. There’s no outcry as yet, but I think it’s wrong to take so many.’

‘If my country of Awia gives all it can, then the Plainslands can too.’

I said, ‘If I may venture a criticism, it’s your campaign to push the Insects out of land where they’re well established which is costing so many lives.’

‘So you’d rather remain in a stalemate for another two thousand years?’

I sighed. ‘The Castle aims to protect Zascai from the Insects. There’s never a shortage of Insects. If you use up the fighting force of one generation, for how long can we guarantee that protection?’

‘Immortals are so frustrating sometimes,’ he remarked to his brother. ‘We can beat the Insects. With eight thousand, we can control their movements. We can support each other!’

I told him, ‘I’ve seen a lot of action, and I think a hot-headed approach is wrong.’

Rachiswater prepared to contest this but Lightning said, ‘Your Majesty, don’t argue with Comet.’

‘Sorry, Jant.’

‘No, no. It’s my fault. I’ve flown a long way. I’m a bit tired.’

They fetched a chair for me to sit down at the table, and poured some red wine from a crystal decanter. The drink wasn’t good on an empty stomach, and I began to feel very light-headed as the others continued with their card game.

‘You look tired,’ Lightning said, tone dripping with suspicion. The Micawater manor insignia on his shoulder caught the lamplight, a similar diamond design on the quiver full of red-flighted arrows dangling from the back of his chair. The arrows were hanging with a little state-of-the-art composite bow: gold-banded horn and polished strips of wood, curved back like pincers. This meant he must have been showing off because in battle he usually uses a longbow. He was a little taller than Dunlin, much broader than Staniel, and more muscular than me.

There was a resemblance between Dunlin and Staniel, but in it Dunlin had taken all the darkness and strength, whereas his younger brother was like a yellow reed.

Dunlin growled, ‘I want us to keep our minds on the campaign. Especially tomorrow, because it is going to be challenging. Archer, your command is vital.’ Lightning didn’t say anything.

‘And Messenger? Jant …?’

‘At your service,’ said I. Dunlin filled his glass, raised it, drank a toast to the Emperor. I clinked my glass to his, set it down after the briefest sip. I didn’t want him to see my unsteady hand.

Dunlin’s expression became thoughtful, ‘Out of the immortals apart from your good selves, Tornado, Mist and Ata will join us. Rayne will stay in Lowespass Fortress. There hasn’t been such a powerful showing of the Circle for … how long?’

‘Just a hundred years,’ I said.

Staniel’s pale eyes were starry with inward enthusiasm. His skinny hand stroked his little blond goatee. No doubt he planned to write about it later: Staniel Rachiswater fighting fearlessly against the Insects with the aid of the immortals.

In the Awian language immortals are called Eszai. Staniel’s poetry portrayed us Eszai as divine, and his sturdy brother as a heroic fighter, and so his image shone with a little of our reflected light, but I had never seen him pick up a sword. His responsibility had been to make sure any wounded and food-poisoned returned to the fortress, and that Fyrd on their way back to their manors did not linger and become highwaymen. He had delegated those tasks to me at the outset and now remained in the camp, scribbling in his notebook with a fountain pen.

‘I have a straight flush in hearts,’ said Lightning. ‘Gentlemen? Oh dear. Pity. So – I acquire the Rachiswater amphitheatre, and Staniel’s library.’ He dealt, the red-backed cards pliant in his big hands. ‘I stake Micawater Bridge, which as you know is one of the seven wonders of the world, so please treat it kindly. Jant, are you playing?’

‘You daft bloody Awians,’ I muttered unhappily.

‘It’s just a bit of fun. I’ll let you have your manor back in the morning.’

I declined; I don’t see any point in card games. My reactions are faster than the Awians’; if I wanted to win I could cheat by sleight of hand. If I played without cheating, then Dunlin would beat me because he is a better, poker-faced strategist, and Lightning would beat him because Lightning has played cards for fifteen hundred years and can see through any strategy without trying. My thoughts strayed hard to something else. I was beginning to feel shaky, and in case my associates had noticed, I blamed it on fatigue. I stood up, pushing the chair back into damp grass. ‘Give me leave to leave?’

‘See you at first light,’ said the King.

‘Sweet dreams,’ remarked Lightning.

I found the gentle breeze revitalising. It was the extreme feather’s end of the mountains, and, with a little imagination, I could smell the high summits – glaciers and pine behind the reek of campfire cooking and unwashed soldiers. It was only fancy, but knowing that the breeze in Lowespass gusts down from the mountains made me feel nostalgic. I remembered bitterly that nostalgia is another symptom of withdrawal.

I don’t have or need my own tent, so I hurried to Lightning Saker’s pavilion where a bundle of chamois-skin blankets just inside the entrance marked my bed. He hadn’t touched my maps and clothes, which were still piled as I had left them, though now damp with dew. I managed to light a candle, gathered together my works and took a shot. I soon went to sleep, curled up, racked with hallucinations.

Until golden dawn kicked me awake with big boots.

I yawned and stretched, decongealing. I lay cradled in the blankets, comfortably warm and very relaxed, looking out down Lowespass valley towards the Wall. The vale was filled with blue-grey woodsmoke from a thousand campfires, hanging in horizontal stripes and softening the sunlight. Groups of soldiers were gathering, heading towards the main source of the smoke, where breakfast was being dished out. Food at the front was surprisingly good – it had to be because very few of the general Fyrd wanted to be there and it was better for Castle to tempt them than force them. I watched soldiers striking low green tents, which billowed down and were lashed to carrying poles. I drifted for a while, observing the scene, pleasantly unfocused; and then I thought about how good it would be to take another fix. My needle was lying on an unfolded map. I reached out and as my hand closed round it a boot descended on my wrist.

‘No, you don’t,’ said Lightning. He shoved a couple of folds of crimson scarf over one shoulder, bent down and retrieved spoon, syringe, twist of paper. ‘I’ll look after these.’

‘Oh, no. Honestly. Come on, Saker! Not again.’

‘Dunlin is calling for us. I need you to talk to Tornado. Up you get.’

I should have found Lightning’s demeanour inspiring. He wore armour – brass scale lorica made to look like covert feathers – over his chest and down strong arms to the elbow. He had leather trousers laced up the sides, and a Wrought sword at his hip. His scarf, embellished with the Castle insignia, stuck to his wings – which were longer than the modern average – and ruffled the feathers. Other people would have been impressed with such beautiful armour; I simply wondered how much the Wrought craftsmen were making from it, and whether I would see any of the profit.

Feeling rather diminished and dirty, I followed the embroidered sun on his mantle out of the pavilion and through the camp. Faces looked up from turfing ashy fires or pulling backpack cords tight, buckling cuirasses or blowing on hot coffee. The soldiers we met stood up, so that we went in a little wave of startled men standing, then settling down after we passed.

There was a difference between the soldiers of the General Fyrd and the Select Fyrd. The latter were proud of their warrior status, in competition with each other for the attention of governors and immortals; they kept their swords razor keen. They jumped quickly to their feet as we walked by.

Most of the archers were Select Fyrd, as it takes so long to train them; they were waiting by Lightning’s pavilion and he nodded at a couple almost familiarly. His goldfish-armour shimmered.

We reached the area of the General Fyrd, soldiers who weren’t trained, or new recruits who were much less well-equipped. The main armouries were in Wrought, my wife’s manor. On Castle’s command they provided every man with shield, broadsword and pike, but the drafted farmers in the General Fyrd could not afford more than this very basic equipment. They were dressed in worsted and muddied denim, hardly a glint of steel apart from ill-fitting battlefield spoils. These men and women shambled to their feet, still holding trays of food. Their camp was carelessly kept, their patched tents stood unevenly. Some tents were simply frames from which mosquito netting hung, weighted at the bottom.

It was one of Tornado’s duties to direct the General Fyrd. Tornado was sitting cross-legged on the grass, stripped to the waist, sliding the edge of a battleaxe across a huge whetstone with a sound like sawing. A paunch hung over his cracked belt. At two and a half metres tall he was the biggest and strongest of the Castle’s Eszai, unbeaten for one thousand years. He had brown hair shaven very close to the scalp. It looked weird together with the rug of hair growing on his chest and a little on his shoulders. The hair didn’t cover pale scars, thick as my finger and long as a span, which criss-crossed his chest and stomach. Slabs of muscle shifted on his sunburnt shoulders as he manipulated the axe. An ancient sunburst tattoo on his forearm undulated as the muscles moved.

Unlike most of the Eszai, Tornado had never owned anything – no lands, and no more wealth than beer money. His reputation hung on risking death in the very thick of the action. If he hadn’t faced death so eagerly, so often, he wouldn’t be so practised at dealing with it. Tawny and I are similar in that our links to life are more tenuous than people expect.

Tawny’s well-chosen girlfriend, Vireo Summerday, was also gigantic. She was scratching her leg by poking a stick through the joints of her plate armour. I couldn’t fathom Vireo, she was neither terrified of nor attracted to me. She wouldn’t call a spade a spade if she could call it a fucking bastard. Lightning bowed to her; she winked at me.

‘Good morning,’ said Lightning.

‘Yo,’ said Tawny. ‘All right, Jant?’

‘… Considering.’

‘I’ve been ready bloody ages and nothing has happened,’ said Tawny. ‘When do we get to fight?’

‘You will be commanding the Hacilith men and those from Eske.’

‘The townies,’ I said.

‘Nothing changed there then.’

Lightning said, ‘When the Insects attack, fall back. There will be shield walls to channel them if necessary. We will drive them into the sixth corral. You should attempt to advance through the Wall. Dunlin believes it possible that we can breach their defences and redeem more land.’

‘Whoa! Hang on. You what? Want me to go behind the Wall? No way, little one. I’ll be on my own because townies are chickenshit, like you know. They’ll run so fast they’ll fly, by god! Behind the Wall, like, not bloody likely.’

‘It’s Dunlin’s main aim at the moment,’ said Lightning.

‘If you thought with yer balls rather than yer heart you’d not let a soft bloody Zascai get in the way of how Eszai have always done stuff.’

‘Have we not recently decided to support the King of Awia?’

I interrupted, ‘But last time a thousand people died.’ If I had been on the field and not unconscious during the skirmish, the Castle might have fared better. Lightning seemed about to make that point, so I decided to keep quiet. Tawny complained for a while but accepted; he doesn’t have enough willpower to argue with Lightning.

‘Look, Tawny,’ I said. ‘The Emperor backs Dunlin, so we’ve got to do it. We can’t guess why the Emperor makes such plans. They might come in useful a century from now.’

He respected me; he knew that my experiences have given me calmness, a knowledge that sets me apart from day-to-day concerns. He sensed this, and he admired such steadfastness.

‘Whatever you say, Jant.’ Tawny poked the bright edge of his axe with a grimy thumbnail. ‘But culling Insects should be a waiting game. I’m buggered if I want to stir them up.’ He used the axe to steady himself as he stood. I stepped back a little, overawed by his size. He stretched and muscle on muscle tautened under fat.

‘Be careful –’ Lightning began.

‘Get lost, lover-boy,’ said Tawny. ‘I’m doing my job which is, like, cutting up Insects. I know I’ll survive, behind the Wall or underground or anywhere. Dunlin’s trying to save civilian lives. It’s good that he cares for them, but he’s trying too hard.’ He buckled the axe to his chain belt, plucked at Vireo who had been eavesdropping in the background. In Plainslands he said, ‘Let’s go, love. Everything round here with wings is crazy.’

‘What was that?’ Lightning asked. I gave a loose translation; he watched them go. ‘Aren’t lovers content in their own little worlds?’ he said.

In the pavilion, I was left alone while Lightning went to address the archers’ ranks and the neat phalanxes of Select Awian infantry. They had blue plumes on their helmets, heraldic creations of carved bone and cuir-bouilli and faience, finely wrought iridium chain mail over their wings. I took the chance to go through all his belongings searching for my drugs. I found a couple of letters that would have been interesting if I hadn’t been so feverish. No cat. I called Lightning all the names under the sun. Left a devastated mess behind. Sat down on the grass. Started shaking with an advance on withdrawal – the effect of panic.

Well. Plan B. I found my compass, pressed a button and the silver casing clicked open like a shell. There was a twist of paper inside, ripped from the edge of a map. It’s vital to have more than one stash. With a long thumbnail I cut a line of cat on the compass glass, rolled up a five-pound note and snorted it, north–south.

Oh, yes.

I let the worries dissolve, one by one, and drop from my mind. Not even immortals are built to take so many misgivings. Wiping my nose on the back of a hand, I considered the forthcoming fight. I was wearing bangles, faded jeans and a cut-off T-shirt which read ‘Hacilith Marathon 1974’.

I gazed at the heap of my silver scale armour, a byrnie adorned with smaragd and onyx, a helmet decorated with knot-work, with a high white plume. It matches black-on-silver vambraces. A belt and a sword-hanger, a circular shield; my sword’s grip has two snakes wrapped around it. I have pauldrons for my wings, inscribed ‘For god and the Empire’. I have latten greaves. I have a black cloak, thin taffeta with an niello silver fastening. I have pinked black leather gauntlets, embossed with Castle’s Sun and my sign, the Wheel.

Sod that. I strip my T-shirt off, shove my ice axe in the back of my belt, and consider myself ready to fight anything.

‘Jant?’ It was Dunlin, and he was looking amazed. I swept a low bow. ‘Your Majesty.’

Dunlin said, ‘Comet, Tornado is already hacking at the Wall. You must be in the air as soon as possible.’ I was irritated until I realised that the true purpose of Dunlin’s endless rallying and righteous enthusiasm was to make him feel better. ‘What did the Emperor really say?’ he asked me. He was shrewder than I gave him credit for.

‘San conceded the sagacity of everything you’ve done,’ I said.

‘Did he have a message for me?’ Dunlin’s hand rested on an ornate sword hilt. ‘Am I valuable to the Emperor? Am I noticed by him?’

‘There isn’t time to go into details!’

‘Then after the battle, Rhydanne. I know you remember court word-perfect and I have to know.’

‘Your wish.’ I shrugged. I wanted the bright air, not to be cornered in a tent by the Awian King. I didn’t want this man I admired to make reference to my Rhydanne ancestry.

Dunlin regarded me carefully; cleverness would hide in the wrinkles round his eyes. His eyes were grey but not flecked – like silver coins – and he could outstare me, which few can do. He said, ‘You must remember to relate my Lord Emperor’s opinion of our victory last week, in which Tawny and I were in the melee.’ There was a sheen of sweat on his red-brown neck.

His straightforwardness pushed me into telling the truth for once. ‘You want to join the Castle Circle, don’t you?’ I said.

‘Good guess, Comet. More than you can ever know.’

‘Your Highness. There’s nothing I can do.’

He turned, sliding his blade in its scabbard, and with his broad back to me said, ‘In a lesser time I might have achieved a place, but not now. Over the years I have seen thirty of you fight and, to give an example, I can’t wrestle as well as Tornado, I can’t handle a longbow like Lightning and I can’t move as fast as you.’

‘There hasn’t been a new entrant to the Castle for ninety years.’

‘Doesn’t matter. Lightning says three might come along at once.’

‘We value your service in providing a link between the Castle and the common people,’ I recited, following him out of the tent.

‘Oh yes. Allow us mortals our dream.’ All mortals dream, it seems, of joining the Castle Circle. Always pushing for immortality. Always seeking to stop the spin of the wheel of fortune, as it rips through their hands, leaving splinters. How splendid it would be to be eternal, and safe. But at the same time it is daunting to join such a fellowship. The dispositions of the other Eszai are unknown. Make the wrong move, and the pack draws together against you. A new Eszai wouldn’t know that the most forbidding are the least dangerous.

The best I could manage was, ‘Immortality has its disadvantages.’ The Awian smiled like he didn’t believe me. I told him I’d trade every minute of my long life to own, briefly, his lands and riches. There’s no point in being eternal if you’re eternally in debt.

‘Immortal or not, you can fly,’ he said, longingly.

‘Well, sometimes pleasure pays.’

‘Come on, Jant,’ he said, far more cheerfully. ‘Let me see you fly!’

*

The Sun standard’s long shadow fell on tent-cleared ground. I heard the battering rams crash against the Wall. Their solid wheels squealed and jarred on the rubble, making the ground shake. Two battering rams, working in tandem. The jangled shouts of Tawny’s Fyrd got louder after each crash. The tightening sensation in every muscle as my drug kicked in twisted and heightened that already terrible sound.

‘I’m going to take a closer look,’ I said. I began to jog, in a slight curve, into what little wind there was. Spikes on my boot soles held in the damp grass. I loped, leant forward, started to run. To sprint. I charged downhill, and when I thought I’d reached top speed, I found a little more. A little more, a little more, till it was too fast to breathe.

Speed is a state of bliss.

I forced down half-spread wings. Feathers slapped the ground, but on the next beat I jumped and their downward movement pushed me up. I felt a metre of lift but the effort was agony.

I jump, and I keep going up.

My body took over, my mind dull with pain. Every beat tore at the muscles in my waist. I quickly made it up to a clear height. I looked down and saw tiny people. I started to climb more shallowly, settled into a gradual pace that rowed me upwards, completed the curve into a wide circle so I was above Dunlin. I rejoiced in stretching the full length of my wings. I loved to feel the air-flow as I pulled them down. At the end of a stroke, my fingers, long feathers, touched each other three metres beneath my stomach. I savoured the resistance, which bent the wrists as I threw them back up through the air again. The air felt heavier than Tawny’s weights. My wings are like long arms, and flat silver rings on the elongated fingers clacked together as I closed my hand for the upstroke. My weight hung from the small of my back. I kept my real arms crossed over my chest, sometimes spreading them to help with balance.

With great effort I fought my way up to a height where the Fyrd had lost all individuality and were just areas of heraldic colour. The General soldiers’ ranks were dotted with movement as anxious faces turned up to see me.

Still the battering rams dragged back and surged forward, impacting against the Wall. Surly thermals formed above the Wall; I tried one long enough to get a close look. Five metres tall, the Wall stretched away east and west, a bright white ribbon against the forest canopy; it ran further than I could see from cloud base on a clear day. Close up, the surface was uneven, and it was not built exactly in a straight line – irregularities showed where previous battles had scarred it and where the Insects had encountered difficult ground. Although mostly creamy white, the Wall varied in texture because it was built from anything the Insects could carry or drag.

So it’s best not to look too closely. The sweating soldiers on the battering ram had a close view, as the Wall fell apart in fist-sized chunks, like chalk. Hardened Insect spit held it together. It was smooth like ceramic, and sometimes with froth set hard as stone. Inside were chewed tree branches, furniture from ruined villages, armour from old battles. There were also the shells of dead Insects, pieces of tents and weaponry, and children who disappeared many years ago. Here and there a rotting arm or a horse’s backbone protruded out, faces could be seen within it, unevenly preserved when the milky saliva set hard. Tawny’s Fyrd had moved aside the rolls of barbed wire and were hacking at the Wall with hammers. He saw me and waved. I tipped my wings to him.

‘Can you see behind the Wall?’ he bellowed as the battering ram came to another shuddering halt.

‘Oh, yes,’ I said.

‘How many Insects?’ he yelled. Thousands of glossy brown bodies were gathering on the other side of the Wall. Each the size of a man, they clustered at its base, feelers touching. More and more gathered, running out of tunnel mouths, from underground.

‘Thousands! They are –’ And then they broke through.

Tawny’s men drew together. ‘Guard!’ he roared. A shield wall went up. As Insects began to pour through the breach in their Wall, they met, ricocheted off, crawled up the coloured shields. Tawny’s men were shoulder to shoulder and their arms were strong, but the gap between them and the Wall filled quickly with Insects. They rushed over each other, their sword’s-length jaws scraping at the painted shields. I flapped upwards for a better view.

The men on one ram were safe. They raised their square shields and retreated until the shield wall absorbed them.

The second team’s ram was stuck on some rubble; they wasted a second heaving at it and the Insects went through them like living razors. I saw mandibles close on a forearm and sever it, the blood ceased as another Insect tore his throat open.

I saw two soldiers make a stand, back to back, but when the tide of creatures went over them they simply disappeared.

Tawny from the shield wall hacked off an Insect’s antennae; confused, it turned to bite at other Insects.

An Insect nibbling at a fallen man got its jaws caught in the gap between breastplate and backplate.