Hylas glanced behind him at the quiet, forested hills, and thought of Pirra and Havoc and Echo – and maybe Issi, too – up there somewhere, safe from all this. Then he turned back to the battlefield, rearranged his grip on his sword, and waited for the order to fight.

He hadn’t expected the start of the battle to be so silent and so orderly. Periphas had formed the rebels into lines just in front of the ridge, and positioned the archers and the slingers at the back, ready to shoot over the others’ heads, when the Crows advanced within range.

That won’t be long now, thought Hylas in the front line. He watched the vast Crow army marching towards them in clouds of red dust. It was almost within arrowshot. He could hear the creak of armour and the clink of weapons. He could see the faces of the men he had to fight. He thought of the wedjat amulet beneath his tunic. He prayed it would protect him – or at least grant him an honourable death.

The enemy halted. A gasp went up from the rebels. Slowly, from the Crows’ front line, came a monster of bronze, riding in a chariot drawn by two enormous black horses.

‘Pharax,’ muttered the man beside Hylas. The name swept through the rebel lines faster than fear.

The Crow Chieftain was faceless and inhuman: like a god. His cold, hollow voice rang out as he raised the dagger of Koronos. ‘The House of Koronos cannot be beaten! The gods Themselves have decreed that the enemy shall be destroyed!’

Hylas’ spirit quailed, and around him, the rebels shrank back in terror. What if Pharax was right? What if nothing could beat the Crows, and the very gods were against them?

‘No man is invincible!’ called a clear, calm voice from further up the line – and Akastos rode forwards on Jinx. His armour shone, and the white crest on his helmet fluttered in the wind. He raised his sword and glanced round at his men. Unlike Pharax, his face could plainly be seen beneath his helmet, and it was resolute and unafraid. The power of his voice was so great that Hylas felt new courage coursing through him, and around him, men and boys gripped their weapons and took heart.

‘No man is invincible!’ repeated Akastos, leaping down from Jinx’s back, and hefting his oxhide shield as easily as if it was made of straw. ‘And no man can say for sure what it is that the gods have decreed – not even Pharax over there! Especially not Pharax! For what is he, beneath all that armour? Nothing but the son of the thief who stole Mycenae!’

Ripples of jittery laughter from the rebels.

‘I am the rightful High Chieftain!’ cried Akastos. ‘I am the Lion of Mycenae! When you fight for me, you fight for your farms and your fishing boats, your vineyards and your villages – you fight for your families and your loved ones! Follow me, I will lead you to victory!’

‘The Lion of Mycenae has returned!’ cried Periphas from the rear, and the rebels took up the cry: ‘The Lion of Mycenae has returned!’

And the battle began.

A blazing ball of pitch-soaked straw whizzed past Hylas and thudded on to a fallen shield. Thunder growled: the Sky Father was grinding the clouds to make a storm.

If only it would rain, thought Hylas. Then surely everyone will come to their senses and this will end?

The chaos was so great that he had no idea who was winning. He was staggering through a stink of blood and burst bowels: men screaming, arrows hissing, spears thudding into earth and hide and flesh. His mouth was dry, and beneath his unwieldy bronze armour he was pouring sweat – but there was no time for fear, it was all he could do to keep up with the rebels, while clumsily parrying blows with his heavy shield, and jabbing with his unfamiliar sword at whatever Crow warrior crossed his path.

A few paces ahead, Akastos was scything through the Crows like a storm through barley. Hylas ran to catch up. A Crow warrior loomed in front of him and lunged at his chest with a spear. Hylas dodged sideways and hacked at the shaft, but his sword bounced off. Again the warrior lunged. Hylas darted behind the man and drove his blade through the gap between breastplate and straps, into his flank. The man gave a choking grunt and collapsed. Hylas felt the drag and suck as he yanked out his sword. The man lay where he’d fallen. He didn’t move.

He’s dead, thought Hylas numbly. I’ve killed him. He’s dead. Blinking the sweat from his eyes, he stumbled after Akastos.

The High Chieftain was working his way towards Pharax, who’d leapt down from his chariot, and was stalking towards him on foot.

In the confusion, Akastos didn’t see another Crow warrior leap at him from behind – but Hylas did. Racing forwards, he dropped the warrior with a jab to the calf; and Periphas leapt out from nowhere and finished the man off with his spear. Akastos acknowledged their help with a curt nod, and forged ahead.

Again Hylas struggled to catch up. Something struck him on the back of the head. The next moment, he was lying on the ground with his face in the dust. Spots floated before his eyes, blood trickled down his neck. He felt no pain, but when he tried to rise, his head whirled sickeningly, he couldn’t get his balance.

At that moment, the sky went black. Hylas forgot his dizziness, he forgot everything. Dread darkened his mind. He heard a horse squealing in terror. He was dimly aware of men screaming, scattering in panic: ‘The Angry Ones! The Angry Ones have come!’