"The records said whose daughter she is," someone was babbling in a horrified voice, "no-one said she fought like she's her father's son!"

Engeltod's daughter was tall, that was true, built more along her father's lines than whoever her mother had been, with broad shoulders and narrower hips, and a reach like the wrath of some god. She used the scythe like it was an extension of herself, quarterstaff and saber in one, fast and fluid and quickly bloody, with none of the Morrigan's flashy laughter.

She was carving through the ranks directly towards them.