The commander sighed once more, rubbed his brow. ‘I see.’ He glanced to the men next to him and explained: ‘Barbarians. The same everywhere. All façade of nobility and honour. They yearn to demonstrate how brave they are. We of Lether have dealt with this before, have we not? They wish to prove they do not fear death? Very well. We shall oblige them.’

Orman ached to plant Svalthrul in the man’s sneering heart, but then the weapon would be beyond the barricade, out of his reach. ‘At least give us until nightfall to consider your offer!’ he shouted.

The man glanced to Orman then looked up at the dense ashen clouds above and shook his head. ‘No. I think not.’ He bellowed: ‘Torches!’

Orman flinched. This was not what he’d been expecting.

Shortly, a barrage of lit torches came arcing up from behind the ranks to sail over and land on the wooden planks of the Greathall roof. Most rolled back down to fall to the ground. But some remained, sending up gouts of black smoke. Orman tore his gaze from the roof to return to facing the men ranked before him.

More torches flew overhead. Behind him grew the crackling and snapping of burning wood. Was this what Jaochim meant by the right moment? But what were they to do? Charge the ranks? That would also be certain suicide.

Bernal came limping a circuit of the barricade. ‘Steady, lad,’ he murmured. ‘They won’t charge us now, will they?’

‘What of …’ He jerked his head to the Greathall.

Bernal rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘They’ve made their choice, they have.’

‘But what should we do?’

‘We’ll see, lad. We’ll see.’

The crackling swelled to a constant roar. A growing heat punished his back. Smoke billowed, blinding him and tearing at his throat. A wind rose with the flames. He heard nothing but the ravening fire and the explosive popping of resin.

Dear ancestors, this was it. Oddly enough, he felt utterly resigned. Just as Jass went, so too would he. It was an … elemental way to go.

Squinting through the smoke he saw, rather than heard, the ranks retreat a step. To a man they now stared above him, wonder and a touch of dread on their faces. Orman dared a glance behind.

The fire appeared to be diminishing. He might be mistaken, but here and there the blackened beams of the room showed through, smoking, yet free of flames.

And from the Greathall entrance, descending the log steps like a river, came a steady course of dense fog. It curled outwards past Bernal’s sandalled feet, spreading as it went.

Something frigid kissed Orman’s own feet and he leapt, flinching. More fog now ran out from beneath the hall. It appeared to be spreading to all sides. It coursed through and over the barricade, swelled onward.

Many of the soldiers retreated as it came.