One of the marines was suddenly at his side. Blood sheathed one side of her face, but she flung away her sword and pulled the warlock from the historian’s hands, hoisting the lad effortlessly over one shoulder. ‘Pull out that damned sword and cover me!’ she snarled, bolting forward.

Without a shield? Hood take us, you can’t use a short sword without a shield! But the weapon was in his hand as if it had leapt free of its scabbard and into his palm of its own will. The tin-pitted iron blade looked pitifully short as he backed away in the marine’s wake, the weapon held out before him.

His heels struck something soft and with a curse he stumbled and fell.

The marine glanced back. ‘On your feet, dammit! Someone’s after us!’

Duiker had tripped over a body, a Tithansi lancer who’d been dragged by his horse before the mangled mess of his left hand finally released the reins. A throwing star was buried deep in his neck. The historian blinked at that – a Claw’s weapon, that star – as he scrambled to his feet. More unseen back-up? Sounds of battle echoed through the mists, as if a full-scale engagement was underway.

Duiker resumed covering the marine as she continued on, Nil’s limp body hanging like a sack of turnips over one shoulder.

A moment later three Tithansi warriors plunged out of the fog, tulwars swinging.

Decades-old training saved the historian from their initial onslaught. He ducked low and closed with the warrior on his right, grunting as the man’s leather-wrapped forearm cracked down on his left shoulder, then gasping as the tulwar it held whipped down – the Tithansi bending his wrist – and chopped deep into Duiker’s left buttock. Even as the pain jolted through him, he’d driven his short sword up and under the warrior’s ribcage, piercing his heart.

Tearing the blade free, the historian jumped right. There was a falling body between him and the two remaining warriors, both of whom had the added disadvantage of being right-handed. The slashing tulwars missed Duiker by an arm’s length.

The nearest weapon had been swung with enough force to drive it into the ground. The historian stamped a boot down hard on the flat of the blade, springing the tulwar from the Tithan’s hand. Duiker followed up with a savage chop between the man’s shoulder and neck, snapping through the collarbone.

He launched himself behind the reeling warrior’s back to challenge the third Tithan, only to see the man face down on the ground, a silver-pommelled throwing knife jutting from between his shoulder blades. A Chw’s sticker – I’d recognize it anywhere!

The historian paused, glared around, but could see no-one. The mists swirled thick, smelling of ash. A hiss from the marine brought him around. She crouched at the inside edge of the picket trench, gesturing him forward.