We cannot survive this. A hundred Hounds of Shadow would not be enough. Such shapeshifting creatures have arrived in their thousands, all here, all in Tremorlor’s grounds – how many will reach the House? Only the strongest. The strongest . . . And what is it we dare? To step within the House, to find the gate that will take us to Malaz City, to the Deadhouse itself. Gods, we are but minor players. . . with one exception, a man we cannot afford to unleash, a man even the Azath fears.

Sounds of fierce battle assailed them from all sides. The other corridors of this infernal maze played host to a mayhem that Fiddler knew they themselves would soon be unable to avoid. Indeed, those terrible sounds had grown louder, closer. We’re getting nearer the House. We’re all converging ...

He stopped, turning towards the others. He left his warning unspoken, for every face, every set of eyes that met his, bespoke the same knowledge.

Claws clattered ahead and the sapper whirled to see Shan arrive, slowing quickly from a frantic run. Her flanks were heaving, tracked in countless wounds.

Oh, Hood . . .

Another sound reached them, approaching from up the trail, from where the Hound had just come.

‘He was warned!’ Icarium cried. ‘Gryllen! You were warned!’

Mappo had wrapped his arms around the Jhag. Icarium’s sudden surge of anger stilled the air on all sides – as if an entire warren had drawn breath. The Jhag was motionless in that embrace, yet the sapper saw the Trell’s arms strain, stretch to an unseen force. The sound that broke from Mappo was a thing of such pain, such distress and fear that Fiddler sagged, tears starting from his eyes.

The Hound Blind stepped away from Icarium’s side, and the shock of seeing her tail dip jolted through the sapper.

Rood and Baran joined Shan, forming a nervous barrier – leaving Fiddler on the wrong side. He scrambled back, his limbs moving jerkily, as if weakened by a gallon of wine in his veins. His gaze held on Icarium, as the edge they now all tottered on finally revealed itself, promising horror.

All three Hounds flinched and jolted back a step. Fiddler spun about. The path ahead was closed into a new wall, a seething, swarming wall. Oh, my, we meet again.

The girl was no more than eleven or twelve, wearing a leather vest on which was stitched overlapping bronze scales – flattened coins, in fact – and the spear she held in her hands was heavy enough to waver as she resolutely maintained her guard stance.

Felisin glanced down at the basketful of braided flowers at the girl’s bare, dusty feet. ‘You’ve some skill with those,’ she said.

The young sentry glanced again at Leoman, then the Toblakai.

‘You may lower your weapon,’ the desert warrior said.

The spear’s trembling point dropped down to the sand.

The Toblakai’s voice was hard, ‘Kneel before Sha’ik Reborn!’