‘Fist,’ Duiker said after a moment, ‘Korbolo Dom—’

There was a commotion nearby. They turned to see a nobleman rushing towards them. The historian frowned, then recognition came. ‘Tumlit—’

The old man, squinting fiercely as he scanned each face, finally came to a halt before Coltaine. ‘A most dreadful occurrence, Fist,’ he gasped in his tremulous voice.

Duiker only now heard a restlessness rising from the refugee encampment stretched up the trader track. ‘Tumlit, what has happened?’

‘Another emissary, I’m afraid. Brought through in secret. Met with the Council – I sought to dissuade them but failed, alas. Pullyk and Nethpara have swayed the others. Fist, the refugees shall cross the river, under the benign protection of Korbolo Dom—’

Coltaine spun to his warlocks. ‘To your clans. Send Bult and the captains to me.’

Shouts now sounded from the Wickans in the clearing as the mass of refugees surged forward, pushing through, down to the ford. The Fist found a nearby soldier. ‘Have the clan war chiefs withdraw their warriors from their path – we cannot contest this.’

He’s right – we won’t be able to stop the fools.

Bult and the captains arrived in a rush and Coltaine snapped out his commands. Those orders made it clear to Duiker that the Fist was preparing for the worst. As the officers raced off, Coltaine faced the historian.

‘Go to the sappers. By my command they are to join the refugee train, insignia and uniforms exchanged for mundane garb—’

‘That won’t be necessary, Fist – they all wear assorted rags and looted gear anyway. But I’ll have them tie their helms to their belts.’

‘Go.’

Duiker set off. The sky was lightening, and with that burgeoning glow the butterflies stirred on all sides, a silent shimmering that sent shivers through the historian for no obvious reason. He worked his way up the seething train, skirting one edge and pushing through the ranks of infantry who were standing back and watching the refugees without expression.

He spied a ragtag knot of soldiers seated well back from the trail, almost at the edge of the flanking picket line. The company ignored the refugees and seemed busy with the task of coiling ropes. A few glanced up as Duiker arrived.

‘Coltaine commands you join the refugees,’ the historian said. ‘No arguments – take off your helms, now—’

‘Who’s arguing?’ one squat, wide soldier muttered.

‘What are you planning with the ropes?’ Duiker demanded.

The sapper looked up, his eyes narrow slashes in his wide, battered face. ‘We did some reconnoitring of our own, old man. Now if you’d shut up we can get ready, right?’

Three soldiers appeared from the forest side, approaching at a jog. One carried a severed head by its braid, trailing threads of blood. ‘This one’s done his last nod at post,’ the man commented, dropping his prize to thud and roll on the ground. No-one else took notice, nor did the three sappers report to anyone.