The refugees remained tightly packed in a basin just north of the valley mouth. The Weasel and Foolish Dog clans guarded the position, situating themselves along a rise that faced the assembled forces of Korbolo Dom. More than thirty rebel soldiers stood ready to challenge each and every Wickan horsewarrior, and the inevitable outcome of that clash was so obvious, so brutally clear, that panic ripped through the massed refugees in waves, hopeless rippling surges this way and that, and wails of despair filled the dust-laden air above them.

Coltaine sought to drive through the tribesmen blocking the valley mouth, and do so quickly, and he thus concentrated his Crow Clan and most of the Seventh at the front. A fast, shattering breakthrough offered the only hope for the rearguard clans, and indeed for the refugees themselves.

Duiker sat on his emaciated mare, positioned on a low rise sightly to the east of the main track where he could just make out the two Wickan clans to the north – Korbolo Dom’s army somewhere unseen beyond them.

The carriages of the Trygalle Trade Guild had departed, vanishing with the last minutes of darkness before the eastern horizon began its pale awakening.

Corporal List rode up, reining in beside the historian. ‘A fine morning, sir!’ he said. ‘The season is turning – change rides the air – can you feel it?’

Duiker eyed the man. ‘One as young as you should not be so cheerful this day, Corporal.’

‘Nor one as old as you so dour, sir.’

‘Hood-damned upstart, is this what familiarity breeds?’

List grinned, which was answer enough.

Duiker’s eyes narrowed. ‘And what has your Jaghut ghost whispered to you, List?’

‘Something he himself never possessed, Historian. Hope.’

‘Hope? How, from where? Does Pormqual finally approach?’

‘I don’t know about that, sir. You think it’s possible?’

‘No, I do not.’

‘Nor I, sir.’

‘Then what in Fener’s hairy balls are you going on about, List?’

‘Not sure, sir. I simply awoke feeling ...’ he shrugged, ‘feeling as if we’d just been blessed, god-touched, or something . ..’

‘A fine enough way to meet our last dawn,’ Duiker muttered, sighing.

The Tregyn and Bhilard tribes were readying themselves, but the sudden blaring of horns from the Seventh made it clear that Coltaine was not interested in the courtesy of awaiting them. The Crow lancers and mounted archers surged forward, up the gentle slope towards the eastern hill of the Bhilard.

‘Historian!’

Something in the corporal’s tone brought Duiker around. List was paying no attention to the Crow’s advance – he faced the northwest, where another tribe’s riders had just appeared, spreading out as they rode closer in numbers of appalling vastness.

‘The Khundryl,’ Duiker said. ‘Said to be the most powerful tribe south of Vathar – as we can now acknowledge.’

Horse hooves thundered towards the rise and they turned to see Coltaine himself approach. The Fist’s expression was impassive, almost calm as he stared northwestward.