He set out, skirting the sinkhole’s edge, and made his way down the slope to the left—a much gentler descent into the valley, and had the beasts been clever, they would have used it. But fear drove them on, and on. Blinding them, deafening them. Fear led them to the cliff’s edge. Fear chased them into death.

Look on, my warriors, and see me run.

But it is not you that I fear. A detail without relevance, because, you see, the cliff edge does not care.

‘Which damned tribe is this one?’ Sceptre Irkullas asked.

The scout frowned. ‘The traders call them the Nith’rithal—the blue streaks in their white face paint distinguish them.’

The Akrynnai warleader twisted to ease the muscles of his lower back. He had thought such days were past him—a damned war! Had he not seen enough to earn some respite? When all he sought was a quiet life in his clan, playing bear to his grandchildren, growling as they swarmed all over him with squeals and leather knives stabbing everywhere they could reach. He so enjoyed his lengthy death-throes, always saving one last shocking lunge when all were convinced the giant bear was well and truly dead. They’d shriek and scatter and he would lie back, laughing until he struggled to catch his breath.

By the host of spirits, he had earned peace. Instead, he had . . . this. ‘How many yurts did you say again?’ His memory leaked like a worm-holed bladder these days.

‘Six, maybe seven thousand, Sceptre.’

Irkullas grunted. ‘No wonder they’ve devoured half that bhederin herd in the month since they corralled them.’ He considered for a time, scratching the white bristles on his chin. ‘Twenty thousand inhabitants then. Would you say that a fair count?’

‘There’s the track of a large war-party that headed out—eastward—a day or so ago.’

‘Thus diminishing the number of combatants even more—tracks, you say? These Barghast have grown careless, then.’

‘Arrogant, Sceptre—after all, they’ve slaughtered hundreds of Akrynnai already—’

‘Poorly armed and ill-guarded merchants! And that makes them strut? Well, this time they shall face true warriors of the Akrynnai—descendants of warriors who crushed invaders from Awl, Lether and D’rhasilhani!’ He collected his reins and twisted round towards his second in command. ‘Gavat! Prepare the wings to the canter—as soon as their pickets see us, sound the Gathering. Upon sighting the encampment, we charge.’

There were enough warriors nearby to hear his commands and a low, ominous hhunn chant rumbled through the ranks.

Irkullas squinted at the scout. ‘Ride back out to your wing, Ildas—ride down their pickets if you can.’

‘It’s said the Barghast women are as dangerous as the men.’

‘No doubt. We kill every adult and every youth near blooding—the children we will make Akrynnai and those who resist we will sell as slaves to the Bolkando. Now, enough talking—loosen the arrows in your quiver, Ildas—we have kin to avenge!’