Destriant. I shall succeed where Rythok failed. My life shall purchase you a day, perhaps two, and you must make it enough.

‘Stop! I have prayed! Do you not understand? They said they would answer!’

I do not know of whom you speak, Destriant. Listen well to my words. Acyl Nest shall die. The Matron is doomed, and all those within the Rooted. Gunth Mach carries my seed. She shall be a new Matron. Find your Shield Anvil and your Mortal Sword—the three of you shall be Gunth Mach’s J’an Sentinels, until such time as she breeds her own.

Then Gunth Mach shall free you.

This is not your war. This is not your end—it is ours.

‘Stop!’

Sag’Churok prepared to speak to her once more, despite the growing effort it entailed. He would tell her of his admiration. And his faith in her—and of his own astonishment at feeling such emotions for a human. They were paltry things, too weak to be considered gifts of any sort, but he would—

Figures in the distance ahead. Not the enemy. Not born and bred of matrons either. And not, Sag’Churok realized, human.

Standing, readying an array of weapons.

Fourteen in all. Details assembling as Sag’Churok and Gunth Mach raced ever closer. Gaunt despite the blackened, gnarled armour encasing their torsos and limbs. Strange helms with down-swept cheek-guards that projected below their chins. Ragged camails of black chain. Thick, tattered and stained cloaks that had once been dyed an intense, deep yellow, trimmed in silver fur.

Sag’Churok saw that seven of the strangers held in their gauntleted hands long, narrow-bladed swords of blued steel, basket-hilted with half-moon knuckle-guards, and ornate bucklers. He saw two others with heavier single-edged axes and embossed round shields covered in mottled hides. Three with broad-headed, iron-sheathed spears. And two more, standing behind the rest, preparing slings.

And, surrounding them all, spreading down from the faint rise on which they waited, frost sparkled on earth and stone.

Disbelief struck Sag’Churok like a hammer-blow.

This was not possible. This was . . . without precedent. Impossible—what cast these strangers? Foes or allies? But no, they cannot be allies.

Besides, as all know, Jaghut stand alone.

‘There!’ shouted Kalyth, pointing. ‘I prayed! There—run to them—quickly! Guardians of the Gate!’

Destriant—hear me. These ones will not help us. They will do nothing.

‘You’re wrong!’

Destriant. They are Jaghut. They are . . .

. . . impossible.

But Gunth Mach had altered her course, was closing directly upon the waiting warriors. Sag’Churok fell in beside her, still shocked, still confused, uncomprehending—

And then he and Gunth Mach caught the stench wafting from the Jaghut, gusting out from the frozen ground encircling them.

Destriant, beware! They are undead!

‘I know what they are,’ snapped Kalyth. ‘Stop, Gunth Mach—stop retreating—right here, don’t move.’ And then she slipped down from the Daughter’s back.

Destriant, we do not have time—

‘We do. Tell me, how many pursue us? Tell me!’