‘Lord Anomander,’ Draconus replies, tilting his head in deference. The gesture is minimal, and yet for all that, Anomander’s brows lift. The respect they have known for one another has ever precluded such formal gestures. Anomander is indifferent to his noble blood. Draconus knows that, and knows as well that this is no mere affectation on the part of the First Son of Darkness. Nor is Anomander inclined to disparage privilege. The man simply dismisses the entire charade. For this reason, these two men are friends.

But now, here, something has changed.

‘I see, milord,’ Draconus continues, ‘that my Houseblades are positioned upon your east flank. I see Ivis at the ready, wearing the mask of war.’

But Anomander knows nothing of the Consort’s return to the world, or what bargains, if any, were made between him and Silchas Ruin. ‘Indeed, Draconus. They present a most powerful fist, as Urusander’s Legion is about to discover. And the gap between them and the Hust Legion is held by Silchas Ruin and my Houseblades.’

At that, Draconus turns, his gaze now fixing upon the far western flank, where foment now stirs the highborn command. His face tightens, but only for a moment, as his attention returns to Anomander. ‘Milord, your brother came to me, as this day’s commander.’

Anomander’s gaze grows more acute now. ‘I have drawn my sword,’ he replies. ‘I have taken my rightful place.’

‘Then it follows, milord, that I must take mine.’

There is silence then, between these two men.

Is this how it was? As simple as that? The Consort rides to take command of his Houseblades, hard upon Anomander’s eastern flank. The gathered nobles burst apart in mock fury. Stung by the offence, the western flank dissolves. Companies wheel, withdraw, march away in high dudgeon. And all at once, the outcome of the battle is no longer in doubt.

Rise Herat turned away from the tapestry. He lifted his head, as would a drowning man breaking the surface, and looked round. Bronze and marble statuary surrounded him, the hues a sharp contrast. Great leaders, heroic soldiers, even a few scholars and figures of state. There was no order to the press, and as Herat studied them, he heard in his mind the rising clamour of battle. Amidst the flattened shadows of the chamber, his imagination woke to life every statue, as weapons were drawn, as the killing commenced.

He drew a sharp breath, silencing the tumult, freezing every figure in its tracks.

Unless the sorcery was unleashed. Yet negated, made useless as Light locked jaws with Dark. Any other possibility obviates the necessity of any portentous moment. Anomander, Draconus, Kellaras, all of them shattered by infernal magic. And Hunn Raal strides across a field made into a charnel house. Even the victorious legion is silent, aghast at the carnage.