The wind howled, the only answer to Karnadas’s silent question. Lightning lit the clouds churning over the distant bay. Rath’Fener was a priest of the Sceptred Rank, a veteran of temple politics and thus at the pinnacle of what a mortal could achieve within Fener’s sanctified walls. But the Boar of Summer is not a civilized god. Ranks and orders and ivory-clasped gowns . . . secular pomp, petty plays of arrogance in the pursuit of mundane power. No, I must not impugn Rath’Fener with questions of his faith – he serves our god in his own way.

The Boar of Summer was the voice of war. Dark and grisly, as ancient as humanity itself. The song of battle – the screams of the dying and the vengeful, the discordant, hacking music of iron weapons, of shields resounding to blows, of hissing arrows and quarrels ... And forgive us all, the voice grows to a roar. It is not the time to hide behind temple walls. Not the time for foolish politics. We serve Fener by striding the soaked, steaming earth, weapons bared in quicksilver promise. We are the clash and clangour, the bellows of rage, pain and terror ...

Rath’Fener was not the only priest of the Boar in this city to have achieved a Sceptred Rank. The difference was this: while Rath’Fener possessed such an ambition – to kneel before the boar cloak and humbly assume the ancient title of Destriant, vacant for so long – Karnadas had already achieved it.

Karnadas could put Rath’Fener in his place with a simple unveiling of his own position in the mortal hierarchy. In his place? I could depose the bastard with a gesture. But Brukhalian had forbidden him that sweet revelation. Nor could the Mortal Sword be swayed. The time for such a move was not propitious, he’d said, its yield as yet of too low a currency. Patience, Karnadas, that time will come . . .

Not an easy thing to accept...

‘Is this a welcome night, Destriant?’

‘Ah, Itkovian, I did not see you there in the gloom. ‘Tis the Boar’s storm, this night. So, how long have you stood there, Shield Anvil?’ How long, in your cold, closed-in fashion, have you stared upon your High Priest? Black-mannered Itkovian, will you ever unsheathe your true self?

There was no way to read the man’s expression in the darkness. ‘Moments only, Destriant.’

‘Does sleep elude you, sir?’

‘Not when I seek it.’

Looking upon the Shield Anvil’s blue chain surcoat beneath the grey rain-cape, the wrist-length cuffed gauntlets now slick and black with rain, Karnadas slowly nodded. ‘I had not realized it was so close to dawn. Do you anticipate being gone for long?’

Itkovian shrugged. ‘No, assuming they have indeed crossed in strength. I am restricted to leading but two wings in any case. Should we come upon little more than scouting parties, however, then the first blows against the Domin shall be made.’