‘At last,’ the Destriant said, grimacing as yet another gust of wind roiled over the battlement.

There was silence for a while.

Then Karnadas cleared his throat. ‘What then, may I ask, has brought you up here, Shield Anvil?’

‘The Mortal Sword has returned from the latest gathering. He wishes to speak with you.’

‘And he has sat patiently waiting whilst we chatted?’

‘I would imagine so, Destriant.’

The two Grey Swords turned to the tower’s spiral stairs. They descended the slick, limned steps amidst streams trickling down the stone walls to either side. By the third tier down they could see their breaths. Until the arrival of the company, these barracks had been left virtually uninhabited for close to a century. The chill that had seeped into the thick-walled old fortress keep defied every effort to dispel it. Among the major structures in Capustan, it predated the Daru Keep – now re-named the Thrall and home to the Mask Council – and every other building with the exception of Prince Jelarkan’s Palace. And that palace was not raised by human hands, most certainly not. I’d swear that on Fener’s bristly hump.

Reaching ground level, Itkovian pushed open the squealing door that led directly into the central Round Hall. Alone in the massive, barely furnished chamber stood the Mortal Sword Brukhalian, motionless before the hearth and almost spectral despite his formidable height and build. His back was to the two newcomers, his long, wavy black hair unbound and down to just above his belted hips.

‘Rath’Trake believes,’ the commander rumbled without turning, ‘there are unwelcome intruders on the plains west of the city. Demonic apparitions.’

Karnadas unclasped his cloak and shook the water from it. ‘Rath’Trake, you said. I admit I do not understand the Tiger’s sudden claim to true godhood. That a cult of a First Hero should have succeeded in shouldering its way into a council of temples—’

Brukhalian slowly turned, his soft brown eyes fixing on the Destriant. ‘An unworthy rivalry, sir. The Season of Summer is home to more than one voice of war, or would you now challenge the fierce spirits of the Barghast and the Rhivi as well?’

‘First Heroes are not gods,’ Karnadas growled, rubbing at his face as the cold, wind-blasted numbness faded. ‘They’re not even tribal spirits, sir. Have any of the other priests supported Rath’Trake’s claim?’.

‘No.’

‘I thought as—’

‘Of course,’ Brukhalian went on, ‘they also are not convinced that the Pannion Domin intends to lay siege to Capustan.’

Karnadas clamped his mouth shut. Point token, Mortal Sword.

Brukhalian’s gaze flicked to Itkovian. ‘Are your wings unfurled, Shield Anvil?’

‘They are, sir.’

‘It would be foolish, do you not think, sir,’ the Mortal Sword said, ‘to discard such warnings during your patrol?’

‘I discard nothing, sir. We shall be vigilant.’

‘As you always are, Shield Anvil. You may take charge of your wings, now, sir. The Twin Tusks guard you.’