‘Twin scars on his mask, and the imprint of painted lips! Would he be the Fourth, then, or the Fifth? How do they count lips, do you think? One upper, one lower, or both together? Let’s find out.’

Dust and the dark swirl of sorcery rose beyond the hills directly ahead.

‘Shield Anvil,’ Farakalian said, ‘have our allies already sprung a trap?’

Itkovian frowned. ‘I do not know. No doubt we shall discover the truth when they elect to reappear and inform us.’

‘Well,’ the soldier muttered, ‘that is a fight before us. An ugly one, by the looks of the magic unleashed.’

‘I’ll not argue that observation, sir,’ the Shield Anvil replied. ‘Riders, re-form as inverted crescent, hands to weapons. Slow trot to first line-of-sight.’

The decimated wing fell into formation, rode on.

They were close to the trader road, now, Itkovian judged. If a caravan had been hit by some of these K’Chain Che’Malle, the outcome was foregone. A caravan with an attendant mage or two might well make a fight of it, and from the brimstone stench that now wafted towards them, the latter circumstance seemed the likeliest.

As they approached a rise, a row of T’lan Imass emerged to stand along its crest, backs to Itkovian and his riders. The Shield Anvil counted a dozen. Perhaps the rest were busy with the battle – still beyond his line of sight. He saw the Bonecaster Pran Chole and angled his new horse in the undead shaman’s direction.

They reached the rise. The sorcerous detonations had ceased, all sounds of battle fading away.

The trader road ran below. Two carriages had made up the caravan, one much larger than the other. Both had been destroyed, ripped apart. Splintered wood, plush padding and clothes lay strewn on all sides. On a low hill off to the right lay three figures, the ground blackened around them. None moved. Eight more bodies were visible around the wagons, only two conscious – black-chain-armoured men slowly regaining their feet.

These details registered only briefly on the Shield Anvil’s senses. Wandering among the dismembered corpses of five K’Chain Che’Malle hunters were hundreds of huge, gaunt wolves – with pitted eyes that were a match to those of the T’lan Imass.

Studying the silent, terrifying creatures, Itkovian spoke to Pran Chole. ‘Are these ... yours, sir?’

The Bonecaster at his side shrugged. ‘Gone from our company for a time. T’lan Ay often accompany us, but are not bound to us . . . beyond the Ritual itself He was silent for a long moment, then continued, ‘We had thought them lost. But it seems that they too have heard the summons. Three thousand years since our eyes last rested upon the T’lan Ay.’

Itkovian finally looked down on the undead shaman. ‘Is that a hint of pleasure in your voice, Pran Chole?’

‘Yes. And sorrow.’