‘This city is doomed, Mortal Sword. Yet your formidable army need not join in the inevitable crush at Hood’s gate. Such a sacrifice would be pointless, and indeed a great loss. The Pannion Domin is no more than a single, rather minor, element in a far vaster war – a war in which all the gods shall partake ... allied one and all ... against an enemy who seeks nothing less than the annihilation of all rivals. Thus. Hood offers you his warren, a means of extrication for you and your soldiers. Yet you must choose quickly, for the warren’s path here cannot survive the arrival of the Pannion’s forces.’

‘What you offer, sir, demands the breaking of our contract.’

The Herald’s laugh was contemptuous. ‘As I most vehemently told Hood, you humans are a truly pathetic lot. A contract? Scratchings on vellum? My lord’s offer is not a thing to be negotiated.’

‘And in accepting Hood’s warren,’ Brukhalian said quietly, ‘the face of our patron changes, yes? Fener’s ... inaccessibility ... has made him a liability. And so Hood acts quickly, eager to strip the Boar of Summer’s mortal servants, preferably intact, to thereafter serve him and him alone.’

‘Foolish man,’ Gethol sneered. ‘Fener shall be the first casualty in the war with the Crippled God. The Boar shall fall – and none can save him. The patronage of Hood is not casually offered, mortal, to just anyone. To be so honoured—’

‘Honoured?’ Brukhalian cut in, his voice the slide of iron on stone, his eyes flickering with a strange light. ‘Allow me, on Fener’s behalf,’ he said in a low whisper, ‘to comment on the question of honour.’ The Mortal Sword’s broadsword hissed in a blur from its scabbard, the blade cleaving upward to strike the Herald across the face. Bone snapped, dark blood sprayed.

Gethol reared back a step, withered hands rising to his shattered features.

Brukhalian lowered his weapon, his eyes burning with a deep rage. ‘Come forward again, Herald, and I shall resume my commentary.’

‘I do not,’ Gethol rasped through torn lips, ‘appreciate your ... tone. It falls to me to answer in kind, not on Hood’s behalf. Not any more. No, this reply shall be mine and mine alone.’ A longsword appeared in each gauntleted hand, the blades shimmering like liquid gold. The Herald’s eyes glittered like mirrors to the weapons. He took a step forward.

Then stopped, swords lifting into a defensive position.

A soft voice spoke behind Brukhalian. ‘We greet you, Jaghut.’

The Mortal Sword turned to see the three T’lan Imass, each one strangely insubstantial, as if moments from assuming new forms, new shapes. Moments, Brukhalian realized, from veering into their Soletaken beasts. The air filled with a stale stench of spice.

‘Not your concern, this fight,’ Gethol hissed.

‘The fight with this mortal?’ Bek Okhan asked. ‘No. However, Jaghut, you are.’