‘We must make the impossible possible, Shield Anvil.’

Itkovian’s jaw clenched. He said nothing.

Within sight of the Thrall’s high gates, Brukhalian stopped and faced the Barghast. ‘You have heard us, Hetan. Should the clans of the White Face grasp the spear of war, how many warriors will march? How soon could they arrive?’

The woman bared her teeth. ‘The clans have never united to wage war, but if they did, the warriors of the White Face would number seventy thousand.’ Her smile broadened, cold and defiant. ‘They will not do so now. No march. No relief. For you, no hope.’

‘The Domin will set hungry eyes upon your people next, Hetan,’ Itkovian said.

She shrugged.

‘What then,’ Brukhalian rumbled, ‘is the purpose of this audience with the Mask Council?’

‘When I give answer, it will be to the priests.’

Itkovian spoke. ‘I was given to understand that you had travelled south to discover the nature of the K’Chain Che’Malle.’

‘There was no cause to elaborate on our mission, wolf. We have completed one task set before us by the shoulder-men of the clans. Now, we must complete the second task. Will you now present us to the fools, or must we continue on alone?’

The Council Hall was a massive chamber, domed with a semicircle of wooden tiers facing the grand entrance. The dome’s ceiling had once glittered with gold leaf, of which only a few patches remained. The bas-relief images the gold had once lit were now faded and mostly shapeless, hinting of a procession of human figures in ceremonial garb. The floor was laid with bright, geometric tiles, forming no discernible pattern around a central disc of polished granite, and much worn.

Torches high on the stone walls flickered yellow light and exhaled tendrils of black smoke that drifted in the chamber’s currents. Standing motionless to either side of the entrance and before each of the fourteen doors arrayed behind the tiers were Gidrath guards, visored and in full scaled armour.

The fourteen priests of the Mask Council sat in a row on the highest of the three tiers, sombre in their robes and silent behind the carved, hinged masks of their gods. The representations were varied but singularly ghastly, caricatured in their malleable expressions, though at the moment every one of them was fixed in neutral regard.

Brukhalian’s boots echoed as he strode to halt in the centre of the chamber, standing on the single huge millstone appropriately called the Navel. ‘Mask Council,’ he intoned, ‘may I present to you Hetan and Cafal, Barghast emissaries of the White Face. The Grey Swords have honoured the request for this introduction. Now that it is complete, we shall depart this session.’ He stepped back.