Cafal grunted. ‘The Moranth speak the language of the Barghast shouldermen – the holy tongue – the language that rose from the pit of darkness from whence all thought and all words first came. The Moranth claim kinship with the Barghast – they call us their Fallen Kin. But it is they who have fallen, not us. They who have found a shadowed forest in which to live. They who have embraced the alchemies of the T’isten’ur. They who made peace with the demons long ago, exchanging secrets, before retreating into their mountain fastnesses and hiding for ever behind their insect masks. Ask no more of the Moranth, wolf. They are fallen and unrepentant. No more.’

‘Very well, Cafal.’ Itkovian slowly straightened. ‘But the past refuses to remain buried – as you see here. The past hides restless truths, too, unpleasant truths as well as joyous ones. Once the effort of unveiling has begun ... Sir, there is no going back.’

‘I have reached that understanding,’ the Barghast warrior growled. ‘As my father warned us – in success, we shall find seeds of despair.’

‘I should like to meet Humbrall Taur someday,’ Itkovian murmured.

‘My father can crush a man’s chest in his embrace. He can wield hook-swords in both hands and slay ten warriors in a span of heartbeats. Yet what the clans fear most in their warleader is his intelligence. Of his ten children, Hetan is most like him in that wit.’

‘She affects a blunt forthrightness.’

Cafal grunted. ‘As does our father. I warn you now, Shield Anvil, she has lowered her lance in your direction and sighted along its length. You shall not escape. She will bed you despite all your vows, and then you shall belong to her.’

‘You are mistaken, Cafal.’

The Barghast bared his filed teeth, said nothing.

You too have your father’s wit, Cafal, as you deftly turn me away from the ancient secrets of the Barghast with yet another bold assault on my honour.

A dozen paces behind them, Hetan rose and faced the ring of priests and priestesses lining the edge of the floor. ‘You may return the slabs of stone. The removal of the Founding Spirits’ remains must wait—’

Rath’Shadowthrone snorted. ‘Until when? Until the Pannions have completed razing the city? Why not call upon your father and have him bring down the clans of the Barghast? Have him break the siege, and then you and your kin can cart away these bones in peace and with our blessing!’

‘No. Fight your own war.’

‘The Pannions shall devour you once we’re gone!’ Rath’ Shadowthrone shrieked. ‘You are fools! You, your father! Your clans! All fools!’

Hetan grinned. ‘Is it panic I see on your god’s face?’

The priest hunched suddenly, rasped, ‘Shadowthrone never panics.’

‘Then it must be the mortal man behind the fa?ade,’ Hetan concluded with a triumphant sneer.