Hissing, Rath’Shadowthrone wheeled and pushed through his comrades, his sandals flapping as he hurried from the chamber.

Hetan clambered up from the pit. ‘I am done here. Cafal! We return to the barracks!’

Brukhalian reached down to help Itkovian climb from the pit, and as the Shield Anvil straightened the Mortal Sword pulled him close. ‘Escort these two,’ he murmured. ‘They’ve something planned for the removal of—’

‘Perhaps,’ Itkovian interjected, ‘but frankly, sir, I don’t see how.’

‘Think on it, then, sir,’ Brukhalian commanded.

‘I shall.’

‘Through any means, Shield Anvil.’

Still standing close, Itkovian met the man’s dark eyes. ‘Sir, my vows—’

‘I am Fener’s Mortal Sword, sir. This demand for knowledge comes not from me, but from the Tusked One himself. Shield Anvil, it is a demand born of fear. Our god, sir, is filled with fear. Do you understand?’

‘No,’ Itkovian snapped. ‘I do not. But I have heard your command, sir. So be it.’

Brukhalian released the Shield Anvil’s arm, turned slightly to face Karnadas, who stood, pale and still, beside them. ‘Contact Quick Ben, sir, by whatever means—’

‘I am not sure I can,’ the Destriant replied, ‘but I shall try, sir.’

‘This siege,’ Brukhalian growled, eyes clouding with some inner vision, ‘is a bloodied flower, and before this day is done it shall unfold before us. And in grasping the stalk, we shall discover its thorns—’

The three men turned at the approach of a Rath’ priest. Calm, sleepy eyes were visible behind the striped, feline mask. ‘Gentlemen,’ the man said, ‘a battle awaits us.’

‘Indeed,’ Brukhalian said drily. ‘We were unaware of that.’

‘Our lords of war will find themselves in its fierce midst. The Boar. The Tiger. An ascendant in peril, and a spirit about to awaken to true godhood. Do you not wonder, gentlemen, whose war this truly is? Who is it who would dare cross blades with our Lords? But there is something that is even more curious in all this – whose hidden face lies behind this fated ascension of Trake? What, indeed, would be the value of two gods of war? Two Lords of Summer?’

‘That,’ the Destriant drawled, ‘is not a singular title, sir. We have never contested Trake’s sharing it.’