The wizard drew his ash-stained cloak about him as he walked. No, not entirely helpless. We’ve our wits. More, we can sniff out a feint – at least I can, anyway. And this is a feint – the whole Pannion Domin and its infectious influence. Somehow, the Chained One’s found a way to open the floodgates of the Warren of Chaos. A conduit, perhaps the Pannion Seer himself entirely unaware that he is being used, that he’s no more than a pawn thrown forward in an opening gambit. A gambit designed to test the will, the efficacy, of his foe . . . We need to take the pawn down. Fast. Decisively.

He approached the squad’s firelight, heard the low mutter of voices, and felt he was coming home.

A thousand skulls on poles danced along the ridge, their burning braids of oil-soaked grass creating manes of flame above the bleached death-grimaces. Voices rose and fell in a wavering, droning song. Closer to where Paran stood, young warriors contested with short hook-bladed knives, the occasional spatter of blood sizzling as it sprayed into the clan’s hearth-ring – rivalries took precedence over all else, it seemed.

Barghast women moved among the Bridgeburner squads, pulling soldiers of both sexes towards the hide tents of the encampment. The captain had thought to prohibit such amorous contact, but had then dismissed the notion as both unworkable and unwise. Come tomorrow or the day after, we might all be dead.

The clans of the White Face had gathered. Tents and yurts of the Senan, Gilk, Ahkrata and Barahn tribes – as well as many others – covered the valley floor. Paran judged that a hundred thousand Barghast had heeded Humbrall Taur’s call to counsel. But not just counsel. They’ve come to answer Trotts’s challenge. He is the last of his own clan, and tattooed on his scarred body is the history of his tribe, a tale five hundred generations long. He comes claiming kinship, blood-ties knotted at the very beginning . . . and more, though no-one’s explaining precisely what else is involved. Taciturn bastards. There are too many secrets at work here . . .

A Nith’rithal warrior loosed a wet shriek as a rival clan’s warrior opened his throat with a hook-knife. Voices bellowed, cursed. The stricken warrior writhed on the ground before the hearth-fire, life spilling out in a glimmering pool that spread out beneath him. His slayer strutted circles to wild cheers.

Amidst hisses from those Barghast near by, Twist came to the captain’s side, the Black Moranth ignoring the curses.

‘You’re not too popular,’ Paran observed. ‘I didn’t know the Moranth hunted this far east.’

‘We do not,’ Twist replied, his voice thin and flat behind his chitinous helm. ‘The enmity is ancient, born of memories, not experience. The memories are false.’

‘Are they now. I’d suggest you make no effort at informing them of your opinion.’