The squad had seen no-one since Twist’s visit at dawn. They knew the duel had taken place by now, but had no idea of its outcome. Hood, we could walk in to our own execution. Spindle and Quick Ben were next to useless, unable and unwilling to test the taste of their warrens, pallid and shaky and uncommunicative. Hedge’s jaw was too swollen for him to manage anything more than grunts, but the looks he cast at Detoran’s back as she walked point hinted at plans of murderous vengeance. Blend was scouting somewhere ahead, or behind – or maybe in my Hood-damned shadow – she glanced over her shoulder to check, but the woman wasn’t there. Antsy, taking up the rear, kept up a private conversation with himself, his ceaseless mumbling a steady accompaniment to the droning flies.

The landscape showed no life beyond the grasses cloaking the hills and the stunted trees occasionally visible in the valleys where seasonal streams hoarded water beneath the soil. The sky was cloudless, not a bird in sight to mar the blue vastness. Far to the north and east rose the white peaks of the Barghast Range, jagged in their youth and forbidding.

By Twist’s estimate, the Barghast gathering was in a valley four leagues to the north. They’d arrive before sunset, if all went well.

Striding at her side, Quick Ben voiced a soft grunt, and the corporal turned in time to see a score of dirt-smeared hands closing around the wizard’s legs. The earth seemed to foam beneath Quick Ben’s boots, then he was being dragged down, stained, bony fingers clutching, tugging, gnarled forearms reaching upward to wrap themselves about the wizard’s struggling form.

‘Quick!’ Picker bellowed, flinging herself towards him. He reached for her, a look a dumb amazement on his face as the soil heaved around his waist. Pounding footsteps and shouts closed in. Picker’s hand clamped on the wizard’s wrist.

The earth surged to his chest. The hands reappeared to grasp Quick Ben’s right arm and drag it down.

Her eyes met his, then he shook his head. ‘Let me go, Corporal—’

‘Are you mad—’

‘Now, before you get my arm torn off—’ His right shoulder was yanked beneath the soil.

Spindle appeared, flinging himself forward to wrap an arm around Quick Ben’s neck.

‘Let him go!’ Picker yelled, releasing the wizard’s wrist.

Spindle stared up at her. ‘What?’

‘Let him go, damn you!’

The squad mage unlocked his arm and rolled away, cursing.

Antsy burst among them, his short-handled shovel already in his hands as Quick Ben’s head vanished beneath the earth. Dirt began flying.

‘Ease off there, Sergeant,’ Picker snapped. ‘You’ll end up taking off the top of his damned head!’