The shadows had retreated across most of the compound, leaving Hetan and her brother, Cafal, in full sunlight. The two Barghast were squatting on a worn, faded rug, heads bowed. Sweat – blackened with ash – dripped from them both. Between them was a broad, shallow brazier, perched on three hand-high iron legs and filled with smouldering coals.

Soldiers and court messengers flowed around them on all sides.

Shield Anvil Itkovian studied the siblings from where he stood near the headquarters entrance. He had not known the Barghast as a people enamoured of meditation, yet Hetan and Cafal had done little else, it seemed, since their return from the Thrall. Fasting, uncommunicative, inconveniently encamped in the centre of the barracks compound, they had made of themselves an unapproachable island.

Theirs is not a mortal calm. They travel among the spirits. Brukhalian demands that I find a way through – by any means. Does Hetan possess yet one more secret? An avenue of escape, for her, her brother, and for the bones of the Founding Spirits? An unknown weakness in our defence? A flaw in the Pannion investiture?

Itkovian sighed. He had tried before, without success. He would now try once again. As he prepared to step forward, he sensed a presence at his side and turned, to find Prince Jelarkan.

The young man’s face was etched deep with exhaustion. His long-fingered, elegant hands trembled despite being knitted together just above his robe’s belt. His gaze was fixed on the swirling activity in the compound as he said, ‘I must know, Shield Anvil, what Brukhalian intends. He holds what you soldiers call a shaved knuckle in the hole – that much is clear. And so I have come, once again, seeking audience with the man in my employ.’ He made no effort to hide the sardonic bitterness of that statement. ‘To no avail. The Mortal Sword has no time for me. No time for the Prince of Capustan.’

‘Sir,’ Itkovian said, ‘you may ask your questions of me, and I shall do all I can to answer you.’

The young Capan swung to the Shield Anvil. ‘Brukhalian has given you leave to speak?’

‘He has.’

‘Very well. The Kron T’lan Imass and their undead wolves. They have destroyed the Septarch’s K’Chain demons.’

‘They have.’

‘Yet the Pannion Domin has more. Hundreds more.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then why do the T’lan Imass not march into the empire? An assault into the Seer’s territory may well achieve the withdrawal of Kulpath’s besieging forces. The Seer would have no choice but to pull them back across the river.’