‘The Thrall is assailed! Rath’Fener invokes the Reve’s Eighth Command. You are to ride with all in your company to his aid. Rath’Fener kneels before the hooves – you are to be the Twin Tusks of his and Fener’s shadow!’

Brukhalian’s eyes narrowed. ‘Sir, this acolyte managed to leave the Thrall in order to convey his priest’s holy invocation. Given the protective sorcery around the building, how was this managed?’

The young woman shook her head. ‘I do not know, sir.’

‘And your path across the city, to arrive here, was it contested?’

‘None living stood before me, sir.’

‘Can you explain that?’

‘No, sir, I cannot. Fener’s fortune, perhaps ...’

Brukhalian studied her a moment longer. ‘Recruit, will you join us in our deliverance?’

She blinked, then slowly nodded. ‘I would be honoured, Mortal Sword.’

His reply was a gruff, sorrowful whisper that only deepened her evident bewilderment, ‘As would I, sir.’ Brukhalian lowered the visor, swung to his followers. ‘Eleventh Mane to remain with the Destriant and his cutters!’ he commanded. ‘Remaining companies, we march to the Thrall! Rath’Fener has invoked the Reve, and to this we must answer!’ He then dismounted and handed the reins of his warhorse to the messenger. ‘My mind has changed,’ he rumbled. ‘You are to remain here, sir, to guard my destrier. Also, to inform the Shield Anvil of my disposition once he awakens.’

‘Your disposition, sir?’

‘You will know it soon, recruit.’ The Mortal Sword faced his troops once more. They stood in ranks, waiting, silent. Four hundred Grey Swords, perhaps the last left alive. ‘Sirs,’ Brukhalian asked them, ‘are you in full readiness?’

A veteran officer grated, -Ready to try, Mortal Sword.’

‘Your meaning?’ the commander asked.

‘We are to cross half the city, sir. We shall not make it.’

‘You assume our path to the Thrall will be contested, Nilbanas. Yes?’

The old soldier frowned, said nothing.

Brukhalian reached for his shield, which had waited at his side in the hands of an aide. ‘I shall lead us,’ he said. ‘Do you follow?’

Every soldier nodded, and the Mortal Sword saw in those half-visored faces the emergence of an awareness, a knowledge to which he had already arrived. There would be no return from the journey to come. Some currents, he knew, could not be fought.

Readying the large bronze-plated shield on his left arm, adjusting his grip on his holy sword, Brukhalian strode forward. His Grey Swords fell in behind him. He chose the most direct route, not slowing even as he set across open, corpse-strewn squares.

The murmuring rumble of humanity was on all sides. Isolated sounds of battle, the collapse of burning buildings and the roar of unchecked fires, streets knee-deep in bodies – scenes of Hood’s infernal pit rolled past them as they marched, as of two unfurling tapestries woven by a mad, soul-tortured artisan.

Yet their journey was uncontested.