They edged forward, out from beneath the archway’s gloom, onto the concourse immediately beyond. Their steps slowed as flickering firelight revealed the nightmare before them.

There had been vast slaughter, and then there had been a feast. The cobbles were ankle-deep in bones, some charred, others red and raw with bits of tendon and flesh still clinging to them. And fully two-thirds of the dead, the captain judged from what he could see of uniforms and clothing, belonged to the invaders.

‘Gods,’ Paran muttered, ‘the Pannions paid dearly.’ I think I should revise my estimation of the Grey Swords.

Spindle nodded. ‘Even so, numbers will tell.’

‘A day or two earlier...’ Mallet said.

No-one bothered finishing the thought. There was no need.

‘What’s your problem, Picker?’ Antsy demanded.

‘Nothing!’ the woman snapped. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘Is that the Thrall, then?’ Hedge asked. ‘That glowing dome? There, through the smoke—’

‘Let’s go,’ Trotts said.

The Bridgeburners ranging out cautiously in the Barghast’s wake, they set forth, across the grisly concourse, to a main avenue that seemed to lead directly towards the strangely illumined structure. The style of the houses and tenement blocks to either side – those that were still standing – was distinctly Daru to Paran’s eyes. The rest of the city, he saw from fragmented glimpses down side alleys and avenues where fires still burned – was completely different. Vaguely alien. And, everywhere, bodies.

Further down the street, piles of still-fleshed corpses rose like the slope of a hill.

The Bridgeburners said nothing as they neared that slope. The truth before them was difficult to comprehend. On this street alone, there were at least ten thousand bodies. Maybe more. Sodden, already swollen, the flesh pale around gaping, blood-drained wounds. Concentrated mounds around building entrances, alley mouths, an estate’s gate, the stepped approaches to gutted temples. Faces and sightless eyes reflected flames, making expressions seem to writhe in mocking illusion of animation, of life.

To continue on the street, the Bridgeburners would have to climb that slope.

Trotts did not hesitate.

Word arrived from the small company’s rearguard. Tenescowri had entered through the gate, were keeping pace like silent ghosts behind them. A few hundred, no more than that. Poorly armed. No trouble. Trotts simply shrugged at the news.

They scrambled their way up the soft, flesh-laden ramp.

Do not look down. Do not think of what is underfoot. Think only of the defenders, who must have fought on. Think of courage almost inhuman, defying mortal limits. Of these Grey Swords – those motionless, uniformed corpses in those doorways, crowding the alley mouths. Fighting on, and on. Yielding nothing. Cut to pieces where they stood.

These soldiers humble us all. A lesson ... for the Bridgeburners around me. This brittle, heart-broken company. We’ve come to a war devoid of mercy.

The ramp had been fashioned. There was an intention to its construction. It was an approach. To what?