‘And finally, after watching all that,’ Blend continued, ‘it’s time for Humbrall Taur and his Barghast...’

Humbrall Taur had raised his axe high, and had begun walking towards the Thrall’s gate. Warchiefs and shoulder-men and women emerged from the gathered tribes, crossing the plaza in the giant warrior’s wake.

Trotts pushed his way through the knot of Bridgeburners and joined them.

Staring at his back, Picker snorted.

‘He goes to meet his gods,’ Blend murmured. ‘Give him that, Corporal.’

‘Let’s hope he stays with them,’ she replied. ‘Hood knows, he don’t know how to command—’

‘But Captain Paran does,’ Blend said.

She glanced at her companion, then shrugged. ‘I suppose he does at that.’

‘Might be worth cornering Antsy,’ Blend continued in a low tone, ‘and anyone else who’s been talking through their cracks of late ...’

‘Cornering, aye. Then beating them senseless. Sound plan, Blend. Find us Detoran. Seems we got personal business, too, to clear up.’

‘Well. Guess your brain’s working after all.’

Picker’s only reply was another grunt.

Blend slipped back into the crowd.

Personal business. I like the sound of that. We’ll straighten ‘em up for ya, Captain. Hood knows, it’s the least I can do . . .

Circling high overhead, the sparrowhawk’s sharp eyes missed nothing. The day was drawing to a close, shadows lengthening. Banks of dust on the plain to the west revealed the retreating Pannions – still being driven ever westward by elements of Humbrall Taur’s Barahn clan.

In the city itself, still more thousands of Barghast moved through the streets. Clearing away dead, whilst tribes worked to excavate vast pits beyond the north wall, which had begun filling as commandeered wagons began filing out from Capustan. The long, soul-numbing task of cleansing the city had begun.

Directly below, the plaza’s expanse was now threaded with figures, Barghast moving in procession from streets and alley mouths, following Humbrall Taur as the warchief approached the Thrall’s gate. The sparrowhawk that had once been Buke heard no sound but the wind, lending the scene below a solemn, ethereal quality.

None the less, the raptor drew no closer. Distance was all that kept it sane, was all that had been keeping it sane since the dawn.

From here, far above Capustan, vast dramas of death and desperation were diminished, almost into abstraction. Tides of motion, the blurring of colours, the sheer muddiness of humanity – all diminished, the futility reduced to something strangely manageable.

Burned-out buildings. The tragic end of innocents. Wives, mothers, children. Desperation, horror and grief, the storms of destroyed lives—

No closer.

Wives, mothers, children. Burned-out buildings.

No closer.

Ever again.

The sparrowhawk caught an updraught, swept skyward, eyes now on the livening stars as night swallowed the world below.

There was pain in the gifts of the Elder Gods.

But sometimes, there was mercy.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN