Shank’s eyes closed, his face runnelled in sweat as he swiftly added binding spells to the water that filled the Seerdomin’s lungs, holding it down against their desperate, spasming efforts to expel the deadly fluid.

Soldiers shouted, gathered around the writhing mage.

Four sharpers sailed into their midst.

Multiple, snapping explosions, at least one of them triggering the row of sharpers buried along the length of the trail, these ones in turn triggering the crackers at the base of the flanking trees, which began toppling inward onto the milling soldiers.

Smoke, the screams of the wounded and dying, figures sprawled, pinned beneath trees and trapped by branches.

Paran saw Hedge and four other sappers, Spindle included, plunging down the slope to one side of the trail. Munitions flew from their hands.

The fallen trees – wood and branches liberally drenched in lantern oil – lit up in a conflagration as the first of the burners exploded. Within the span of a heartbeat, the trail and the entire company trapped upon it were in flames.

Abyss below, we’re not a friendly bunch, are we!

Down at the bottom, well behind the last of the Pannions, Picker and her squads had emerged from cover, bows in hand, and were – Paran hoped – taking down those of the enemy who had managed to avoid the ambush and were attempting to flee.

At the moment, all the captain could hear were screams and the thunderous roar of the fire. The gloom of approaching night had been banished from the trail, and Paran could feel the heat gusting against his face. He glanced over at Quick Ben.

The wizard’s eyes were closed.

Faint movement on the man’s shoulder caught the captain’s attention – a tiny figure of sticks and twine – Paran blinked. It was gone, and he began to wonder if he’d seen anything at all... the wild flaring and ebb of firelight, the writhing shadows ... ah, I must be imagining things. Not enough sleep, the horror that is this dance of light, heightened senses – those damned screams . . .

Were fading now, and the fire itself was losing its raging hunger, unable to reach very far into the rain-soaked forest beyond. Smoke wreathed the trail, drifted through the surrounding boles. Blackened bodies filled the path, plates of armour rainbow-burnished, leather curled and peeling, boots blistered and cracking open with terrible sizzling sounds.

If Hood has reserved a pit for his foulest servants, then the Moranth who made these munitions belong in it. And us, since we’ve used them. This was not battle. This was slaughter.

Mallet slid down to Paran’s side. ‘Captain! Moranth are dropping out of the sky on the entrenchments – Dujek’s arrived, the first wave with him. Sir, our reinforcements are here.’

Quick Ben scraped a hand across his little row of twigs. ‘Good. We’ll need them.’