Boots thumped on the stairs and the healer swung round to see Spindle stumbling onto the landing. He’d taken a blow against his pot-helm, snapping the brow-band and its rivets on one side. Blood painted that side of his face. His eyes were wild.

‘A score of ‘em up there, Mallet! Trotts is holding them off—’

‘The damned idiot!’ The healer finished loading his crossbow and scrambled to the stairs, pausing briefly to examine Antsy. ‘Find yourself a new helm, Spin, then follow!’

‘What about Antsy?’

‘He’ll live a while longer. Hurry, damn you!’

The staircase was crowded with fresh bodies, all the way up to the next landing.

Mallet arrived in time to find himself caught in a descending rush – Seerdomin and, in their midst, a snarling Trotts, tumbling in a thrashing wall of flesh straight down onto the healer. A blade – the Barghast’s – plunged through Mallet’s shoulder, then whipped back out as they one and all fell onto the hard stone steps. Axe-blades, daggers, gauntlets, helms and greaves made the human avalanche a vicious shock of pain that did not end even when they were brought to a flailing halt at the bend in the stairwell.

Trotts was the first one to extricate himself, stabbing down with his shortsword, kicking and stamping with his boots. Cursing, Mallet dragged himself clear of the Barghast’s frenzy, fire lancing from the wound in his shoulder.

Moments later, there was only the sound of gasping breaths in the stairwell.

The healer twisted round, found a wall at his back, and slowly pushed himself upright – to glare up at Trotts. ‘You stabbed me, you bastard!’

Even as he said it, his words fell away as he looked at the Barghast. The huge warrior had taken more wounds than Mallet had thought possible. He had been chopped to pieces. Yet he did not even so much as waver as he grinned down at the healer. ‘Stabbed you, did I? Good.’

Mallet grimaced. ‘I see your point, you blue-toothed cattle-dog. Why should you get all the fun?’

‘Aye. Where’s Antsy and Det and Spin?’

‘Landing below. Det’s dead. We’ll have to carry Antsy. From the sound, Spin’s still looking for a new helm.’

‘They’ll all be too big,’ Trotts growled. ‘We need to find the kitchen – a cup.’

Mallet pushed himself from the wall. ‘Good idea. Let’s get going, then.’

‘I’ll take point, now – cooks are dangerous.’

The Barghast, streaming blood, moved past the healer.

‘Trotts.’

He paused. ‘Aye?’

‘Spin said a score.’

‘Aye.’

‘All dead?’

‘Maybe half. The rest ran away.’

‘You scared them off, did you?’

‘Spin’s hairshirt, is my guess. Come on, Healer.’

Toc’s head lolled, the scene rising and falling as the T’lan Imass carried him down the torchlit corridor. Occasionally, Tool stepped over a body or two.

My brother. He called me that.

I have no brother.

Only a mother.