But the damage had already been done.

Two Bridgeburners remained standing, and both bore wounds.

She watched as they began checking their fallen comrades, finally gathering around one, pulling him clear. Only one among those fallen, then, who still breathed.

Heavy boots down the hallway, fast approaching.

Lady Envy scowled, raised her hand again—

‘Wait!’ Picker screamed. ‘That’s Mallet! Spin! Over here, you bastards!’

Behind the first two who had appeared – Mallet and Spin, she presumed – staggered two more soldiers in the garb of the Bridgeburners. All were terribly wounded – the Barghast in particular, whose armour was nothing more than fragments and whose body was a mass of cuts and gaping holes. Even as she watched, he staggered, sank to his knees, teeth bared in a smeared grin.

And died.

‘Mallet!’

The large man in the lead spun round, reeled at the sudden motion – and Lady Envy noted that he had taken a sword thrust that had gone right through him, just below the right shoulder. He stumbled back towards the Barghast.

‘It is too late for him, I am afraid,’ Lady Envy called out. ‘And you, Healer – Mallet – you are done with your warren and you know it. Gather to me, then, and I shall oblige. As for you, Picker, a more honest answer to my question earlier would have resulted in a far less horrible episode.’

Wiping blood from her eyes, Picker simply stared.

‘Ah, well,’ Lady Envy sighed, ‘perhaps it is best that you have no recollection of that sardonic quip. Come forward all of you – oh!’

She swung about suddenly, as sorcery descended – Kurald Galain – overwhelming in its power.

‘Down those stairs!’ she cried. ‘We must work clear of this! Quickly!’

Four dragging one, the surviving Bridgeburners followed Lady Envy.

Splinters of bone struck the wall. Tool staggered back, crashing against the stone, sword falling from his hands, ringing on the flagstones.

Mok raised both weapons—

—and flew to one side, through the air, spinning, weapons sailing from his hands – to collide with a wall, then slide in a heap among shattered wood and metal.

Tool raised his head.

A huge black panther, lips peeled back in a silent snarl, slowly padded towards the unconscious Seguleh.

‘No, sister.’

The Soletaken hesitated, then glanced back.

‘No. Leave him.’

The panther swung round, sembled.

Yet the rage remained in Kilava’s eyes as she strode towards Tool. ‘You were defeated! You! The First Sword!’

Tool slowly lowered himself to collect his notched sword. ‘Aye.’

‘He is a mortal man!’

‘Go to the Abyss, Kilava.’ He straightened, back scraping as he continued leaning against the wall.

‘Let me kill him. Now. Then once more you shall have no worthy challenger.’

‘Oh, sister,’ Tool sighed. ‘Do you not realize? Our time – it has passed. We must relinquish our place in this world. Mok – that man you so casually struck from behind – he is the Third. The Second and the First are his masters with swords. Do you understand me, Kilava? Leave him . . . leave them all.’