Ten heart beats later his old fighting calm slipped over him like a familiar protective cloak. He felt good. Damn sore, but strong. He started down the entrance hall, knees bent, weapons ready. He didn’t have far to go. At the main reception chamber he felt a prickling of warning and threw himself against the wall. Something disturbed the air only to disappear, swallowed by the shadows. He began sliding along the wall for a corridor that led to the stairs.

A shape rippled into view at the centre of the chamber. A Claw – female – her chest slashed by savage wounds, blood soaking her pants. She stood before him empty-handed, staring glassy-eyed.

Through the forward sweep of his cheek-guards, Temper frowned. As he edged along the wall he wondered if she even saw him. When only a few paces separated them, the Claw began weaving her hands in front of her. The distant lamp flames guttered and a cold wind brushed Temper’s face while a pool of impenetrable night grew before the woman. Horrified, he recognized a summoning of the Imperial Warren. At any moment anything could emerge: Claws, an army, or a demon. Temper launched himself forward to the floor and slashed the Claw’s feet out from under her. She collapsed and the portal snapped shut. Rolling, he straightened and thrust down. Both blades tore their way into the Claw’s bloodied chest. Still silent, she pawed futilely at Temper’s blades, weaker and weaker, until she sighed and her arms fell.

His heart racing, Temper pushed himself to his feet. Gods! Though half dead that Claw had almost finished him. He swivelled to cover the chamber. Why not a more active use of the Warrens? It occurred to him that perhaps this night, during the Shadow Moon, drawing upon them might be the greatest risk of all. Sensing himself alone, he wiped his blades across the body and continued on.

Carried by pale smoke a familiar stench drifted down the stairs. It transported Temper back to the countless battlefields he’d strode. No matter where the war, in forest or desert, the smell of death was always the same. As he stepped up onto the landing he felt he’d arrived home. As if the brotherhood hadn’t been shattered. As if he still campaigned with the Sword. He almost sensed their presence at his back like a firm hand urging him on.

Two more dead Claws lay among what looked to be the majority of Ash’s remaining company. It must have been an ugly knife-fight that ended when one of the Bridgeburner veterans touched off an alchemical anti-personnel Sharper or explosive concussive right in everyone’s faces. Those boys always did play rough. He didn’t see Corinn or Ash among the bodies.

Up the hall past the wreckage Temper thought he saw movement on the stairs ahead, but it might’ve been the oil lamp’s flickering flame. He paused, flexed for action: the Claws had disputed this stretch of hall before so perhaps they’d—