He was at the front, of course, rolling on his chariot. His wolf head was lost or burned away, the skin beneath livid and scarred, and great black-scorched plates coated his form, but Brother Hurkel still moved with power and menace. He was coming for them, and behind him marched a legion of confessors. It baffled Chel that there could still seem so many of them, after the losses they’d suffered above and below ground. Corvel’s army was no longer immense, but it still overwhelmed the meagre defenders who remained.

Rennic stood on the bridge, a few paces from the lip of the long-wagon’s boards. Wreckage littered the bridge’s ruined stump, chunks of stone and wooden fragments, even a couple of near-whole kegs, blasted clear of the conflagration that had sundered the structure beneath. Rennic hooked one of the kegs with a foot, then rolled it beneath his boot as he waited for Hurkel to arrive. Chel wondered if it still contained black powder, and if Rennic was in danger of blowing his leg off before their enemy even reached them.

Hurkel reined in his chariot before the long-wagon, crimson face lit with delight at the sight of Rennic and Chel, alone before the ruins of the collapsed gatehouse. Somewhere behind them, Chel hoped, were the last of the Serican forces, dug in behind the stones, ready to spring to their aid. He watched Hurkel dismount, his eyes like black marbles in his beetroot face, his chuckles lost to the breeze. Chel’s grip tightened on his headless mace.

‘Sand-crab! Faithless one! Have you come to treat? The Shepherd is ready to hear your confession.’

He lumbered up onto the bridging wagon, stomping over the reinforced timbers, a heavy club in his remaining hand. Behind him, the confessors formed up behind the wagon, their front rank tucked behind what shields they had salvaged. Hurkel stopped before the giant wheels that marked the wagon’s extension, where its long platform projected across the span of shattered bridge. It seemed he was in no hurry to cross the void. He was still calling to them, arms wide and grinning.

Rennic stopped rolling the keg, flicked it on end. His eyes were black, his knuckles white around the spear’s haft.

‘Oh. Shut. Up, you metal meat-stick. You want the Andriz?’ He nodded at Chel, who tried to look imperious. ‘Come and get him, mangle-bollocks.’

Rennic took a step forward, and Chel went with him. Rennic paused, looked at him sidelong.

Chel pre-empted the admonition. ‘You’re not doing this alone. You can’t take him by yourself.’

Rennic nodded. ‘You’re right. But remember—’

The fist caught him under the ribcage, driving upwards, bursting the air from his lungs. He reeled, wheezing, his diaphragm in spasm, as Rennic’s arms guided him down and backward.

‘Have a seat, little man. I’ll call for you.’