Again there was that howl of frustration and rage as the Troll-God was compelled against His will to obey. Then, immediately in front of the rolling black cloud there rose a long, high sheet of roaring flame. Brighter and brighter the flame grew, and Sparhawk could feel the waves of intense heat blasting back at them from that wall of fire. The cloud advanced inexorably, seeming to ignore the wall.

‘Blue-Rose!’ Sparhawk snarled in the Troll tongue. ‘Help Khwaj! Blue-Rose will send its power and the power of all the Troll-Gods to help Khwaj! Do it! Now!’

The answering blast of power nearly knocked Sparhawk from his saddle, and Faran reeled back, flattening his ears and baring his teeth.

Then the cloud stopped. Great rents and tears appeared in it, only to be almost instantly repaired. The flame undulated, rising then falling into sickly glimmerings, then flaring anew as the two forces contended with each other. At last the darkness of the cloud began to fade, even as night fades from the sky with the approach of dawn. The flames grew higher, more intensely bright. The cloud sickened yet more. It grew wispy and tattered.

‘We’re winning!’ Kalten exclaimed.

‘We?’ Kurik said, picking up Sparhawk’s gauntlets.

Then as if it had been ripped away by a gale, the cloud streamed away. Sparhawk and his friends saw what had made the grunting sound. They were immense and human-like, which is to say that they had arms and legs and heads. They were dressed in furs and carried weapons crafted of stone – axes and spears for the most part. Their humanity ended there. They had receding brows and protruding, muzzle-like mouths, and they were not so much hairy as they were furred. Although the cloud had dissipated, they continued their advance, a kind of shuffling trot. Their feet struck the ground in unison, and they barked that guttural grunt with each thudding step. They momentarily paused at regular intervals, and from somewhere in their midst there arose a high-pitched wail, a kind of shrill ululation. Then the rhythmic barking and stamping trot would begin again. They wore helmets of a sort, the skull-caps of unimaginable beasts decorated with horns, and their faces were smeared with coloured mud in intricate designs.

‘Are they Trolls?’ Kalten’s voice was shrill.

‘Not like any Trolls I’ve ever seen,’ Ulath replied, reaching for his axe.

‘All right, my children!’ the Domi shouted to his men. ‘Let us clear the beasts from our path!’ He drew his sabre, held it aloft and shouted a great war-cry.

The Peloi charged.

‘Kring!’ Sparhawk yelled. ‘Wait!’

But it was too late. Once unleashed, the savage tribesmen from the eastern marches of Pelosia could not again be reined in.

Sparhawk swore. He stuffed the Bhelliom inside his surcoat. ‘Berit!’ he commanded, ‘take Sephrenia and Talen to the rear! The rest of you, let’s lend a hand!’