The Finadd, blood draining from his ears after the concussion of the wave of bones, still held his sword, the Letherii steel obliterating the occasional wraith that ventured near. He saw one Edur warrior, the spear a blur in his hands, leading a dozen or so of his kin ever closer to the surviving mage.

But Moroch was too far away, too many heaving bodies between them, and he could only watch as the warrior broke through the last of the defenders and lunged at the mage, driving his spear into her chest, then lifting her entire, the spear-shaft bowing as he flung her spasming body to one side. The iron point of the spear broke free in a stream of blood.

Reeling away, Moroch Nevath began making his way to the south slope of the rampart. He needed a horse. He needed to bring the mounts closer. For the prince. The queen.

Somewhere to the east, a roar of sound, and the ground shook beneath him. He staggered, then his left leg swept out, skidding on slime, and something snapped in the Finadd’s groin. Pain lanced through him. Swearing, he watched himself fall, the ruptured ground rising in front of him, and landed heavily. Burning agony in his left leg, his pelvis, up the length of his spine. Still swearing, he began dragging himself forward, his sword lost somewhere in his wake.

Bones. Burning, plunging from the sky. Bodies exploding where they struck. Crushing pressure, the air roiling and screaming like a thing alive. The sudden muting of all noise, the outrageous cacophony of grunts as a thousand men died all at once. A sound that Moroch Nevath would never forget. What had the bastards unleashed?

The Letherii were broken, fleeing down the south slope of the rampart. Wraiths dragged them down. Tiste Edur hacked at their backs and heads as they pursued. Trull Sengar clambered onto a heap of corpses, seeking a vantage point. To the east, on the two berms that he could see, the enemy were shattered. Jheck, veered into silver-backed wolves, had poured up from the gully alongside a horde of wraiths to assault what had survived of the Letherii defences. Mage-fire had ceased.

In the opposite direction, B’nagga had led his own beasts south, skirting the foremost rampart, to attack the reserve positions on the west side of the city. There had been enemy cavalry there, and the horses had been driven to panic by the huge wolves rushing into their midst. A dozen demons had joined the Jheck, forcing the Letherii into a chaotic retreat that gathered up and carried with it the southernmost elements. Companies of Arapay Edur were following in B’nagga’s wake.

Trull swung to face north. And saw his brother standing alone above a body, on the far side of the killing field.

The K’risnan.

‘Trull.’

He turned. ‘Ahlrada Ahn. You are wounded.’

‘I ran onto a sword – held by a dead man.’

The gash was deep and long, beginning just below the warrior’s left elbow and continuing up into his shoulder. ‘Find yourself a healer,’ Trull said, ‘before you bleed out.’

‘I shall. I saw you slay the witch.’ A statement to which Ahlrada added nothing.

‘Where is Canarth?’ Trull asked. ‘I do not see my troop.’

‘Scattered. I saw Canarth dragging Badar from the press. Badar was dying.’

Trull studied the blood and fragments of flesh on the iron point of his spear. ‘He was young.’

‘He was blooded, Trull.’

Trull glanced over at High Fort’s walls. He could see soldiers lining it. The garrison, witness to the annihilation of the Letherii manning the outer defences. The nearest bastion was still launching quarrels, tracking the few demons still in range.

‘I must join my brother, Ahlrada. See if you can gather our warriors. There may be more fighting to come.’

Huddled in the lee of the west wall, Moroch Nevath watched a dozen wolves pad from one heap of corpses to another. The beasts were covered in blood. They gathered round a wounded soldier, there was a sudden flurry of snarls, and the twitching body went still.

All over… so fast. Decisive indeed.

He had never found the horses.

On the rampart opposite him, eighty paces distant, a score of Tiste Edur had found Prince Quillas. Dishevelled but alive. Moroch wondered if the queen’s corpse lay somewhere beneath the mounds of broken flesh. Beadwork unstrung and scattered in the welter, her jewelled sword still locked in its scabbard, the ambitious light in her eyes dulled and drying and blind to this world.

It seemed impossible.

But so did all these dead Letherii, these obliterated battalions and brigades.

There had been no negation of magic. The eleven mages had been destroyed by the counter-attack. A battle had been transformed into a slaughter, and it was this inequity that stung Moroch the deepest.

He and his people had been on the delivering end, time and again, until it seemed inherently just and righteous. Something went wrong. There was treachery. The proper course of the world has been… upended. The words repeating in his head were growing increasingly bitter. It is not for us to be humbled. Ever. Failure drives us to succeed tenfold. All will be put right, again. It shall. We cannot be denied our destiny.

It began to rain.

An Edur warrior had seen him and was approaching, sword held at the ready. The downpour arrived with vigour as the tall figure came to stand before Moroch Nevath. In traders’ tongue he said, ‘I see no wounds upon you, soldier.’

‘Torn tendon, I think,’ Moroch replied.

‘Painful, then.’

‘Have you come to kill me?’

A surprised expression. ‘You do not know? The garrison surrendered. High Fort is fallen.’

‘What of it?’

‘We come as conquerors, soldier. What value killing all of our subjects?’

Moroch looked away. ‘Letherii conquer. We are never conquered. You think this battle means anything? You have revealed your tactics, Edur. This day shall not be repeated, and before long you will be the subjugated ones, not us.’

The warrior shrugged. ‘Have it your way, then. But know this. The frontier has fallen. Trate, High Fort and Shake Fort. Your famous brigades are routed, your mage cadres dead. Your queen and your prince are our prisoners. And we begin our march on Letheras.’

The Tiste Edur walked away.

Moroch Nevath stared after him for a time, then looked round. And saw Letherii soldiers, stripped of weapons but otherwise unharmed, walking from the fields of battle. Onto the loggers’ road, and south, on the Katter Road. Simply walking away. He did not understand. We will reassemble. Pull back and equip ourselves once more. There is nothing inevitable to this. Nothing. Wincing, he forced himself to move away from the wall-

A familiar voice, shouting his name. He looked up, recognized an officer from the queen’s entourage. The man bore minor wounds, but otherwise seemed hale. He quickly approached. ‘Finadd, I am pleased to see you alive-’

‘I need a horse.’

‘We have them, Finadd-’

‘How was the queen captured?’ Moroch demanded. Why did you not die defending her?

‘A demon,’ the man replied. ‘It was among us in the blink of an eye. It had come to take her – we could not prevent it. We tried, Finadd, we tried-’

‘Never mind. Help me up. We must ride south – I need a healer-’

Trull Sengar picked his way across the killing field. The rain was turning the churned ground into a swamp. The bones of the sorcery had vanished. He paused, hearing piteous cries from somewhere off to his right. A dozen paces in that direction, and he came upon a demon.

Four heavy quarrels had pierced it. The creature was lying on its side, its bestial face twisted with pain.

Trull crouched near the demon’s mud-smeared head. ‘Can you understand me?’

Small blue eyes flickered behind the lids, fixed on his own eyes. ‘Arbiter of life. Denier of mercy. I shall die here.’