An attack alarm was clanging above his head, and there was movement all around as men made for their battle stations. The Fist was a massive square building, the straight line of the walls broken only by a jutting gatehouse on the northern face. The outer wall was ten feet thick with defensive walkways built within that, and served as a massive outer shell to the inner building, itself five storeys high and a maze of kitchens, storerooms, barracks, foundries, halls, offices and stables.

The Fist would be hard to take. The outskirts of the city had crept ever closer, until now only five hundred paces separated the nearest dwellings from the massive walls but the ground had been carefully planned to hinder any attacker, with piled earthworks and deep ditches close to the fort and enough open ground to leave anyone trying to slip past the Fist exposed and vulnerable for far too long for comfort.

Teral looked up; the sky above him was grey, making even the scarlet of their uniforms look faded and dull.

'Is Colonal Dake not here?' he snapped, watching the ordered chaos around him.

'Back in the city,' Jackler replied. 'I'll send a rider.'

'Where in the name of the Dark Place is Major Sants, then?'

'I'm here, Teral,' called a laconic voice from the shadows of the gatehouse, 'just waiting for you to show your face.'

Teral bit down the curse that was on the tip of his tongue. Now was not the time to let Sants wind him up. 'It looks as if their general, the white-eye Vrill, wants to parley. I don't think we can afford to wait for Colonel Dake to arrive, so we should go and hear what he has to say immediately.'

As he took a step forward, Captain Shael and the rabid Chaplain Fell joined him. The chaplain was still wearing the bronze braiding on his half-black, half-red robe.

Gods, the Knight-Cardinal must have reversed his decision, all so a few chaplains can pretend they're Mystics of Karkarn, Teral thought, noting the chaplain's clothing.

Clerics had always been a driving force within the Knights of the Temples, but the recent fanaticism sweeping through the cults had taken that to an extreme. It might have been comical to watch formerly mild-mannered clerics assuming all the swagger and aggression of a Farlan regimental chaplain, if it hadn't been accompanied by savage fervour and increasingly brutal punishments for any man betraying the slightest disrespect towards a man of the cloth.

No doubt that priest of Belarannar whispered in the Knight'Cardinal's ear again; man's been closer than a flea and just as friendly. How long can I last without being assigned a 'spiritual advisor' of my own? he wondered.

Major Sants pointed past Teral at four horses being brought around from the stables. 'We were just waiting for you to catch up,' he said with an infuriating smile.

Teral whipped the reins of his own horse from the groom, not caring how ungracious he appeared. The man didn't bother to look aggrieved, nor did he react when Sants accepted the reins of his own warhorse with exaggerated courtesy. As soon as they were mounted, Sants gave a cough. 'Ahem, Major?'

The gates were shut; Teral was duty-commander, and only on his order would they be opened. The gates were twelve feet square, made of bog-oak from the marshes to the west, and reinforced with steel rods. Four men stared down at him from the gantry above the gate, waiting for his order.

He opened his mouth, about to speak, when a man stepped out in front of his horse and the creature shied. It took Teral a moment to regain control of the beast before he could look at the person blocking his path: a priest in black robes. The red stripe running down each voluminous sleeve and around his waist was unfamiliar to Teral, as was the small, curved dagger attached to his robe -clearly a ritual implement, though he couldn't place the cult that required such a thing.

'Major,' the man called out in a strange accent, 'Major, I must beg favour of you.' He spoke the Farlan dialect, although with a strong accent.

'Your Reverence, now is not the time,' Teral said, trying to keep his temper. 'Please, whatever it is, make your request later.'

'No, Major, it is time,' the man replied loudly, his high foreign voice making it sound like a rebuke. As though to support his point, a small group shuffled closer: four more dressed in black and five in novice grey, though the colour of the stripes was different. It was hard to make out in the weak light.

What sort of priests are these? Is that stripe yellow or white? Some instinct made him wheel his horse away from the men. Jackler, seeing the movement, stepped directly between Teral and the priest, his hand on his hilt.

'What God do you serve?' Teral asked as the gatehouse troops stepped out of their guardrooms and surrounded the priests. 'What could possibly be so important you need to speak to me now? You do realise there's a Menin army out there?'

'I hear alarm. Now is time,' the priest insisted. He pushed back the hood of his robe to reveal a face of indeterminate age, entirely hairless and frighteningly white.

Teral wondered if the man came from the Waste; he'd heard many of the tribes there had strange-coloured skin, ranging from as grey as a corpse to red like a birthmark.

'We are priests of Death. When there is battle, we must pray.'

'Pray then, dammit,' roared Chaplain Fell, a priest of Karkarn, 'but just get out of the damn way!'

Teral couldn't help but wince, fearing to find himself caught between feuding priests, but the strange man appeared to take no umbrage at Fell's belligerent tone.

'Well, Father?' he said. 'You don't need my permission to pray.'

'Apologies, we are…' The priest floundered for a moment, then turned to his colleagues for help.

'Aligned,' one of the novices said quietly. He wasn't as young as most novices; though he was also hairless, he had the weatherbeaten face of a penitent.

'Ah, yes.' The priest gave a small bow to the novice and turned back to Teral. 'We are aligned priests; we serve the Reapers.'

Teral blinked in surprise. Aligned to the Reapers? He'd never heard of such a thing before – though it did explain the colours on each man's robe.

But Gods, what sort of madman would be a priest to any of the Reapers?

'You serve the Reapers?' he said, stunned. 'What do you want with me?' Fear made his question harsh, but the priest didn't appear to notice.

Sweet Nartis, one of these men worships the Headsman?

The priest gave a bow. 'All priests of Death must pray before battle; we must pray on site of battle.'

'Out there?' Sants retorted, pointing towards the still-closed gate. 'You want to walk out there to pray?'

The priest nodded silently.

Teral hesitated, trying to work out what to do. The Order bowed to religious authority; that was inbred, and of late that had been even more evident, yet something here felt wrong. He looked at each of the priests: all in black, each with a similar ageless face.

Qods, are they mages? he wondered. 'Sergeant,' he shouted in the general direction of the guardroom, 'where's your witchfmder?'

'I'm here,' came a shout from above before the sergeant of the gate could answer, and a pale-haired man with long limbs waved from his seat on one of the wall's walkways. He dangled a leg over the edge. Teral couldn't tell whether it was just a trick of the light, or if it was a combination of age and grubbiness that made the man's white hair and tunic both look grey. The witchfinders were the only people within the Order to wear white and black.

The man didn't bother saluting, but that didn't surprise Teral; witchfinders were a law unto themselves, and even the best were half-mad. 'Name?'

'Islir,' came the reply, followed eventually by, 'sir.'

'You tested these priests?'

"Course I did,' floated down the mocking reply. 'My job, ain't it?'