'On the contrary,' Vrill said, his smile widening, 'it was hardly a waste.'

'And why is that?' Teral asked, even as he finished the sentence in his mind: to distract us. He turned and looked back at the fortress. Nothing had changed, not yet.

I don't understand, he thought, puzzled. They couldn't have sneaked troops around us, it's not possible.

Even the five Reaper priests were doing nothing unusual, other than kneeling in the mud with their acolytes and praying – just as the priests of Death and Karkarn within the Fist would be doing.

'I wish to make it clear that any man who surrenders and throws down his weapon shall not be harmed,' said the Menin white-eye. He raised his left hand and a monstrous roar cut through the air.

Teral almost jumped in surprise. The minotaurs were bellowing up to the sky as they headed off to the open ground to the right of the Fist.

'Your Western gate would be a good place to march your troops out of, once you surrender,' the Menin general advised.

'Are you deaf, or just mad?' Major Sants demanded, though Teral knew Sants was just as worried as he. 'We're not going to surrender the damn Fist just because you asked us nicely!'

'Oratory is not enough of a reason?' Vrill shrugged. 'As you insist, I shall arrange a demonstration instead. Do not let me keep you, gentlemen.'

He offered them a crisp salute and sat there beaming as the Devoted soldiers turned their horses and galloped back towards the half-open gate of the Fist. All four were dreading what they would find.

'Enough!' Lord Celao shouted, cutting Styrax off in mid-sentence. 'Your administrative plans do not interest me, your trade strategies do not interest me, your political assessments do not interest me!' His face was red and his jowls were shaking with fury. 'You insult my tribe by your very presence; you insult us further by suggesting we could ever accept Menin rule! The descendents of Grast will never rule Ismess!'

'Indeed,' Certinse added levelly, 'and might I also suggest you get a new chef – the eel was woefully bland.' The Farlan powerbroker looked like he was enjoying himself, despite having listened to Lord Styrax talk for half an hour on matters they both knew were inconsequential. He knew this game, and was happy to listen to and watch the faces around at him, making occasional comments and allowing the nameless priest in brown to whisper in his ear every few minutes. They would reach the meat of the conversation in due course, and then the game would really start.

The Duchess of Byora drummed her fingers on the table impatiently. Ruhen was staring in rapt fascination at Lord Celao and would not be dissuaded, no matter what she did. The sergeant, on the other side of the child, was causing her almost as much irritation: Kayel ignored her silent reproaches and not only joined in a conversation above his station, but also encouraged the little hoy's interest in the winged white-eyes.

'Lord Celao, you are here because you are the Chosen of Hit and ruler of Ismess,' Styrax said finally, 'but you should not presume that means you can insult me any longer without Kohrad ripping your fat head from your body, Your army is a mockery; it befits

the slob who is the Messenger God's Chosen. The shame your existence does Hit must be testament to his diminished position.'

The Litse white-eye screeched in protest, but looked even more put out when neither Gesh nor Kiallas leapt immediately to his defence. Though the winged men tensed, neither made a move to demand Styrax retract his statement.

'You will accept Menin rule; you cannot do otherwise,' Lord Styrax continued gravely, placing a cautionary hand on Kohrad's arm, feeling his son quivering with aggression. 'Your presence here is a courtesy; the only people I care to hear from are the duchess and Knight'Cardinal Certinse.'

When he spoke again the hostility was gone. 'Natai, if you will forgive my presumption I suggest your position is this: you do not have the troops to fight a war alone, especially now, when your quarter is beset by religious violence. You will support and provide troops in defence of the city, but you will defer to Akell.

'Knight-Cardinal, Cardinal Sourl – you will together decide to fight or to capitulate; the likely response from a martial order will obviously be to fight.' He paused, making a show of looking at the sky, as if gauging the hour. The sun was hidden behind a thick blanket of cloud, but it was enough for the Menin lord. He knew he could trust Vrill's sense of timing.

'Gentlemen, I have brought you here today to tell you that option is no longer open to you.'

Amber watched the smile waver on Certinse's face. 'What do you mean?' he asked.

Lord Styrax stood and beckoned Messenger Karapin, who hurried forward with three rolled scrolls in his hand. 'I mean, Knight-Cardinal, that I have just taken the Fist, your quarter's main defence. Unless you sign the peace treaty Messenger Karapin has here, I will not stop there.'

He turned to walk away from the table. 'You will be getting a runner from your city soon. Unless you wish my minotaurs to unleash havoc in your city, that would be a good time to kneel to me.'

Teral spurred on his horse, determined to be first to face whatever had happened in the Fist. He saw the Reaper priests looking up in surprise, their prayers disturbed, and as he reached them the novices sprang to their feet, sensing trouble. It confirmed his suspicion that they were former soldiers, for who else would be drawn to the service of the Reapers?

They were now less than fifty yards from the walls of the Fist, close enough to make it back before the Menin cavalry could run them down, but the priests were ignoring their novices. They stared at the racing horsemen, then at the Menin army behind them.

'Run, you fools!' Major Sants called, sparking the group into action.

They turned and started moving towards the Fist, the smallest, a woman, Teral realised, half-dragged by one of the novices. There was a sudden movement and the novice fell, sprawling on the ground.

'Gods, archers!' he shouted, and hunched low over his horse's neck, not slowing the beast until he was through the gate. He was sliding from his horse before a groom had even grabbed at the reins.

'Jackler!' he yelled, 'get a squad and sweep the Fist, and double the guard on every entrance.' He broke off as Major Sants and Captain Shael clattered in behind him, almost running him down in their haste.

'Sound the alarm!' Sants roared, 'and look lively, you bastards!'

'Where's Fell?' Teral asked, fearing the worst.

Sants shook his head, his cheek purple with anger. 'Idiot turned back to go after Vrill, I think.' He ran back to the gate to look out. 'Where are those-?' The major froze.

Before Teral could speak a howl cut the air, like nothing he had ever heard: high and piercing, a shriek not of pain, but hatred. It stopped abruptly as a squat figure bounded into view and, without breaking stride, pushed Major Sants off his feet. It happened in the blink of an eye; Teral caught only the glimpse of long, misshapen fangs before they were buried in Sants's body.

He felt the ground under his feet shake, like the heavy footfalls of a giant, and he drew his sword as three guardsmen, their pikes levelled, ran past him to Sants's aid, and straight into a second dark shape. The first soldier, smashed off his feet by an enormous arm, collided with his comrades, knocking them to the ground.

Teral ran forward but before he could reach them a third figure darted through the air and slabbed down. He raised his sword, acting instinctively now, and caught the flash of a blade as it slashed across his face and knocked the sword from his hand. He staggered aside as the figure, its arms whirling like an enraged Mystic of Karkarn, pushed past him to attack the next man. He felt the blood splatter across his face as another creature leapt in through the gate, its blades flashing. Teral blinked, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The first creature turned towards him, its red eyes burning through the gloom. He fell back as the creature shook itself like a dog and released a cloud of foul black smoke from its matted coat.