‘Which damned tribe is this one?’ Sceptre Irkullas asked.

The scout frowned. ‘The traders call them the Nith’rithal-the blue streaks in their white face paint distinguish them.’

The Akrynnai warleader twisted to ease the muscles of his lower back. He had thought such days were past him-a damned war! Had he not seen enough to earn some respite? When all he sought was a quiet life in his clan, playing bear to his grandchildren, growling as they swarmed all over him with squeals and leather knives stabbing everywhere they could reach. He so enjoyed his lengthy death-throes, always saving one last shocking lunge when all were convinced the giant bear was well and truly dead. They’d shriek and scatter and he would lie back, laughing until he struggled to catch his breath.

By the host of spirits, he had earned peace. Instead, he had… this. ‘How many yurts did you say again?’ His memory leaked like a worm-holed bladder these days.

‘Six, maybe seven thousand, Sceptre.’

Irkullas grunted. ‘No wonder they’ve devoured half that bhederin herd in the month since they corralled them.’ He considered for a time, scratching the white bristles on his chin. ‘Twenty thousand inhabitants then. Would you say that a fair count?’

‘There’s the track of a large war-party that headed out-eastward-a day or so ago.’

‘Thus diminishing the number of combatants even more-tracks, you say? These Barghast have grown careless, then.’

‘Arrogant, Sceptre-after all, they’ve slaughtered hundreds of Akrynnai already-’

‘Poorly armed and ill-guarded merchants! And that makes them strut? Well, this time they shall face true warriors of the Akrynnai-descendants of warriors who crushed invaders from Awl, Lether and D’rhasilhani!’ He collected his reins and twisted round towards his second in command. ‘Gavat! Prepare the wings to the canter-as soon as their pickets see us, sound the Gathering. Upon sighting the encampment, we charge.’

There were enough warriors nearby to hear his commands and a low, ominous hhunn chant rumbled through the ranks.

Irkullas squinted at the scout. ‘Ride back out to your wing, Ildas-ride down their pickets if you can.’

‘It’s said the Barghast women are as dangerous as the men.’

‘No doubt. We kill every adult and every youth near blooding-the children we will make Akrynnai and those who resist we will sell as slaves to the Bolkando. Now, enough talking-loosen the arrows in your quiver, Ildas-we have kin to avenge!’

Sceptre Irkullas liked playing the bear to his grandchildren. He was well suited to the role. Stubborn, slow to anger, but as the Letherii and others had discovered, ware the flash of red in his eyes-he had led the warriors of the Akrynnai for three decades, at the head of the most-feared cavalry on the plains, and not once had he been defeated.

A commander needed more than ferocity, of course. A dozen dead Letherii generals had made the mistake of underestimating the Sceptre’s cunning.

The Barghast had lashed out to slay traders and drovers. Irkullas was not interested in chasing the damned raiding parties this way and that-not yet, in any case. No, he would strike at the very homes of these White Face Barghast-and leave in his wake nothing but bones and ashes.

Twenty thousand. Seven to ten thousand combatants is probably a high estimate-although it’s said they’ve few old and lame, for their journey into these lands was evidently a hard one.

These Barghast were formidable warriors; of that Irkullas had no doubt. But they thought like thieves and rapists, with the belligerence and arrogance of bullies. Eager for war, were they? Then Sceptre Irkullas shall bring them war.

Formidable warriors, yes, these White Faces.

He wondered how long they would last.

Kamz’tryld despised picket duty. Tripping over bhederin dung-and more than a few bones of late, as the slaughter to ready for winter had begun-while biting flies chased him about and the wind drove grit and sand into his face so that by day’s end his white deathmask was somewhere between grey and brown. Besides, he was not so old that he could not have trotted out with Talt’s war-party yesterday-not that Talt agreed, the one-fanged bastard.

Kamz was reaching an age when loot became less a luxury than a need. He had a legacy to build, something to leave his kin-he should not be wasting his last years of prowess here, so far from-

Thunder?

No. Horses.

He was on a ridge that faced a yet higher one just to the north-he probably should have walked out to that one, but he’d decided it was too far-and as he turned to squint in that direction he caught sight of the first outriders.

Akrynnai. A raid-ah, we shall have plenty of blood to spill after all! He snapped out a command and his three wardogs spun and bolted for the camp. Kamz voiced a cry and saw that his fellow sentinels, two off to his left, three to his right, had all seen and heard the enemy, and dogs were tearing down towards the camp-where he discerned a sudden flurry of activity-

Yes, these Akrynnai had made a terrible mistake.

He shifted grip on his lance, as he saw one of the riders charging directly for him. A fine horse: it would make his first trophy of this day.

And then, along the ridge behind the first scatter of riders, a mass of peaked helms-a blinding glare rising like the crest of an iron wave, and then the flash of scaled armour-

Kamz involuntarily stepped back, the rider closing on him forgotten in his shock.

He was a seasoned warrior. He could gauge numbers in an instant, and he counted as he watched the ranks roll down the slope. Spirits below! Twenty-no, thirty thousand-and still more! I need to-

The first arrow took him high between his neck and right shoulder. Staggered by the blow, he recovered and looked up only to greet the second arrow, tearing like fire into his throat.

As blood spurted down his chest, the biting flies rushed in.

Warleader Talt probed with his tongue his single remaining upper canine and then glared at the distant horse-warriors. ‘They lead us ever on, and not once do they turn and fight! We are in a land of cowards!’

‘So we must scrape it clean,’ said Bedit in a growl.

Talt nodded. ‘Your words ring like swords on shields, old friend. These Akrynnai start and dance away like antelope, but their villages are not so fleet, are they? When we are killing their children and raping their young ones, when we are burning their huts and slaughtering their puny horses, then they will fight us!’

‘Or run in terror, Warleader. Torture kills them quick-we’ve seen that. They are spineless.’ He pointed with the tip of his spear. ‘We must choose our own path here, I think, for it is likely they seek to lead us away from their village.’

Talt studied the distant riders. No more than thirty-they had spied them at dawn, waiting, it seemed, on a distant rise. Talt had half-exhausted his warriors attempting to chase them down. A few scattered arrows sent their way was the extent of their belligerence. It was pathetic. The warleader glanced back at his warriors. Eight hundred men and women, their white paint streaked now with sweat, most of them sitting, hunched over in the heat. ‘We shall rest for a time,’ he said.

‘I shall remain here,’ Bedit said, lowering himself into a crouch.

‘If they move sound the call.’

‘Yes, Warleader.’

Talt hesitated, turning to squint at a mountainous mass of storm clouds to the southwest. Closer, yes.

Bedit must have followed his gaze. ‘We are in its path. It will do much to cool us down, I think.’

‘Be sure to leave this hilltop before it arrives,’ Talt advised. ‘And hold that spear to the ground.’