The man hunched beneath Possum's tirade, exchanged glances with his runner as if blaming each other. Once again Possum found himself disheartened by the state of the organization since its gutting on Malaz Isle. Kellanved's Revenge, some called that night, evoking the stories that this newly arisen Shadowthrone was in fact the old emperor. It was said that in revenge for past slights, his assassination not the least of them, Kellanved had sent the curse of his own Shadow Queen upon them to harrow the ranks. And what a harrowing that night had been!

Luckily, Possum had then been elsewhere engaged. Now, this night, he almost demoted this Hand-commander on the spot but decided against it; no sense doing what the upcoming fight might accomplish all on its own. ‘Spread the word below. We're taking over here. We'll open with a volley of whatever munitions you can pull together then close to finish up the survivors.’ He indicated the roof opposite. ‘Let's come down from above.’

‘As you order,’ barked the Hand-commander, all obedience now. Far too late for that, friend.

They reached the roof together, Possum with his guards and the commander's Hand of five. Eljin, the man had given his name as. Another Hand now kept watch from the ground where the fusillade of crossbow fire had diminished. Possum hoped the mercenaries wouldn't get too suspicious. He signed for the attack – before the Guard decided to rush the damned street in the lull.

Eljin pumped his fist over the lip of the roof then threw himself down. ‘Incoming!’ The entire Hand lay flat on the steeply sloped tiled roof. A moment later the ancient wooden three-storey tenement jumped beneath Possum's body, tossing him into the air. A Claw screamed as he tumbled down the roof, tiles clattering around him. The building settled with a screeching pained groan like a ship wallowing. Smoke and dust shot up the open roof trap. Possum pushed himself to his feet and stood spread-legged for balance. ‘Go, go, go!’

They charged down the stairs. Carnage greeted them; the building hadn't been emptied. Its inhabitants crammed the stairwell, screaming, clambering over one another in a tumble. Flames now flickered below at the first floor and Eljin, to his credit leading the way, found himself facing a tide of panicked citizenry determined to climb the stairs to escape the fire.

He dealt with this barrier through the simple expediency of kicking down those foremost and pushing over the railing anyone too slow to cooperate. All the while he bellowed, ‘Down! Get down!’

Possum almost cried his frustration. Time. They were recovering! Get out of the way, you stupid bhederin! Then the wood stairway sagged beneath them, timbers splintering and bursting like small secondary explosions. This cleared the way. Like a herd checked by an immovable obstacle, it turned as one mind and reversed course. Eljin helped them on with the pommels of his knives. After the citizens had fled they found a large open space cleared by the explosions. A number of the interior walls had been swept away. The stairwell hung canted behind them, a hundred years of dust sifting down from it.

The Hand spread out among the wreckage. Possum walked to the front. Small fires flickered amid the fallen walls and splintered furniture. Gone. The delay had ruined their attack. He checked the street; had they bulled out the front?

A wet blow, like that of a butcher's strike, snapped his attention around. Eljin stared his stunned surprise at a blade now hung caught in his chest having swept down from behind through his collarbone and upper ribs severing his torso almost in two halves. So much for the man's demotion. The armoured giant behind Eljin raised a mailed foot to push the standing corpse from his blade. All around Guardsmen erupted from the wreckage engaging Claws and Possum could only stare stunned like Eljin. They'd laid their own blasted trap!

As the first echoes of battle hidden far inland reached them, and plumes of smoke rose shortly thereafter over the city, Nait watched the Guardsman commanding the force at the harbour order a withdrawal. They climbed aboard their two commandeered vessels and oared out to the bay where they dropped anchor, waiting. From the wharf side Nait waved every obscene gesture he knew until Hands cuffed him. ‘Why'd they go?’ she asked Tinsmith. ‘Abandon their friends?’

Tinsmith merely spat into the water. ‘Don't have enough men to secure the harbour. They're safe from the mob out there.’

‘But not them,’ Nait said, pointing to the top of the harbour curtain wall. There catapults and mangonels glowed in the light of torches held by their busy attendants. ‘Gonna be a pheasant shoot for them,’ he chuckled gleefully.

‘Don't know about that,’ Honey Boy objected, ‘don't think I've ever seen them actually shoot one of those rusted things.’

Tinsmith did not look impressed either. ‘Let's leave them to their job. Now it's time for us to do ours.’

Nait adjusted the bird-bone toothpick at the corner of his mouth, his eyes narrowing. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Secure the harbour, of course. We are the harbour guard.’

Hands pulled her gauntlets from her belt. ‘About bloody time.’

Least frowned his agreement. Nait could only stare from grim face to grim face. ‘Are you all crazy? 1 know there's only one of them left on the wharf but do you know what he must be?’

‘He's a Trake-cursed invader!’ said Hands.

He's probably from Unta, Nait silently rejoined.

Tinsmith walked up to the single Guardsman left behind at the foot of the stone wharf. As he got close the man turned to him, his eyes hidden within the helm's closed visor. Whoever he was, he wore a thick scaled hauberk and mailed leggings, and bore a broad shield on his back. His surcoat had originally no doubt been deep crimson but now dried salt scale had turned it white. Close, Tinsmith opened his hands to show he meant no harm.

‘You are the sergeant of the Harbour Guard,’ the man said.

‘Yes. Sergeant Tinsmith. And you?’

‘Black.’

Tinsmith nodded a cautious hello. ‘Well, Black. Hostilities have been declared. Looks like we're gonna have to do our job.’

‘You do yours and I'll do mine.’

Tinsmith nodded again and backed away. A third up the length of the wharf he gestured a signal and ten of the harbour guard rose with crossbows readied. The instant they fired the Avowed leapt behind piled cargo. Having fired, these first ten knelt and a second rank straightened. ‘Hold fire!’ Tinsmith ordered.

He eyed the piled sacks and barrels now feathered by bolts. Had the Avowed retreated or was he manoeuvring for another approach? Yet no clear path existed, Tinsmith had made sure of that. The man stood suddenly, shield raised, and charged.

‘Fire!’

The Avowed dived for new cover but not before bolts slammed into his shield. ‘Next rank,’ Tinsmith ordered. The first rank straightened once again, crossbows levelled. The Avowed had closed about six paces.

‘Now?’ Nait asked of Tinsmith where he crouched on his knees behind cover, a heavy sledge in his hands.

‘Not yet.’

The Avowed rose again. With an angry swipe he broke the bolts from his shield. He advanced despite a bolt that ran straight through one thigh. ‘Fire!’

This time the Avowed did not bother ducking. Bolts slammed into his shield, rocking him backwards. One tore through his right calf, sending him to one knee.

‘Next rank,’ Tinsmith ordered.

‘He's gotta be there by now!’ Nait pleaded.

‘Almost.’

The next rank stood but three had not yet finished cocking their weapons. This volley, rushed, most wide, did not slow the Avowed. ‘Now,’ Tinsmith judged. Nait swept up the sledge and slammed it down on the iron pin jammed between chain links at his feet. Nothing happened. ‘I said now,’ Tinsmith repeated.