The hooded looks, the rumours of his cowardice at High Fort, would cease this day. It wasn’t much, but it would suffice.

He recalled he had promised to do something for Turudal Brizad, but the man’s outrageous claims had not quite convinced Moroch. Tales of gods and such, coming from a painted consort at that, well, that would have to wait another day, another lifetime. Leave the foppish lover of the lost queen and that obnoxious chancellor to fight his own battles. Moroch wanted to cross blades with the Tiste Edur.

If they let him. A squalid death beneath a wave of sorcery was more likely.

A grunt from one of his soldiers.

Moroch nodded, seeing the first of the Edur approaching from the main avenue. ‘Hold that shield wall,’ he said in a growl, moving to stand five paces in front of it. ‘It’s a small company – let’s send their souls to the Errant’s piss-hole.’

In answer to his bold words, shouts from the soldiers, voices made ugly with blood-lust. Swords hammering shield-rims.

Moroch smiled. They’ve seen us . ‘Look at them, comrades – see how they hesitate.’

Bellowed challenges from the soldiers.

The Tiste Edur resumed their march. In their lead, a warrior draped in gold.

Whom Moroch had seen before. ‘Errant bless me,’ he whispered, then spun round. ‘The emperor! The one in gold!’ And turned back, taking four more strides until he was at the very edge of the bridge. Raising his sword. ‘Rhulad of the Edur!’ he shouted. ‘Come and face me, you damned freak! Come forward and die!’

Bugg pointed down the street. ‘See that man? That’s Turudal Brizad. That is who you are doing this favour for. If he’s not grateful, give him an earful. I have to get going, but I will be back shortly-’

The air filled suddenly with howling, coming from the north and west.

‘Oh, damn,’ Bugg said. ‘You’d better get going. And I’d better stay too,’ he added, heading off towards the Errant.

‘Corlo,’ Iron Bars snapped as they followed the manservant.

‘Oh, it’s befuddled, some, Avowed. Can’t hear a thing besides.’

Iron Bars nodded. ‘Weapons ready. We’re wasting no time on this. How many in there, Corlo?’

‘Six, their favourite number.’

‘Let’s go.’

Bugg had moved ahead and was fifteen paces from Turudal, who had turned to face him, when the Avowed and his squad thumped past, gaining speed.

As they closed on the Errant the god, brows lifting, pointed towards the entrance to the ruined temple.

The Crimson Guardsmen shifted course, reaching full sprint as they passed Turudal Brizad.

Bugg heard Iron Bars say to the god, ‘Pleased-to-meet-you-see-you-later,’ and then the Avowed and his soldiers were past. Straight for the dark entrance, then plunging inside.

Bestial screams, human shouts, the deafening thunder of sorcery-

‘He’s mine!’ Rhulad said in a snarl, lifting his sword and stalking towards the lone Letherii swordsman at this end of the bridge.

Hannan Mosag called, ‘Emperor! Leave these to my K’risnan-’

Rhulad spun round. ‘ No! ’ he shrieked. ‘We shall fight! We are warriors! These Letherii deserve to die honourably! We will hear nothing more from you!’ The emperor swung back. ‘This, this brave swordsman. I want him .’

Beside Trull, Fear muttered, ‘He wants to be killed by him. I recognize that Letherii. He was with the delegation.’

Trull nodded. The Finadd, a Letherii captain and bodyguard to Prince Quillas – he could not recall the man’s name.

It was clear that Rhulad had not recognized him.

Mottled sword held at the ready, the emperor approached.

Moroch Nevath smiled. Rhulad Sengar, who had died, only to return. If the rumours were true, he had died again in Trate. But this time, I will make him stay dead. I will cut him to pieces . He waited, watching the emperor’s approach.

Favouring the right side, the right foot edging ahead of the other, a detail telling Moroch that Rhulad had been trained to use a single-handed sword, rather than this two-handed monstrosity now wavering about before him like an oversized club.

The sudden charge was not unexpected, only the speed of that weapon as the blade whirled towards Moroch’s head. He barely managed to avoid getting his skull sliced in half, ducking and pitching to his right. A deafening clang, the shock ripping through him as the sword bit into his helmet, caught, then tore it from his head.

Moroch sprang back, staying as low as possible, then straightened once more. The top third of his own sword was slick with blood. He had met the charge with a stop-hit.