The Bonehunters

Blinking, staring up into a smeared, blistered face. A woman. He knew her.



And she was speaking.



We're all dead, now. Friends. Gathering at Hood's Gate'Fist Keneb! There are hundreds here!'



Yes.



'Still alive! Sinn is keeping the fire back, but she can't hold on much longer! We're going to try and push through! Do you understand me! We need help, we need to get everyone on their feet!'



What? 'Captain,' he whispered. 'Captain Faradan Sort.'



'Yes! Now, on your feet, Fist!'



****

A storm of fire was building above Y'Ghatan. Blistig had never seen anything like it. Flames, twisting, spinning, slashing out long tendrils that seemed to shatter the billowing smoke. Wild winds tore into the clouds, annihilating them in flashes of red.



The heat- Gods below, this has happened before. This Hood-damned city…



A corner bastion exploded in a vast fireball, the leaping gouts writhing, climbingThe wind that struck them from behind staggered everyone on the road.



In the besiegers' camp, tents were torn from their moorings, flung into the air, then racing in wild billows towards Y'Ghatan. Horses screamed amidst curtains of sand and dust rising up, whipping like the fiercest storm.



Blistig found himself on his knees. A gloved hand closed on his cloak collar, pulled him round. He found himself staring into a face that, for a moment, he did not recognize. Dirt, sweat, tears, and an expression buckled by panic – the Adjunct. 'Pull the camp back!



Everyone!'



He could barely hear her, yet he nodded, turned into the wind and fought his way down from the road. Something is about to be born, Nil said. Something…



The Adjunct was shouting. More commands. Blistig, reaching the edge of the road, dragged himself down onto the back slope. Nil and Nether moved past him, towards where the Adjunct still stood on the road.



The initial blast of wind had eased slightly, this time a longer, steadier breath drawn in towards the city and its burgeoning conflagration.



'There are soldiers!' the Adjunct screamed. 'Beyond the breach! I want them out!'



The child Grub clambered up the slope, flanked by the dogs Bent and Roach.



And now other figures were swarming past Blistig. Khundryl. Warlocks, witches. Keening voices, jabbering undercurrents, a force building, rising from the battered earth. Fist Blistig twisted round – a ritual, magic, what were they doing? He shot a glance back at the chaos of the encampment, saw officers amidst scrambling figures – they weren't fools. They were already pulling backNil's voice, loud from the road. 'We can feel her! Someone! Spirits below, such power!'



'Help her, damn you!'



A witch shrieked, bursting into flames on the road. Moments later, two warlocks huddled near Blistig seemed to melt before his eyes, crumbling into white ash. He stared in horror. Help her? Help who?



What is happening? He pulled himself onto the road's edge once more.



And could see, in the heart of the breach, a darkening within the flames.



Fire flickered round another witch, then snapped out as something rolled over everyone on the road – cool, sweet power – like a merciful god's breath. Even Blistig, despiser of all things magic, could feel this emanation, this terrible, beautiful will.



Driving the flames in the breach back, opening a swirling dark tunnel.



From which figures staggered.



Nether was on her knees near the Adjunct – the only person on the road still standing – and Blistig saw the Wickan girl turn to Tavore, heard her say, 'It's Sinn. Adjunct, that child's a High Mage. And she doesn' t even know it-'



The Adjunct turned, saw Blistig.



'Fist! On your feet. Squads and healers forward. Now! They're coming through – Fist Blistig, do you understand me? They need help!'



He clambered to his knees, but got no further. He stared at the woman.



She was no more than a silhouette, the world behind her nothing but flames, a firestorm growing, ever growing. Something cold, riven through with terror, filled his chest.



A vision.



He could only stare.



Tavore snarled, then turned to the scrawny boy standing nearby. 'Grub!



Find some officers down in our camp! We need-'



'Yes, Adjunct! Seven hundred and ninety-one, Adjunct. Fist Keneb. Fist Tene Baralta. Alive. I'm going to get help now.'



And then he was running past Blistig, down the slope, the dogs padding along in his wake.



A vision. An omen, yes. I know now, what awaits us. At the far end. At the far end of this long, long road. Oh gods…



She had turned about, now, her back to him. She was staring at the burning city, at the pathetic, weaving line of survivors stumbling through the tunnel. Seven hundred and ninety-one. Out of three thousand.