They soon found themselves surrounded by sweaty, foul smelling humanoids of all kinds and had to push their way through them to reach the front of the crowd where Shragnaz was waiting excitedly by the ruined city gates. Two other priests of Skorvos were with him. A small goblin, his green skin clashing horribly with his blood red robes, and a slightly larger humanoid who seemed to be half sholog and half hobgoblin. They were hopping up and down eagerly and almost bursting with excitement, like teenage girls about to meet their favourite pop star, and Drake looked nervously up at the cloudless blue sky above them. If a wyvern rider flies over now, he thought, we’re finished.

     Then he heard the approaching sound of marching feet and realised that Fangrap’s army was drawing near. Soon he could see them. A column of shologs and humans marching four abreast, flanked on either side by smaller columns of goblins, hobgoblins and buglins. They were all marching perfectly in step, the smaller humanoids taking three steps for every two taken by the shologs and humans, and Drake heard Shragnaz muttering enviously. “Now why can’t I get my boys to march like that?”

     Half way along the column was Fangrap himself, carried in a luxurious velvet and gold palanquin by four huge ogres, their fangs polished ivory white and shining brightly in the dying rays of the yellow sun. Striding alongside the litter were a dozen strange hooded figures, their entire bodies hidden by ground length black robes. They seemed to be almost gliding, as if they were hovering an inch or two above the ground or being pulled along on invisible trolleys, and there was something vaguely unsettling about the outlines of their bodies beneath the robes. Drake’s flesh crawled at the sight of them, and his hand crept instinctively towards the hilt of his sword, but Shragnaz gave him a warning glance and he made himself fold his arms and stand calmly. A single aggressive act now, no matter how minor, would be the end of him. No doubt of that at all.

     The front of the column stopped at the city gates and the four priests walked along the length of it to Fangrap’s palanquin, the three priests of Skorvos needing all their willpower to prevent themselves from running to their idol and Drake needing an equally great amount of willpower to stop himself running in the opposite direction. Reaching the palanquin, they stood patiently while Fangrap filed his nails and buffed them against the perfect red velvet of his robes. He continued doing this for several moments, ignoring the priests who were trembling variously from excitement and terror, and it was a full two minutes before he deigned to notice them, whereupon he stood up to look imperiously down on them like a King among his subjects.

     He was human. A huge human. Larger than Drake, larger even than Resalintas. At least six foot six tall and almost as wide across the shoulders with biceps the size of a large man’s thighs. Standing on the palanquin he towered eight feet above them, staring down his distinguished roman nose at them as if they were something he’d have to be careful not to step in. The three priests of Skorvos threw themselves to the ground, groveling at his feet as he dismounted, but Drake remained standing and met his gaze with as much dignity and composure as he could manage.

     Drake was well over six feet tall, and was accustomed to towering over everyone around him, but the man in front of him now made him feel as small and puny as Resalintas had during the first few years of his training. He wore a neatly trimmed beard and a fussy little moustache that had been waxed to make the ends come to sharp, upward angled points. It should have made him look comical, but his eyes burned with such malevolence and forceful personality that his facial hair became as fearsome as the bared teeth of a wolf.

     He raised his perfectly manicured hands to remove his viciously spiked helmet, and Drake saw that his grey tinted black hair, instead of being cut brutally short, as most human worshippers of the war Gods wore it, was long enough to curl and form locks that he arranged into place with a comb that he produced from his breast pocket, looking at himself in a mirror held by a sholog manservant as he did so. The metal parts of his helmet, his chain mail armour and the hilt of his sword were polished to a brilliant sheen. His blood red robes looked freshly laundered, and the leather straps and belts crossing his powerful body had a flexibility and suppleness that could only come from daily rubbing with oil.

     Everything about him was immaculate, and he made Drake feel dirty and grubby in comparison. He became acutely aware of the grease and stains on his blood red robes, and as he took off his own helmet he realised that he hadn’t cut his hair for weeks and that it was plastered to his scalp by grease and sweat. Ordinarily these things wouldn’t have bothered him. After all, he was a priest of Samnos, not a fashion model. Now, though, confronted by this colossus of evil, every smallest detail became overwhelmingly important, making him hang his head in shame at his shortcomings. He was nothing. Less than a worm wriggling in the mud at Fangrap’s feet. He didn’t deserve to live. Better to end his miserable life now so that the world wouldn’t have to endure his pitiful existence a moment longer. A tear ran from his eye as he reached for one of his throwing knives...

     Fangrap laughed out loud and the spell was broken, leaving Drake bewildered for a moment but then growing furious as he realised what the priest of Skorvos had done to him. “War rules,” said Fangrap gleefully, brushing a speck of dirt from his robes before motioning with his hand for the other priests to return to their feet. “What a pity. I could have had so much fun with you. What’s your name, boy?”

     “Corporal Drake, priest of Samnos of the Fort Battleaxe garrison,” snapped Drake, struggling hard to control his anger. “And if you ever try that again, I’ll kill you.”

     “Brave words, boy. I like that. One thing I can’t stand is a sniveling coward. You’re weak, though. Your mind is childishly simple to control. I could destroy your faith with just a few words, did you know that? End your career as a priest for ever. The very next words I speak might be the ones that destroy your faith, so cover your ears. Shout to drown out my voice. Make a lot of noise. Run away, boy! Run away!”

     Drake suspected he might very well be right. Resalintas had told him that Fangrap always tried to destroy the faith of captured priests before killing them, and that was the one thing he truly feared. Not death. He was happy to die in his Lord’s cause, knowing that he would fight by His side against the forces of evil in the next life. Not invalidity, as he would still be able to wield great power even though confined to a wheelchair and his spiritual body would be restored when he died. But to lose his faith, to have his faith torn from him...

     He had the sudden terrifying impression that he was hanging by his fingertips above a vast chasm and that Fangrap was standing on a ledge above him, playfully tugging at his fingers. For a moment he was almost driven to begging, but then his pride and anger came back and he looked the huge priest straight in the eye.

     “Do what you will,” he snarled between gritted teeth, “but you won’t have it all your own way. Your faith in your loathsome God may be greater than mine, I freely admit it, but it may be that I can weaken it before you finish with me. Shall we find out?”

     Fangrap laughed in delight. “Excellent!” he declared. “You’re Resalintas’s student, all right! I could not associate myself with a weakling, but I can now permit you to fight beside me without shame.”

     He turned to indicate the robed figures whose appearance had so disturbed Drake. “I'd like you to meet our new allies. Most of them are in the Shadow, but this group turned up and said they wanted to help us fight here. Anything that helps to prolong the war, eh?”

     “Slavers,” exclaimed Drake, suddenly remembering Resalintas’s account of the council of war in Pargonn.

     Fangrap seemed surprised. “So you recognise them, eh? Come, I’ll introduce you.”

     He led the other priests over towards the subterranean creatures, who lowered their hoods now that the yellow sun had finally slipped below the horizon.

     They were smaller than the one that had guided Thomas, Shaun and the others to the Underworld, the tallest of them being an inch shorter than Drake, but they carried the same aura of menace and evil about them, making the young priest’s skin crawl as he approached them. Their eyes were covered by hemispheres of tinted glass held in place by a spindly wire framework, since even the twilight was too bright for them. Their skin was mottled purple and gleamed damply, like the skin of a slug, and a revoltingly fetid stench hung about them, the smell of slime and sticky secretions. They were among the deadliest, most evil creatures in the world, but it was revulsion, not fear, that stopped Drake from getting too close.

     “My fellow priests, may I present Schlothob, Priceph of the quomar pool sib,” said Fangrap, indicating a cthillian who looked, to Drake, no different from any of the others. “He’s their equivalent of a Commander, their leader as it were. Schlothob, these are all priests of Skorvos like me, except this one who worships Samnos.”

     “An unusual combination,” said the slaver, and Drake almost leapt in shock as the telepathic words oozed through his mind, feeling as though they were contaminating it with nameless filth. He was only saved from shaming himself in front of the priests of Skorvos by the fact that they were affected the same way, and the goblin actually gave a little shriek, putting his tiny green hands over his pointy ears and backing away a few steps. “It was my understanding that the two Gods of War were the deadliest of enemies.”

     “Normally, yes, but these are unusual times. Do you need to rest before we begin the attack?”

     “No. We have much more stamina than you frail humans.”

     Fangrap’s grin wavered for a moment and Drake had to conceal a smile. Only a slaver could get away with calling the huge priest frail.

     “Then we attack immediately!” he thundered, climbing back up into his palanquin. “Muster the troops!"

     This didn't take long, as virtually all the Skorvosians in the city had gathered around in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the new arrivals, and all that was needed was for them to snatch up their weapons and form ranks and files. Fangrap waited patiently, examining his fingernails, while the remaining Skorvosians were summoned to take their places in the column, and then he stood, turning to look out across the army he had gathered.

     Eighteen thousand worshippers of Skorvos! It was, so far as Drake knew, the largest army of Skorvos to be gathered north of the Great Lake since the appearance of the Shadow. He'd had no idea there were that many Skorvosians in this part of the world. He could only assume that most of them were recent converts, especially the shologs who would have been attracted by the lure of battle. Most shologs prayed to Skorvos anyway, even if they didn't actually attend the services held intermittently by passing priests of the faith, and it would only have taken the rumour of great battles going on elsewhere, battles that they were missing out on, to make them take the plunge.

     There was a deal of shuffling as humans and humanoids got themselves sorted out, and then Fangrap raised a hand to get their attention. "To the Shadow encampment!” The cry was taken up by the other priests and their Captains, and then Fangrap's army moved forward, marching away from the city towards the west.

     All the Skorvosians in the city following behind in a disorganised rabble which the other priests did their best to organise. “Boys, Boys!” shouted Shragnaz angrily. “Why can't ya march proper like Fangrap’s boys? Come on Lads, show ‘em we're as good as they are! You want 'em to think we're just common grunts like the Bone Basher boys?”

     The shologs, shamed by the comparison, bashed, bullied and threatened the smaller humanoids into something approaching an orderly column but carried on wandering around in a chaotic fashion themselves, laughing and joking about the battle to come. Shragnaz grunted in satisfaction. “That’s better!’ he said happily, grinning toothily. “You see? You can do it when ya want to.”

     He then sought out Drake and Fletcher, walking some distance to the side of the column, and went over to them. “Well, human?’ he said, “Waddya think of him?”

     “Fangrap?” said Drake thoughtfully, trying to think of something that the sholog priest wouldn’t find offensive. “He’s certainly impressive.”

     “He is, isn't he?” said the sholog priest dreamily. “One day I'm gonna be like him. One day.”

     He stared dreamily at the High Priest of Skorvos again, then returned to his own column, leaving the two humans staring at each other, their sense of unreality growing ever stronger. Then they turned their thoughts back to the way ahead and the battle to come.