Below him, the massed ranks of his own FirstBorn Regiment stretched out across the slopes of the dormant volcano at the heart of the island. Wave after wave of cloaked Imperials took up their positions in support of the heavy cavalry and troll marines now disembarking from transports and battlegalleons anchored close off-shore. Overhead, Imperials flew inland before stopping to hover at five hundred strides. ‘Go! Go! Go!’ Ropes snaked down, and barely half a bell later, three hundred strike teams – nearly ninety thousand lightly armed Bonecracker commandos – had abseiled down and swiftly taken up position at the inland entrances to underground caverns and combs that riddled the island. The Witching Hour approached – the time when magic was at its most potent. The Earl beckoned his standard bearer forward. ‘Give the signal.’ A beam of light streaked into the sky and exploded in twin white starbursts. The whole island was bathed in cold, white, slow-burning light, as bright as twin full moons.
