With a shouted command and a sharp tug on the chains, a slow shuffle began up a steep and uneven path. An icy wind blasted against Stanwick’s left side and he sensed a sheer drop just a short distance from the path. Men and women of the Order of the Swords of Dawn ushered their captives on and Stanwick was appalled to hear the voice of Westbay’s own priest amongst them. Despite his misguided beliefs, he had never struck Stanwick as a particularly cruel or duplicitous man.

“Henry,” he called out, “please tell me what’s going on.”

“I’m sorry, Stanwick. Really I am.”

The singing was louder now and Stanwick was taken aback when he realised that the words were elvish. Why were the Final Faith using a song of that ancient race? More importantly, what were they using it for?

They seemed to be entering a vast echoing chamber now and he could taste magic in the air — burned cinnamon and wet stone. When his hood was savagely torn from his head and he finally saw the choir, Stanwick gasped.

Twenty-five pale young boys sang with the voices of angels. From the pitch of their song, he supposed that they had been emasculated. Their flesh was heavily scarified and tattooed; the designs seemed to dance to the ethereal cadences, and Stanwick felt a deep nausea as the illustrations held his gaze.

A knife prodding into his side soon snapped him out of his reverie.

“Move along. You’re holding up the line.”

Stanwick looked at the blood beading his trews. He left a trail of red dots as he followed the rest of the captives.

The choir stood on a natural balcony cut into the chamber wall and a slope led past them, down into the main body of the cave. The roof of the cavern was far above their heads and at the far side was a brilliant blue lake, its water slowly undulating to the distant sound of waves.