The blast knocked him from the tree, white pulse blinding my night-adjusted eyes and a shower of vaporised bark and organic matter filling the air as the surrounding area ignited from the intense heat.

More blasts lit up the night, eliminating the rest of the men on watch. Cursing myself for not picking up a weapon, I drew a sidearm and ran for cover. High on the ridge the Farseer’s mortar’s threw another salvo into the air. The camp was mostly awake now, the shouts of the living now countered by the cries of the dying.

Shots were fired off to my left, towards one of the destroyed watchtowers. They were harsh-sounding, almost a whine – not ours. I came up and squeezed the trigger twice without acquiring the target and started sprinting for my tent before the casings had even hit the floor.

I fired once more on the move, three shots to keep them down and dived into my tent – two steps to grab the gun propped against the cot. Then the whole night lit up in a flash of white.