But who knew that secret? Not even his men would believe him if he told it to them, which meant that if he was exposed, they would kill him. They’d be bound to, they’d be compelled to, for in their minds he would present the worst danger they could imagine.

And they would have been right seventeen years ago before he found the Order. But that was all behind him now. He was a changed man. The Order had opened his eyes.

It was going to be risky going up against this foe, for who would believe a regular soldier, even one as skilled as he was, could best a dreadman? Nevertheless, he gathered his Fire, that spark of life that animated a man. Once he had enough of it gathered, he could expend it all in a rush, multiplying his natural abilities. Of course, it wasn’t without cost. A man only had so much Fire, and when it was gone, the soul and body quickly separated from each other. But Argoth had decided long ago that there were things for which he’d trade the limited days of his life. Those close to him, including the men of his company, were worth such a sacrifice. But it took time to gather enough Fire to make any difference, and he didn’t have time.

The dreadman galloped hard at the hindquarters of another of Argoth’s riders. He raised his sword and slashed the animal’s rump. The horse faltered, and the dreadman pulled even with the rider.

The rider parried two blows from the dreadman, but the third took him square in the face, knocking him into the grass.

This couldn’t continue: the dreadman would kill them all.

Argoth cried out a challenge.

The dreadman saw him and turned his horse.

Argoth was not fully multiplied. But he didn’t care. This bare-chested piece of rot was going down. He was going to be strung up with his own guts.

The dreadman put his heels into his horse, and, within a few strides, he and Argoth rode full gallop at each other. Joy gleamed in the dreadman’s eye, and he smiled. The diseased beast-lover smiled.

Well, Argoth had a trick or two of his own. He took his sword in his left hand and drew his bodkin. With all the strength he could muster he threw it.

The bodkin flashed in the sun. The dreadman saw it and tried to swerve, but the blade buried itself in the horse just below its shoulder.

The horse stumbled and cast the dreadman off balance. But he didn’t have time to leap away.

As Argoth’s horse closed the distance, he swung his sword in a backhanded arc and sliced the man in the side.

The dreadman cried out and fell.

It was not a mortal blow. But it was a start.

Argoth brought his horse around for another charge. He put his heels into the horse’s flanks and shot forth, sword held ready to strike.

And that is when the dreadman made his second mistake. He should have run. Instead he turned to face Argoth. One of Argoth’s men had kept his bow. And it only took a moment for him to draw, release, and speed the shaft deep into the dreadman’s back.

The dreadman arched, twisted. A second arrow followed the first and struck him in the ribs. Then Argoth thundered down upon him. The dreadman turned, the joy replaced by hate. He raised his sword, but it was too late, and Argoth drove his own weapon deep into the man’s chest and left it there.

He galloped a number of yards farther and turned his horse, waiting for the dreadman to fall. When he did, Argoth’s remaining men converged.

Argoth whistled and signaled for a portion of those remaining to find and help the ten who had split off from the main group to chase the other Bone Faces down.

The men would hack the dreadman’s head off to ensure he was dead. Then they would remove his weave, although none would dare touch it directly. It was impossible to know what traps might be worked into any given weave by looking at it. And even if the men knew the weave had no traps, they would still handle it with great care.

Weaves were endowments, created by a special order of Divines called Kains, and bestowed upon a man or woman for a special task. Sometimes the Divines bestowed a weave upon a group, a family or company of men, who shared its use. There were many types of weaves. Some were crowns, others armbands, others necklaces or piercings. There was even one made by the Mungo Divines that was a coat of grass. Some weaves were given for healing, some for sight, some to allow its bearer to speak to the dead.

Some needed a loremaster to use them. Others, called wildweaves, could be used by anyone. Varro had been given one of these-a ring that would magnify its bearer for war.

Whatever the purpose of the weave, only those included in its covenant could wear it. And then only the specific weave given them by the Divine. To use a weave outside a specific covenant was high treason and punished by death. And none of these men would want to be accused of even the slightest infraction.

Argoth turned to ride back to Varro.

Just a little more than a year ago Varro had been recommended by the Shoka warlord to become a dreadman. It was a great honor to him and his family, but it was also a burden. Dreadmen wielded immense powers, but they were expected to fight more frequently and with greater valor. Placing oneself in so many battles exposed a man to enormous risk, even for a dreadman. And so it was that while a weave might claim a long genealogy of heroes, it also claimed many who had ended up maimed or dead.

Argoth hoped Varro had escaped that fate today. He was one of the best men Argoth had ever commanded, and that was well before he’d been called to the covenant.

A Bone Face with a wounded leg tried to crawl away through the grass. “Bind him for questioning,” said Argoth. Then he went to Varro, dismounted, and knelt at his side.

Varro was more than just another fine asset, he was a friend. His hands and feet were bound and he bled from a deep slice in his gut. He obviously had not gone down without a fight.

Argoth looked for Varro’s bodkin, but it was not in its sheath. So he used a stick to work loose Varro’s knots.

Varro groaned and looked up at Argoth.

“Are you alive, man?” Argoth asked. It was a joke among his troops to ask this. For if the man were dead, it was said Argoth would reach through to the other side and punish the man for slacking. Not even death would hide his men from discipline and drilling.

“Skewered, Captain,” said Varro. Then he winced. “Only a scratch, mind you. I’ve got a jig”-another wince-“or two still in me.”

Argoth smiled grimly. The cut into Varro’s bowels might prove to be his death. Yet another life consumed by this weave.

“What were you doing, running like that?” Argoth demanded.

“The weave,” said Varro. He took in a sharp breath. “It failed.”

But that was impossible.

Argoth picked up Varro’s hand and looked at his ring.

The ring was gold. Cursed gold. Not black with magic, not even gray. Grass, silver, or gold, it didn’t matter what the weaves were made of; when the Kains drew Fire into them, the device turned as black as a crow. The more power that went into it, the blacker the weave. But this one was now nothing more than a ring.

Argoth finished untying Varro. It was possible to damage a weave so that it leaked Fire. Argoth asked Varro if he might remove it, and Varro consented. Argoth held it up in the light, acting as if he were inspecting it, and probed it with his own magic. There was no flaw. The Fire had simply been used up. The magic was gone.

There were only three other such weaves among the Nine Clans with any blackening at all. All the rest had run dry. And Argoth could not fill them. Not because he didn’t know the secrets. He knew the forbidden lore and had secretly bled his Fire into a number of the weaves they had. No, he simply didn’t have any more Fire to give. He’d already sacrificed enough Fire to reduce his life by tens of years. Measuring the Fire of a man’s days was an inexact art; he feared if he gave any more, he would forfeit his life. And he couldn’t gather the Fire publicly. The Clans would rise up and kill him for that.