‘How many warriors remain among the Renfayar?’

Masarch frowned, then gestured. ‘You have met us, War Leader.’

A nod.

Redmask noted a lone dray dog sitting at the edge of the camp. It seemed to be watching him. He raised his left hand and the beast lunged into motion. The huge animal, a male, reached him moments later, dropping onto its chest and settling its wide, scarred head between Redmask’s feet. He reached down and touched its snout-a gesture that, for most, would have risked fingers. The dog made no move.

Masarch was staring down at it with wide eyes. ‘A lone survivor,’ he said, ‘from an outrider camp. It would not let us approach.’

‘The foreigners,’ Redmask said quietly, ‘did they possess wardogs?’

‘No. But they were sworn followers of the Wolves of War, and indeed, War Leader, it seemed those treacherous, foul beasts tracked them-always at a distance, yet in vast numbers. Until the Ganetok Elders invoked magic and drove them all away.’ Masarch hesitated, then said, ‘Redmask, the war leader among the Ganetok-’

Unseen behind the mask, a slow smile formed. ‘Firstborn son of Capalah. Hadralt.’

‘How did you know?’

‘Tomorrow, Masarch, we drive the herds east-to the Ganetok. I would know more of those hapless foreigners who chose to fight for us. To die for the people of the Awl’dan.’

‘We are to crawl to the Ganetok as did the Sevond and the Niritha?’

‘You are starving. The herds are too weakened. I lead six youths none of whom has passed the death night. Shall the seven of us ride to war against the Letherii?’

Though young, it was clear that Masarch was no fool. ‘You shall challenge Hadralt? Redmask, your warriors-we, we will all die. We are not enough to meet the hundreds of challenges that will be flung at us, and once we are dead, you will have to face those challenges, long before you are deemed worthy to cross weapons with Hadralt himself.’

‘You will not die,’ Redmask said. ‘And none shall challenge any of you.’

‘Then you mean to carve through a thousand warriors to face Hadralt?’

‘What would be the point of that, Masarch? I need those warriors. Killing them would be a waste. No.’ He paused, then said, ‘I am not without guardians, Masarch. And I doubt that a single Ganetok warrior will dare challenge them. Hadralt shall have to face me, he and I, alone in the circle. Besides,’ he added, ‘we haven’t the time for all the rest.’

‘The Ganetok hold to the old ways, War Leader. There will be rituals. Days and days before the circle is made-’

‘Masarch, we must go to war against the Letherii. Every warrior’of the Awl-’

‘War Leader! They will not follow you! Even Hadralt could only manage a third of them, and that with payment of rodara and myrid that halved his holdings!’ Masarch waved at the depleted herds on the hillsides. ‘We-we have nothing left! You could not purchase the spears of a hundred warriors!’

‘Who holds the largest herds, Masarch?’

‘The Ganetok themselves-’

‘No. I ask again, who holds the largest herds?’

The youth’s scowl deepened. ‘The Letherii.’

‘I will send three warriors to accompany the last of the Renfayar to the Ganetok. Choose two of your companion” to accompany us.’ The dray dog rose and moved to one side. Redmask collected the reins of his horse and set out down towards the camp. The dray fell in to heel on his left. ‘We shall ride west, Masarch, and find us some herds.’

‘We ride against the Letherii? War Leader, did you not moments ago mock the notion of seven warriors waging war against them? Yet now you say-’

‘War is for later,’ Redmask said. ‘As you say, we need herds. To buy the services of the warriors.’ He paused and looked back at the trailing youth. ‘Where did the Letherii get their beasts?’

‘From the Awl! From us!’

‘Yes. They stole them. So we must steal them back.’

‘Four of us, War Leader?’

‘And one dray, and my guardians.’

‘What guardians?’

Redmask resumed his journey. ‘You lack respect, Masarch. Tonight, I think, you will have your death night.’

‘The old ways are useless! I will not!’

Redmask’s fist was a blur-it was questionable whether, in the gloom, Masarch even saw it-even as it connected solidly with the youth’s jaw, dropping him in his tracks. Redmask reached down and grabbed a handful of hide jerkin, then began dragging the unconscious Masarch back down to the camp.

When the young man awoke, he would find himself in a coffin, beneath an arm’s reach of earth and stones. None of the usual traditional, measured rituals prior to a death night, alas, the kind that served to prepare the chosen for internment. Of course, Masarch’s loose reins displayed an;ippalling absence of respect, sufficient to obviate the gift of mercy, which in truth was what all those rituals were about.

Hard lessons, then. But becoming an adult depended on such lessons.

He expected he would have to pound the others into submission as well, which made for a long night ahead.

For us all.

The camp’s old women would be pleased by the ruckus, he suspected. Preferable to wailing through the night, in any case.

The last tier of the buried city proved the most interesting, as far as Udinaas was concerned. He’d had his fill of the damned sniping that seemed to plague this fell party of fugitives, a testiness that seemed to be getting worse, especially from Fear Sengar. The ex-slave knew that the Tiste Edur wanted to murder him, and as for the details surrounding the abandonment of Rhulad-which made it clear that Udinaas himself had had no choice in the matter, that he had been as much a victim as Fear’s own brother-well, Fear wasn’t interested. Mitigating circumstances did not alter his intransigence, his harsh sense of right and wrong which did not, it appeared, extend to his own actions-after all, Fear had been the one to deliberately walk away from Rhulad.

Udinaas, upon regaining consciousness, should have returned to the Emperor.

To do what? Suffer a grisly death at Rhulad’s hands? Yes, we were almost friends, he and I-as much as might be possible between slave and master, and of that the master ever feels more generous and virtuous than the slave-but I did not ask to be there, at the madman’s side, struggling to guide him across that narrow bridge of sanity, when all Rhulad wanted to do was leap head-first over the side at every step. No, he had made do with what he had, and in showing that mere splinter of sympathy, he had done more for Rhulad than any of the Sengars-brothers, mother, father. More indeed than any Tiste Edur. Is it any wonder none of you know happiness, Fear Sengar? You are all twisted branches from the same sick tree.

There was no point in arguing this, of course. Seren Pedac alone might understand, might even agree with all that Udinaas had to say, but she wasn’t interested in actually being one of this party. She clung to the role of Acquitor, a finder of trails, the reader of all those jealously guarded maps in her head. She liked not having to choose; better still, she liked not having to care.

A strange woman, the Acquitor. Habitually remote. Without friends… yet she carries a Tiste Edur sword. Trull Sengar’s sword. Kettle says he set it into her hands. Did she under’ stand the significance of that gesture? She must have. Trull Sengar had then returned to Rhulad. Perhaps the only brother who’d actually cared-where was he now? Probably dead.

Fresh, night-cooled air flowed down the broad ramp, moaned in the doorways situated every ten paces or so to either side. They were nearing the surface, somewhere in the saddleback pass-but on which side of the fort and its garrison? If the wrong side, then Silchas Ruin’s swords would keen loud and long. The dead piled up in the wake of that walking white-skinned, red-eyed nightmare, didn’t they just. The few times the hunters caught up with the hunted, they paid with their lives, yet they kept coming, and that made little sense.