As they made their way down to the waiting horses, Brohl Handar said, ‘I saw no pickets, Atri-Preda. Nor mounted outriders. Does that not seem odd to you?’

‘No. They know we are close. They wanted us to see that camp.’

‘To achieve what? Some pointless effort to overawe us?’

‘Something like that, yes.’

You invite me to feel contempt for these Awl. Why? So that you can justify not using the Tiste Edur? The K’risnan? You want this victory on the morrow to be Letherii. You do not want to find yourself beholden to the Edur-not for this grand theft of land and beast, this harvesting of slaves.

So, I suspect, the Factor instructed, hetur Anict is not one to share the spoils.

I, Atri-Preda, am not relieved.

‘Stone-tipped arrows-you are truly a fool. They will break against Letherii armour. I can expect nothing from you. At least I discover that now, instead of in the midst of battle.

Toe Anaster settled back on his haunches and watched Torrent march out of the firelight. Off… somewhere. Somewhere important. Like the latrines. He resumed examin-ing the fletching on the Imass arrows. Gift of an old friend That clunking, creaking collection of droll bones. He could barely recall the last time he was among friends. Gruntle perhaps. Another continent. A drunken evening-wa: that Saltoan wine? Gredfallan ale? He couldn’t recall.

Surrounding him, the murmur of thousands-their moving through the camp, their quiet conversations around the cookfires. Old men and old women, the lame, the young. A fire burning for each and every Awl.

And somewhere out on the plain, Redmask and his warriors-a night without fires, without conversations. Nothing, I imagine, but the soft honing of weapon edges. Iron and stone whispering in the night.

A simple deceit, its success dependent on Letherii expectations. Enemy scouts had spotted this camp, after all, As predicted. Countless fires in the darkness, appropriately close to Bast Fulmar, the site of the impending battle. All the way it was supposed to be.

But Redmask had other plans. And to aid in the deception, Toc suspected, some arcane sorcery from the K’Chain Che’Malle.

An elder appeared, walking into the fire’s glow on bowed legs. Toc had seen this one speaking to Redmask, often riding at the war leader’s side. He crouched down opposite Toc and studied him for a dozen heartbeats, then spat into the flames, nodded at the answering sizzle, and spoke: ‘I do not trust you.’

‘I’m crushed.’

‘Those arrows, they are bound in ritual magic. Yet no spirit has blessed them. What sort of sorcery is that? Letherii? Are you a creature of the Tiles and Holds? A traitor in our midst. You plot betrayal, vengeance against our abandoning you.’

Trying to inspire me, Elder? Sorry to disappoint you, but there are no embers in the ashes, nothing to stir to life.’

‘You are young.’

‘Not as young as you think. Besides, what has that to do with anything?’

‘Redmask likes you.’

Toc scratched the scar where an eye had been. ‘Are your wits addled by age?’

A grunt. ‘I know secrets.’

‘Me too.’

‘None to compare with mine. I was there when Redmask’s sister killed herself.’

‘And I suckled at the tit of a K’Chain Che’Malle Matron. If tit is the right word.’

The old man’s face twisted in disbelief. ‘That is a good lie. But it is not the game I am playing. I saw with my own eyes the great sea canoes. Upon the north shore. Thousands upon thousands.’

Toc began returning the arrows to the hide quiver.

‘These arrows were made by a dead man. Dead for a hundred thousand years, or more.’

The wrinkled scowl opposite him deepened. ‘I have seen skeletons running in the night-on this very plain.’

‘This body you see isn’t mine. I stole it.’

‘I alone know the truth of Bast Fulmar.’

‘This body’s father was a dead man-he gasped his last breath even as his seed was taken on a field of battle.’

‘The victory of long ago was in truth a defeat.’

‘This body grew strong on human meat.’

‘Redmask will betray us.’

‘This mouth waters as I look at you.’

The old man pushed himself to his feet. ‘Evil speaks in lies.’

‘And the good know only one truth. But it’s a lie, because there’s always more than one truth.’

Another throatful of phlegm into the campfire. Then a complicated series of gestures, the inscribing in the air above the flames of a skein of wards that seemed to swirl for a moment in the thin smoke. ‘You are banished,’ the elder then pronounced.

‘You have no idea, old man.’

‘I think you should have died long ago.’

‘More times than I can count. Started with a piece of a moon. Then a damned puppet, then… oh, never mind.’

‘Torrent says you will run. In the end. He says your courage is broken.’

Toc looked down into the flames. ‘That may well be,’ he said.

‘He will kill you then.’

‘Assuming he can catch me. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s ride a horse.’

With a snarl, the elder stormed off.

‘Courage,’ Toc muttered to himself. ‘Yes, there is that. And maybe cowardice truly is bred in the very bones.’ Because let’s face it, Arxaster was no cold iron. Nor hot, for that matter.

From somewhere in the night came the keening howl of a wolf.

Toc grunted. ‘Yes, well, it’s not as if I had the privilege of choice, is it? I wonder if any of us has. Ever.’ He raised his voice slightly, ‘You know, Torrent-yes, I see you hulking out there-it occurs to me, given the precedent, that the question of cowardice is one your Awl must face, tomorrow. I have no doubt Redmask-if he has any concerns-is thinking on that right now. Wondering. Can he bully all of you into honour?’

The vague shape that was Torrent moved off.

Toc fell silent, tossed yet another lump of rodara dung onto the fire, and thought about old friends long gone.

The lone line of scuffed footprints ended with a figure, trudging up the distant slope of clay and pebbles. That was the thing about following a trail, Hedge reminded himself. Easy to forget the damned prints belonged to something real, especially after what seemed weeks of tracking the bastard.

T’lan Imass, as he had suspected. Those splayed, bony feet dragged too much, especially with an arch so high it left no imprint. True, some bowlegged Wickan might leave something similar, but not walking at a pace that stayed ahead of Hedge for this long. Not a chance of that. Still, it was odd that the ancient undead warrior was walking at all.

Easier traversing this wasteland as dust.

Maybe it’s too damp. Maybe it’s no fun being mud. I’ll have to ask it that.

Assuming it doesn’t kill me outright. Or try to, I mean. I keep forgetting that I’m already dead. If there’s one thing the dead should remember, it’s that crucial detail, don’t you think, Fid? Bah, what would you know. You’re still alive. And not here either.

Hood take me, I’m in need of company.

Not that damned whispering wind, though. Good thing it had fled, in tatters, unable to draw any closer to this T’lan Imass with-yes-but one arm. Beat up thing, ain’t i just?

He was sure it knew he was here, a thousand pace behind it. Probably knows I’m a ghost, too. Which is why i hasn’t bothered attacking me.

I think I’m getting used to this.

Another third of a league passed before Hedge was able to draw close enough to finally snare the undead warrior’s regard. Halting, slowly turning about. The flint weapon in its lone hand was more a cutlass than a sword, its end strangely hooked. A hilt had been fashioned from the palmate portion of an antler, creating a shallow, tined bell-guard polished brown with age. Part of the warrior’s face had been brutally smashed: but one side of its heavy jaw was intact, giving its ghastly mien a lopsided cant.

‘Begone, ghost,’ the T’lan Imass said in a ravaged voice.