Through eyes slitted and blurred, she saw that Rell alone now faced the man-beast. He struck a guard position, one slim blade low, the other high above his head, point down. Ryllandaras’ jaws worked, taloned bloodied hands gestured. Was it speaking to him? The thunder in Hurl's ears deadened them to all sounds. A sudden leap inward made her flinch, so quick was it, yet Rell met it in a flurry of counter-attacks that slashed arms, torso and legs. Now Hurl was amazed by the man-beast: how could any living thing absorb such punishment? Was it truly something of a god itself – akin to Trake? Was Rell doomed to tire, to slow and fail?

Rousing herself, she fought to cock the crossbow, gave it up as futile. She threw it down, drew another bolt from her satchel, pulled the sharper from its mount. With it held high in one fist she struggled to climb down the rubble slope closer to the beast. Now Rell was shouting something, pointing a blade. Hurl looked up to meet the lambent flame-red eyes of the beast watching her. The eyes tracked the munition in her hand. A leg moved as it stepped toward her – Gods, what a stride! An arm stretched out, talons closing – what reach!

Hurl threw at its feet, falling flat.

Some unknown time later she came to as hands pulled her, stones scraped along gouging her back. She tried to cry out, couldn't. Soldiers bent over her; it was still night. The clash of fighting still nearby. Someone took her shoulderbag, another cupped her head on his lap. She looked up into the worried face of Fallow, the squad healer. ‘I'm getting to be a regular,’ she chuckled.

‘You and your commander. Now quiet.’

‘Storo? What…?’

‘Quiet. Relax.’ He closed her eyes with his palm and that was the last she knew.

Toc and Choss remained behind at the Gate of the Dawn with a contingent of seventy spearmen backed up by fifty archers and cross-bowmen. They waited until the last of their elements had withdrawn, then their men pulled the gates shut behind them. Smoke, dust and exhaustion made Toc's eyes gritty and he pressed his fingers into them. As it was after every battle his mouth was as dry as dust and held an iron tinge of – and he could admit it – terror. He spat into the charred remains of a building next to the road burned by the defenders to deny them the wood for siege engines. When he turned from the gate dawn's light struck his gaze and he raised a hand to blot it out. Horsemen were galloping up from the east. Choss and he went to meet them,

‘Felicitations from Commander Urko!’ the leader announced, a fat ginger-haired Falaran in bronze scale armour. ‘I am to report that as per your intelligence Urko has begun excavation of ramparts and is raising a palisade to fortify his position.’

Choss nodded. ‘Thank you, ah…’

‘Captain Tonley.’

‘My thanks, Captain Tonley. Tell him our divisions will redeploy to join him by tonight.’

‘Very good, Commander.’

While they spoke, spare horses had been brought up led by the bloodied Captain Moss. Toc took one, nodding his thanks. Choss mounted as well. Captain Tonley leaned forward on his saddle. ‘Ah, tell me, sirs… what's this I hear of a great giant beastie?’

Toc, Choss and Moss exchanged exhausted glances. ‘It's the truth,’ Choss said flatly.

Captain Tonley shook his head, amazed. ‘You Quon Talians seem fearful of everything. First a band of hireswords and now a beastie. How you ever got the better of us I'll never know.’

Choss stared at the man. A grin pulled at his lips and he chuckled, then laughed outright. ‘It's a mystery, Captain. You may report back.’

A sloppy salute. ‘Very good, Commander. Let's go, boys. No drink to be had here.’ The troop stormed off. Toc turned to Choss.

‘So, now Laseen… And what of the Crimson Guard?’

‘We'll make them an offer. They want the Empire broken, don't they?’

‘And Heng?’

‘Heng and Ryllandaras can bugger each other. What of your Seti?’

Toc scanned the empty hillsides. ‘I don't know. I'll have to speak with them. Imotan's spent all his life praying for his patron God and now that he's come he's probably terrified.’

Choss grunted his scepticism. ‘Well, go. We still need them.’

‘Aye.’

They rode back to camp, silent for a time. ‘That soldier,’ Toc finally said, ‘who faced Ryllandaras. Have you ever seen the like?’

‘Dassem drove him off as well,’ Choss said. ‘But he was favoured by Hood.’

‘I've seen it,’ Moss said.

Toc and Choss glanced to the captain. He shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, touched the raw livid tear across his face. ‘Well, not seen exactly. Had it described to me by someone who had seen it in Genabackis. That style of fighting. That fellow, he's Seguleh.’

‘Seguleh?’ Choss repeated in wonder. ‘I've heard the name. What's he doing here?’

‘Storo's company was stationed in Genabackis,’ Moss said.

Toc studied his captain sidelong. ‘You know a lot about this Storo

Moss rubbed his gouged nose, wincing. ‘Ah, yes, sir. Gathering intelligence. Know your enemy, and such.’

‘In which case, captain,’ Toc said. ‘Would you like to go on a mission to the Crimson Guard? We have a proposal for them.’

The man smiled. The talon slash across his face cracked and fresh blood welled up. ‘Yes, sir. It would be a privilege.’

Though exhausted, his joints aflame with pain, Toc mounted a fresh horse that morning and set out alone to track down the Seti. He found their camp deserted, but here he also found unusual tracks. Something had visited the camp before him. Like wolf tracks, they were, except far larger, more the size of the largest bear track. And of an enormous breadth of gait. He knew this man-beast Ryllandaras could cover ground faster even than a horse. Though it was common lore that the creature hunted only at night, Toc suddenly felt very exposed out all alone on the plains. A part of him wondered if that was just a detail of atmosphere the jongleurs had tossed into the songs they recited of him. He could just hear Kellanved snarl: never mind what you imagine to be the case, what do you know? Not one to let reputations or legends stand in his way, was he. After all, he trapped the fiend, didn't he? And how did he manage that? A piece of information perhaps relegated to some archive somewhere is suddenly now not so trivial any longer. Knowing how wild Kellanved had been back then, he'd probably used himself as bait.

Towards noon, as he crossed a shallow valley, horsemen appeared in small bands all around him and moved in. He stopped to await them, crossed his arms on the high cantle of his saddle. They circled him from a distance until one broke through and closed. He was a burly fellow, wearing only deerskin trousers, a thick leather vest and wide leather vambraces. His curly hair was shot with grey, as was his matted chest hair. He looked Toc up and down in open evaluation. ‘You are Toc the Elder,’ he said in Talian.

‘And you are the Wildman of the Plains.’

A nod. ‘You ride to speak with Imotan. I think you shouldn't go.’

‘May I ask why?’

‘He has his white-haired God now. What need does he have for you?’

‘There's a lot of history between us. We've exchanged many vows.’

‘Between you and the Seti, yes. Not him.’

Toc flexed his back to ease its nagging pain. He studied the man before him: sword- and knife-scarred, speaks Talian fluently. An Imperial veteran, perhaps a noncommissioned officer. ‘What of you?’ he asked. ‘You might not accept Imotan's authority but we could use you and your warriors to throw off the Empire just the same.’

The man bared his sharp yellow teeth. ‘Do not insult me. Empire, League. It's all the same.’

‘Not at all… You and others would be nearly independent.’

‘Empty promises at best. Lies at worst. We've heard all that before.’

‘You should consider my offer carefully, veteran. We are set to defeat Laseen. She is so short of proper troops she's desperate. I've heard she's even dragooned all the old veterans on Malaz to bolster her numbers.’