Beyond Daklan, he could hear Lorica’s quiet whimpering.

He himself was hurt, hurt enough to die, without some help soon.

But of course, there would be no help, because the Empire had put him on a death-list. He certainly could not seek refuge with the Vekken for, to his pain-racked mind, they were the Empire near enough.

He began to crawl towards Lorica. Haroc’s shot had been a solid one and Thalric guessed she must be on the very brink of death herself. His hand touched her ankle, then worked its way up until he could grasp her hand.

She could not speak, and he himself had nothing to say, but despite his own suffering he clung to her until her sobbing stopped and she relaxed into the calmness of death, because Thalric had always looked after his subordinates whenever he could.

When she was silent, the whole world was silent. The sleeping Ant camp made not a sound. Thalric released Lorica’s cooling hand. He was breathing in fractional stages, each one a burning ruin.

Dying, thought Thalric, and then the fierce thought, No! He would not surrender to this. He would fight. He would fight. He would…

He levered himself to his elbows, rolled onto his good side, and then he gave a short, retching cry as he got to his knees. The world loomed dark for a moment, but he clung to consciousness. If he lost it now, it would be for ever.

Have to fight!

He crawled over to Daklan, leant on the knife-hilt to drive it another inch further into the man, hissing with spite. Now comes the hard part.

He took the hilt of the sword still lodged in him and closed his eyes. It took him three long breaths to begin.

It should be done slowly, he knew. With a strangled gasp he dragged the blade from his own side, feeling the motion far too deep. The darkness clawed for him again as he clasped one hand to his blood-slick flesh. He leant heavily on Daklan’s corpse once again, fighting for every moment.

From the uneven tear in the other man’s tunic he began to rip cloth in long, ragged strips. The idea of pulling a binding tight made him sick with weakness. Instead he awkwardly stuffed cloth in the jagged torn gash in his mail, feeling the fabric grow instantly warm and sopping with blood. Thalric just kept tearing and stuffing until the oozing blood had begun to cake and set, making the whole side of his body a grimy clotting mask. Then he sat back and waited for his shaking to stop.

Have to fight. He was Thalric the spymaster. He had plans to make. He was never without a scheme. He needed to find somewhere to hide. Somewhere to die?

Lurching drunkenly to his feet he instantly doubled over about the wound, then began stumbling away, no clear direction or destination, just away into the night.

Thalric’s mind faded in and out, so that the night became a series of brief moments of lucidity amidst constant descents into chaos. Every so often, like now, he had to stop to remember simple things like his name, or what he was doing, or why his side was running with blood.

He could not tell how far he had gone, but he did not dare look back in case he saw the bodies of Lorica and the others still clearly in sight.

The night was turning grey to the east, now. My last day, do you think? He had been making a shambling progress on knees and one hand, hunched over the other hand pressed to his side, just managing a crippled-insect pace across the dusty terrain.

Betrayed. He had known it would happen eventually, because he lived in a world of betrayal. He had been ready to kill his mentor, poor Ulther, after all, and lied to himself that it was for the Empire’s good. Am I any better than Daklan, for all my protestations? Worse, perhaps. At least Daklan had accepted the true darkness of what he did, while Thalric had blithely convinced himself that he was still a loyal servant of the Empire, and not just the tool of some faction.

He stumbled, and the wound flared in his side, and for a moment he could not breathe. Inside him, something howled for his lost Empire, like a child ripped from its parents. Where did I go wrong? What can I do to make them take me back?

But it was too late for that. There was only one thing the Empire wanted from him, and he would oblige it shortly and settle his account. All he had accomplished through his conscientious loyalty was to make himself expendable, and ultimately be expended.

He did not feel he had the motivation to get up again. He had always been a tough and leathery creature, and he would spend a long time over dying. He felt he deserved it.

But there were footsteps approaching, cautiously. No doubt the Vekken had tracked him. They might put him out of his misery, or take him back and try to save him. He wanted neither option.

Thalric lifted his head to see who was coming. He saw booted feet, shimmering blue-green greaves and the hem of a cloak.

With a great groan he fell onto his back, staring upwards, his gaze following the armoured lines until he came to her face. The sight of it stripped raw something in his mind, something branded into his memory, never to be forgotten. He heard a wordless, ragged cry, and knew the voice was his own.

Fate, he realized, had truly found a fitting end for him.

‘I’ve found you at last,’ said Felise Mienn. That was the last thing Thalric heard for some time.

A pain in his hands woke him, shooting cramps that let Thalric know his clenched fists were bound shut so that he could not use his sting.

Everything seemed unexpectedly, appallingly bright. He had been trying to find somewhere to hide. Now there was sun so dazzling he could hardly open his eyes. Though his hands were bound, his arms were free, but he could barely lift them. He tried to sit up,

The stitches now inserted in his side pulled alarmingly, and he remembered.

Ah yes, Daklan. Daklan and his far-distant general, and the Empire.

He could barely even remember the name of the general who had ordered his death. It hardly mattered, what with so many generals and so many agendas.

Forcing his eyes open, he saw that he was not alone. He lay in a room that had been recently looted. The shutters were torn from the windows, a chest at the foot of his bed had been smashed open, and the wooden panelling had even been ripped off one wall. The design was Beetle-kinden, and he guessed that it was some farmhouse within sight of Collegium that Vekken soldiers had gone over whilst encircling that city. The man sitting beside the bed was no Beetle but a Spider-kinden with long greying hair, wearing a Beetle robe that was smeared with blood.

‘Who?’ His voice was a dismal croak. ‘Who are you?’

The Spider smiled, his features lined with a weary humour. ‘You have a remarkable constitution, Master Thalric. I don’t think many people in your position would even be breathing, let alone talking.’

‘You… know my name, but who are you?’

‘My principal knows your name, and she’s been most anxious to meet you. However, she wanted me to get you in a state where you would be fit to meet her.’

‘Curse you!’ With a supreme effort, Thalric forced himself into a sitting position. He saw a flicker of surprise in the man’s face. ‘Tell me who you are!’

‘My name is Destrachis, Master Thalric, but does it mean anything? No? Are you happier now? Or let me elaborate: I am a traveller, something of an opportunist, a scholar, and a doctor of medicine, which is why you are even in a position to ask these questions.’ Destrachis stood. ‘You’ll be leaving soon, when you’re strong enough to walk. A day or two, who knows? You are remarkably resilient, and I see from the patchwork you’ve made of your skin that this is hardly the first time you’ve been wounded, although perhaps the worst.’

Thalric hissed in rage. ‘Tell me,’ he demanded, ‘what is going on.’