Jethiss watched. Fisher took Coots’ long-knives and pressed them into his stiffening fingers, then laid his hands in his lap. He stood back to examine the corpse – still so broad and huge, seemingly full of life, as if asleep.

He cleared his throat and raised his head. ‘I name these twinned long-knives the Wolf Fangs. Let it be known they did not betray their bearer. I name any hand that takes them without due respect or honour cursed to see all hands raised against them. Cursed to lose all honour and respect. Cursed to fall as crow-carrion.’

‘This do I so too vow,’ Jethiss added, his voice cracking.

‘Coots of the Lost clan,’ Fisher sang aloud:

‘Loyal brother, mighty in wrath.

Mighty in wrestling, mighty in laughter.

Far-reaver, beloved companion.

You are lost to us, and Lost you shall remain forever.

None shall undo this till these mountains are ground to the sea.’

He lowered his head. ‘So ends my honour song of Coots of the Lost clan.’

After a long silence, Jethiss motioned down the rocky slope. ‘Look there.’

Fisher turned. A figure had emerged from the treeline. Staggering, falling, it made its agonizing way up the rocks, mostly on all fours, crawling over the stones, pulling itself up.

It was Badlands. His leathers were torn. His limbs bled from countless cuts. His face was a glistening mask of mud and blood and tears. He crawled on, weeping, sobbing, right past Fisher’s and Jethiss’s boots till he came upon one of Coots’ moccasined feet and this he grasped as if drowning. He pressed his face to it and gave a heartbreaking moan that drove Fisher to look away. This was not for him to see; this was the private grieving of family.

He touched Jethiss’s arm and together they walked off down the gently falling rock slope. The afternoon light gathered its amber colour. The shadows of the trees lengthened. Fisher turned to Jethiss. ‘You broke those Wickan knives …’ Jethiss nodded. Fisher eyed him speculatively. ‘Mane of Chaos – does this name mean anything to you?’

The Andii tilted his head, considering. He shook it. ‘No. Should it?’

‘It is another name for Anomander Rake. Is that name familiar?’

The man turned his face to regard him directly. There was a wariness in his dark eyes now. ‘There’s something …’ The eyes became alarmed. ‘Are you saying … that I might be …’

Fisher shook his head. ‘I don’t know. His hair was white, though. But …’ He took a heavy breath as if steeling himself. ‘They say he gave himself to Mother Dark, to elemental night. And if he did … is it not possible that perhaps it, or she, gave him back …’

‘Yet he had white hair.’

‘True. A mark of the Eleint, the ancient songs say. The chaotic touch of T’iam. Those Elder songs also say that Mother Dark never accepted the gift of Chaos. She would not take it in, and so he would return without it …’