The enemy commander had a narrow, puckered look to him. He rode stiffly, was bean-pole lean and straight, and wore a mail coat that fitted him poorly: too loose about the chest and yet too short. His breath steamed as one edge of his lips drew up. ‘About your future – of which little remains.’

Stalker pulled a set of heavy gloves from his belt and drew them on. ‘What is your offer, then?’ he asked, as if bored.

‘Drop your weapons and move on. Where you go, I care not.

‘And who are you to make such demands?’

‘Marshal Teal. In the name of—’

‘Remember me, Marshal?’ Fisher’s voice shouted out, cutting the man off. Startled, Kyle glanced over to see the bard approach, a longsword at his side. The marshal’s eyes, already half hidden in their nests of wrinkles, slit even more. ‘You?’ he breathed. ‘How is it … what happened at the bridge?’

‘We escaped.’

‘Escaped …’ the marshal breathed, wonderingly. ‘We? Ah – I understand. Well, congratulations. I am pleased you emerged unhurt.’

The bard bowed at the waist. ‘And now I would offer you advice, Marshal. Turn away this day if you wish to escape as well.’

The marshal shook his head as if entertaining a fool. ‘I am sorry to see you in the enemy camp, Fisher. But do not think that because you are a songster it will save your life when all here are put to the sword.’

‘Even though my companion’s sacrifice purchased your life at the bridge?’

‘He did not save my life – he saved the lives of a third of my party. And it wasn’t a sacrifice. It was a request.’

Now Fisher shook his head, but sadly. He crossed his arms. ‘That night, Marshal, I saw revealed the man behind the Letherii calculation of exchange and advantage. It is to that man I give warning: sail away and live. The risks here far outweigh any potential gain.’

Stalker muttered half under his breath: ‘You’re wasting your time.’

‘Is this the extent of your negotiation?’ the marshal demanded.

Fisher gave a nod. ‘That is so.’

Teal’s answering nod was curt. ‘Then in the name of King Luthal Canar of Goldland, I—’

Stalker burst out laughing: ‘King who of what?’

The marshal looked to the sky and tapped his fingers against his saddle. ‘King Luthal Canar – the new king of these lands. Which he has decided to name Goldland.’ He tilted his long thin hound’s head. ‘You don’t like it? We think it should attract settlers.’

Stalker thoughtfully rubbed a finger over his lean jaw as he regarded the mounted marshal. At last he opined, ‘I’d name it Pompous Ass Land, myself.’

The mocking smile fell from the marshal’s lips as his face paled. He gathered his reins. ‘Very well. None of you will see the dusk.’ He wheeled his mount about, bellowed, ‘Archers!’