‘There is something primal about it. And it is an Imass weapon, after all.’

Silverfox approached with Pran Chole and the woman Kilava. Kyle and Fisher scrambled to their feet to bow to her. ‘Summoner,’ Fisher welcomed her.

She waved off their formality, addressed Kyle. ‘Thank you, White-blade. I do not know what it is you carry, but somehow it tipped the scales in our favour. I am not naïve enough to believe that the Forkrul have hearts, but perhaps it touched something within them. A sense of nostalgia, maybe.’ She shrugged. ‘In any case, you have my gratitude.’

‘I think of what I carry as friendship,’ Kyle said.

‘Friendship?’ She brushed back her wind-tossed hair. Kyle was struck by the unexpectedly girlish gesture from such an apparently aged woman. ‘Would that they could understand such a thing,’ she murmured.

‘You are off?’ Fisher asked.

‘Yes. We head south. I would gather up as many of the T’lan as I can, then we shall continue our search.’

‘Your search?’ Kyle asked.

‘Yes. I will find them all, friend Kyle. And when I have found them they will know the gift of the Redeemer and I shall release them. None shall be left behind.’

Fisher bowed once more. ‘I wish you success.’

Pran Chole gave them a nod, dipping his deer headdress. ‘Farewell. Or not. Perhaps we shall meet again.’

‘Perhaps,’ Kyle acknowledged.

Last came Kilava. The short powerful woman now carried a half-smile on her lips. ‘That went far better than I had hoped or expected. Well done, Whiteblade.’ She faced Fisher. ‘Bard. Good to see you again.’

‘And you, Kilava.’

She leaned forward and planted a light brush of a kiss on Fisher’s cheek, then walked off. Kyle watched her go, astonished, then returned his wondering gaze to the bard.

‘You were once …’

Fisher sat once more, sighing, his hands hanging loose over his knees. ‘Another time, Kyle.’

They were alone now with the moaning, gusting wind. The thick deck of clouds churned below, effectively cutting off the world beneath. It seemed to Kyle that here among the frigid peaks they were in the realm of the gods. The day was cooling: the sun had descended behind the cloud cover to the west.

He blew upon his hands to warm them and knew that without his Iceblood, his Jaghut heritage, he would be frozen stiff.

Fisher opened the satchel at his side and withdrew the stringed box, the kantele of the Losts. He examined it to make certain it hadn’t been harmed.

‘Will you play?’ Kyle asked.

He shook his head. ‘No. Too cold.’ He wrapped the instrument and gently returned it to its case.

‘What tale will you tell of what has occurred here?’ Kyle asked.