'Just think,' whispered the apprentice. 'The First of the Magi himself, helpless as a baby.' He laid his hand gently on Bayaz' chest. 'He clings on to life by a thread. I could reach out now, with this weak hand… and kill him.'

Logen frowned. 'Why would you want to do that?'

Quai looked up, and smiled his sickly smile. 'Why would anyone? I was merely saying.' And he snatched his hand away.

'How long will he stay like this?'

The apprentice sat back in the cart and stared up at the sky. 'There's no saying. Maybe hours. Maybe forever.'

'Forever?' Logen ground his teeth. 'Where does that leave us? You have any idea where we're going? Or why? Or what we do when we get there? Should we turn back?'

'No.' Quai's face was sharp as a blade. Sharper than Logen would ever have expected from him. 'We have enemies behind us. To turn back now would be more dangerous than to continue. We carry on.'

Logen winced, and rubbed at his eyes. He felt tired, and sore, and sick. He wished he'd asked Bayaz his plans when he'd had the chance. He wished he'd never left the North, if it came to that. He could have sought out a reckoning with Bethod, and died in a place he knew, at the hands of men that he at least understood.

Logen had no wish to lead. The time was he'd hungered after fame, and glory, and respect, but the winning of them had been costly, and they'd proved to be hollow prizes. Men had put their faith in him, and he'd led them by a painful and a bloody route straight back to the mud. There was no ambition in him any more. He was cursed when it came to making decisions.

He took his hands away and looked around him. Bayaz still lay muttering in his fevered sleep. Quai was gazing carelessly up at the clouds. Luthar was standing with his back to the others, staring down the gorge. Ferro was sitting on a rock, cleaning her bow with a rag, and scowling. Longfoot had reappeared, predictably, just as the danger ended, and was standing not far away, looking pleased with himself. Logen grimaced, and gave a long sigh. There was no help for it. There was no one else.

'Alright, we head for this bridge, at Aulcus, then we see.'

'Not a good idea,' tutted Longfoot, wandering up to the cart and peering in. 'Not a good idea in the least. I warned our employer of that before his… mishap. The city is deserted, destroyed, ruined. A blighted, and a broken, and a dangerous place. The bridge may still stand, but according to rumour—'

'Aulcus was the plan, and I reckon we'll stick with it.'