The three escapees converged on the young marine as he breached the cask, then held the tin cup that was tied to it and splashed it full of water.

‘Go slow on that,’ Kulp said. ‘Sips, not gulps.’

As he watched them drink, the mage sought out his warren. It felt slippery, elusive, yet he was able to take hold, stealing power to bolster his senses. When he looked again upon Heboric he almost shouted in surprise. The ex-priest’s tattoos swarmed with a life of their own: flickering waves of power raced across his body and spun a handlike projection beyond the stump of his left wrist. That ghost-hand reached into a warren, was clenched as if gripping a tether. A wholly different power pulsed around his right stump, shot through with veins of green and Otataral red, as if two snakes writhed in mortal combat. The blunting effect arose exclusively from the green bands, radiating outward with what felt like conscious will. That it was strong enough to push back the effects of the Otataral was astonishing.

Denul healers often described diseases as waging war, with the flesh as the battleground, which their warren gave them sight to see. Kulp wondered if he wasn’t seeing something similar. But not a disease. A battle of warrens – Fener’s own, linked by one ghostly hand, the other ensnared by Otataral, yet waxing nonetheless – a warren I can’t recognize, a force alien to every sense I possess. He blinked. Heboric was staring at him, a faint smile on his broad mouth.

‘What in Hood’s name has happened to you?’ Kulp demanded.

The ex-priest shrugged. ‘I wish I knew.’

The three marines now approached Heboric. ‘I’m Gesler,’ the corporal said in gruff deference. ‘We’re all that’s left of the Boar Cult.’

The old man’s smile faded. ‘That would make three too many.’ He turned away and strode off to retrieve a pair of backpacks.

Gesler stared after him, expressionless.

That man recovers damned quick. The boy Truth had gasped at the harsh words of a man he took to be his god’s priest. Kulp saw something crumbling into ruins behind the lad’s light-blue eyes. Stormy revealed the dark clouds that likely gave reason to his name, but he laid a hand on Truth’s shoulder a moment before facing the one-eared man.

‘Your hands keep hovering over those hidden blades and I’m gonna get nervous,’ he said in a low growl, shifting grip on his crossbow.

‘That’s Baudin,’ the young woman said. ‘He murders people. Old women, rivals. You name them, he’s got their blood on his hands. Isn’t that right, Baudin?’ Without awaiting a reply she went on, ‘I’m Felisin, House of Paran. Last in the line. But don’t let any of that fool you.’

She did not elaborate.