‘What?’ the Toblakai asked.

Leoman glanced over at the Holy Book. Its hide cover glistened as if with sweat. The warrior took a step towards the gate.

Something was emerging from the dust cloud. Two figures, side by side, their arms locked around one another, staggering, heading straight towards the pillars – and the corpse lying between the bleached gateposts.

‘Blades in hand and unhanded in wisdom . . .’

One was an old man, the other a young woman. Heart hammering in his chest, Leoman let his gaze fix on her. So alike. Dark threat pours from her. Pain, and from pain, rage.

There was a thump and a grate of stones beside the warrior. He turned to see the Toblakai on his knees, head bowed before the approaching apparitions.

Raising her head, the woman found first Sha’ik’s wrapped corpse, then lifted her eyes higher to fix on Leoman and the kneeling giant. She halted, almost standing over the body, her long black hair rising as if with a static charge.

Younger. Yet the fire within . . . it’s the same. Ah, my faith . . .

Leoman lowered himself to one knee. ‘You are reborn,’ he said.

The woman’s low laugh was triumphant. ‘So I am,’ she said.

She shifted her grip on the old man, whose head hung down, his clothes nothing but rags. ‘Help me with him,’ she commanded. ‘But beware his hands ...’

BOOK FOUR - DEADHOUSE GATES

BOOK FOUR - DEADHOUSE GATES

Coltaine rattles slow

across the burning land.

The wind howls through the bones

of his hate-ridden command.

Coltaine leads a chain of dogs

ever snapping at his hand.

Coltaine’s fist bleeds the journey home

along rivers of red-soaked sand.

His train howls through his bones

in spiteful reprimand.

Coltaine leads a chain of dogs

ever snapping at his hand.

Coltaine

A marching song of the Bonehunters

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A god walking mortal earth trails blood.

Sayings of the Fool

Thenys Bule

‘The chain of dogs,’ the sailor growled, his voice as dark and heavy as the air of the hold. ‘Now there’s a curse no man would wish upon his worst enemy. What, thirty thousand starving refugees? Forty? Sweat-jowled noble-born among ‘em, too, bleating this and that. Coltaine’s hourglass is about run out, I’d wager.’

Kalam shrugged in the gloom, his hands still running along the damp hull. Name a ship Ragstopper and worry starts before you weigh anchor. ‘He’s survived this long,’ he muttered.

The sailor paused in his stacking of bales. ‘Look at this, will ya? Three-fifths’ stowage gone before e’en the food and water comes ‘board. Korbolo Dom’s collected Reloe and his army – added up with his own and making what? Fifty thousand swords in all? Sixty? The traitor will catch hold o’ that chain at Vathar. Then with the tribes massing to the south, aye, Beru fend, that Wickan mongrel’s all but done for.’ The man grunted as he heaved another canvas-wrapped bale. ‘Heavy as gold ... and that ain’t no empty rumour, I’d say. That blob of whale grease calling himself High Fist has his nose up in the wind - look here, his seal’s on everything. The rotten worm’s turning tail with his loot. Why else is the Imperial Treasurer comin’ ‘board, hey? And twenty marines besides ...’