‘I do not challenge you, Onos Toolan,’ said Bakal, licking dry lips.

Tool flinched.

In the silence following that, not one of the other warriors spoke.

Damn you, Bakal. I was almost . . . free.

Bakal spoke again, ‘Warleader, I suggest we examine the dead at the end of the valley, to determine what manner of weapon cut them down.’

‘I will lead the Barghast from this plain,’ Tool said.

‘Clans will break away, Warleader.’

‘They already are doing so.’

‘You will have only the Senan.’

‘I will?’

Bakal shrugged. ‘There is no value in you killing a thousand Senan warriors. There is no value in challenging you—I have never seen a blade sing so fast. We shall be furious with you, but we shall follow.’

‘Even if I am a leader with no favours to grant, Bakal, no loyalty I would purchase from any of you?’

‘Perhaps that has been true, Onos Toolan. In that, you have been . . . fair. But it need not remain so . . . empty. Please, you must tell us what you know of this enemy—who slays with rocks and dirt. We are not fools who will blindly oppose what we cannot hope to defeat—’

‘What of the prophecies, Bakal?’ Tool then smiled wryly at the warrior’s scowl.

‘Ever open to interpretation, Warleader. Will you speak to us now?’

Tool gestured at the valley below. ‘Is this not eloquent enough?’

‘Buy our loyalty with the truth, Onos Toolan. Gift us all with an even measure.’ Yes, this is how one leads. Anything else is suspect. Every other road proves a maze of deceit and cynicism. After a moment, he nodded. ‘Let us look upon the fallen Snakehunters.’

The sun was low on the horizon when the two scouts were brought into Maral Eb’s presence where he sat beside a dung fire over which skewers of horse meat sizzled. The scouts were both young and he did not know their names, but the excitement he observed in their faces awakened his attention. He pointed to one. ‘You shall speak, and quickly now—I am about to eat.’

‘A Senan war-party,’ the scout said.

‘Where?’

‘We were the ones backtracking the Snakehunters’ trail, Warchief. They are camped in a hollow not a league from here.’

‘How many?’

‘A hundred, no more than that. But, Warchief, there is something else—’

‘Out with it!’

‘Onos Toolan is with them.’

Maral Eb straightened. ‘Are you certain? Escorted by a mere hundred? The fool!’

His two younger brothers came running at his words and Maral Eb grinned at them. ‘Stir the warriors—we eat on the march.’

‘Are you sure of this, Maral?’ his youngest brother asked.

‘We strike,’ the warchief snarled. ‘In darkness. We kill them all. But be certain every warrior understands—no one is to slay Tool. Wound him, yes, but not unto death—if anyone gets careless I will have him or her skinned alive and roasted over a fire. Now, quickly—the gods smile down upon us!’