A Caste. Fifty. Forty-nine now. Four wield Kep’rah, weapons of sorcery. A Crown commands them, they flow as one.

She looked to the northwest. ‘How far away?’

Your eyes shall find them shortly. They are . . . mounted.

‘On what?’

Sag’Churok would have sent her an image, but she was beyond such things now. She was closed and closing. Wrought . . . legs. To match our own. Tireless.

He watched as the Destriant absorbed this information, and then she faced the Jaghut.

‘Guardians. I thought to see . . . familiar faces.’

One of the spear-wielders stepped forward. ‘Hood would not want us.’

‘If he had,’ said the swordswoman beside him, ‘he would have summoned us.’

‘He would not choose that,’ resumed the first Jaghut, ‘for he knew we would not likely accede.’

‘Hood abused our goodwill,’ the swordswoman said, tusks gleaming with frost, ‘at the first chaining. He knew enough to face away from us at the next one.’ An iron-sheathed finger pointed at the Destriant. ‘Instead, he abused you, child of the Imass. And made of one his deadliest enemy. We yield him no sorrow.’

‘No commiseration,’ said the spear-wielder.

‘No sympathy,’ added one of the slingers.

‘He will stand alone,’ the swordswoman said in a rasp. ‘A Jaghut in solitude.’

Sag’Churok twisted round, studied the glint of metal to the northwest. Not long now.

The swordswoman continued. ‘Human, you keep strange company. They will teach you nothing of value, these Che’Malle. It is their curse to repeat their mistakes, again and again, until they have destroyed themselves and everyone else. They have no gifts for you.’

‘It seems,’ said Kalyth of the Elan, ‘we humans have already learned all they could teach us, whether we ever knew it or not.’

A chilling sound, the rattling laughter of fourteen undead Jaghut.

Then the spear-wielder spoke. ‘Flee. Your hunters shall know the privilege of meeting the last soldiers of the only army the Jaghut ever possessed.’

‘The last to die,’ one added in a growl.

‘And should you see Hood,’ said the swordswoman, ‘remind him of how his soldiers never faltered. Even in his moment of betrayal. We never faltered.’

More laughter.

Pale, trembling, the Destriant returned to Gunth Mach. ‘We go. Leave them to this.’

Sag’Churok hesitated. They are too few, Destriant. I will stay with them.

Fourteen pairs of cold, lifeless eyes fixed on the K’ell Hunter, and, smiling, the swordswoman spoke. ‘There are enough of us. Kep’rah never amounted to much of a threat against Omtose Phellack. Still, you may stay. We appreciate an audience, because we are an arrogant people.’ The ghastly grin broadened. ‘Almost as arrogant as you, Che’Malle.’

‘I think,’ observed the spear-wielder, ‘this one is . . . humbled.’

His companion shrugged. ‘Into the twilight of a species comes humility, like an old woman who has just remembered she’s still a virgin. Too late to count for anything. I am not impressed.’ And the swordswoman attempted to spit, failed, and quietly cursed.