‘The Jaghut? The Jaghut, yes. They unravelled the iron, released the screams. So she told me, when she sat here with me, beside the fountain, and touched my brow.’

‘Milord? Who?’

He frowned. ‘The Azathanai, named by the Tiste Andii. What was that name? Yes, now I remember. T’riss, born of the Vitr. She sat with me, as I wept in the wake of my gift to Lord Anomander. Upon a night when I could hear the breaking of my soul.’

‘She came here?’

His expression drained into something lifeless, spun so far inward that he seemed a corpse. His next words fell flat, devoid of inflection. ‘The realms are bound. Beaten and twisted. They tremble to the pressure and yearn to burst apart. Wrapped and folded, wrapped and folded, quenched in the fires of chaos. Within the Hust iron, my friend, Mother bless me, I imprisoned a thousand realms. A thousand and more.’ He paused, eyes slightly widening as they remained fixed upon the slag heap. ‘She showed me, with her horse of grass, her woven cloak, her russet sword. Magic resists imprisonment – and yet, I worked unknowing, blissfully uncomprehending of my crimes. The forges are dying, as they must, and the world will end, as it must.’ He reached up, set a trembling finger upon his brow. ‘Here, with a single caress, she gave me leave. And now here I dwell, in this place. This quick and sure refuge.’ Suddenly smiling, Henarald reached down to select another piece of slag. He studied it intently. ‘We deem this waste. Why? It has all the shout of stone, freed of the weight of iron, smelling only of usage. Waste? No more than a corpse, and it takes a cold soul to deem that detritus.’

‘Milord, I beg you – tell me more of the Hust iron, and these realms of which you speak.’

Henarald blinked. ‘Realms?’ His face twisted. ‘You fool! Here I speak of the beauty that is waste, the beauty that is usefulness exhausted. I speak of the freedom in each piece of slag, in each bone upon the field. See how this one curls? Is that not the most perfect smile? It revels in its escape. Beyond our grasp now, don’t you understand? Like the ashes rising from the last chimneys, or the wretched sulphur in the coal. Like the barren hillsides, or the mined-out pits. Our industry promises immortality, and yet behold, the only immortal creation it achieves is the wasteland!’ He leaned over, plunging his hands into the heap of slag. ‘Listen! Bury me in a mound of this treasure, Galar Baras. A barrow constructed of my legacy, piece by piece. Imbue the gesture with ritual, and each one of you select a single fragment. Build the mound by procession, suitably solemn. I would my bones join the pointless concert of freedom. Pronounce me useless and so bless my remains with everlasting peace.’