‘Yedan Narad, you have lingered beyond the Watch. Your visions leave you raw. Come, a fire is being lit.’

He studied the Denier. ‘We are being used.’

Glyph managed a half-shrug. ‘We have made vengeance a god.’

‘A simple answer, but I doubt it.’

‘Then who, Yedan Narad?’

‘Something in need of a refuge, I think. Against what is to come. And it would spend our lives, Glyph, to defend its secret.’

For the first time, Glyph seemed uncertain. He glanced away, and then back again. ‘You promised us to Lord Anomander.’

‘No. He too is an unwitting player.’

Glyph’s breath streamed in the cold air. In… out… in again. ‘I would rather have my god of vengeance.’

Narad nodded. ‘Easily fed, never appeased. I see worshippers beyond counting, a faith too stubborn to die, too foolish for wisdom. But if I am to be its high priest, be warned. My thirst for vengeance seeks no other face but my own.’

‘Once the others are dead.’

‘Once they are dead, yes.’

‘Yedan Narad, I will find you on that day.’

‘And will you do what needs doing?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good,’ Narad replied. ‘I am relieved to hear that.’

‘Will you join us in breaking fast, Yedan Narad?’

Gaze shifting to the campfire now lit just behind Glyph, Narad saw Lahanis, wrapped in her furs, moving close to take some of the warmth. ‘I will,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

* * *

Sergeant Threadbare was halfway to Yannis monastery when her mount slipped on ice hidden beneath a thin smear of snow. The horse struck in a heavy splintering of leg bones and a shriek of pain. In her efforts to throw herself clear of the beast, Threadbare landed awkwardly against a slope studded with boulders, shattering her shoulder and snapping one clavicle.

The damage seemed to have opened a passage deep into her body for the cold, and she sat against the slope with agony riding every harsh breath, watching the horse thrash and kick on the slick trail that was now stained with mud, shit and a few spatters of blood. The animal’s nostrils were flared, its ears flattened and its eyes bulging. She would have to take a blade to its throat, and be quick to ease her remorse with notions of mercy. But it was proving very difficult to move.

Halfway. Whose cruel game is this? There was no chance of reaching the Shake in time, no chance of warning them against the incipient attack. Indeed, she was not even sure that she would have the strength to make it back to Manaleth.

The trail had led her alongside a low range of hills, a serrated line upon her right as she rode east. Now, that same rough spine was at her back, and the level plain stretching out before her was whiter than the sky above it. Another storm was on its way.