‘You and the other Butchers will have plenty of wounded to finish off,’ Glyph reminded her. ‘Just stay back until few are left to fight.’

‘Your priest knows nothing of battle.’

‘This is not a battle, Lahanis. It is a hunt. This is driving a herd on to bad ground, and then killing every beast. This is about snags and mires, sinkholes and roots.’

‘Sooner or later,’ she predicted, ‘you Shake must learn how to fight, to stand and not yield a step.’

‘We’ll need armour and blades for that.’ He nodded towards the now advancing Legion lines. ‘And today marks our first harvest.’

She tapped his forearm with the flat of one knife-blade. ‘When they realize their error, Glyph, they will attempt to withdraw – back out on to the plain. Let me take my Butchers in behind them, to await their retreat.’

‘Lahanis—’

‘They look to me now to lead them! They have seen the joy of true combat – they came to me! Your own hunters! Do not forsake them, Glyph!’

He glanced back. He knew Narad waited somewhere among the trees of the deeper wood. No longer a soldier, no longer one to stand among his hunters, his warriors. No, just as Lord Urusander would not join in battle – unless all else was lost – so too was Narad’s value too great to risk. Witches have found him – now attend him. Shamans name him their prince. They speak of old gods, abandoned by faith, bereft of worshippers, who are less than shadows. And yet, they abide at this world’s edge. Like storm-wrack upon a shore.

The lost will gather, to build a dream of home. The Watch welcomes them all.

‘Glyph!’

He nodded. ‘Very well. But be sure to wait until they are well past, and kill all the wounded who might be retreating.’

‘None shall survive,’ Lahanis promised, and then she moved off to re-join her score of followers.

Her Butchers. Among us of the forest, the dressing of meat is a common skill. She takes the name and makes it a horror.

Such are the children of war.

The morning was chilly, but sweat lay slick upon Glyph’s palms, and he shifted yet again his grip on the bow. I walked out of the water, dreaming of death. I left the lake, having wept into the waters the last of my grief. I painted ash on my face to make a mask, but the ash is no longer needed, and the mask has become me.

Narad speaks of a battle. But not this battle. He speaks of a war. But not this war. He speaks of a shoreline, but no shoreline we can see.

No matter. In the meantime, there is this.

* * *

‘Stay the fuck closer, damn you!’ Arkandas snarled.

Telra lifted the shield again and caught up to her lieutenant. ‘Why don’t I just climb into your tunic, sir?’

‘Keep an eye out for the first arrows!’