‘She should be able to manage that well enough,’ Hunn Raal said, nodding. He gathered his reins. ‘Now, this miserable day falters. The time has come. Captains, to your cohorts.’ Nudging his mount forward, he guided his horse to the crest. He then dismounted and set off, alone, down the gentle slope.

Upon the opposite side of the valley, Renarr could make out two figures, both on foot and both working their way down a short distance before separating and taking position directly below the two gaps in the army’s three distinct divisions.

It seemed a strange way to begin a battle. In her mind’s eye a memory suddenly returned, and she saw a bloodied girl chasing a boy with a stone; saw her catch up, saw her swing the stone down with both hands, crushing the boy’s skull.

Where were the whores now? Rising on her stirrups, she looked until she found them, a ragged row well off to the right. Collecting her reins, she headed for them.

Leave it to the whores to find the best vantage point.

She had vowed to remain at Lord Urusander’s side, but such a thing was not possible at the moment. No matter, he will be safe enough where he is. Syntara will see to that.

She was halfway to where the camp-followers were gathered when the first wave of magic ignited the dusk.

* * *

The horse’s broad back creaked beneath her, shedding dust and seeds that whispered down through the woven grasses of its body. Sergeant Threadbare cursed under her breath, fighting against a shudder. Golems of twisted grass and roots, of twigs and branches – the horse was dead as the winter, and yet its limbs moved, its long head dipped, and the track beneath its bundled hoofs slid past as they rode towards the Valley of Tarns.

Beside her, T’riss was clad once more in her strange armour of woven reeds and grass. Hardly proof against the chill, but the Azathanai woman seemed unaffected by such things. Her long blonde hair hadn’t seen a comb in a long while, leaving it knotted, ratty and wild, lending her an air of quiet madness, and Threadbare had come to believe that the unkempt halo of hair mimicked the scattered thoughts of the woman herself.

The cave that had been their refuge was far behind them now, as Threadbare’s impatience finally succeeded in wearing down the Azathanai’s distracted indifference. They had fallen into a kind of rapport on this journey. Threadbare found most of it nonsensical, but she had gleaned enough to feel a growing urgency, as if something terrible was about to happen.

‘Tell me again,’ she said, resuming her assault upon her companion’s obfuscation, ‘what is so important about the Valley of Tarns?’

‘The spirits whisper the name,’ T’riss replied.

‘Yes, so you keep saying.’

‘And you know where it is. So we ride there.’