‘A few, yes,’ said the man, collecting up his sword-belt and strapping it on. ‘I have a list.’

‘A list, and good reasons.’

He glanced across at Glyph. ‘Yes.’

‘I name myself Glyph.’

‘Narad.’

‘I have some food, from the soldiers. I will share it with you, for the kindness you meant when burying my beloved family. And then I will tell you a story.’

‘A story?’

‘And when I am done with my story, you can decide.’

‘Decide what, Glyph?’

‘If you will hunt with me.’

Narad hesitated. ‘I am not good with friends.’

Shrugging, Glyph went over to the hearth. He saw that Narad had taken away the stones that had ringed the ashes and cinders, adding them to the cairn. He set about finding some smaller stones, to build up around the hearth and so block the wind while he set to lighting a fire.

‘The people who fished the lake,’ he said as he drew out his fire-making kit and a small bag of dried tinder.

‘This is your story?’

‘Not theirs. But of the Last Fish. The story is his, but it begins with the people who fished the lake.’

Narad removed his sword again and let it drop. ‘There’s little wood left to burn,’ he said.

‘I have what I need. Please, sit.’

‘Last Fish, is it? I think this will be a sad story.’

‘No, it is an angry story.’ Glyph looked up, met the man’s misaligned eyes. ‘I am that Last Fish. I have come from the shore. This story I will tell, it has far to go. I cannot yet see its end. But I am that Last Fish.’

‘Then you are far from home.’

Glyph looked around, at the camp of his family, and the scraped ground where there had been bones. He looked to the fringe of brush and the thin ring of trees that still survived. Then he looked up at the empty, silvered sky. The blue was going away, as the Witch on the Throne devoured the roots of light. Finally, he returned his gaze to the man now seated opposite him. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am far from home.’

Narad grunted. ‘I have never before heard a fish speak.’

‘If you did,’ Glyph asked, looking across at him, ‘what would he say?’

The murderer was silent for a moment, his gaze falling from Glyph’s, and then moving slowly over the ground to settle on the sword lying in the dirty snow. ‘I think… he might say… There will be justice.’

‘My friend,’ Glyph said, ‘on this night, and in this place, you and me. We meet each other’s eyes.’

The struggle that came in answer to Glyph’s words revealed itself on Narad’s twisted face. But then, finally, he looked up, and between these two men the bond of friendship was forged. And Glyph understood something new. Each of us comes to the shore. In our own time and in our own place.