Wareth looked down, saw the blood still streaming from the sword-wound in Rebble’s chest. But the man wasn’t coughing blood – there was that mercy, at least. ‘Thirty-seven?’

Rebble lifted a trembling hand. ‘Doubt I can make it,’ he said, ‘but I’ll give it a try.’

Wareth wiped at his face. ‘You’re not making any sense,’ he said.

‘Tell me, Wareth, did I see true? Toras Redone kneeling beside a body? Was it Faror Hend who fell?’

To earn such grief? Such wails and tearing at hair? ‘No, Rebble. Galar Baras.’

‘Ah. Then. I see.’

‘She drew a knife and would have cut her own throat. Faror Hend prevented her, twisted the weapon free. In her face there was vengeance and satisfaction, as she glared down at the broken woman. Rebble, such things shake me.’

Others of the broken legion were settling here and there. Wareth saw drawn faces, expressions taut with the pain of wounds. But even then, something seemed to be missing.

‘Crack the knuckles,’ Rebble said.

‘What?’

‘One for every life I took, every fucked up stupidity I went and did. I make it four, for today. Not sure they all died, though. I’m thinking they didn’t. I’m hoping they didn’t. Anyway,’ he smiled up at the heavy clouds, ‘thirty-seven. Rebble’s idiot toll.’ He paused then, and shifted his gaze slightly, enough to meet Wareth’s eyes. ‘Them Bonecasters… quite the gift they gave us…’

Baffled, Wareth said, ‘I still don’t know what it was.’

‘Truly?’

Wareth nodded.

Rebble laughed, and then winced.

‘What gift, Rebble? What did that ritual do?’

‘No more lies. That’s all. No lying to anyone else. But mostly, no lying to yourself.’

Frowning, Wareth shook his head. ‘I’ve never lied to myself.’

Rebble studied him for a moment, and then said, ‘So, you never even noticed.’

‘No. I suppose not.’

Rebble brought his hands together over his belly. He began cracking his knuckles.

‘I need to know,’ Wareth said. ‘Why did you protect me? Back in the pit? Why did you bother?’

‘Why did I bother?’

‘Being my friend.’

Knuckles cracked. ‘I don’t know,’ Rebble replied, and then he smiled. ‘I guess you had an honest face.’

Wareth settled back on to his haunches. He saw now that everyone among the Hust had halted their march, gathering in silent clumps. No lies, is that what is missing here? In these faces? These raw stares into the distance?

Listar still lived, but he didn’t know about Rance. So many of the other officers drawn up from the prisoner ranks were dead. They’d come to the fore in the Legion’s desperate withdrawal, holding back the enemy and giving up their lives to do so.

Wareth’s throat was still raw from his frantic shouting. And yet, impossibly, the Hust had responded to his desperate commands, and when Prazek and then Dathenar curled their companies around, folding them into the retreat, the Hust Legion’s day of battle was done. Through it all, Toras Redone was nowhere to be seen, until the very end.