‘Build your estates,’ the lord mumbled. ‘Clear the land. Plant your crops. Let loose your herds. Into your cherished rooms bring the finest furniture, the most beautiful tapestries. Thick rugs upon the floor, wood for the hearth, the squeal of playing children and mouths to the tit. Poets and minstrels to visit, feasts to invite, wealth to display. While in the dead of night, before ebbing flames, you sit alone, fleeing behind your eyes. Fleeing, and fleeing, for ever and for ever more.’ He sent another soldier falling into the mud. ‘Pity the victors, Wreneck. In winning, they lost everything. In killing, they surrendered their own lives. In all that they won, they murdered love, the only thing worth fighting for.’

‘I fight for love,’ Wreneck whispered. ‘I mean to, for Jinia, who they hurt.’

The lord blinked at him, his face grave. ‘Leave your spear,’ he said. ‘Run to her. Give back to her whatever she lost.’

‘But – how?’

‘Vengeance shrinks the heart, Wreneck. It is not a worthy path.’

Wreneck wiped away his tears, studied the toppled soldiers in the ditch.

‘It’s done,’ the lord whispered. ‘Strike the flag. Draconus has fled, his Houseblades cut down to the last. He weeps in rage, and darkness devours him. The Hust – my beloved Hust – almost half gone. A coward came to the fore, seeing the exposed flank and imminent slaughter. He rallied his fellow convicts and, with extraordinary fortitude, he led them into a withdrawal. Many who would have died now live thanks to him. Toras Redone – ah, my sweet Toras – I cannot say her fate. I dare not. The poet soldiers live still – the First Son will be pleased to discover that, I’m sure. They fought well, as expected, and now, unhorsed by battle, they walk with their fellow Hust. Weapons sheathed, the iron silent, they lick their wounds and look upon one another – it was the ritual, you see. That terrible ritual. It took away the virtues – every one of them. Honour, integrity, loyalty, duty – flung them away! Not one soldier among them can find comfort in the lies they would tell themselves. Those so very necessary lies, the ones that keep a man or a woman sane. My poor Hust!’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Wreneck.

‘Each soldier now faces the truth, inside and out…’

‘Milord? What truth?’