‘My name is Orfantal.’

A scowl twisted his rough features. ‘Why’d she do that?’

‘Who, what?’

‘Your mother. That’s Yedan dialect – the monks’ holy language. Shake, it’s called.’

Orfantal shrugged.

One of the guards, who was crouching to build the cookfire nearby and clearly had been listening in, snorted a laugh and said, ‘Means “unwanted”, lad. If that don’t say it all and you off to Kharkanas.’

Haral turned on the man. ‘I’ll be glad to see the end of you in my company, Narad. From now on, this trip, keep your damned mouth shut.’

‘Fine, as I’m still taking orders from you, but like you say, Haral, that won’t last much longer.’

‘He’s got the meaning wrong,’ Haral said to Orfantal. ‘The meaning’s more obscure, if you like. More like “unexpected”.’

Narad snorted again.

The toe of Haral’s heavy boot snapped Narad’s head to one side in a spray of blood. Dark-faced but silent, Haral then walked up to where the man writhed on the ground. He grasped hold of the long greasy hair and yanked the head up so that he could look into Narad’s face. He drove his fist into it, shattering the nose. A second punch slammed the mouth so hard against the teeth that Orfantal saw – through all the blood – the glint of white stitching a line beneath the man’s lower lip. Haral then threw the unconscious man back on to the ground and walked away without a backward glance.

The others stood motionless for a half-dozen heartbeats, and then one walked over to drag Narad away from the smouldering fire.

Orfantal could barely draw a breath. A fist was hammering inside his chest. He found that he was trembling, as if caught with fever.

Gripp was at his side. ‘Easy there,’ he muttered. ‘It’s discipline, that’s all it is. Narad’s been pushing for weeks. We all knew it was coming and Abyss knows, we warned the fool enough. But he’s the dog that ain’t got brains enough to know its place. Sooner or later, y’got to kick ’im, and kick hard.’

‘Is he dead?’

‘I doubt it. If he ain’t come around by the morning, we’ll just leave him here. He lives or dies by his own straw. He just spat in the face of all the rest – me, I woulda left him toasting on the damned fire. Now, let me show you how to raise a tent. Skills like that might come in handy one day.’

In Orfantal’s mind, the faceless betrayer in all his battles now found a face, and a name. Narad, whom nobody wanted, who lived with a stuttered line of scars between chin and mouth, like a cruel smile he could never hide.

* * *