He heard Ville and Galak carrying the body to the horse, and then Ville cursed when he saw that the mount had yet to be saddled. ‘Set him down! Set him down, Galak!’

Feren pulled herself free. Rint stood, arms hanging as if life had been torn from his embrace, and now only empty death remained, watching dully as his sister stumbled over to her sword. She tugged it free and sheathed it, every motion febrile, moving like a woman who knew eyes were fixed upon her – but in chilling hunger, not admiration. His chest ached to see her this way again.

When she had found her husband – his body and his useless, pathetic escape from the hardships of grief – when that man had simply left her alone and with staring eyes and open mouth shouted out his cowardice in a voice that never came and would never come again – she had moved as she did now, busying herself with tasks, with necessities.

He felt tears filling the beard on his cheeks.

Something sailed down from the tree’s black canopy and thumped on the ground almost at Rint’s feet. He looked down to see a clay figurine, slick with fresh blood. And from the impenetrable tangle overhead he heard a soft laugh.

Rint straightened. Ville and Galak had saddled the mount and were heaving the corpse over it. They took up leather strings to tie Raskan’s hands to his feet, one man to either side of the animal as they passed the string ends under the horse’s belly. They tied the strings to the laces from the moccasins – Lord Draconus’s own – and cinched tight the knots.

Rint stared at the heels, at how the thick hide was unevenly worn. Just like his boots.

‘Feren,’ he said, ‘lead them down the hill.’

‘Rint?’

‘Take them, sister. I won’t be long.’

But she drew close, her eyes wide with fear. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Something meaningless.’

Whatever she saw in his face seemed to answer her needs and after a moment she turned away, hurrying back to her horse.

Rint went to his own horse and rummaged in the saddle bags. As his friends mounted up and rode away, Ville leading Raskan’s horse with its lifeless burden, Rint drew out a flask of oil. They would have dry whetstones for the rest of this journey and would have to be mindful of rust and dulled edges, but there was nothing to be done about it.

He walked up to the tree, collecting wood, grasses and dried leaves along the way.