Mother Dark, strike your first blows. Kill the brothers and sisters. Slay the mistress here, it’s all she deserves. But this war’s last blow will not be yours.

River god, I will deliver the blood you need. This I promise.

He would find the commander of this company. Crippled though Sagander’s body might be, his mind was not.

There were hidden ways into the monastery, and he knew them all.

A blood bargain, in the name of vengeance. The river god understood. The river god blessed him in this betrayal.

Every step was torture. The commander would feed him, offer him wine. Find him a comfortable chair and a bed and a woman or two – why not? He would earn such rewards. A religious war, when what we had feared was something different, something more confused. Instead, we get this. Simple, the lines sharply drawn and mutual slaughter the only way through.

He imagined himself, at the end, emerging from the smoke and ashes, on a road like this one, with naught but charred bones left in his wake. His rivals dead, their opinions meaningless, their judgements a wasted breath. Draconus: Consort to a corpse. Arathan, gutted, with his entrails wrapped round the shaft of a spear. Raskan – so gentle in pouring hot blood down Sagander’s throat – well, he would drown in the same. And as for the Borderswords … Ville and Galak had been kindly enough, though misers with their commiseration. In return, he would spare them little when their time came.

The triumphs ahead, at the end of this cobbled road, shone with a sceptre’s light, raised high as a torch in the darkness. Flames closed the mouth of my leg – that horrid stump – seared it for ever shut, trapping the howls inside me. I will let them out another way.

By sceptre’s light, this I vow.

Mounted soldiers were gathering below, emerging from the village. It seemed he would not have to walk all the way after all.

* * *

They saw a rider ahead of them on the road. The horse was walking and the figure was slumped as if half asleep in the saddle. Their two scouts had reined in halfway between the parties and now faced Cryl and his troop of Houseblades.

Beside Cryl, Sergeant Agalas grunted and then said, ‘No uniform.’

‘We’ll question him.’

The scouts fell in as they continued on.

The man looked up as they cantered closer, as if startled awake. His face was badly bruised and its bones poorly knitted from what must have been a savage beating. One eye was shot with red. Dirt stained his clothes, as did blackened spots of dried blood. He halted his horse.

Agalas gestured and the troop drew up and formed a line behind her and Cryl. The two of them then rode forward to rein in before the stranger.

‘You’ve seen some trouble,’ said Cryl.

The man shrugged. ‘I lived.’