Ten minutes later the three men arrived on the slick pebbled beach, both Whiskeyjack and Kalam looking shaken. A dozen yards from the water's edge sat the fisher boat. Trotts was straining on the rope attached to the prow hook, gasping and moaning as he leaned forward with all his weight.

The rest of the squad stood in a clump off to one side, quietly discussing Trotts' futile efforts. Fiddler chanced to look up. Seeing Whiskeyjack marching towards them, he blanched.

'Trotts!' the sergeant bellowed.

The Barghast's face, woad tattoos stretched into illegibility, turned to Whiskeyjack with wide eyes.

'Let go of the rope, soldier.'

Kalam released an amused snort behind Whiskeyjack, who glared at the others. 'Now,' he said, his voice harsh, 'since one of you idiots convinced everyone else that loading all the equipment into the boat when it's still on shore was a good idea, you can all man the rope and drag it into the lake – not you, Trotts. You get inside, get comfortable, there at the stern.' Whiskeyjack paused. He studied Sorry's expressionless face. 'From Fiddler and Hedge I expect this, but I thought I put you in charge of setting things up.'

Sorry shrugged.

Whiskeyjack sighed. 'Can you rig us a sail?'

'There's no wind.'

'Well, maybe there will be!' Whiskeyjack said, exasperated.

'Yes,' Sorry answered. 'We have some canvas. We'll need a mast.'

'Take Fiddler and make one. Now, the rest of you, get this boat into the water.'

Trotts climbed inside and sat down at the stern. He stretched out his long legs and draped an arm over the splashboard. He bared his filed teeth in what might have been a smile.

Whiskeyjack turned to a grinning Kalam and Quick Ben. 'Well?' he demanded. 'What're you waiting for?'

The grins died.

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER NINE

Have you seen the one

who stands apart

cursed in a ritual

sealing his kind

beyond death the host

amassed and whirling

like a plague of pollen –

he stands apart

the First among all

ever veiled in time

yet outcast and alone

a T'lan Imass wandering

like a seed unfallen

Lay of Onos T'oolan

Toc the Younger

Toc the Younger leaned forward in his saddle and spat. It was his third day out from Pale, and he longed for the city's high walls around him. The Rhivi Plain stretched out on all sides, cloaked in yellow grass that rippled in the afternoon wind, but otherwise featureless.