Kalam had still not recovered enough to accompany Quick Ben, or to guard him as Trotts now did. The wizard had known the Barghast warrior for years, he'd fought alongside him in more battles than he cared to recall, and more than once one of them had saved the other's skin. And yet Quick Ben realized he really knew very little about Trotts. The one thing he did know, however, comforted him. The Barghast was a savage, brutal fighter, as capable with his throwing axes as he was with the longsword he now cradled in his lap. And he was fearless in the face of sorcery, secure in the fetishes tied into his braids, and in the woad tattoos inscribed by the hand of his clan's shaman.

Considering what might fall into their laps, those protections could come in handy.

The Barghast stared at the wizard with flat, expressionless eyes, unwavering in the dim light.

Quick Ben shook out the kinks in his hands, then bent forward to study the array of tied sticks. 'Hairlock's crouching inside his Warren,' he said. 'Not moving. Seems to be waiting.' He sat back and withdrew his dagger, which he jammed point first into the packed earth. 'So we wait, too. And watch.'

Trotts asked, 'Watch what?'

'Never mind.' Quick Ben sighed. 'You have that scrap of bedroll?'

Trotts removed from a sleeve a torn piece of cloth. He came forward, giving the sticks more room than was necessary, and pushed the scrap into the wizard's hand.

Quick Ben set it down on his left. He muttered a few words and passed his hand over it. 'Resume your seat,' he said. 'And keep your weapon ready in case things go bad.'

He closed his eyes then, reaching into his Warren. Before him an image formed that made him jerk with surprise. 'What,' he whispered, 'is Hairlock doing on Rhivi Plain?'

Paran could feel nothing but the white fire of vengeance, filling his mind, coruscating through his body. Oponn had chosen to use him. Now he would use Oponn, the Twins' power, that horrifying edge of destruction that came with Ascendancy. And like the gods, he could be cold-blooded in that use, even if it meant pulling Oponn kicking and screaming on to this plain to face whatever lay ahead.

A hiss of warning that might have been his conscience reached through to him. Toc the Younger was his friend, perhaps the only friend he had. Unprotected by any god, his chance of surviving what was coming was slim. Would there be another death to lay at his feet? Paran pushed aside the possibility. He was here to answer for Tattersail's murder. The Adjunct had taught him the value of being singleminded. But what did Tattersail teach you?

'If things get too hot,' he said, 'pull out, Toc. Ride for Darujhistan. Find Whiskeyjack.'

The scout nodded.

'If I go down—'