‘Cut me off again and you will regret it, Bidithal,’ Sha’ik said. ‘I have heard you enough on this subject. If your mouth opens again I will tear out your tongue. Ghost Hands, I will continue. The figure is slightly above average in height. There is the crimson streak of a scar – or blood perhaps – down one side of the face – a wounding, yes? He – yes, I am certain it’s a man, not a woman – he stands on a bridge. Of stone, shot through with cracks. The horizon is filled with flames. It seems he and the bridge are surrounded, as if by followers, or servants—’

‘Or guardians,’ L’oric added. ‘Your pardon, Chosen One.’

‘Guardians. Yes, a good possibility. They have the look of soldiers, do they not?’

‘On what,’ Heboric asked, ‘do these guardians stand? Can you see the ground they stand upon?’

‘Bones – there is much fine detail there, Ghost Hands. How did you know?’

‘Describe those bones, please.’

‘Not human. Very large. Part of a skull is visible, long-snouted, terribly fanged. It bears the remnants of a helmet of some sort—’

‘A helmet? On the skull?’

‘Yes.’

Heboric fell silent. He began rocking yet was only remotely aware of the motion. There was a sourceless keening growing in his head, a cry of grief, of anguish.

‘The Master,’ Sha’ik said, her voice trembling, ‘he stands strangely. Arms held out, bent at the elbows so that the hands depend, away from the body – it is the strangest posture—’

‘Are his feet together?’

‘Almost impossibly so.’

As if forming a point. Dull and remote to his own ears, Heboric asked, ‘And what does he wear?’

‘Tight silks, from the way they shimmer. Black.’

‘Anything else?’

‘There is a chain. It cuts across his torso, left shoulder down to right hip. It is a robust chain, black wrought iron. There are wooden discs on his shoulders – like epaulets, but large, a hand’s span each—’

‘How many in all?’

‘Four. You know something now, Ghost Hands. Tell me!’

‘Yes,’ L’oric murmured, ‘you have thoughts on this—’

‘He lies,’ Bidithal growled. ‘He has been forgotten by everyone – even his god – and he now seeks to invent a new importance.’

Febryl spoke in a mocking rasp. ‘Bidithal, you foolish man. He is a man who touches what we cannot feel, and sees what we are blind to. Speak on, Ghost Hands. Why does this Master stand so?’

‘Because,’ Heboric said, ‘he is a sword.’

But not any sword. He is one sword, above all, and it cuts cold. That sword is as this man’s own nature. He will cleave his own path. None shall lead him. He stands now in my mind. I see him. I see his face. Oh, Sha’ik ...