Mappo nodded. ‘I know you do. Now, best unsheathe your sword, Icarium. This Teblor evinces frustration and impatience.’

The Jhag went to his weapon. ‘What will come of this, Mappo?’

The Trell shook his head. ‘I do not know, but I am filled with dread.’

‘I shall endeavour to be efficient, then, so as to diminish the duration of your discomfort.’

‘Clearly impossible,’ Karsa muttered, ‘given your love of words.’ He readied his sword. ‘Be on with it, then, I have a horse to find.’

Icarium’s brows rose fractionally, then he drew out his sword. An unusual weapon, single-edged and looking ancient. He approached.

The Jhag’s attack was a flicker of motion, faster than anything Karsa had seen before, yet his sword flashed to meet it.

Blades collided.

There was a peculiar snick and Karsa found himself holding nothing more than a handle.

Outrage exploded within him and he stepped forward, his huge fist hammering into Icarium’s face. The Jhag was thrown backward, leaving his feet, his sword cartwheeling away to clatter on the slope of the rockfall. Icarium landed with a heavy thump, and did not move.

‘Bastard broke my sword—’ Karsa began, turning towards Mappo.

White light detonated in his skull.

And he knew no more.

Mappo stared down at the motionless Thelomen Toblakai, noting the slow rise and fall of the giant’s chest. Hefting his mace, he glanced over to where Icarium lay, saw a hand slowly lift from the ground, twitch, then settle once more.

The Trell sighed. ‘Better than I could have hoped for, I think.’

He walked back and returned his weapon to the large leather sack, then set out to strike the camp.

Pounding pain behind his eyes, a sound of roaring, as of a river raging through a narrow channel. Karsa groaned.

Some time passed before he finally pushed himself onto his hands and knees.

It was dawn ... again.

‘Say nothing, Bairoth Gild,’ he muttered. ‘Nor you, Delum Thord. I can well guess what happened. That bastard Trell struck me from behind. Aye, he didn’t kill me, but one day he will wish he had.’

A slow, cautious look around confirmed that he was alone. His broken sword had been positioned beside him, handle and blade side by side, with a small bound bundle of desert flowers lying atop them.

The blow to his head left him nauseous, and he found he was shaking once he’d managed to climb to his feet. He unstrapped his dented helm and tossed it aside. Dried blood matted his hair and covered the back of his neck.

‘At least you are now well rested, Karsa Orlong.’

‘You are less amused than you would have me think, Bairoth Gild. The one named Icarium. He is the one from our legends, isn’t he?’

‘And you alone among the living Teblor have crossed blades with him.’

‘He broke my sword.’