Gesler cleared his throat. ‘The Whirlwind Wall is sorcery, Tugg. The Adjunct’s sword is otataral. There will be a clash between the two. If the Adjunct’s sword fails, then we all go home ... or back to Aren—’

‘Not what I heard,’ Moak said, pausing to spit before continuing. ‘We swing east then north if we can’t breach the wall. To G’danisban, or maybe Ehrlitan. To wait for Dujek Onearm and High Mage Tayschrenn. I’ve even heard that Greymane might be recalled from the Korelri campaign.’

Strings stared at the man. ‘Whose shadow have you been standing in, Moak?’

‘Well, it makes sense, don’t it?’

Sighing, Strings straightened. ‘It’s all a waste of breath, soldiers. Sooner or later, we’re all marching in wide-eyed stupid.’ He strode over to where his squad had set up the tents.

His soldiers, Cuttle included, were gathered around Bottle, who sat cross-legged and seemed to be playing with twigs and sticks.

Strings halted in his tracks, an uncanny chill creeping through him. Gods below, for a moment there I thought I was seeing Quick Ben, with Whiskeyjack’s squad crowding round some damned risky ritual... He could hear faint singing from somewhere in the desert beyond the camp, singing that sliced like a sword’s edge through the roar of the Whirlwind Wall. The sergeant shook his head and approached.

‘What are you doing, Bottle?’

The young man looked up guiltily. ‘Uh, not much, Sergeant—’

‘Trying a divination,’ Cuttle growled, ‘and as far as I can tell, getting nowhere.’

Strings slowly crouched down in the circle, opposite Bottle. ‘Interesting style there, lad. Sticks and twigs. Where did you pick that up?’

‘Grandmother,’ he muttered.

‘She was a witch?’

‘More or less. So was my mother.’

‘And your father? What was he?’

‘Don’t know. There were rumours ...’ He ducked his head, clearly uncomfortable.

‘Never mind,’ Strings said. ‘That’s earth-aspected, the pattern you have there. You need more than just what anchors the power ...’

All the others were staring at Strings now.

Bottle nodded, then drew out a small doll made of woven grasses, a dark, purple-bladed variety. Strips of black cloth were wrapped about it.

The sergeant’s eyes widened. ‘Who in Hood’s name is that supposed to be?’

‘Well, the hand of death, sort of, or so I wanted it to be. You know, where it’s going. But it’s not co-operating.’

‘You drawing from Hood’s warren?’

‘A little ...’

Well, there’s more to this lad than I’d first thought. ‘Never mind Hood. He may hover, but won’t stride forward until after the fact, and even then, he’s an indiscriminate bastard. For that figure you’ve made, try the Patron of Assassins.’

Bottle flinched. ‘The Rope? That’s too, uh, close ...’