Otataral, it seemed, did not go well with Moranth munitions, particularly burners and flamers. Or, to put it another way, it doesn’t like getting hot. He knew that weapons were quenched in otataral dust at a late stage in their forging. When the iron had lost its glow, in fact. Likely, blacksmiths had arrived at that conclusion the hard way. But even that was not the whole secret. It’s what happens to hot otataral. . . when you throw magic at it.

He slowly resheathed the weapon, then focused his attention on the other. Here, the edge was smooth, slightly wavy as often occurred with rolled, multi-layered blades. The water etching was barely visible on this gleaming, black surface, the silver inlay fine as thread. Between the two long-knives, he favoured this one, for its weight and balance.

Something struck the ground beside him, bouncing with a pinging sound off a fragment of tree trunk, then rattling to a stop down beside his right knee.

Kalam stared at the small object for a moment. He then looked up at the tree looming over him. He smiled. ‘Ah, an oak,’ he murmured. ‘Let it not be said I don’t appreciate the humour of the gesture.’ He sat up and reached down to collect the acorn. Then leaned back once more. ‘Just like old times ... glad, as always, that we don’t do this sort of thing any more ...’

Plains to savanna, then, finally, jungle. They had arrived in the wet season, and the morning suffered beneath a torrential deluge before, just past noon, the sun burned through to lade the air with steam as the three T’lan Imass and one Tiste Edur trudged through the thick, verdant undergrowth.

Unseen animals fled their onward march, thrashing heavily through the brush on all sides. Eventually, they stumbled onto a game trail that led in the direction they sought, and their pace increased.

‘This is not your natural territory, is it, Onrack?’ Trull Sengar asked between gasps of the humid, rank air. ‘Given all the furs your kind wear ...’

‘True,’ the T’lan Imass replied. ‘We are a cold weather people. But this region exists within our memories. Before the Imass, there was another people, older, wilder. They dwelt where it was warm, and they were tall, their dark skins covered in fine hair. These we knew as the Eres. Enclaves survived into our time – the time captured within this warren.’

‘And they lived in jungles like this one?’

‘Its verges, occasionally, but more often the surrounding savannas. They worked in stone, but with less skill than us.’

‘Were there bonecasters among them?’

Monok Ochem answered from behind them. ‘All Eres were bonecasters, Trull Sengar. For they were the first to carry the spark of awareness, the first so gifted by the spirits.’

‘And are they now gone, Monok Ochem?’

‘They are.’