And saw the fresh wound of scarification beneath his belly button. Three parallel cuts, drawn across diagonally, and the stained imprints of three more – likely those the woman had cut across her own belly – running in the opposite direction.

‘The Eres witch has stolen his seed,’ Monok Ochem said from two paces away.

‘Why?’ Onrack asked.

‘I do not know, Onrack the Broken. The Eres have the minds of beasts—’

‘Not to the exclusion of all else,’ Onrack replied, ‘as you well know.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Clearly, this one had intent.’

Monok Ochem nodded. ‘So it would seem. Why does the Tiste Edur remain unconscious?’

‘His mind is elsewhere—’

The bonecaster cocked its head. ‘Yes, that is the definition of unconscious—’

‘No, it is elsewhere. When I stepped close, I came into contact with sorcery. That which the Eres projected. For lack of any other term, it was a warren, barely formed, on the very edge of oblivion. It was,’ Onrack paused, then continued, ‘like the Eres themselves. A glimmer of light behind the eyes.’

Ibra Gholan suddenly drew his weapon.

Onrack straightened.

There were sounds, now, beyond the fire’s light, and the T’lan Imass could see the glow of flesh and blood bodies, a dozen, then a score. Something else approached, the footfalls uneven and shambling.

A moment later, an aptorian demon loomed into the light, a shape unfolding like black silk. And riding its humped, singular shoulder, a youth. Its body was human, yet its face held the features of the aptorian – a massive, lone eye, glistening and patterned like honeycomb. A large mouth, now opening to reveal needle fangs that seemed capable of retracting, all but their tips vanishing from sight. The rider wore black leather armour, shaped like scales and overlapping. A chest harness bore at least a dozen weapons, ranging from long-knives to throwing darts. Affixed to the youth’s belt were two single-hand crossbows, their grips fashioned from the base shafts of antlers.

The rider leaned forward over the spiny, humped shoulder. Then spoke in a low, rasping voice. ‘Is this all that Logros can spare?’

‘You,’ Monok Ochem said, ‘are not welcome.’

‘Too bad, Bonecaster, for we are here. To guard the First Throne.’

Onrack asked, ‘Who are you, and who has sent you here?’

‘I am Panek, son of Apt. It is not for me to answer your other question, T’lan Imass. I but guard the outer ward. The chamber that is home to the First Throne possesses an inner warden – the one who commands us. Perhaps she can answer you. Perhaps, even, she will.’

Onrack picked up Trull Sengar. ‘We would speak with her, then.’

Panek smiled, revealing the crowded row of fangs. ‘As I said, the Throne Room. No doubt,’ he added, smile broadening, ‘you know the way.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR