The fault, he deemed, lay not with his actions, but that he’d been driven to such desperate means in the first place. If the Council had granted him soldiers with which to oppose the Hadari, he’d never have been forced to reckless use of his shadow. Poor strategy birthed desperate tactics. It was obvious with hindsight. Indeed, if he’d slain his father back when all this had begun . . .

Even now, Viktor felt no remorse. Whatever love he’d felt for his sire had faded long ago, replaced by creeping disappointment at his failures, and contempt for his deeds. More than anything, Viktor resented the waste – that a great man could be so overcome by selfishness. The real Hadon Akadra had died long ago, drowned in comfort and privilege. Viktor could conjure no shame for ridding the world of his remnant. Whatever stain it placed on his soul he’d bear gladly, knowing that Tressia was richer for it.

Viktor came to a squelching halt. Thus far he’d navigated not by sight – for he could make out little, even with the lantern’s aid – but by instinct. He could feel where the Dark thickened away beyond the field – beyond the forest’s edge. He felt its lure, and the pull it exerted on his shadow. If that was Malatriant, and Malatriant had taken Eskavord, then that at last had given him some idea of where Branghall could be found. Now, the paling sky rising above the treetops confirmed it.

He had to start at Branghall, to bring word that help was coming, and to learn of Calenne’s fate, if anything were known. Viktor knew that wasn’t entirely rational but was at a loss how else to proceed. One man alone could do little for Eskavord, but if fortune was with him, he could yet find Calenne.

Undergrowth rustled. An old woman in a heavy woollen shawl stepped out onto the path ahead. Viktor halted, his free hand at the hilt of his claymore. He knew the face.

“Mother Savka?”

The woman straightened, and Viktor recognised the right and wrong of his challenge. The body was Elda’s, or at least it had once been so. Now her eyes glittered darkly in black-webbed sockets, as if the flesh beneath had shattered, and some unspeakable darkness had come crawling out. Her shadow belonged to a much taller figure and flickered where the light did not.

“So you’ve come. I knew you would.”

The voice was older even than Elda’s leathery face, and dry with the rasp of the tomb. When Viktor looked on her through his shadow’s eyes rather than his own, he saw a faint echo of . . . something . . . at her shoulder. A cadaverous figure whose hair coiled to entwine the old woman’s misshapen shadow.

“What is your name, my child?”