He looked away. ‘I have dreams as well . . . a child within a wound. Screaming.’

‘Do you run from that child?’

‘Aye,’ he admitted shakily. ‘Those screams are ... terrible.’

‘You must run towards the child, my love. Flight will close your heart.’

He turned to her. ‘My love’ – words to manipulate my heart? ‘Who is that child?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. A victim in the unseen war, perhaps.’ She attempted a smile. ‘Your courage has been tested before, Paran, and it did not fail.’

Grimacing, he muttered, ‘There’s always a first time.’

‘You are the Wanderer within the Sword. The card exists.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘Nor does it,’ she retorted. ‘You don’t have any choice—’

He rounded on her. ‘Nothing new in that! Now ask Oponn how well I performed!’ His laugh was savage. ‘I doubt the Twins will ever recover. The wrong choice, Tattersail, I am ever the wrong choice!’

She stared up at him, then, infuriatingly, simply shrugged.

Suddenly deflated, Paran turned away. His gaze fell on the Mhybe, Whiskeyjack, Mallet and Quick Ben. The four had not moved in all this time. Their patience – dammit, their faith – made the captain want to scream. You choose wrongly. Every damned one of you. But he knew they would not listen. ‘I know nothing of the Deck of Dragons,’ he said dully.

‘If we’ve the time, I will teach you. If not, you will find your own way.’

Paran closed his eyes. The pain in his stomach was returning, rising, a slowly building wave he could no longer push back. Yes, of course. Tattersail could do no less than she has done. There you have it then, Whiskeyjack. She now leads, and the others follow. A good soldier, is Captain Ganoes Paran ...

In his mind he returned to that fraught, nightmarish realm within the sword Dragnipur, the legions of chained souls ceaselessly dragging their impossible burden . . . and at the heart of the wagon, a cold, dark void, from whence came the chains. The wagon carries the gate, the gate into Kurald Galain, the warren of Darkness. The sword gathers souls to seal it . . . such a wound it must be, to demand so many souls . . . He grunted at a wave of pain. Silverfox’s small hand reached up to touch his arm.

He almost flinched at the contact.

I will fail you all.

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER FIVE

He rises bloodless from dust,

with dead eyes that are pits

twin reaches to eternal pain.

He is the lodestone

to the gathering clan,

made anew and dream-racked.

The standard a rotted hide,

the throne a bone cage, the king

a ghost from dark fields of battle.

And now the horn moans

on this grey clad dawn

drawing the disparate host

To war, to war,

and the charging frenzy

of unbidden memories of ice.

Lay of the First Sword

Irig Thann Delusa (b. 1091)