Mok was slowly climbing to his feet. At the T’lan Imass’s last words, he went still, then slowly faced the undead warrior.

I’ll be damned, Tool, you gave the Third pause.

‘There will be no more duels this night,’ Lady Envy said in a stern voice. ‘I’ll not constrain my wrath the next time.’

Mok casually slid his attention away from the T’lan Imass.

Straightening, Lady Envy sighed. Thurule is mended. I am almost weary! Senu, dear, get out the plates and utensils. And the Elin Red. A nice quiet meal is called for, I should say.’ She flashed Toc a smile. ‘And witty discourse, yes?’

It was now Toc’s turn to groan.

The three horsemen drew rein to halt on the low hill’s summit. Pulling his mount around to face the city of Pale, Whiskeyjack stared for a time, jaw muscles bunching.

Quick Ben said nothing, watching the grey-bearded commander, his old friend, with fullest understanding. Upon this hill, we came to retrieve Hairlock. Amidst piles of empty armour – gods, they’re still here, rotting in the grasses – and the sorceress Tattersail, the last left standing of the cadre. We’d just crawled out of the collapsed tunnels, leaving hundreds of brothers and sisters buried behind us. We burned with rage . . . we burned with the knowledge of betrayal.

Here . . . on this sorcery-blasted hill, we were ready to commit murder. With cold, cold hands . . . The wizard glanced over at Mallet. The healer’s small eyes were narrowed on Whiskeyjack, and Quick Ben knew that he too was reliving bitter memories.

There is no burying the history of our lives. Yellow nails and fingers of bone claw up from the ground at our feet, and hold us fast.

‘Summarize,’ Whiskeyjack growled, his grey eyes on the empty sky above the city.

Mallet cleared his throat. ‘Who starts?’

The commander swung his head to the healer.

‘Right,’ Mallet said. ‘Paran’s ... affliction. His mortal flesh has the taint of ascendant blood ... and ascendant places ... but as Quick will tell you, neither one should be manifesting as illness. No, that blood, and those places, are like shoves down a corridor.’

‘And he keeps crawling back,’ Quick Ben added. ‘Trying to escape. And the more he tries—’

‘The sicker he gets,’ Mallet finished.

Whiskeyjack, eyes once again on Pale, grimaced wryly. ‘The last time I stood on this hill I had to listen to Quick and Kalam finishing each other’s sentences. Turns out less has changed than I’d thought. Is the captain himself ascendant?’

‘As near as,’ the wizard admitted. And, needless to say, that’s worrying. But it’d be even more worrying if Paran . . . wanted it. Then again, who knows what ambitions lie hidden beneath that reluctant visage?

‘What do you two make of his tale of the Hounds and Rake’s sword?’

‘Troubling,’ Mallet replied.

‘That’s an understatement,’ Quick Ben said. ‘Damned scary.’

Whiskeyjack scowled at him. ‘Why?’