‘Because the card belongs to Paran, and he will have need of it.’

‘Can you explain that?’

‘We struggle against more than one enemy, as shall be seen.’

‘I don’t want that card,’ Paran snapped. ‘You’d better paint a new face on that thing. I have the blood of a Hound of Shadow within me. I am a liability – when will you all see that? Hood knows, I do!’

The rustle of armour alerted them to Kallor’s approach.

Whiskeyjack scowled. ‘You are not part of this conversation.’

Kallor smiled wryly. ‘Never part of, but often the subject of—’

‘Not this time.’

The High King’s flat, grey eyes fixed on Quick Ben. ‘You, wizard, are a hoarder of souls ... I am a man who releases souls – shall I break the chains within you? An easy thing, to leave you helpless.’

‘Even easier,’ Quick Ben replied, ‘to make a hole in the ground.’

Kallor dropped from sight, the earth gone from beneath him. Armour clattered, followed by a bellow of rage.

Silverfox gasped, eyes widening on Quick Ben.

The wizard shrugged. ‘You’re right, I don’t care who, or what, Kallor is.’

Whiskeyjack stepped to the edge of the pit, glanced down. ‘He’s climbing out... not bad for an old man.’

‘But since I’m not stupid,’ Quick Ben said hastily, ‘I’ll take leave, now.’ The wizard gestured and seemed to blur a moment before vanishing altogether.

Turning his back on the grunting, cursing Kallor – whose gauntleted hands were now visible scrabbling at the crumbly edge of the pit – Whiskeyjack said to Paran, ‘Return to the Bridgeburners, Captain. If all goes well, we’ll meet again at Capustan.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Somewhat unsteadily, Paran strode away.

‘I suggest,’ Silverfox said, eyes fixed on Kallor’s efforts to extricate himself, ‘we too should depart this particular place.’

‘Agreed, lass.’

Slumped in his saddle, Whiskeyjack watched the columns of Onearm’s Host marching out from the city of Pale. The day was hot, the hint of thunderstorms in the humid air. Quorl-mounted Black Moranth circled high above the two de-camped armies, fewer in number than was usual – their Achievant, Twist, had departed with Captain Paran and the Bridgeburners four days ago, and eight of the eleven Flights had left in the night just past, on their way to the Vision Mountains on the northwest border of the Domin.

The commander was exhausted. The ache in his leg was robbing him of sleep, and each day was filled with the demands of supply, details on the planned deployment on the march, and the ceaseless swarm of messengers delivering reports and orders then hurrying off with the same. He was restless to begin the journey across half a continent, if only to answer the thousand questions of what awaited them.

Quick Ben sat in silence beside Whiskeyjack, the mage’s horse shifting nervously beneath him.

‘Your mount’s picked up on your state of mind, Quick,’ the commander said.

‘Aye.’