‘I am Hood’s Herald – do you dare challenge a servant of the lord of death?’

The T’lan Imass’s desiccated lips peeled back. ‘Why would we hesitate, Jaghut? Now ask of your lord, does he dare challenge us?’

Gethol grunted as something dragged him bodily back, the warren snapping shut, swallowing him. The air swirled briefly in the wake of the portal’s sudden vanishing, then settled.

‘Evidently not,’ Bek Okhan said.

Sighing, Brukhalian sheathed his sword and faced the T’lan Imass Bonecasters. ‘Your arrival has left me disappointed, sirs.’

‘We understand this, Mortal Sword. You were doubtless well matched. Yet our hunt for this Jaghut demanded our ... interruption. His talent for escaping us is undiminished, it seems, even to the point of bending a knee in the service of a god. Your defiance of Hood makes you a worthwhile companion.’

Brukhalian grimaced. ‘If only to improve your chances of closing with this Jaghut, I take it.’

‘Indeed.’

‘So we are understood in this.’

‘Yes. It seems we are.’

He stared at the three creatures for a moment, then turned away. ‘I think we can assume the Herald will not be returning to us this evening. Forgive my curtness, sirs, but I wish solitude once again.’

The T’lan Imass each bowed, then disappeared.

Brukhalian walked to the hearth, drawing his sword once more. He set the blunt end amongst the cold embers, slowly stirred the ashes. Flames licked into life, the coals burgeoning a glowing red. The spatters and streaks of Jaghut blood on the blade sizzled black, then burned away to nothing.

He stared down at the hearth for a long time, and despite the unveiled power of the sanctified sword, the Mortal Sword saw before him nothing but ashes.

Up from the darkness, a clawing, gasping struggle. Explosive blooms of pain, like a wall of fire rising behind his eyes, the shivering echoes of wounds, a tearing and puncturing of flesh – his own flesh.

A low groan escaped him, startled him into an awareness – he lay propped at an angle, taut skins stretched beneath him. There had been motion, a rocking and bumping and scraping, but that had ceased. He opened his eyes, found himself in shadow. A stone wall reared to his left, within reach. The air smelled of horses and dust and, much closer, blood and sweat.

Morning sunlight bathed the compound to his right, glimmered off the blurred figures moving about there. Soldiers, horses, impossibly huge, lean wolves.

Boots crunched on gravel and the shadow over him deepened. Blinking, Gruntle looked up.

Stonny’s face was drawn, spattered with dried blood, her hair hanging in thick, snarled ropes. She laid a hand on his chest. ‘We’ve reached Capustan,’ she said in a ragged voice.

He managed a nod.

‘Gruntle—’

Pain filled her eyes, and he felt a chill sweep over him.