The assassin, frowning, slowly shook his head. ‘Then I would have lost the trail, sir. Once they entered a warren, all signs of them would have vanished.’

‘Yes. Yet the footprints lead on, unbroken. Why is that?’

Kalam squinted into the fire. ‘I don’t know, sir.’

Whiskeyjack drained the bitter tea, dropped the tin cup to the ground beside the assassin, then strode away.

Day followed day, the pursuit taking them through the battered ravines, gorges and arroyos of the hills. More bodies were discovered, desiccated figures that Kalam identified one after another: Renisha, a sorcerer of High Meanas; Keluger, a Septime Priest of D’riss, the Worm of Autumn; Narkal, the warrior-mage, sworn to Fener and aspirant to the god’s Mortal Sword; Ullan, the Soletaken priestess of Soliel.

Deprivation took its toll on the hunters. Horses died, were butchered and eaten. The surviving beasts thinned, grew gaunt. Had not the mages’ trail led Kalam and the others unerringly to one hidden spring after another, everyone would have died, there in Raraku’s relentless wasteland.

Set’alahd Crool, a Jhag half-blood who’d once driven Dassem Ultor back a half-dozen steps in furious counterattack, his sword ablaze with the blessing of some unknown ascendant; Etra, a mistress of the Rashan warren; Birith’ erah, mage of the Serc warren who could pull storms down from the sky; Gellid, witch of the Tennes warren . . .

And now but one remained, ever ahead, elusive, his presence revealed only by the light footprints he left behind.

The hunters were embraced in silence, now. Raraku’s silence. Tempered, honed, annealed under the sun. The horses beneath them were their match, lean and defiant, tireless and wild-eyed.

Whiskeyjack was slow to understand what he saw in Kalam’s face when the assassin looked upon him and his soldiers, slow to grasp that the killer’s narrowed eyes held disbelief, awe, and more than a little fear. Yet Kalam himself had changed. He’d not travelled far from the land he called home, yet an entire world had passed beneath him.

Raraku had taken them all.

Up a steep, rocky channel, through an eroded fissure, the limestone walls stained and pitted, and out into a natural amphitheatre, and there, seated cross-legged on a boulder on the clearing’s opposite side, waited the last mage.

He wore little more than rags, was emaciated, his dark skin cracked and peeling, his eyes glittering hard and brittle as obsidian.

Kalam’s reining in looked to be a tortured effort. He managed to turn his horse round, met Whiskeyjack’s eyes. ‘Adaephon Delat, a mage of Meanas,’ he said in a bone-dry rasp, his split lips twisting into a grin. ‘He was never much, sir. I doubt he’ll be able to muster a defence.’

Whiskeyjack said nothing. He angled his mount past the assassin, approached the wizard.

‘One question,’ the wizard asked, his voice barely a whisper yet carrying clearly across the amphitheatre.

‘What?’