‘I will not oppose that, Anomander Rake.’

‘Ah, it is the ... sentence, then.’

‘It is.’

The Lord sheathed his sword. ‘Then it must be by your hand, friend. And quickly, for they recover their powers.’

He flinched in his saddle. ‘I am no executioner.’

‘You’d best become one, or step aside. Now.’

Whiskeyjack wheeled his horse round. The seven remaining women were indeed regaining their senses, though he saw in the one nearest him a glaze of incomprehension lingering still in her aged, yellowed eyes.

Hood take me—

He kicked his mount into motion, readied his blade in time to drive its point into the nearest woman’s chest.

Dry skin parted almost effortlessly. Bones snapped like twigs. The victim reeled back, fell.

Pushing his horse on, Whiskeyjack shook the blood from his sword, then, reaching the next woman, he swung cross-ways, opened wide her throat.

He forced a cold grip onto his thoughts, holding them still, concentrated on the mechanics of his actions. No errors. No pain-stretched flaws for his victims. Precise executions, one after another, instinctively guiding his horse, shifting his weight, readying his blade, thrusting or slashing as was required.

One, then another, then another.

Until, swinging his mount around, he saw that he was done. It was over.

His horse stamping as it continued circling, Whiskeyjack looked up.

To see Onearm’s Host lining the ridge far to his left – the space between them littered with trampled bodies but otherwise open. Unobstructed.

His soldiers.

Lining the ridge. Silent.

To have witnessed this . . . Now, I am indeed damned. From this, no return. No matter what the wards of explanation, of justification. No matter the crimes committed by my victims. I have slain. Not soldiers, not armed opponents, but creatures assailed by madness, stunned senseless, uncomprehending.

He turned, stared at Anomander Rake.

The Lord of Moon’s Spawn returned the regard without expression.

This burden – you have taken it before, assumed it long ago, haven’t you? This burden, that now assails my soul, it is what you live with – have lived with for centuries. The price for the sword on your back—

‘You should have left it with me, friend,’ the Tiste Andii said quietly. ‘I might have insisted, but I would not cross blades with you. Thus,’ he added with a sorrowful smile, ‘the opening of my heart proves, once more, a curse. Claiming those I care for, by virtue of that very emotion. Would that I had learned my lesson long ago, do you not agree?’

‘It seems,’ Whiskeyjack managed, ‘we have found something new to share.’

Anomander Rake’s eyes narrowed. ‘I would not have wished it.’

‘I know.’ He held hard on his control. ‘I’m sorry I gave you no choice.’

They regarded each other.

‘I believe Korlat’s kin have captured this Anaster,’ Rake said after a moment. ‘Will you join me in attending to him?’

Whiskeyjack flinched.

‘No, my friend,’ Rake said. ‘I yield judgement of him. Let us leave that to others, shall we?’