Gabriel took a breath. And then another. And then, almost against his will, he looked at the young magister. “What link?” he asked.

“The Odine aren’t one creature,” Morgon began.

“I know,” Gabriel said, a little more testily than he had intended.

Gabriel glanced at Tom Lachlan, who was himself watching archers stack the precious Umroth ivory while fully armoured men-at-arms saw to the burning of the worm-infested mounds of bone.

Morgon shrugged. “Of course, my lord. It is only that . . . the passive shield. Nothing went through. And he was striking me over and over; not very hard, but very expertly.”

“Yes,” Gabriel agreed. “So that every response had to be—”

“Calculated,” Morgon agreed. Then he looked at the tall Hillman in the blue-black armour. “Thomas Lachlan, I am sorry. But for your puissance, I would be dead.”

“Aye, laddy! And where were yer precious warlockeries?” Bad Tom was very much himself.

“I spent too much on the . . . the dragon working. As our adversary called it.” Mortirmir suddenly looked seventeen and deflated. “I cocked up. And then I had to scrabble to stay alive in the aethereal. Until Gabriel charged, it focused almost everything on me.” Mortirmir looked at Gabriel. “You chose to attack in the real. Why?”

Gabriel was watching a burial party while Anne disarmed him. He intended on going to stand and watch his men buried. He shrugged. “I can usually get things in the Wild to focus on me,” he said. His voice was distant.

“All the more reason to build Fell Swords,” Mortirmir said. “The real . . . is where the sorcerous pay no attention.”

Gabriel paused. He was being disarmed of all his harness, but he put out a hand to stop his page and he looked at Mortirmir. “That may be the most profound thing you’ve ever said.”

“I doubt it,” Mortirmir said. “First, I said—”

“Not now, Mortirmir,” Gabriel said.

Anne got the maille off him, and he sighed. “Do you think it really wanted to surrender?” Gabriel asked.

Mortirmir looked at him. A rare look passed over his face; a raw emotion. Regret. “Yes,” Mortirmir said. “Part of it anyway.” He paused, and looked under his eyebrows at Gabriel; a rare look of self-awareness from the mage. “When I cut the links between its entities, it was arguing among itself. And then I took down its . . . connections. And then it . . . tried to kill itself.”

Tom Lachlan shrugged. “Better this way,” he said. “Better that it is dead. Ye’r too soft, Emperor-man.”

“Better with sixty dead?” Gabriel asked. “I haven’t even looked yet. Who did I lose? Cully? Francis? Maybe just Gropf?”

“Listen, lad,” Bad Tom said. “Shed no tears for the old monster. Think o’ what Pavalo will say. Think o’ all the lads an’ lasses in Dar. Free to farm. Think o’ watchin’ the whole fuckin’ herd day an’ night. Knowin’ that in a dozen worms, they’d start the whole fewkin’ thing again.” He looked at Gabriel.