Temper smiled at their victory and gave in to the cold hard darkness that pulled at him like the embrace of deep water.

As the night progressed he fluttered into consciousness now and then. Pain in his stomach jabbed him awake once and Ferrule, his face close, strained and pale, motioned for silence. He saw tents and wagons once, dark, unmanned. Later, a field of tall grass whispered and hissed as pain shocked him awake again and Dassem, wearing a broad cloak, examined him, smiling his encouragement.

Travelling only a few leagues each night, they escaped. They walked north through passes of the Thalas Range to the coast and stole a small fishing launch. This they sailed by turns night and day, north-east out to the Sea of Dryjina, then south. A month later they landed, thin, sunburnt, bearded, on the Seven City coast south of Aren. Here they parted ways. Temper and Ferrule planned to take the boat south to Falar. Dassem did not intend to go with them.

They had stood together on the rocky shore, none wishing to speak. They wore loose robes now over trousers and tunics. White home-spun cloth scarves wrapped their heads and masked their faces. Of his former life, Temper carried only his helmet wrapped in his blanket bedding. Dassem had presented it to him when he awoke.

Temper stood with arms crossed, fixed his sight on a distant mountain range. ‘So,’ he said to Dassem, ‘it has to be alone, does it?’

Dassem gave a tired nod. It was an old argument.

‘What will you do?’

‘Travel. Head west.’

‘What in Togg’s name could possibly be out there?’ Ferrule snapped, furious as usual when thwarted in anything.

Dassem’s smile cut at Temper’s soul, so wintry was it. ‘Something. Something’s out there. Maybe what I’m looking for.’

Temper cleared his throat. He thought of Dassem’s own whispered words and the rumours he, Point, and Edge kept track of, regarding a purge among the highest levels of the cult of Hood. ‘I’d wish you luck, but I’m not sure you should find what you’re looking for.’

That got a sharp look, but Dassem relented with a pained expression that seemed half-agreement. ‘I suppose we’ll see.’

‘A pox on all of it!’ Ferrule snarled, and threw himself into the surf. He lurched out to the anchored boat. Grasping the side, he shouted back, ‘If you must travel half of creation, look me up on the Seti plains.’

Dassem waved farewell.

Temper stepped up and they embraced. At the shore he tried one last appeal, though he knew it was useless. ‘Retire with us. Set your feet up.’

‘There are things I must do.’

‘Yeah, well. Be damned careful.’

Dassem laughed. ‘I will.’

‘You ain’t got us to watch your back no more.’

‘I know.’

Still Temper could not bring himself to part from the side of the man he had sworn to give his life for. ‘I could refuse, you know. Follow along.’

Again the sad smile. ‘I know.’ He squeezed Temper’s shoulder. ‘But you will die if you remain with me. This I know. Stay with the fight, Temp. There is a good chance you will live a very long while yet.’

Temper’s breath caught. ‘You have seen this?’

Dassem released his shoulder, motioned him on. ‘Go. That’s an order.’

Temper pushed his way out through the surf. Ferrule and he set the sail. As the dusk gathered between the boat and the rocky shore, they waved farewell. Dassem raised an arm in one long continuous salute. Finally, the dim figure turned away from the shore and disappeared among the trees.

After a time, while they sailed along the coastline, Ferrule asked, ‘What in Fener’s tusks is so damned important? Why can’t we go with him?’

‘I think he’s going where we can’t follow.’

Ferrule peered back over his shoulder at Temper as if wondering just how serious he was. Temper wasn’t sure himself.

It wasn’t until weeks later on the island of Strike that they heard the official version of that final day at Y’Ghatan. It seemed that the three surviving members of the Sword, weakened by their wounds, died in a night raid by fanatical Holy City Falah’d, who after withdrew to the city, taking Dassem’s body with them.

That same night Surgen died in a manner never fully explained. Three days later the city fell. By all accounts High Fist Choss acquitted himself well. Dassem’s body was never conclusively identified and the Empire never did get around to appointing a new First Sword.

At the top of Rampart Way Kiska found the Hold’s towering iron-studded gates closed. No lantern or torchlight shone from the slits of the machicolations to either side. Normally, the glinting barbed tips of crossbow quarrels would have tracked her movements and the watch captain would have hailed her long ago.

Cut into the timbers of the left-hand gate, the tiny thieves’ door stood ajar. Something lay jammed at its bottom. Kiska slid along the timbers until level with the opening. A forearm, bloodied palm up, stuck out as if offering a macabre greeting. She peered through the gap. It belonged to one of the mercenaries who had kidnapped her. He was dead, the leather armour at his back stitched by cuts. From the way he lay he must have been trying to escape. Darkness obscured the entrance tunnel and she knew she was now outlined by the moonlight glowing behind her. Slipping in, she stepped to one side and stopped dead, listening.

Nothing but the faint and distant surf. The stink of blood and voided bowels filled the enclosure. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, the twisted shapes of two other mercenaries distinguished themselves from the cobbled lane. Perhaps they’d been left behind to guard the gate and since then, someone had come and made quick work of them. She knelt: a dark trail of blood, still sticky to the touch, traced where one of the men had dragged himself just short of a small side-door in the tunnel; the entrance to gatekeeper Lubben’s quarters. She followed, stood over the body, and listened at the door. After a few heartbeats she was about to step away when the scuff of a shifting foot reached her. Someone was within, perhaps listening just as she was. Did she want to know if it was the hunchback or his murderer? No, she’d leave that alone. Somewhere ahead Artan must be…

The door whipped open. A thick arm and a hand the size of a small shield grabbed the front of her shirt and yanked her in. A hatchet blade shoved under her chin jammed her against the wall. Close hot breath reeking of wine assaulted her.

‘Oh, it’s you, lass,’ Lubben growled. He squinted through his good eye then released her and pushed himself away. ‘Sorry.’

Kiska caught her breath, straightened her shirt and vest. The room was no more than a nook. A hole overlooked during the fortress’s construction – too short for her to straighten, though tall enough for the hunchback gatekeeper.

‘By the Elders, child. I thought you’d better sense than to come here tonight.’ He shoved her aside, closed the door, slammed the bolt.

’What’s happening upstairs?’

Lubben thumped down into a chair beside a brazier of glowing coals. He took a pull from a skin, wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his stained leather jerkin.

‘Don’t know and don’t care.’

Kiska stood near the door, shivered in the damp air. ‘But you must have some idea.’

Lubben laughed, coughed hoarsely. ‘Lass, I’ve ideas all right. Plenty. But here they stay.’ He tapped one blunt finger to his temple.

‘Well, I’m going to find out.’

Head tilted to one side, he eyed her as if estimating the degree of her insanity. He pointed to the door. ‘Be my guest.’

Kiska hesitated. ‘You mean you’re just going to sit here?’

‘Indeed I am.’ Grinning, he took another pull from the skin. ‘Listen. It’s a war up there – no prisoners. You understand? This ain’t your regular social affair.’