“Any message for the Aspect?” he asked, stepping back.

“Only that I’ve decided to leave the Order. He can keep the coins.”

Barkus nodded, hefted his hateful axe and strode up the gangplank without a backward glance. He stood unmoving on the foredeck as the ship pulled away, like one of Ahm Lin’s statues, a great and noble warrior frozen in stone. Vaelin would always prefer to think of him like this in the years that followed.

He stayed on the quay to watch them all leave, Lord Al Trendil hounding his regiment onto the ships with a flurry of waspish insults, offering Vaelin the most cursory of bows before boarding. It seemed he had never quite forgiven him for taking away the chance of profiting from the war. Count Marven’s Nilsaelins scrambled aboard the ships with unabashed eagerness, a few calling jocular farewells to Vaelin as they sailed away. The Count himself seemed unusually cheerful, now all chance of glory had evaporated it seemed he had no more cause for enmity. “I lost more men to brawls than to battle,” he said, offering Vaelin his hand. “For which I think my fief owes you its thanks, my lord.”

Vaelin shook his hand. “What will you do now?”

Marven shrugged. “Go back to hunting outlaws and wait for the next war.”

“You’ll forgive me if I hope you have a long wait.”

The Count grunted a laugh and strolled onto his ship, accepting a bottle of wine from his men who sang heartily as the ship drew away,

“Desert winds blow hard at me

Till we reach the shining sea.

And borne away across the waves

My lover’s life I’ll sail to save.”

Baron Banders and his knights laboured onto the ships under the weight of their disassembled armour. Of all the contingents their mood was the most varied, a few weeping openly over the loss of the great warhorses which had had to be left behind, others clearly drunk and laughing uproariously.

“A sorry spectacle they make without armour and horses, eh?” Banders asked, his own faux-rusted plate balanced on the shoulders of an unfortunate squire who stumbled several times before successfully heaving it onto the ship.

“They’re fine men,” Vaelin told him. “Without them this city would have fallen and there would be no homecoming for any of us.”

“True enough. When you return to the Realm I hope you’ll visit me. Always a full table in my manor.”

“I shall, and gladly.” He shook the Baron’s hand. “You should know Al Telnar brought details of events at Marbellis. It seems the Battle Lord and a few others managed to fight their way to the docks when the walls fell. About fifty men managed to escape in all, Fief Lord Theros was not among them but his son was.”

The Baron’s laugh was harsh and his face grim. “Vermin always find a way to survive, it seems.”

“Forgive me, Baron, but what happened at Marbellis to cause the Fief Lord to dismiss you? You’ve never told me.”

“When we finally fought our way in the slaughter was terrible, and not confined to Alpiran soldiery. Women and children…” He closed his eyes and sighed heavily. “I found Darnel and two of his knights raping a girl next to the bodies of her parents. She couldn’t have been more than thirteen. I killed the two others and was trying to geld Darnel when the Fief Lord’s mace laid me low. ‘He’s scum, right enough,’ he told me the next day. ‘But he’s also the only son I have.’ So he sent me to you.”

“Have a care when you return to your lands. Lord Darnel doesn’t strike me as a forgiving soul.”

Banders replied with a grim smile, “Neither am I, brother.”

Sergeants Krelnik, Gallis and Janril Noren were the last of the Wolfrunners to leave. He shook hands with each of them and thanked them for their service. “It’s been less than ten years,” he told Gallis. “But if you wish to be released, it is within my discretion.”

“We’ll see you in the Realm, My Lord!” Gallis said, snapping off an impeccable salute and marching onto the ship, quickly followed by Krelnik and Noren.

The Cumbraelin archers were the last contingent onto the ships. He had offered to place them ahead of the Renfaelins for fear they may suspect some perfidious Darkblade plot to abandon them to the Alpirans, but Bren Antesh had surprised him by insisting they wait until all others had gone. He supposed there was a possibility of ambush, he was alone with a thousand men who saw him as an enemy of their god after all, but they all trooped onto the ships without trouble, most either ignoring him or offering nods of wary respect.

“They’re grateful for their lives,” Antesh said, reading his expression. “But they’ll be dammed if they’ll say it. So I will.” He bowed, Vaelin realising it was the first time he had done so.

“You’re welcome, Captain.”

Antesh straightened, glanced at the waiting ship and then back at Vaelin. “This is the last ship, my lord.”

“I know.”

Antesh raised his eyebrows as realisation dawned. “You don’t intend to return to the Realm.”

“I have business elsewhere.”

“You shouldn’t linger here. All these people have to offer you is an ugly death.”

“Is that what happens to the Darkblade in the prophecy?”

“Hardly. He is seduced by a sorceress who makes herself a queen with the power to conjure fire from the air. Together they wreak terrible ruin on the world until her fire consumes him in the throes of their sinful passion.”

“Well, at least I have that to look forward to.” He returned Antesh’s bow. “Luck to you, Captain.”

“I have something to tell you,” Antesh said, his normally placid features sombre. “I did not always carry the name Antesh. Once I had another name, one you know.”

The blood-song surged, not in warning, but clear and strident triumph. “Tell me,” he said.

Ahm Lin’s burns had healed well but his scars would linger for the rest of his life. A large patch of puckered, discoloured tissue marred the right side of his face from cheek to neck and similarly ugly scars were visible on his arms and chest. Despite this he appeared as affable as ever, although his sadness at what Vaelin asked of him was obvious.

“She has preserved me, cared for me,” he said. “To do such a thing…”

“Would you do any less for your wife?” Vaelin asked.

“I would follow my song, brother. Are you?”

He recalled the pure, triumphant note of the blood-song as he had listened to what Antesh had to say. “More closely than I ever have before.” He met the mason’s gaze. “Will you do this thing I ask?”

“It seems our songs are in agreement, so I have little choice.”

Sherin knocked at the door and entered bearing a bowl of soup. “He needs to eat,” she said, placing the bowl next to the mason’s bed and turning to Vaelin. “And you need to help me pack.”

Vaelin touched Ahm Lin briefly on the hand by way of thanks and followed her from the room. She had taken over Sister Gilma’s old quarters in the basement of the Guild House and was busily sorting out which of the myriad bottles and boxes of curatives to take with her. “I’ve managed to procure a small chest for your things,” she told him, moving to a shelf where her hand traced along the line of bottles, picking out some, leaving others.

“I only have these,” he replied, taking a bundle from his cloak and handing it to her, the wooden blocks Frentis had brought him wrapped in Sella’s scarf. “Not much of a dowry, I know.”

She gently undid the scarf, fingers pausing to play over the intricate design. “Very fine. Where did you come by this?”