“Let the southern goat-fuckers die,” Erlin translated as Pertak stomped back to the settlement, still chuckling. “Then their seams will be ours to mine.”

The first of them appeared after a wait of several moments, a single kilted figure standing at the cave mouth, staring down at Vaelin with axe in hand. Vaelin raised both arms, showing his hands to be empty. Several more figures resolved out of the blackness of the cave, growing in number until perhaps six hundred people stood regarding him in silence. Vaelin lowered his arms and waited, hearing the growing tumult raised by the approach of the Wolf People. The spear-hawks came first, calling out their pealing cries as they glided into the valley and wheeled above, then the wolves, several packs numbering well over a hundred individuals. They loped forward to surround Vaelin, drawing an involuntary shudder from Scar.

Vaelin peered at the face of the first figure to appear as the Wolf People marched into the valley. He was too distant to fully make out his features, but Vaelin judged him to be the oldest tribesman present, possibly a chieftain. However, judging from the mismatched symbols and colours adorning the clothing of his companions, he doubted this man would be able to speak for all those who had taken refuge here. Nevertheless, he clearly commanded some form of regard, exchanging a few short words with the others before starting down the slope. Some of his companions followed immediately, all wearing similar colours and symbols to his own. The others lingered for a short time, exhibiting a fractious disunity as they exchanged shouts and threatened each other with raised weapons. Their disagreement proved short-lived, however, and soon all were following the older man to the valley floor.

Vaelin kept his eyes on the leading figure, not turning to witness the Wolf People coming to a halt at his back. The man walked towards him without undue haste, though there was a definite purpose to his gait. He halted twenty paces away, the other tribesfolk lining up on either side. Vaelin took hold of Scar’s reins and trotted him forward, stirring a ripple of unease throughout the small throng, though they made no move to oppose him.

He halted Scar a few yards short of the possible chieftain, looking into his face and seeing the besmirched, near-maddened gaze of a man who had lost much of his world in the space of a few days. Kiral had advised her song told of rage and confusion among these people, but sounded no note confirming they were on the right course. “My song grows darker and less tuneful every day,” she said. “Ever since we found the endless man. I doubt I have any more certainty to offer.”

But looking into the pain behind this man’s eyes, Vaelin saw all the certainty he needed. He had seen this face many times during the march towards Alltor. The face of the tortured, the raped, the widowed . . . and the vengeful.

His Volarian was poor, but Erlin had coached him on the correct pronunciation. “We go south,” he said, patting his chest and pointing to the southern end of the valley. “Kill Volarians. Come with us.”

CHAPTER TWO

Lyrna

Aspect Arlyn’s face betrayed no recognition as he regarded Nortah, nor any emotion at all as his gaze shifted to Lyrna, though his eyes narrowed slightly. Bound, Lyrna realised. Like Brother Frentis or the Kuritai. The Aspect reached over his shoulder to draw a sword of the Asraelin pattern, the steel bearing the signature flame-like markings of an Order blade.

“Aspect!” Nortah said again, taking a forward step, sword arm now limp at his side. “Do you know me?”

The Aspect’s gaze switched back to Nortah, the long features giving a faint tic of remembrance. “I know you, brother,” he said in a soft, reflective tone. “You died.”

He raised his free hand, paused a moment in expressionless consideration, then gave a barely perceptible flick of his wrist and the Arisai surged forward, manic joy on every face, swords moving in a blur of expertly wrought carnage. At first the Queen’s Daggers recoiled from the assault, Lyrna finding herself crushed between Davoka and Iltis as the surrounding ranks compressed, but the pressure slackened as they voiced another savage roar, rallied and fought back.

She struggled to turn, catching a glimpse of Nortah in combat with the Aspect, face drawn in reluctance as he fended off Arlyn’s blows. “Sister!” Lyrna called to Davoka, holding her spear above the thrashing ranks, eyes watching hawk-like for an opportunity to use it.

“The flasks!” Lyrna forced her way to the Lonak’s side, grabbing her arm. “Do you have the flasks?”

Davoka blinked at her in momentary bafflement then nodded, patting the small satchel at her side. “Only two.”

“Stay by me.”

She slapped Iltis’s shoulder to get his attention and pointed to Nortah, now backing away under a furious assault from the Aspect, dodging thrusts from the surrounding Arisai as he did so. Iltis nodded and began to push through the ranks of soldiers. As they neared the edge of the formation the Lord Protector was obliged to sidestep a thrust from an Arisai, the red-gauntleted hand holding the sword flashing into the space between him and Lyrna. She hacked down with the hatchet, the blade biting through the grieve to part sever the wrist. The Arisai collapsed at her feet, looking up with a grin, rich in lust and admiration. Lyrna’s hatchet came down again, shattering his skull above the eyes.

Iltis cleared the outer ring of soldiers and forced the Arisai back with wide sweeps of his sword. Lyrna held out a hand to Davoka who instantly filled it with a flask, the stopper already removed. Another Arisai slipped past Iltis, sword raised level with his head for a short, expert stab at Lyrna’s throat. Her hand jerked reflexively, casting a stream of dark liquid from the flask directly into his eyes. The reaction was instantaneous, the Arisai’s sword falling from his grip as he arched his back and howled, hands scrabbling at his face, fingers digging into the flesh. Watching him collapse to writhe on the temple floor, Lyrna had the satisfaction of seeing that all vestige of a smile had vanished from his face.

Nortah was only a few feet away now, forced to a crouch by the weight of Aspect Arlyn’s blows, all delivered with a blurring fury whilst his face remained a pale mask. A trio of Arisai charged into Iltis’s path, the combined assault forcing him to a halt, cuts appearing on his sword arm and forehead. Lyrna stepped to his side and swept the flask from left to right in a wide arc, the Mahlessa’s compound spraying forth to spatter onto the Arisai, most of the liquid falling onto their armour but enough finding exposed flesh to send them screaming to the stone floor.

Beyond them Nortah was now on his back, scrabbling away as the Aspect loomed closer, blade flashing. The Lord Marshal fended off the blows with typical efficiency, but Lyrna noted how he still restrained himself, failing to thrust at the openings left by the Aspect’s relentless assault.

“Aspect Arlyn!” He paused at her call, sword drawn back and sparing her only a short, incurious glance, but it was enough. The flask was empty save for a few droplets on the nozzle. She put all her strength into the throw, the flask turning end over end to collide with the Aspect’s face. For a moment she thought it hadn’t worked, that all the compound had been exhausted, but then saw a single glistening bead on his cheek, his face transformed into a wide-eyed, frozen scream. He sank to all fours, his sword clattering to the stones, shuddering as he fought to control the convulsions.

One of the Arisai gave a regretful chuckle and rushed forward, blade poised to strike at the Aspect’s back, then doubled over as Nortah’s sword stabbed up to pierce his breastplate. The Lord Marshal surged to his feet, sword moving in a silver blur as more Arisai closed in.

“Rally to Lord Nortah!” Lyrna called to the surviving Daggers. There were no more than thirty now, but all still fighting and willing to follow their queen’s commands. She held out her hand to Davoka, taking the second flask and casting the contents at the Arisai as they surged anew, felling a dozen or more and causing the others to reel back. The sight of their comrades’ screaming convulsions seemed to denude their humour, many smiles faltering, and their laughter fading. Pain makes them human, Lyrna decided, moving to stand with the Daggers, now formed into a greatly diminished circle, only one rank thick. Nortah stood in the centre, crouched at the Aspect’s side, face livid with concern.

“My lord!” Lyrna snapped. “To your duties if you would!”

Nortah shot her a glance of barely concealed resentment then rose, moving to her side. “If Your Highness has any brilliant stratagem for this circumstance, I am keen to hear it.”

“Kill the enemy,” she said, tossing the empty flask aside and hefting her hatchet.

The spectre of a grin played over his lips for a second and he nodded. “What it lacks in subtlety it gains in directness, Highness.”

The Arisai edged closer, eyes fixed on Lyrna, wary for any sign of another flask. Their fallen comrades had stopped writhing and lay in rigid stillness, each face a rictus mask of agony, frozen in death. At least I taught them how to fear.

Her gaze was abruptly drawn to the temple’s southern quadrant by a rising blossom of orange flame, accompanied by the faint tumult of combat and curiously, the yapping of enraged dogs. Any elation she felt at the sight, however, was negated by the sheer number of Arisai standing in her way; the Empress had been wise in sending an ample supply.