Another figure stood in the gloom. Huge, brooding. Gripp looked up and his voice was a rasp, ‘Who is that? In the shadows? Come forth!’

‘It is only Grizzin Farl,’ the stranger replied, stepping closer. Though tears glistened in his red beard, he somehow smiled. ‘I am known as the Protector.’

Gripp stared up at the giant, unable to speak. Shattered by that smile, he tore his gaze away and looked across to his lord.

Anomander stood with his head turned, his eyes fixed upon the prostrate form of Andarist. He was motionless, as if carved from onyx. His brother’s howls continued unabated.

Silchas appeared, halted a half-dozen paces back from the hearthstone. He stared down at Enesdia’s body, lying motionless and ruined beside Andarist. Behind him came others. None spoke.

Beneath Gripp, Kadaspala continued his silent, horrifying weeping. The fingers of his right hand made small scribing patterns against the floor. Shudders rippled through the man, as if fevers burned in his skull.

When Anomander drew the sword from the scabbard at his side, Andarist lifted his head, his howls cutting off abruptly, although the echo of the last lingered for what seemed an impossibly long time.

Anomander walked towards Andarist, his strides uneven — as if he was drunk — and halted near the hearthstone. Before he could speak, Andarist shook his head and said, ‘I will name it.’

Anomander stiffened at his brother’s cold pronouncement.

Silchas spoke. ‘Andarist, the weapon is not yours-’

‘The wound is mine and I will name it!’

Beneath Gripp, Kadaspala cackled softly, and held his head cocked, to better hear the words being spoken now by these three brothers.

Anomander said, ‘And if I name my future, Andarist, will you doubt me? Will you challenge me?’

‘Not now,’ whispered Silchas to Andarist. ‘Not on this day, I beg you.’

‘Where were you?’ Kadaspala asked again, in a broken voice. ‘Blind in the darkness — I warned you all but you refused to heed me! I warned you! Now see what she has made!’

On his knees, Andarist moved up alongside Enesdia’s body. With tenderness that was aching to witness, he gathered her up in his arms and held her head against his breast. He did all this without once breaking his gaze upon Anomander. ‘I will name it,’ he said.

‘The sword is drawn, brother, as you can see. I am awakened to vengeance, and so shall this weapon be named. Vengeance.’

But Andarist shook his head, one hand stroking Enesdia’s hair. ‘Anger blinds you, Anomander. You take hold of vengeance and you believe it to be pure. Remember Henarald’s words!’

‘The road is true,’ Anomander said.

‘No,’ said Andarist, and tears glistened in streams down his cheeks. ‘Vengeance deceives. When you see its road to be narrow it is in truth wide. When you see it wide the path is less than a thread. Name your sword Vengeance, brother, and it will ever claim the wrong blood. In this blade’s wake, I see the death of a thousand innocents.’ He paused, looked round woodenly, as if not even seeing what met his eyes. ‘Who is to blame for this? The slayers who came to this house? Those who commanded them? The lust of battle itself? Or was it a father’s cruelty to his child a dozen years ago? A stolen meal, a dead mother? An old wound? An imagined one? Vengeance, Anomander, is the slayer of righteousness.’

‘I need not reach to a childhood’s tragedy, brother, to know who has made himself my enemy on this day.’

‘Then you shall fail,’ Andarist said. ‘Vengeance is not pure. It rewards with a bitter aftertaste. It is a thirst that cannot be assuaged. Leave me to name your sword, Anomander. I beg you.’

‘Brother-’

‘Leave me to name it!’

‘Then do so,’ Anomander said.

‘Grief.’

The word hung forlorn in the chamber, amidst breaths drawn and then surrendered, and it stung like smoke.

‘Andarist-’

‘Take this name from me, Anomander. Please, take it.’

‘It has no strength. No will. Grief? Upon iron, it is rust. In fire, it is ash. In life, it is death. Brother, I will take nothing from that word.’

Andarist looked up with bleak eyes. ‘You will take my grief, Anomander, or never again shall I look upon you, or call you brother, or know your blood as mine own.’

Anomander sheathed the sword. ‘Then you shall but hear the tales of the justice I will mete out in your name, and the vengeance I will exact — which I here swear upon the still body of your beloved, and upon her father’s cold flesh.’