Mallet leaned heavily on Paran's shoulder as he knelt down. 'Sorry, Captain,' he gasped. 'I ain't feeling right.'

'I won't ask you to use your warren again, Healer,' Paran said. 'But I need Quick Ben awake. Any suggestions?'

Mallet squinted down at the wizard. 'I didn't say I was weakened, sir, only that I ain't feeling right. I got help healing Trotts. Spirits, I think now. Maybe Barghast. They put me back together, somehow, someway, and Hood knows I needed putting back together. Anyway, it's like I got someone else's legs, someone else's arms …' He reached out and laid a hand against Quick Ben's brow, then grunted. 'He's on his way back. It's protective sorcery that's keeping him asleep.'

'Can you speed things up?'

'Sure.' The healer slapped the wizard.

Quick Ben's eyes snapped open. 'Ow. You bastard, Mallet.'

'Stop complaining, Quick. Captain wants to talk to you.'

The wizard's dark eyes swivelled to take in Paran, then, looming over the captain's shoulder, Trotts. Quick Ben grinned. 'You all owe me.'

'Ignore that,' Mallet said to Paran. 'The man's always saying that. Gods, what an ego. If Whiskeyjack was here he'd clout you on the head, Wizard, and I'm tempted to stand in for him on that.'

'Don't even think it.' Quick Ben slowly sat up. 'What's the situation here?'

'Our heads are still on the chopping block,' Paran said in a low voice. 'We haven't many friends here, and our enemies are getting bolder. Humbrall Taur's command is shaky and he knows it. Trotts killing his favoured son hasn't helped. Even so, the warchief's on our side. More or less. He may not care one whit for Capustan, but he knows the threat the Pannion Domin represents.'

'He doesn't care about Capustan, huh?' Quick Ben smiled. 'I can change that attitude. Mallet, you got company in that body of yours?'

The healer blinked. 'What?'

'Feeling strange, are you?'

'Well-'

'So he says,' Paran cut in. 'What do you know about it?'

'Only everything. Captain, we've got to go to Humbrall Taur. The three — no, the four of us — you too, Trotts. Hood, let's bring Twist, too — he knows a lot more than he's let on, and maybe I can't see that grin, Moranth, but I know it's there. Spindle, that hairshirt reeks. Go away before I throw up.'

'Some gratitude for protecting your hide,' Spindle muttered, edging back.

Paran straightened and swung his gaze back to Humbrall Taur's tent. 'Fine, here we go again.'

Sunset approached, spreading a gloom across the valley. The Barghast had resumed their wild dancing and vicious duels with an almost febrile intensity. Thirty paces away from Humbrall Taur's tent, sitting amidst discarded armour, Picker scowled. "They're still in there, the bastards. Leaving us to do a whole lot of nothing, except watch these savages mutilate each other. I don't think we should be thinking it's all over, Blend.'

The dark-eyed woman at her side frowned. 'Want me to hunt Antsy down?'

'Why bother? Hear those grunts? That's our sergeant taking that Barahn maiden for a ride. He'll be back in a moment or two, looking pleased-'

'And the lass trailing a step behind-'

'With a confused look on her face-'

'"That's it?"'

'She blinked and missed it.'

They shared a short, nasty laugh. Then Picker sobered again. 'We could be dead tomorrow no matter what Quick Ben says to Taur. That's still the captain's thinking, so he leaves us to our fun this night. '

' "Hooded comes the dawn. "'

'Aye.'

'Trotts did what he had to do in that scrap,' Blend observed. 'It should have been as simple as that.'

'Well, I'd have been happier if it'd been Detoran from the start. There wouldn't have been no near draw or whatever. She would have done that brat good. From what I've heard, our tattooed Barghast just stood back and let the weasel come to him. Detoran would've just stepped forward and brained the lad at the feather's drop-'

'Wasn't no feather drop, just a mace.'

'Whatever. Anyway, Trotts ain't got her meanness.'

'No-one has, and I've just noticed, she hasn't come back from dragging that Gilk warrior off into the bushes.'

'Compensation for Hedge running and hiding. Poor lad — the Gilk, that is. He's probably dead by now.'