He rubbed at his eyes. Sleep had become an … unwelcome thing. Night after night, ever since their flight from Darujhistan … pain — and dreams, no, nightmares. Gods below. He spent the dark hours twisted beneath his blankets, his blood racing through him, acids bubbling in his stomach, and when consciousness finally slipped from him, his sleep was fitful, racked with dreams of running. Running on all fours. Then drowning .

It's the blood of the Hound, coursing undiminished within me. It must be.

He had tried to tell himself more than once that the Shadow Hound's blood was also the source of his paranoia. The thought elicited a sour grin. Untrue. What I fear is all too real. Worse, this vast sense of loss. without the ability to trust — anyone. Without that, what do I see in the life awaiting me? Naught but solitude, and thus, nothing of value. And now, all these voices. whispering of escape. Escape.

He shook himself, spat to clear the sour phlegm in his throat. Think of that other thing, that other scene. Solitary. Baffling. Remember, Paran, the voice you heard. It was Tattersail's — you did not doubt it then, why do so now? She lives. Somehow, some way, the sorceress lives.

Ahh, the pain! A child screaming in darkness, a Hound howling lost in sorrow. A soul nailed to the heart of a wound. and I think myself alone! Gods, I wish I were!

Whiskeyjack entered the gatehouse, closed the door behind him and strode over to the scribe's table. He leaned against it, stretched out his aching leg. His sigh was like the easing of endless knots, and when it was done he was trembling.

After a moment the door opened.

Straightening, Whiskeyjack scowled at Mallet. 'I thought your captain'd called for an assembly, Healer-'

'Paran's in worse shape than even you, sir.'

'We've covered this. Guard the lad's back — you having second thoughts, Mallet?'

'You misunderstand. I just quested in his direction — my Denul warren recoiled, Commander.'

Whiskeyjack only now noted the pallid cast of the healer's round face. 'Recoiled?'

'Aye. That's never happened before. The captain's sick .'

'Tumours? Cancers? Be specific, damn it!'

'Nothing like that, sir. Not yet, but they'll come. He's eaten a hole in his own gut. All that he's holding in, I guess. But there's more — we need Quick Ben. Paran's got sorceries running through him like fireweed roots.'

'Oponn-'

'No, the Twin Jesters are long gone. Paran's journey to Darujhistan — something happened to him on the way. No, not something. Lots of things. Anyway, he's fighting those sorceries, and that's what's killing him. I could be wrong in that, sir. We need Quick Ben-'

'I hear you. Get him on it when we get to Pale. But make sure he's subtle. No point in adding to the captain's unease.'

Mallet's frown deepened. 'Sir, it's just… Is he in any shape to take command of the Bridgeburners?'

'You're asking me? If you want to talk to Dujek about your concerns, that's your prerogative, Healer. If you think Paran's unfit for duty — do you, Mallet?'

After a long moment, the man sighed. 'Not yet, I suppose. He's as stubborn as you are … sir. Hood, you sure you two aren't related?'

'Damned sure,' Whiskeyjack growled. 'Your average camp dog has purer blood than what's in my family line. Let it rest for now, then. Talk to Quick and Spindle. See what you can find out about those hidden sorceries — if gods are plucking Paran's strings again, I want to know who, and then we can mull on why.'

Mallet's eyes thinned as he studied the commander. 'Sir, what are we heading into?'

'I'm not sure, Healer,' Whiskeyjack admitted with a grimace. Grunting, he shifted weight off his bad leg. 'With Oponn's luck I won't have to pull a sword — commanders usually don't, do they?'

'If you gave me the time, sir-'

'Later, Mallet. Right now I've got a parley to think about. Brood and his army's arrived outside Pale.'

'Aye.'

'And your captain's probably wondering where in Hood's name you've disappeared to. Get out of here, Mallet. I'll see you again after the parley.'

'Yes, sir.'

CHAPTER THREE

Dujek Onearm and his army awaited the arrival of Caladan Brood and his allies: the fell Tiste Andii, Barghast clans from the far north, a half-score mercenary contingents, and the plains-dwelling Rhivi. There, on the still raw killing ground outside the city of Pale, the two forces would meet. Not to wage war, but to carve from bitter history, peace. Neither Dujek nor Brood, nor anyone else among their legendary company, could have anticipated the ensuing clash — not of swords, but of worlds …