Udinaas wanted to scream, let loose his grief, and the sourceless anger beneath it. But what was new in being used? What was new in having nothing to reach for, nothing to strive towards? He pulled himself up from the edge of crumbling stone, and looked about.

The army was on the move. Something had changed. He saw haste below. ‘We must return,’ he said.

‘To what?’ Harsh, bitter.

‘To what we were before.’

‘Slaves, Udinaas.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve tasted it now. I’ve tasted it!’

He glanced over at her, watched as she sat straighter, dragging the hair from her eyes, and fixed him with a fierce glare. ‘You cannot live like this.’

‘I can’t?’

She looked away. Not wanting to see, he guessed. Not wanting to understand.

‘We’re marching to Trate, Feather Witch.’

‘To conquer. To… enslave.’

‘Details,’ he muttered, climbing cautiously to his feet. He offered her a hand. ‘Mayen wants you.’

‘She beats me, now.’

‘I know. You’ve failed to hide the bruises.’

‘She tears my clothes off. Uses me. In ways that hurt. I hurt all the time.’

‘Well,’ Udinaas said, ‘he doesn’t do that to her. Not that there’s much… tenderness. He’s too young for that, I suppose. Nor has she the power to take charge. Teach him. She’s… frustrated.’

‘Enough of your understanding this, understanding that. Enough, Indebted! I don’t care about her point of view, I’m not interested in stepping into her shadow, in trying to see the world how she sees it. None of that matters, when she twists, when she bites, when she pushes… just stop talking, Udinaas. Stop. No more.’

‘Take my hand, Feather Witch. It’s time.’

‘I’d rather bite it off.’

I know . He said nothing.

‘So he doesn’t hurt her, does he?’

‘Not physically,’ he replied.

‘Yes. What he does to her…’ she looked up, searching his eyes, ‘I do to you.’

‘And you’d rather bite.’

She made no reply. Something flickered in her gaze, then she turned away even as she took his hand.

He drew her onto her feet.

She would not look at him. ‘I’ll go down first. Wait a bit.’

‘All right.’

An army kicked awake, swarming the forest floor. To the north, the ashes of home. To the south, Trate. There would be… vengeance. Details .

A flicker of movement downslope, then… nothing.

Trull Sengar continued scanning for a moment longer, then he settled back down behind the tree-fall. ‘We have been discovered,’ he said.

Ahlrada Ahn grunted. ‘Now what?’

Trull looked to the left and the right. He could barely make out the nearest warriors, motionless and under cover. ‘That depends,’ he muttered. ‘If they now come in force.’

They waited, as the afternoon waned.

Somewhere in the forest below was a Letherii brigade, and within it a mage cadre that had detected the presence of Tiste Edur positioned to defend the bridge. Among the officers, surprise, perhaps consternation. The mages would be at work attempting to discern precise numbers, but that would prove difficult. Something in Edur blood defied them, remained elusive to their sorcerous efforts. A decision would have to be made, and much depended on the personality of the commander. Proceed in a cautious and measured way until direct contact was established, whereupon a succession of probes would determine the strength of the enemy. There were risks, however, to that. Drawing close enough to gauge the sharpness of the enemy’s fangs invited a bite that might not let go, leading to a pitched engagement where all the advantage lay with the Tiste Edur. Uphill battles were always costly. And often withdrawal proved bloody and difficult. Worse, there was a good chance of an all-out rout, which would lead to slaughter.

Or the commander could order the mage cadre to unleash a sorcerous attack and so lay waste the forest reaches above them. Such an attack, of course, served to expose the mages’ position to those Edur warlocks who might be present. And to the wraiths and demons attending them. If the attack was blunted, the cadre was in trouble.

Finally, the commander could choose to pull back. Yield the bridge, and return to the solid defences of High Fort, inviting a more traditional battle – the kind the Letherii had fought for centuries, against enemy forces of all sorts, and almost invariably with great success.