of death Gruntle could not imagine.
In the valley before them the broad basin was a solid river of grey figures, tens of thousands on the march. Ragged pennons hung from standards as if impervious to the moaning wind. Weapons glinted in muted flashes.
'Gods below,' muttered Quell. 'He's assembling the entire host.'
'Looks that way,' agreed Gruntle, feeling like an idiot with his cutlasses in his hands. He slid them back into the under-slung scabbards. 'Do we make our way down?'
'I'd rather not.'
'Good. Seen enough? Can we go now, Master Quell?'
'Look, a rider approaches.'
The horse was clearly as dead as the man who rode it, gaunt and withered, mottled where hair had worn off. Both wore armour, boiled leather tarnished and cracked, flapping on frayed leather thongs as they climbed the slope. A ragged cape lifted like a tattered wing behind the warrior. As they drew closer, Gruntle swore under his breath. 'He's wearing a mask – he's a damned Seguleh!' And he reached for his weapons—
'Gods' breath, Gruntle, don't do that!'
It was a struggle to lower his arms. Gruntle's blood felt hot as fire in his veins – the beast within him wanted to awaken, to show hackles lifted and fangs bared. The beast wanted to challenge this . . . thing. Trembling, he made no move as the rider drove his horse over the crest a dozen paces to their right, sawing the reins and wheeling the beast round to face them.
'Now this is living!' the Seguleh roared, tilting his head back to loose a manic laugh. Then he leaned forward on the saddle and cocked his head, long filthy hair swinging like ropes. 'Well,' he amended in an amused rumble, 'not quite. But close enough. Close enough. Tell me, mortals, do you like my army? I do. Did you know the one thing a commander must battle against – more than any enemy across the plain, more than any personal crisis of will or confidence, more than unkind weather, broken supply chains, plague and all the rest? Do you know what a commander wages eternal war with, my friends? I will tell you. The true enemy is fear. The fear that haunts every soldier, that haunts even the beasts they ride.' He lifted a gauntleted hand and waved to the valley below. 'But not with this army! Oh, no. Fear belongs to the living, after all.'
'As with the T'lan Imass,' said Gruntle.
The darkness within the mask's elongated eye-holes seemed to glitter as the Seguleh fixed his attention on Gruntle. 'Trake's cub. Now, wouldn't you like to cross blades with me?' A low laugh. 'Yes, as with the T'lan Imass. Is it any wonder the Jaghut recoiled?'
Master Quell cleared his throat. 'Sir,' he said, 'what need has Hood for an army? Will he now wage war against the living?'
'If only,' the Seguleh replied in a grunt. 'You don't belong here – and if you drag that infernal carriage of yours back here any time soon, I will seek you out myself. And then Trake's spitting kitten here can fulfil his desperate desire, hah!' He twisted in his saddle. Other riders were approaching. 'Look at them. My watchdogs. "Be reasonable", indeed. Have I chopped these two interlopers to pieces? I have not. Restraint has been shown.' He faced Gruntle and Quell once more. 'You will confirm this, yes?'
'Beyond you goading Gruntle here,' Quell said, 'yes, I suppose we can.'
'It was a jest!' the Seguleh shouted.
'It was a threat,' Quell corrected, and Gruntle was impressed by the man's sudden courage.
The Seguleh tilted his head, as if he too was casting new measure upon the mage. 'Oh, trundle your wagon wherever you like, then, see if I care.'
Three riders mounted the summit and, slowing their horses to a walk, drew up to where waited the Seguleh, who now sat slumped like a browbeaten bully.
Gruntle started, took an involuntary step forward. 'Toc Anaster?'
The one-eyed soldier's smile was strained. 'Hello, old friend. I am sorry. There may come a time for this, but it is not now.'
Gruntle edged back, blunted by Toc Anaster's cold – even harsh – tone. 'I – I did not know.'
'It was a messy death. My memories remain all too sharp. Gruntle, deliver this message to your god: not long now.'
Gruntle scowled. 'Too cryptic. If you want me to pass on your words, you will have to do better than that.'
Toc Anaster's single eye – terrifying in its lifelessness – shifted away.
'He cannot,' said the middle horseman, and there was something