The all-clear didn’t come.

Louen began to get impatient, which was his undoing. When he got to the other side of the mountain, Erwillian’s trap was well and truly sprung.

‘Worked a treat,’ said the General, discarding the puppet with a casual boot down the hill. ‘Your men need their eyes testing.’

‘What the…!’

‘Possibly their intelligence too,’ Erwillian smirked coldly. ‘So…how shall we do this? Shall I say, long time no see, and embrace you as a brother?’

‘You can fuck yourself to death with your fucking sword for all I care!’

Louen was livid. The effigy that the General had kicked away from him had black hair. Whoever he’d meant it to be, it wasn’t Laurentus, because that man was trussed up like a wild turkey ready for the oven, along with the others. All but one.

His eyes swivelled to Bresgion, standing with his eyes cast down a little to the side of the company. Louen wanted to rage, and yell, and curse that piece-of-shit to the four winds, but he held it all back. It took an effort, but he held it back, and forced himself to meet Erwillian’s cold grey eyes with all the calm he could muster.

‘Am I the prize, then?’ he asked, resigned.

‘No.’ Erwillian glanced at the puppet, lying in a ragged heap at the foot of an old, ragged pine. ‘You’re the bait. Tell me where she is.’

‘Dead?’ Louen shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Dead, or fled, or still in Wayland. I’d hardly think to find her here. I didn’t tell her about the Eyrie.’

‘You do know who I mean, then?’

‘Men…Meliane. Yes, I know.’

Erwillian gestured to a couple of his men, and Louen stood stock still as they came and trussed him up like an oven-ready turkey too. He reflected that he might as well have been a turkey, and wondered if Erwillian would actually shove some herbs up his arse as well, before he grilled him over an open flame. The General did have a sense of humour, if you wanted to call it that. Shoving things up or into people was one of his amusements. Knives, herbs…his dick…all had been up one arse or another, and in the end it was all the same, because the owner of the unortunate arse never seemed to survive to endure another go.

I hope that isn’t going to be my fate. Death is one thing. Being arse-fucked to death by that vomit-stained maggot is another.

He squinted skywards as his hands were roped to Erwillian’s saddle. He didn't struggle. There was no point. ‘I get the position of honour at your knee, I see.’

‘Just remember that no matter how poorly I value your life, Louen, there is someone else who will only value you dead. And I ride at her command. Remember that.’

Louen nodded briefly. The Queen. She had inherited some strong opinions from her late parents, but by far the strongest was her prejudice against both Limeans and Karoni, and especially their mages.

He braced himself as Erwillian mounted. He hoped his friends would be able to keep up with them. He wished he could speak with them, even a look would have done, but the General had blindfolded all of them. Louen knew why. No mage could cast any magic if he couldn’t see his target. If they tried, they’d risk killing their companions, who wouldn’t be able to see to get out of the way. The General’s soldiers would, though, increasing the risk.

And Louen really, really wanted a chance to speak to Bresgion. Preferably to cut out his vile treacherous tongue and gouge his eyeballs out with it, but he knew that would achieve nothing but his own satisfaction. It could wait. For now, Erwillian seemed to have every intention of keeping him alive, both in the hope of drawing Meliane out, and so that he could hand the pleasure of killing five mages over to the Queen.

Who’s nastier at killing? Her, or him?

His arms snapped forward as Erwillian’s spurs pricked the horse’s flanks. Louen stumbled, found his footing again, and let his subconscious knowledge of the terrain take over his body. His feet flew over roots, stones, and dips; his long stride easily kept pace with Erwillian, who didn’t seem to be pushing faster than a leisurely canter.

He won’t risk laming his horse. He’s not taking it easy for my sake. Once we reach open ground it’ll be hell-for-leather and I’ll be lucky to get as far as Wayland without my heart giving out. But if I’m right about him, he’ll get me to the capital.

And the others?

He didn’t want to think about the others. He couldn’t help them. They’d have to do the best they could for themselves.

Erwillian jerked him forward. ‘Every night she evades us, I’ll execute one of your mages, Louen. So if you know where she is, you had better tell me, for their sakes.’

‘I don’t know!’

‘Very well.’ Erwillian slowed a little as they crossed from one trail to another, a slightly wider path now, but just as beset with thorns, roots and stones. Louen hissed in pain as the soft soles of his boots landed on a sharp flint. He pushed the pain to the back of his mind and concentrated on running and breathing. Behind him came the laboured sounds of his friends’ fading stamina. Louen bit his lip. He’d fostered indolence and lethargy: they should have trained harder, and not grown complacent and lazy.

I truly thought the Eyrie was a safe refuge.

He dodged flying hooves as Erwillian reined in sharply, then he was yanked forward again, skittering hooves spitting gravel in his face. He kept his head down, his eyes half-closed, and ran, and breathed, and ran.

They stopped at nightfall, at the Forest’s edge, and Erwillian oversaw an orderly pitch. Two soldiers passed bread and water – both warm and stale – to the captives, then roped them together.

Then he dragged Bresgion to the middle of the camp and forced him to his knees. ‘This is your travelling companion?’ he asked Louen.

‘You know he was.’

‘And he was with you when you left Wayland, as he says?’

Louen saw no gain in lying. ‘Yes.’

‘And you both worked at the brothel I searched?’

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t seem inclined to lie, or defend him, or protest that he knew nothing about…anything? Do you expect me to believe he knew nothing?'

‘As far as I can see, there is no point in lying to you, and no, he knew nothing.’ Louen shifted, uncomfortable in his bonds. The bread and water hadn’t been enough. There was a soup heating on the campfire nearest him, full of sage and carrots and beef. He thought he might well be tempted to kill for it. He swallowed, grimacing at the stale dryness of his mouth. It tasted foul. Heat, exertion, and fear had all rendered him foul and ragged.

‘No point, indeed,’ Erwillian purred. ‘You were betrayed, and I can see in your eyes how it pains you! You never did learn that men are devils, Louen. You cannot trust a single one of them. Nor can you trust women, yet you’re curiously silent on the subject of one in particular. But I’ll cut you a deal…’

‘No deals,’ rasped Louen. ‘Not with you! I’d rather bargain with the Black Hag when she comes to reap my soul!’

‘I'll pray every day that you get your wish,’ Erwillian snapped. ‘But I offer you a bargain nonetheless, and when you hear it, you’ll want to take it. You know where Meliane is. I want to know where she is. You owe her nothing – and certainly not your miserable life – so you can lose nothing by telling me. Only the lives of those you hold dear, if you don't give her up.’

‘I am not a betrayer of innocents, even if I had the knowledge you’re begging me for.’

‘No?’ Erwillian fell silent once more, as if thinking, pinching his chin between finger and thumb. Louen hardly dared move.

Then the General raised his hand, snapped his fingers, and Adharan was thrown down at his feet.

‘So be it,’ he said, and his knife flashed in the firelight as he brought it down in a graceful arc of wild, murderous iron.