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infmite care in blue and white that made the bow a work of art. ‘The last of the Siblis.’ He was glad to make some noise again after a day of silent tracking, even if he was speaking only to the night. He had found other bodies during the past week.
    ‘And this one was the seeker,’ he went on to himself.
    The war must be going badly if they have revived this practice, but what in the name of the dark place brought it here?
    He knew the Siblis were engaged in an almost eternal war with the Chetse, a slow, bitter struggle that drained both sides and left no one a winner. Now it appeared the Siblis were desperate enough to curse their own soldiers with a craving for magic, a craving that would drive them to the brink of death as they sought weapons for their outnumbered warriors. There were runes cut into the corpse’s torso, still open and weeping, kept that way by magic. Did they understand the agony they were putting their servants through?
    ‘I think you go hungry tonight,’ he called out suddenly, looking up sharply at a form watching from the rooftop. A mutter cut through the mist - soft, but certainly not human - and then it was gone. Whatever had been watching would not return; seeing him was enough to guarantee that. He turned the corpse over, noting the length of the sharp bony protrusions extending from each wrist. A prod revealed how little meat was on the creature. They had all been starving in this alien environment. Its skin was rough and scaled like a lizard’s, much tougher than human skin, but he could still count at least a dozen cuts and abrasions that had only half healed.
    Picking the corpse up by the ankle, he threw it on to the roof of the small storehouse the Siblis had died against. The corpse wouldn’t be disturbed tonight, at least. Gargoyles were mainly territorial, and hunted by sight, not scent: that one would not return soon, and no others would be drawn into claimed territory. A muffled cry came from the main building as the owner heard the commotion outside. A weak light flickered in the window above and then a round face appeared, a man’s, his several chins shaking in anger. A woman was shouting in the background.
    ‘What in Bahl’s name is going on out here?’ The man blinked the sleep from his eyes and peered down at the street, a candle in one hand and a club in the other. ‘You, what are you doing? Get away, before I call a patrol!’
    The giant slipped back the hood of his cape to reveal the blue mask underneath. His eyes blazed suddenly as he brought the bow up from the floor with a thought. The merchant gasped and dropped the club on to the floor, wincing as it fell on his bare toes.
    ‘My Lord, forgive me, I did not realise-‘
    The giant held up a hand for silence. He was not in the mood for conversation.
    ‘Return to your bed. If that wife of yours continues to screech I’ll have the Ghosts cut her tongue out.’
    Lord Bahl, Duke of Tirah and ruler of the Farlan tribe, marked the wall so a night patrol could retrieve the corpse later and continued on his way. This night was special to him. He didn’t want anything to intrude on his memories of a birthday long forgotten by others, just to be alone with the past in his beloved city. Outside, he forgot his loneliness and bathed in the night, remembering the happier time before he had become Lord of the Farlan, when duty had not been his only purpose.
    A low moan escaped his lips; it grew and rose up into the night sky. ‘Only one thing I have ever asked, only one,’ he prayed through the sudden waves of choking grief that rolled over him. ‘I have ever been loyal, but-‘ His voice trailed off. Forsaking the Gods would not bring her back; all that would achieve was harm to the nation that was now his life’s purpose. He stood and made a conscious effort to subjugate those feelings, drive them back into the deepest reaches of his heart. On this night only, the date of her birth and her death, the Lord of the