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woodsman, with a simple shirt and cloak, but spoke like a Borderlander. In his pouch he carried a set of colored balls that he’d sometimes juggle for the other members of the Band. In another life, he must have been a gleeman.
    He was an unlikely man to be in the Band, but they all were, in one way or another.
    “I don’t know how it dampens the poison,” Melten said. “But it does. It’s no natural poison, mind you. You can’t suck it free.”
    Talmanes pressed his hand to the side. The burning pain felt like thorny vines crawling in under his skin, creeping forward and tearing at his flesh with every movement. He could feel the poison moving through his body. Light, but it hurt.
    Nearby, the men of the Band fought through Caemlyn up toward the Palace. They’d come in through the southern gate, leaving the mercenary bands—under Sandip’s command—holding the western gate.
    If there was human resistance anywhere in the city, it would be at the Palace. Unfortunately, fists of Trollocs roved the area between Talmanes’ position and the Palace. They kept running across the monsters and getting drawn into fights.
    Talmanes couldn’t find out if, indeed, there was resistance above without getting there. That meant leading his men up toward the Palace, fighting all the way, and leaving himself open to being cut off from behind if one of those roving groups worked around behind him. There was nothing for it, though. He needed to find out what—if anything—remained of the Palace defenses. From there, he could strike further into the city and try to get the dragons.
    The air smelled of smoke and blood; during a brief pause in the fighting, they’d piled dead Trollocs against the right side of the street to make room for passage.
    There were refugees in this quarter of the city, too, though not a flood of them. A stream, maybe, seeping in from the darkness as Talmanes and the Band seized sections of the thoroughfare leading up toward the Palace. These refugees never demanded that the Band protect their goods or rescue their homes; they sobbed with joy at finding human resistance. Madwin was in charge of sending them toward freedom along the corridor of safety the Band had carved free.
    Talmanes started up toward the Palace, atop the hill but only barely visible in the night. Though most of the city burned, the Palace was not aflame; its white walls hung in the smoky night like phantoms. No fire. That had to indicate resistance, didn’t it? Wouldn’t the Trollocs have attacked it as one of their first actions in the city?
    He’d sent scouts along the street up ahead as he gave his men—and himself—a short breather.
    Melten finished tying Talmanes’ poultice tight.
    “Thank you, Melten,” Talmanes said, nodding to the man. “I can feel the poultice working already. You said this is part of the cure for the pain. What is the other part?”
    Melten unhooked a metal flask from his belt and handed it over. “Shienaran brandy, full strength.”
    “It’s not a good idea to drink in combat, man.”
    “Take it,” Melten said softly. “Keep the flask and drink it deep, my Lord. Or come the next bell, you won’t be standing.”
    Talmanes hesitated, then took the flask and took a long swallow. It burned like the wound. He coughed, then tucked the brandy away. “I believe you mistook your bottles, Melten. That was something you found in a tanning vat.”
    Melten snorted. “And it’s said you have no sense of humor, Lord Talmanes.”
    “I haven’t one,” Talmanes said. “Stay close with that sword of yours.”
    Melten nodded, eyes solemn. “Dreadbane,” he whispered.
    “What’s that?”
    “Borderlander title. You slew a Fade. Dreadbane.”
    “It had about seventeen bolts in it at the time.”
    “Doesn’t matter.” Melten clasped him on the shoulder. “Dreadbane. When you can’t take the pain any longer, make two fists and raise them toward me. I will see the deed done.”
    Talmanes stood up, unable