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not a witch. Are you, Aulian?’
    ‘I’m a scholar. In my hunt for the monster that destroyed my home, I studied such things. I don’t begin to understand the magic that brought them to be, but I understand how
they may be sent back where they belong.’
    Addic pulled Jonnic aside. The two whispered to one another while Brawlic stared with open hostility at Oribas. Whatever decision the other Marroc reached, Jonnic didn’t like it. Addic
held up his hands. ‘Shadewalkers cross the mountains now and then. When they come, all we can do is step out of their path. Even the forkbeards fear them. Can you defeat one?’
    Oribas shook his head. ‘Not alone, for I’m no warrior. But I can show you how.’
    Addic started to laugh. ‘You see, Jonnic. And imagine what the people of Varyxhun and beyond will say when a Marroc comes among them carrying the sword Solace and slays a shadewalker.
That’s
how we’ll have our uprising.’
    Jonnic snorted. ‘I say we take it to Valaric the Mournful in the Crackmarsh. Or across it and back to the Vathen. Let
them
fight the forkbeards.’ He stared at Oribas.
‘You came over the mountains. Across the Aulian Way after the first winter snows. Why?’
    Oribas shrugged. ‘It was Gallow.’ He smiled faintly. ‘He wanted to go home.’

 
     
     
     
5
GALLOW
     
     
     
     
    I n the gloom under Varyxhun, in Gallow’s cramped and dank stone cell, Beyard picked up the empty cess bucket. He turned it upside down and
sat on it. Gallow squatted in a corner, watching.
    ‘Seventeen winters,’ said the ironskin. ‘Eighteen soon.’ His voice was like grating metal, not the voice that Gallow remembered, and his face was pale and hollow, his
eyes rimmed red and steeped in shadows. But he was still unmistakably Beyard. ‘I heard about you, but not for a long time. No one knew who you were until you stole King Medrin’s
sword.’
    ‘It was never his sword,’ whispered Gallow.
    Beyard’s lips drew back. His teeth were a perfect white. He made a noise that might have been a laugh but that came out more like a wet cough. ‘We both have our reasons not to like
our king. I never gave away your names, either of you. Look at me now, Gallow. My reward is a skin of iron punishment to atone. For what? For being the only one with the courage to stay and stand
fast when we all three broke the old laws? Why did you come back?’
    ‘I never meant to leave.’ They stared at each other in silence. Gallow took in the man who’d once been his friend, back when they were both filled with boyish bravado. The
armour of the Fateguard, the iron strips and plates, covered him from head to toe. The Fateguard were the holy fists who guarded the Temple of Fates and enforced the will of the Eyes of Time, both
cursed and blessed. They were rarely seen outside a temple and Gallow had never heard of one taking off his mask. More often than not they were the worst
nioingr
who would never have any
other chance to atone, but that wasn’t Beyard. Beyard had never been a coward. ‘Are you my executioner?’
    That wet coughing sound again. Beyard shook his head. ‘Not I. But there will be one, have no doubt. Who will you have to speak you out when you hang?’
    ‘I doubt there’s a single Lhosir who’d do that now.’
    ‘Then I will do it.’ Beyard shifted. Metal ground on metal.
    ‘What happened to you?’
    The iron man looked down at himself. ‘To me? See it for yourself. After you ran—’
    Gallow bared his teeth. ‘I did not
run
, Beyard! I would have stood beside you. Willingly. Do you not remember how it was?’
    For a moment a light flashed in the Fateguard’s bloody eyes. ‘I remember, Gallow. We each paid our own price for our foolishness. I saw Medrin cross the sea; but fate found him out
and I saw him back again with a wound that should have killed him, that left him crippled and for many years but half a man. I saw him rise each day with barely the strength to walk. I saw him
fight for