The Warden crouched in the shadow of a mighty oak and contemplated Death.

  They had followed the tracks all the way to a tree. If he had not been looking for a hideout, then he would not have seen anything, so well concealed was it, but he now saw in the upper boughs there were manmade structures.

  Theront-made structures.

  He had begun the work forty years ago. The King had declared it done. But the Warden had always known it was not finished, that there were survivors. For forty years that truth had burned him inside-out. He had begged the King to let him continue, and his reward had been the command of Ob-koron: out of sight, out of mind. I was a weapon, he thought. A tool. But now chance has favoured me with the opportunity to finish what was started.

  More than that: he might kill two birds with one stone, finishing off a remnant of the theronts and recovering his prisoner.

  But a challenge remained. He knew their enemy was an archer of consummate skill. And there was no way up to the hidden redoubt save to clamber up the sheer trunk of the giant tree. A ladder must be raised and lowered by an unseen hand.

  “How much of the Daimonsblood do we have left?” he said.

  Tor replied, “A single pail, Warden.”

  “Lace it about the roots of the tree. Set a fire.”

  “We have only one brand left,” the young man said, hesitantly.

  “That is an order.”

  The young man nodded. He began to detach the pail from where it hung on his saddle. A calloused hand gripped his wrist, stopping him. One-eyed Janus glared at The Warden.

  “It was all very well burning down that whore’s house,” Janus said. “But here the fire will catch and spread. The whole forest could burn down.”

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  The Warden forced a smile.

  “So be it. Better a forest burned than a criminal at large.”

  “Tell that to Midnere. Tell that to Yesterton. There are people living in this forest, Warden. Innocent people. And we don’t even know for sure that our man is up there. Could be tree-hugging druids for all we know.”

  The other guards held their breath. No one defies me like this. But The Warde knew Janus was old enough, experienced enough, and don’t-give-two-shits enough to attempt it. A man reached a certain age and either became a coward, reckless, or immutable. The Warden knew he was in the third of those categories, though many saw him as being in the second.

  “Janus,” The Warden said, and hew knew the softness in his voice was a blade. “You have served a long time, and faithfully. You have done good work for the cause. A man of your years should hold views. But I am in command here. I have determined our enemy is within reach. And the best way to approach is to smoke him out. If a few trees burn, and a few people are forced to flee their homes, it is no great price to pay to bring a criminal to justice.” The Warden placed a hand on the handle of his mace. The weapon had been well-used today. But this time, he sincerely did not want to use it again. Janus was too stubborn to be humbled by a wound, like Belt. Janus would have to be killed if he did not submit to reason. And The Warden considered him, despite their differences, largely cut from similar cloth.

  There was a second-long interval that spanned eternities. In such moments, the god Koronzon existed, more real and tangible than anything the Warden had ever known.

  At long last, Janus withdrew his hand from Tor. The young boy looked back once at the Warden, who nodded.

  He scampered forward. The Warden waited for the arrow to come, the silent dart of Death, but it did not. Tor stumbled to and fro, lacing the roots of the tree with Daimonsblood. With flint and tinder, a torch was lit. Wylf, Warick, and Tor retreated. Then the Warden placed the torch into Janus’s hand.

  “You know what to do.”

  Janus gritted his teeth. Muscles flexed and worked in his jaw. But he said nothing. He marched forward and hurled the brand onto the flammable oil.

  Instantly, black fires leapt up and began to devour the roots. Within a few seconds more, they began to snake up the trunk of the tree like flickering serpents, searing bark from the soft texture beneath, scouring the boughs of leaves and ornament. Smoke billowed upward. The low roar of the fires was perforated by shrieks as the tree seemed to squeal in protest.

  “Come out, come out,” the Warden muttered. “Show yourself, you coward.”