I rose quickly, hoping to stab the man before he could attack me again, but he'd used the thwarted momentum of his swing to try and take Kest's head instead. It was an awkward manoeuvre, which Kest easily ducked, then used the force of his own spin to bring his warsword slicing just a few inches above the ground, at ankle-height. There was a terrible crunch as the blade first shattered our opponent's bones, then cut right through. The man screamed as he tumbled to the ground, four inches shorter than he'd been when he started his attack. I was simultaneously reassured and unnerved by the strength and precision Kest displayed with just one hand.

'You know,' Kest said, rising and preparing to take on his next opponent, a great bull of a man wielding a heavy spear, 'I really am more comfortable when we're outnumbered.'

As absurd as it sounded, he had a point.

You might think a large group of men would simply rush at their opponents and overwhelm them but have you ever tried to strike a target while ten other people are running headlong beside you, jostling your arm and getting in the way of your swing? In a confined space, somewhere like the martyrium's preparation room, and properly arrayed, the way Quentis had prepared his men, the fight might have played out very differently. But these people weren't at all organised, which made me think they were more likely brigands bribed or pressed into service by Sir Belastrian and his fellow Knights. And that suggested that none of the four were high-ranking, and so were more used to following orders than giving them.

We'd probably been outnumbered four to one when the fight started, but like I said, winning on numbers alone isn't as easy as people think; now only two Knights remained and maybe five of the unarmoured men. Besides, Kest, Brasti and I are very good at fighting ridiculous odds, which is probably why, despite the chaos and blood and burning anger over having been tricked and ambushed, I was smiling for the first time in weeks.

'You see, Allister?' Brasti shouted around the arrow held between his teeth as he knelt on the ground reaching for his bow with his right hand, 'Falcio's back.'

But Allister was having his own problems now: the archers on the other side of the logs were all dead, but two men with heavy clubs were pressing him back and I could see Allister's left arm was hanging uselessly at his side.

'Brasti, shoot one of those bastards,' I called.

'I've got it,' Kest said, and hurled his warsword through the air, pommel first.

Throwing a sword is, by and large, one of the dumbest things you can do. They're really not designed as projectiles, and the odds of hitting your target aren't good. That's why I was especially annoyed when the pommel struck one of Allister's attackers squarely on the side of his head.

'What?' he said to me, looking a trifle miffed at my expression. 'You're not the only one allowed to throw a blade, you know.'

'No!' Allister shouted, and Kest and I turned to see him stumbling back against the logs the second club-man had managed to trip him, and though his coat had protected his back, now he was trapped between the spikes and his attacker was lifting his weapon, preparing for a heavy blow. I reached into my coat for another knife as Kest took off at a run for the logs, but I knew neither of us would get there in time.

'I've got it,' Brasti shouted.

I turned just in time to see Brasti, sitting on the ground using both feet to push against his bow as he held an arrow between two fingers. He nocked and released and the sharp twang of the bowstring was followed by the whoosh of the arrow as it flew through the air. An instant later its journey ended in a soft thunk as the point buried itself in the neck of the man with the club.

Kest and I watched in awe as he slid first to his knees and then fell to the road.

Allister twisted out from between the spikes and then clambered to his feet. He looked utterly baffled, then he caught sight of Brasti, still on his arse, and worked out what must have happened. 'Saint Merhan-who-rides-the-arrow . . .'

'For now,' Brasti said, grinning despite the obvious pain he was in as he started getting to his feet.

But Allister hadn't been praising Brasti's skill, brilliant though he was. As I moved closer I saw what he'd seen: the woman in the stolen greatcoat had risen from the forest floor with Brasti's ironwood arrow still buried in the side of her skull and was walking towards us.

She was smiling.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.

The King's Spear

'I am the God's Needle,' the woman said, and the feathered end of the arrow bobbed up and down as she walked slowly towards us.

'Which God would that be?' I asked, reaching down to pick up both my rapiers from the ground. 'Because if he were here, he'd probably tell you that you don't have long to live.'

She laughed, and under normal circumstances I would have appreciated that from an enemy, but not with the blood dripping down the side of her head from a fatal wound. Then, because apparently that wasn't disturbing enough, she turned to Ethalia and said, 'Hello, sister.'

Ethalia recoiled, though I couldn't tell whether it was from the madwoman's greeting or because of some other influence I couldn't see. She folded at the waist as though she were about to vomit. 'You . . . are . . . no sister of mine.'

The God's Needle spread her hands beatifically. 'Do you not sense my Awe, sister? Do you not feel it slip and slither inside you?'

Ethalia forced herself upright, raising one hand in front of her. The first touch of her Awe pushed at all of us it was weaker than before, but still enough to make Kest, Brasti, Allister and me begin to stumble. It didn't have any such effect on the woman with the arrow through her skull. 'Ah, ah ah. I'm sorry, sister, but I'm beyond your Awe.' She took a step towards her. 'How do you enjoy mine?'

Whatever she was doing, she did more of it, and Ethalia began to convulse, teetering like an uprooted tree. I couldn't imagine what sickly sensation was worming through her. Wait why can't I imagine it? 'Ethalia, stop using your Awe.'

Her mouth was open, her jaw slack, and I wasn't even sure she could understand me. 'Sweetheart, please, stop now.'

I don't know whether Ethalia heard me or whether she just couldn't keep fighting, but she fell to the ground and instantly the pressure on us disappeared.

'Clever,' the God's Needle said. 'You figured out that-'

She didn't finish that thought, because I'd thrown myself at her and used every ounce of my strength and momentum to drive the pointy end of my rapier deep into her chest, shattering the bone plate inside the stolen greatcoat and piercing her lung. My left blade was embedded in her belly but to my everlasting revulsion, she began giggling as she grabbed at both blades, ignoring the great gashes they opened on her hands and instead holding them in place, preventing me from withdrawing them.

Laugh all you want, I thought, I'm not done with you. A long time ago, I'd paid far, far too much money to have my rapiers custom-made for me, with the blades held against a coiled spring that could be released with a press of a lever near the top of the grip under the guard. It was a great idea; unfortunately, the physics hadn't been quite worked out and instead of flying through the air when released, which is what I'd intended, instead they flopped unceremoniously to the ground. In this event I didn't care: I pressed the levers, releasing the blades, and with my fingers still clutching the heavy steel guards, I punched the God's Needle so hard her jaw shattered.

She still wouldn't drop.

'We . . . aren't like you, Trattari,' she said, her jaw hanging off, her voice almost unintelligible. 'We fear neither pain nor death.'

'Good for you,' I said, and drove my left fist into her shoulder. Something broke there, so at least she wouldn't be able to grab me. 'I imagine we'll have lots to talk about once we get you tied up and haul you back to Aramor. Then you can tell us all about how powerful and beloved of the Gods you are. And you can tell us who you work for.'

For the first time, I saw something akin to concern in her eyes. Her voice was almost a growl when she said, 'He who forges our destiny is far beyond any man. You will never know his name.'

She struck out with her other arm even off-balance and half dead she had impressive strength and I staggered back a few steps until Kest caught me.

The woman smiled. 'It is true, I cannot defeat all of you, so I leave you with a message from the Gods, Trattari.' She reached up a hand and gripped the shaft of the arrow lodged in her skull. It made a sickening sound as she pushed it in harder, then twisted it and finally pulled it from her head. The laugh she gave sent my guts into knots. 'We will hunt down every Greatcoat who seeks to put the laws of men above those of the Gods. And we will slay the heretic Queen, for her life is an abomination.'

Brasti stumbled towards me and leaned against my shoulder. 'I really don't think you should be calling other people "abominations", you know,' he pointed out.

She ignored Brasti and turned her gaze back to me. 'You above all others will suffer, Falcio val Mond, for you would make your blasphemous ideals into a God of your very own. I hope you are there to witness the glorious moment when one of us buries our Needle deep inside the false Queen's mouth.'

The woman looked down at the arrow in her hand and for a second I thought she might try to hurl it at us. Instead she opened the front of her greatcoat, tearing it against my blades, then she slammed the point of the arrow deep into her own belly. She looked up at me and her smile widened. 'It feels so good,' she said, though her voice was now barely a whisper, and she ripped it out only to drive it straight into her chest.

'Stop!' Ethalia screamed, visibly sickened by the sight, but the madwoman ignored her.

Again and again the Needle stabbed herself, each time letting out a moan that was half agony and half some mad ecstasy, until finally she fell to the ground. Kest, Brasti, Allister and I stood over her and her eyes went to each of us in turn. 'Each of us needs kill only one Saint,' she said, 'and for that, eternal pleasures are promised to us.' She opened her mouth and showed me her tongue, which was the blue of the pertine. 'The Greatcoats we kill for free.'

I felt so sick that I couldn't speak, but Ethalia rose to her feet and said suddenly, 'She's lying.'

The woman's eyes went wide, and so did mine. 'What do you mean?' I asked.

She ignored me and knelt down to lean over her. 'I was next to you when you stabbed Brasti. You could have taken him in the throat or the chest, but you went for his arm.'

'Ethalia's right,' Kest added, 'You could have ordered your archers to fire at us from the forest, or given more of your men bows, but you didn't. I think whoever commands you has ordered that you capture Greatcoats if you can, not kill them.'

The woman's mouth spilled blood as she spoke through her broken jaw. 'You deceive yourself, apostate-'

'No,' Kest said, 'I don't think so.' He looked at me. 'Think about it, Falcio.'

Allister shook his head. 'This is wishful thinking, Kest.'

'No,' I said, letting the patterns and possibilities tumble around in my head, 'he's right. Alive, they can interrogate us for what we know or use us as hostages, or for whatever damnable rituals they think their Gods might want them to inflict.'

'There's a disturbing thought,' Allister said.

The light, broken sound of the woman's laughter brought our attention back to her. 'It matters not, Trattari. My work is done, and my reward awaits.' Her eyes began to flicker shut.

Kest grabbed what was left of her jaw with his hand. 'I don't think so,' he said. 'I don't think you were expecting us to be here you saw us pass through the village and rounded up your men to come after us.'

'So what?' Allister asked, sounding mystified.

'It means she didn't know that there would be more Greatcoats she might kill or capture,' I said, as I finally understood what Kest had been driving at. 'It means they wouldn't have killed the one they did capture unless they had to. It means Talia might still be alive.'

With the last ounce of strength granted to her by the poison in her veins, the woman on the ground screamed in outrage and despair before she finally left this world.

'I don't understand,' Brasti said, holding his bandaged arm as we followed the tracks into the forest. 'Why search here and not the village? That's where she spotted us; that's where the Knights came from.'

'She wouldn't keep Talia in a place where there were people who might see them holding a woman against her will,' I replied, sliding the blade of my right rapier back into its guard and pushing against the inner spring until I felt the click of the retaining lever snapping back into place. 'They must have a camp here in the forest; I'll bet the others lie in wait there until they get the signal to attack.'

'Which is a good reason to keep your mouths shut,' Allister said, his own voice quiet. 'We don't know how many might be waiting for us.'

Chastened, we followed him along the winding forest path. He was an even better tracker than Brasti, who nonetheless felt the need to point out every broken twig and bent piece of foliage to ensure we knew that he too could have found the camp, and just as quickly.

Allister insisted we move slowly and quietly, being careful not to raise the alarm too soon, in case there were a lot of people guarding the camp, but even before we reached the place I'd known what we would find. These traps were designed to take down a single Greatcoat, two at most. With four Greatcoats, there was too much chance of one or more of us escaping: so they would have sent every able-bodied man they could muster to ensure they succeeded in overpowering us. And that meant there wouldn't be many left guarding the camp.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ethalia stumble, and I reached out an arm for her to grab onto. 'Are you all right?' I whispered. 'Is it the fever?'

She shook her head. 'No, the . . . the violence. I know you had no choice, Falcio. It's just . . . the nature of my Sainthood makes it hard for me.'

There wasn't much I could do about that, so I tried instead just to provide support for her as we made our way into the forest.

It took us less than an hour to find the cultists' lair. It wasn't much of an encampment, to be honest, and looking at the number of tents, I was convinced I was right, that almost all the men had come for us on the road.

'Stay back!' someone called out from behind one of the thick trees. His voice was deep, thick so, a big man: that made sense if you had only one person to guard a captive. The slight quiver that accompanied his words served to confirm to me that he was alone.

'We're not here to hurt you,' I said. 'We want the woman you're holding hostage.'

A tall, stocky young Knight stepped out from behind a tree, his armour mostly obscured by the woman in tattered rags he was holding against his chest. One meaty hand was clamped over her mouth, whilst the other held a knife to her throat. 'I'll kill her long before I let you have her, Trattari.'

'Talia . . .' Brasti said.

It was her all right. I would have recognised her by her hair even if I couldn't see her face. Talia had the brownest hair you'd ever seen not the mix of shades of auburn and mahogany and chestnut and all the shades of tree and soil that most people have. Hers was the colour an artist might use to paint a single sliver of oak.

I signalled the others to stay back and walked towards the pair, my hands outstretched, my rapiers still in their sheaths. 'There's been plenty of blood today, my young friend. Let's not add to Death's tally. He's not a rewarding God, I promise you.'

The young Knight pressed his point to Talia's throat. 'The good God Purgeize will bless my blade!'

Talia was barely managing to stand on her own feet. Her gaze was confused, unfocused, but I still found a fierce anger there, and a desire to act. I caught her eyes and gave the tiniest shake of my head, hoping she would understand that I needed her to stay still. 'War is an even greedier God than Death,' I said.

'I do not fear you, Trattari!'

Why does everyone always feel the need to tell us that they aren't afraid of us? I took a final step and said sadly, 'Of course you don't. All that matters to you is doing this one service for your Gods and then you'll go happily to the grave, is that right?'

'He who dies in service of the God will be returned as a Saint,' the man said, repeating someone else's words in that stilted way.

So was this how the madwoman on the road had got these men to follow her commands? She must have shown them her strength and then promised them Sainthood in exchange for killing Greatcoats . . . Hells. All she'd needed were men who were strong, stupid and desperate for purpose in other words, Knights.

Ethalia stepped forward and said gently, 'You've been lied to.'

'How would you know, woman?'

'She's a Saint,' Brasti explained, 'so, you know, she's kind of the expert here.'

The young Knight's jaw tightened. 'Then when I've dealt with these men I'll kill you next. The time of false Saints is past.'

'Well, then, that's where you have a little problem, friend,' I said, placing my hand on the hilt of my rapier.

His eyes darted around at the others. 'If anyone tries to draw an arrow on me I'll slit her throat!'

I stared him in the eyes, long and hard. Anyone could make threats; not everyone would follow through with them. The problem here was that I could clearly see the mixture of fear and religious fervour shining in his eyes. I knew he'd follow through. A good part of him believed that the act of killing Talia would find him favour with the Gods.

I don't know if that's true, Sir Knight, but none of us are going to find out today.

'Do you know what a vinceret is, Sir Knight?' I didn't bother to wait for an answer. 'It's a type of duellist who specialises in what we call "the quick draw". The vinceret's strategy is to wait until the magistrate calls for the duel to begin, and then pull his blade and strike so fast that the battle is over less than a second after it's begun.'

'You're too far away, Trattari,' the Knight said. 'You're at least nine feet away and that rapier at your side isn't long enough to reach me even you could draw it fast enough.'

'Well, I can see why you would think that. But in fact my rapier is three feet and two inches long. And my lunge when fully extended is . . . Kest, how long is my lunge again?'

'Last time I looked, at full extension it was six feet, Falcio.'

'Six feet,' I said. 'Now if you add those two numbers together you get something that's just long enough to bury the point of my sword two full inches into your throat.'