‘He cannot,’ said the middle horseman, and there was something familiar about the face behind the helm’s cheekguards. ‘I remember you from Capustan. Gruntle, chosen servant of Treach. Your god is confused, but it must choose, and soon.’ Gruntle shrugged. ‘There is no point in bringing all this to me. Trake and me, we’re not really on speaking terms. I didn’t ask for any of this. I don’t even want it—’ ‘Hah!’ barked the Seguleh, twisting round to face the middle rider. ‘Hear that, Iskar Jarak? Let me kill him!’ Iskar Jarak? I seem to recall he had a different name. One of those odd ones, common
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