He made a strangling sound through a desert throat.

The figure in black appeared.

Now he remembered. It had dogged the Black Company down the length of the world, accompanied by a horde of crows. He tried to sit up.

The pain was too much for him. He was too weak.

He knew this dread thing!

It came out of nowhere, a lightning bolt, but it was conviction.

Soulcatcher!

The impossible. The dead walking ...

Soulcatcher. One-time mentor. One-time mistress of the Black Company. More recently a deadly enemy, but still long ago. Supposedly dead for a decade and a half.

He'd been there. He'd seen her slain. He'd helped hunt her down... .

He tried to rise again, some vague force driving him to fight the unfightable.

A gloved hand stayed him. A gentle voice told him, "Don't strain yourself. You aren't healing well. You haven't been eating or taking enough fluids. Are you awake? Are you sensible?"

He managed a feeble nod.

"Good. I'm going to prop you up in a slightly elevated position. I'm going to feed you broth. Don't waste energy. Let your strength come back."

She propped him, had him sip through a reed. He downed a pint of broth. And kept it down. Soon a glimmer of strength trickled through his flesh.

"That's enough for now. Now we'll get you cleaned up."

He was a disgusting mess. "How long?" he croaked.

She placed a pot of water in his hands, inserted another reed. "Sip. Don't talk." She started cutting his clothing off him.

"It's been seven days since you were hit, Croaker." Her voice had become another voice entirely. It changed every time she paused. This voice was masculine, mocking, though he wasn't the mockery's object. "Your comrades still control Dejagore, to the embarrassment of the Shadowmasters. Your Mogaba is in command. He's stubborn but he could be embarrassed himself. And however stubborn he is, he can't hold out forever. The powers ranged against him are too great."