The Harshman was growing stronger and more cunning.

When first summoned from his grave, he had been little more than ancient bones and gristle. But with every person he killed, more yellowed flesh covered those bones. And with every ghost he ate, more knowledge came to him.

Other people’s memories rattled in his skull. Other people’s loves and hatreds tried to get a grip on his wizened heart.

A heart so small and black cannot hold love. But hatred has hooks, and will cling to anything. So the Harshman, who had started out hating only his long-dead enemies, now hated everyone else as well, with an almost equal passion.

Almost equal. His greatest hatred he reserved for the children who had frustrated his ambitions.

‘I … Will … Destroy … Them,’ he growled.

First, he would kill the boy Otte, who he still thought of as the Heir of Neuhalt. The boy was no longer the Heir, of course, not since the Harshman had murdered his mother the Margravine. Now the boy was Margrave. But he had been the Heir until very recently, which meant that shedding his blood would make the Harshman so powerful that no one would be able to stop him.

‘I … Will … Rule … Neuhalt.’ The Harshman crunched his bony knuckles. ‘I … Will … Kill … Everyone … Who … Defies … Me. And … I … Will … Start … With … The … Children.’

But to do that, he must catch them.

He could not command the wind as the children had done, and he had no patience for walking back to the city. It would take too long. So he stood in the middle of the road and picked over the memories of the ghosts he had eaten, like a slaughterbird on the battlefield.

Happiness? Bah, that would not carry him to the city. Neither would memories of family, or fun. (The Harshman did not understand fun, not unless it involved swords. And lots of blood.) He ignored music and beauty and the laughter of babies. He mocked kindness. He sneered at friendship. He—

‘Wait,’ he growled.

In the memory of one of the most recently eaten ghosts, there was a kite. Normally, such a toy would have come under the pathetic heading of fun. But this kite was huge. Many years ago, this kite had almost lifted its small owner off the ground …

The Harshman looked up. High above him, outlined against the sky, hovered the giant hawk that accompanied him everywhere. It was the strongest bird he had ever known; a ruthless creature that did his bidding, no matter what he asked of it.

He raised his fist, and the hawk descended in a hurricane of wings.

The Harshman gripped its legs in his bony fingers, gathered the power he had stolen from a hundred dying souls and said, ‘Follow … The … Children.’

The hawk gave a cry that echoed across southern Neuhalt, killing the spring grass and sending rabbits bolting for their burrows in terror. Then it raised its wings and, with a dozen mighty downthrusts, lifted the Harshman into the sky.

The Harshman’s armour clanked. His heart rattled like a walnut shell against his ribs. His iron teeth bared in an awful smile. He might not arrive right on the heels of the children.

But he would get there much sooner than they expected.