The moans were louder now, cacophonous like the lowing of beasts in an abattoir. Nimander saw one man-an ancient, bent, emaciated creature-topple face first on to the wood-slatted floor, audibly smashing his nose. Someone close by stepped back, crushing the hapless man’s fingers under a heel.

‘So, where is the priest?’ Nenanda asked from behind Nimander and Skintick. ‘It was his invitation, after all.’

‘For once, Nenanda,’ Skintick said without turning, ‘I am pleased to have you standing here, hand on sword. I don’t like this.’

‘None here can hurt us,’ Nenanda pronounced, yet his tone made it plain he was pleased by Skintick’s words. ‘Listen to me,’ he said, ‘while Clip is not close by-he holds us all in contempt.’

Nimander slowly turned round, as Skintick said, ‘We’d noticed. What do you make of that, brother?’

‘He sees what he chooses to see.’

Nimander saw that Kedeviss and Aranatha were listening, and the faint doe like expression on the latter’s face was suddenly gone, replaced by a chilling emptiness that Nimander knew well. ‘It is no matter,’ Nimander said, sudden sweat prickling awake beneath his clothes. ‘Leave it, Nenanda. It is no matter.’

‘But it is,’ Nenanda retorted. ‘He needs to know. Why we survived our battles, when all the others fell. He needs to understand.’

‘That’s over with, now,’ Nimander insisted,

‘No,’ said Skintick, ‘Nenanda is right this time, Nimander, He in right. Clip wants to take us to this dying god, after all, Whatever he plans disregards us, as if we did not exist. Voiceless ‘

‘Useless,’cut in Nenandn,

Nimander looked away, More villagers were collapsing, and those on the floor-hoards had begun twitching, writhing in pools of their own waste. Sightless eyes rolled ecstatically in sunken sockets. ‘If I have made us… voiceless, I am sorry.’

‘Enough of that rubbish,’ Skintick said conversationally.

‘I agree,’ said Nenanda said. ‘I didn’t before – I was angry with you, Nimander, for not telling this so-called Mortal Sword of Darkness. Telling him about us, who we were. What we’ve been through. So I tried to do it myself, but it’s no use. Clip doesn’t listen. Not to anyone but himself.’

‘What of Desra?’ Nimander asked.

Nenanda snorted. ‘She covets her own mystery.’

That was a sharp observation from Nenanda, surprising Nimander. But it was not an answer to what he had meant with his question.

Skintick, however, understood. ‘She remains one of us, Nimander. When the need arrives, you need not doubt her loyalty.’

Kedeviss spoke then, with dry contempt. ‘Loyalty is not one of Desra’s virtues, brothers. Set no weight upon it.’

Skintick sounded amused when he asked, ‘Which of Desra’s virtues should we set weight upon, then, Kedeviss?’

‘When it comes to self-preservation,’ she replied, ‘Desra’s judgement is precise. Never wrong, in fact. She makes surviving the result of profound clarity-Desra sees better and sharper than any of us. That is her virtue.’

Clip was on his way back, Desra now clinging to his left arm as might a woman struggling against terror.

‘The Dying God is about to arrive,’ Clip said. He had put away his chain and rings, and from his palpable unease there now rose, like a dark cloud, the promise of violence. ‘You should all leave. I don’t want to have to cover you, if this turns bad. I won’t have the time, nor will I accept blame if you start dying. So, for all our sakes, get out of here.’

It was, Nimander would recall later, the moment when he could have stepped forward, could have looked into Clip’s eyes, unwavering, revealing his own defiance and the promise behind it. Instead, he turned to the others. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

Nenanda’s eyes widened, a muscle twitching one cheek. Then he spun about and marched out of the tavern.

With an expression that might have been shame, Skintick reached out to prise Desra away from Clip, then guided her out. Aranatha met Nimander’s eyes and nodded-but the meaning of the gesture eluded him, given the vast emptiness in her eyes-then she and Kedeviss exited the taproom.

Leaving Nimander and Clip.

‘It pleases me,’ said Clip, ‘that you take orders as well as you do, Nimander.

And that the others still choose to listen to you. Not,’ he added, ‘that I think that will last much longer.’

‘Do not confront this dying god,’ Nimander said. ‘Not here, not now.’

‘Excellent advice-I have no intention of doing so. I simply would see it.’

‘And if it is not pleased by being seen by one such as you, Clip?’

He grinned. ‘Why do you think I sent you to safety? Now, go, Nimander. Back to our rooms. Comfort your frightened rabbits.’

Outside, beneath a glorious sweep of bright stars, Nimander found his kin in a tight huddle in the centre of the main street. Rabbits! Yes, it might look that way. From the tavern they could hear the frenzied moaning reach a fierce pitch, and the sound was now echoing, seeming to roll back in from the hills and fields surrounding the village.

‘Do you hear that?’ Skintick asked. ‘Nimander? Do you hear it? The scarecrows-they are singing.’

‘Mother Dark,’ breathed Kedeviss in horror.

‘I want to see one of those fields,’ Skintick suddenly said. ‘Now. Who is with me?’

When no one spoke, Nimander said, ‘You and me, Skintick. The rest to our rooms-Nenanda, stand vigil until we return.’

Nimander and Skintick watched as Nenanda purposefully led the others away. Then they set out into a side alley, feet thumping on the dusty, hard-packed ground. Another voice had joined all the others, emerging from the temple, a cry of escalating pain, a cry of such suffering that Nimander staggered, his legs like water beneath him. He saw Skintick stumble, fall on to his knees, then push himself upright once more.

Tears squeezed from his eyes, Nimander forced himself to follow.

Old house gardens to either side, filled with abandoned yokes, ploughs and other tools, the furrows overgrown with weeds like bleached hair in the starlight. Gods, they’ve stopped eating. All is in the drink. It feeds them even as it kills them.

That sepulchral wail was dwindling now, but it would rise again, he knew, with the next breath. Midnight in the tavern, the foul nectar was drunk down, and the god in terrible pain was summoned-the gate to his tormented soul forced open. Fed by immortal pain, the prostrate worshippers spasmed in ecstasy-he could see their blackened mouths, the writhing black tongues, the eyes in their smudge-pits,-he could see that old man with the smashed nose and the broken fingers-

And Clip remained inside. Witness to the madness, to its twisted face, and when the eyes opened and fixed on his own-

‘Hurry,’ groaned Nimander as he came up against Skintick, but as he moved past his cousin reached out and grasped hold of his tunic, drawing Nimander to a halt.

They were at the edge of a field.

Before them, in the cold silver light, the rows of scarecrows were all in motion, limbs writhing like gauze-wrapped serpents or blind worms. Black blood was streaming down the flowers of the horrid plants had opened, exuding clouds of pollen that flashed like phosphorescence, riding the currents of night air.

And Nimander wanted to rush into that field, into the midst of the crucified victims. He wanted to taste that pollen on his tongue, on the back of his throat. He wanted to dance in the god’s pain.

Skint iek, weeping, was dragging him back-though it seemed he was fighting his own battle, so taut were his muscles, so contradictory their efforts that they fell against one another. On to the ground.

Clawing on their bellies now, back down the dirt track.

The pollen-the pollen is in the air. We have breathed it, and now-gods below-now we hunger for more.

Another terrible shriek, the voice a physical thing, trying to climb into the sky-but there was nothing to grasp, no handholds, no footholds, and so it shot out to the sides, closing icy cold grips upon throats. And a voice, screaming into their faces.