‘ Ignore,’ the voice hissed, its freezing tone bringing Lenk’s attention back to his wrists. ‘ Duty is at hand. We must free ourselves. We must kill.’

‘I can’t,’ he snarled, tugging at his wrists. ‘I can’t!’

‘Can’t what?’ Dreadaeleon replied. ‘Gariath seems to have the matter in hand.’

‘ If you cannot, then she dies. All die. Because of you.’

‘I can’t help it … I can’t get free!’

‘ I can.’

‘You … can?’

‘Who can?’ Dreadaeleon asked, glancing at the young man. ‘Lenk … really? Now?’

‘ Say it.’

Somehow, within the icy recesses of a mind not his own, he knew what he must say. And somehow, in the shortness of his own breath, he knew the consequences of saying it.

‘Save her,’ he whispered.

The voice made no vocal reply. Its presence was made manifest through his blood going cold and a chill sweeping over him. His skull was rimed in ice, numbing him to thought, to fear, to doubt. His muscles became hard, bereft of feeling or pain as he pulled them against the rope. They did not ache, did not burn, did not protest. They were ice.

He should worry, some part of him knew.

His hands pulled themselves free. He felt blood, cold on his skin, could not find the thought to hurt. He rose up on numb legs and staggered forward. The palanquin was before him, his sword upon it, its leather hilt thrust toward him invitingly. He clutched it and for a brief moment felt a surge of vigour, a piece he had been missing thrust violently into him and made whole.

‘ You have a sword to defend yourself, the means to escape,’ another voice whispered feverishly. ‘ Escape! Run now! Save yourself! You don’t need to die here!’

Words on numb ears; he would not die here. He staggered forward, the blade dragging on the earth behind him. Gariath swung the corpse back and forth wildly; he was unimportant. The netherlings darted about him, seeking an opening in his defence; they were insignificant. One of them hung back, the one that had failed to kill him, the one that would enable him.

She was first.

She heard him approach, felt his breath on her neck, knew his presence; that was all so unimportant. She whirled about, the blade in her hand, the curse on her lips, the shield rising; that was just insignificant.

His own blade rose swiftly. He could see himself in its reflection, see the dead, pupilless eyes staring back at him. Then, he was gone, vanished in a bath of red. He couldn’t remember when the blade had found her neck. He couldn’t remember what he had said that made her look at him with such pain in her mouth, such fear in her eyes.

But he remembered this sensation, this strength. He had felt it in icy rivers and in dark dreams, in the absence of fever and the chill of wind. He remembered the voice that spoke to him now, as it melted and seeped out of his skull. He remembered its message. He heard it now.

‘ Strength wanes, bodies decay, faith fails, steel breaks.’

‘Duty,’ he whispered, ‘persists.’

Life returned to him: warm, burning, feverish life. The body fell to the ground, the netherling gurgling and clutching at the gaping wound in her throat. The others whirled around, staring at her, then turning wide eyes up to Lenk.

‘ Shtehz,’ one of them gasped, ‘the damn thing just turned grey ag-’

The ensuing cracking sound would have drowned out the remark, even if the netherling’s mouth wasn’t reduced to a bloody mess as a red claw seized her by the back of her head and smashed her skull against her companion’s.

Gariath stepped forward, regarded Lenk curiously for a moment. He snorted.

‘Still alive?’ he grunted.

‘Still alive,’ Lenk replied.

‘I thought you’dbe.’ Gariath reached down and took one of the netherlings by her biceps. ‘The others are dead?’

‘Still alive,’ Lenk repeated. ‘For the moment, at least. There was another longface, Sheraptus, he took the women.’

‘A problem,’ Gariath replied as he placed a foot between the moaning female’s shoulder blades. ‘What do you want to do about it?’

‘They took them by boat, to a ship,’ Lenk replied, gesturing over the sea. ‘It can’t be far away.’ He quirked an eyebrow at the dragonman. ‘Why do you care, though?’

‘I killed two of these things earlier. Didn’t find any answers. I’ll give it a little more time.’

‘I see … Should I ask?’

Gariath didn’t reply. His muscles tensed as he drove his foot downward, pulling the netherlings’ arms farther behind her. She screamed, long and loud, but not nearly loud enough to disguise the sound of arms popping out of their sockets, not nearly long enough to drown out the deep cracking sound borne from her chest. She drew in several sharp, ragged breaths that quickly turned to gurgling, choking noises before collapsing into the sand.

‘I wouldn’t,’ Gariath grunted.

‘Fine … that’s fine.’ They both glanced to see the remaining netherling, staggering to her feet, growling as she raised her sword towards the two. ‘It doesn’t matter if I die here. It’s nevermattered. It doesn’t mean you won’t still die; it doesn’t mean the Master won’t-’

In a flash of motion, a dark stripe appeared across her throat framed by two trembling fists. Her sword dropped, her eyes bulging out of their sockets as she reached up to grope helplessly at the garrotte’s thick, corded kiss. A grin appeared at her ear, brimming with far more malice than Lenk thought Denaos could ever have mustered.

‘It’s an ideal situation,’ the rogue explained to no one in particular. ‘The more you struggle, the tighter it goes, faster it’s over. Perfect for putting down animals. It’s all but useless against someone who just sits tight and thinks.’ He gave her a quick jerk, silencing her choked gurgling. ‘As I said, for the circumstances, ideal.’

She collapsed to her knees, but he refused to relinquish his grip on the garrotte, stalwartly absorbing each elbow she thrust behind her. It was a valiant effort, Lenk thought, awestruck by the rogue’s tenacity, though not enough to avoid a sudden thought.

Wait … where’d he get the rope?

The question lingered only as long as it took for the hate to leak out of the netherling’s eyes, whereupon Denaos loosed his grip and let her drop. Lenk stared down at the rope, recognising it as far too furry to be anything but what the man had been wearing moments ago.

It took a strong perception for Lenk to realise the imperative need to not look back up. It took a decidedly stronger resolve not to scream when he invariably did.

Denaos certainly didn’t help matters by placing his hands on his naked hips and setting a triumphant foot on the netherling’s back.

‘Take it all in, gentlemen,’ he replied, gesturing downward and tapping his foot. ‘What do you suppose? The biggest one here?’

Gariath stalked past him, casting a glance and offering a snort.

‘I’ve seen bigger.’

‘Well, this is all highlydisturbing,’ came a shrill voice. They glanced over to see Dreadaeleon sitting upright, looking at them inquisitively. ‘I assume, once someone sees fit to untie me, we’ll be giving chase?’

‘Were you not dead a moment ago?’ Denaos asked.

‘Coma,’ Dreadaeleon replied, pausing only to sit still long enough for Gariath to shred his bonds and hoist him to his feet. ‘A momentary overwhelming of the senses, not unlike deeply inhaling a pot of mustard.’

‘Mustard doesn’t do that,’ Denaos pointed out.

‘Surprisingly enough, I use these childish metaphors for the benefit of your diminished comprehension,’ the boy spat back, ‘ notso we can waste time. We have to go after the renegade … the longface.’

‘They’re out at sea,’ Lenk muttered. ‘We don’t know where.’

‘We will shortly,’ Denaos replied.

Before anyone could ask, the rogue slipped behind a nearby bone and returned, shoving what appeared to be a walking, bound, bruised melon before him. Togu did not raise his head, his yellow eyes cast down. Shame, Lenk thought, or perhaps just out of a sense of protection as Denaos drew his loincloth-turned-garrotte tightly between his hands and looked to Lenk for approval.