There were times in his cell when Lupérico lost all hope, because he had no idea what those animals were after, beyond the momentary pleasure of causing him pain and inestimable grief. He felt not a shred of sympathy for them, regardless of the way in which they’d lost their lives. He would have spat on the corpse of the deputy commander had he been able to raise sufficient moisture in his mouth to do so.

*

‘Continuez,’ ordered Caitlin as he slowed down about halfway up a small hill.

She forced him along the rudimentary trail she had cut earlier, but it was not an easy passage. The undergrowth grabbed at his already tattered clothing. He stumbled and tripped every few metres on tree roots and sharp rocks, crying out as they lacerated his bare feet, while the canopy grew so thick overhead that it seemed twilight was upon them. At times Lupérico had trouble discerning where she wanted him to go. He would stop and turn on her with a wounded look, seeking direction, flinching from an expected rebuke.

‘I do speak English, you know,’ he told her now. ‘Your façade is not necessary.’

‘Save your breath. You’ll need it.’

She pushed him on relentlessly, allowing him to stop and rest only while she checked for any sign of pursuit. Once at the edge of a small clearing, covered in a bright, startling blanket of red flowers. Another time, in a deep V-shaped hollow formed by the roots of some monster tree. He was never unobserved during these brief interludes. But caution and field craft demanded Caitlin take a few moments to direct her attention back along the trail they’d just covered. Lupérico gave no impression of planning an escape or assault. He was an administrator, not a killer. Not like her.

The worst heat of the day was upon them, ramified into a terrible crushing humidity under the tree canopy. They avoided the occasional open areas covered with nothing but grass, skirting around them whenever they reached a clearing. All the while sweat poured out of her companion in great torrents, and she made sure that he was keeping well hydrated. He sipped from a spare canteen she passed to him, containing not water but a flavoured nutrient drink. It tasted both salty and a little sweet at the same time. Probably better, though, than the food bar she’d made him sit down and eat, about half an hour after they’d set out. That motherfucker looked like chocolate but tasted of cardboard. He wolfed it down, nevertheless, ravenous and pathetically grateful.

Presently they reached another small clearing, or in this case, more a crude hollowing out of the undergrowth where she had earlier cut away at thick vines and dense masses of ferns with her machete. Some of the cuts and slashes were still raw, dripping with sap.