The ground erupted around them. Bone arms yanked clear of the dirt. Skulls denuded of flesh burst free. Aiken backed away, terrified yet fascinated. Jalia thrust for the woman but a demon stepped up between them, taking her arm and tossing her aside.

‘Do not harm them!’ the old woman bellowed. Then her wild gaze found Aiken and she yelled to him: ‘Go! Run!’

Aiken turned and fled.

*

Silverfox, alone but for the dead, stood quivering. She wiped her hands down her thighs. She felt intensely cold, on the verge of collapse. She stared about her: funeral biers. The custom of these lands. And how many new? Some forty? From this village alone? She closed her eyes and staggered, righted herself, headed back to her mount.

Pran Chole appeared at her side. ‘You must rest.’

‘They are close, Pran.’

‘True. A few days ahead. They flee you, Silverfox.’

‘Then I must continue to press. Push them along. They won’t have time … time to kill everyone, will they?’ Gaining her mount, she took hold of the saddle to steady herself. ‘Who were these people, Pran?’

‘These clans name themselves the People of the Yellow Grass.’ She pressed her forehead to the saddle. The leather was warm and damp with sweat. ‘It is all my fault … all this. My fault.’

‘By no measure.’

‘If I had pressed harder for the release …’

‘We refused you, Summoner.’

She nodded wearily, her eyes closed. She tried to raise her leg to mount, failed. ‘Who … who is north of us?’

Pran turned his dark empty sockets to the north. ‘A far larger confederation of clans.’

She nodded once more, exhausted. ‘A third here, Pran. A full third! Next it will be half. Then two-thirds. Then, to the very north. None there shall be spared. Who are these next clans?’

‘They name themselves the People of the Wind.’

With a grunt of effort, Silverfox managed to mount. She twined her fists in the reins. ‘I must warn them. And Pran,’ she added, ‘find me another horse.’ She kneed her mount and it kicked away, obeying her though exhausted itself.

Pran Chole stood for a time watching the Summoner ride off. Tolb Bell’al joined him. Tatters of the Ifayle’s hide shirt flapped in the wind revealing curves of age-stained rib. Patches of long hair blew and whipped. ‘She will not rest,’ Pran breathed.

‘Just as we,’ Tolb answered.

‘What should be done?’

‘We will continue to sustain the horse.’

‘We are cruel.’

‘The need is cruel.’ Tolb’s voice was no louder than the murmuring wind. ‘Lanas Tog must not reach the mountains.’ He turned to face Pran directly. ‘At any cost. In this we are in complete agreement, yes?’