A scream sounded from the woods. A harrowing call that raised Fisher’s hair in its elemental rage and hurt. Arrows whisked past Fisher as he was almost upon Coots. ‘Take his head!’ someone shouted from the palisade. ‘Take that Iceblood’s head!’

Then something knocked Fisher over and absolute black night fell upon him. ‘Iceblood magic!’ someone yelled, real terror choking his voice. Fisher climbed to his feet completely blind. He extended his arms to feel into the blackness. He could see nothing, though he could feel the heat and hear the roar and crackle of the huge fire just a stone’s throw from him. A hand took his arm from the dark and he jerked away despite knowing who it must be.

‘This way,’ Jethiss said from the wall of ink.

‘You have him?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Badlands?’

‘He ran into the woods howling like a madman.’

Arrows thudded around them as the archers fired blind. They cursed and yelled from atop the palisade. ‘Let’s go from here,’ Fisher said.

‘Yes.’ Something brushed Fisher’s arm: a pair of moccasined feet. Coots’. He took hold of one. Jethiss led him on through the blackness.

They walked for some time. Jethiss coached Fisher through brush and over rocks. The slope climbed; the roar of the burning fort diminished to a distant murmur. It occurred to Fisher that to sustain such a large aura of elemental dark, Kurald Galain, must cost its summoner great effort, yet Jethiss betrayed no strain in his voice or breathing. Perhaps such raisings were natural for the Andii. He wondered, though.

Eventually, their pace slowed. Fisher bumped Jethiss, who had stopped. ‘I can go no further,’ the Andii murmured, his voice husky.

‘You have done a miracle, Jethiss. Saved us for certain. They would have pursued. Tried to take our heads.’

‘There is a tree here,’ he said. ‘There is a view over the lowlands.’

Like a passing deep shadow, the absolute black faded away. The sunshine glare of midday stabbed at Fisher’s eyes. He winced and shaded his gaze, peered around.

They had climbed far into the forested slopes above the Sea of Gold. Below, it glimmered now in the sunlight with an amber-like shine – hence its name, perhaps. Jethiss sat heavily, arms draped over his knees, his head sunk, utterly spent. He’d set Coots in the nook of thick roots at the base of an old knotted spruce. The body faced down-slope; Fisher thought it appropriate. ‘Have you belts or rope?’ he asked.

‘I have my weapon belt.’

‘Keep that.’

‘No. Take it. I have no more use for it.’

Fisher shook his head. ‘You’ll still need to defend yourself.’

The Andii lifted and dropped his broad shoulders. ‘I broke the knives.’

‘You broke them?’ Fisher marvelled; Wickan knives were a finger thick at the hilts. Thinking of weapons, he realized he’d lost his own as well. He pulled off his belt. Jethiss offered his own. Using both, he secured Coots’ body to the tree, tying him under his arms and across his chest. Something told him to leave the multitude of arrows still residing there and so he did so, careful not to snap one shaft.