Beyond the nearest boulders and debris of this high shoulder, all round them, there rose ash-grey shapes from among the fallen rocks. Kyle had never seen them before, but he immediately knew them for what they were: the slate-hued, thin and elongated shapes of the Forkrul Assail. He also knew at that moment that it was unlikely that they would get off the mountain alive.

The alien figures remained immobile, as if carved of stone themselves. The Imass waited, obsidian and flint swords readied. Kyle drew the white blade and to his astonishment – and extreme discomfort – saw the attention of the Forkrul shift to him as their slit eyes all moved at once.

Jethiss moved to confront them but Fisher snapped up a hand to grasp his arm, pulling him back. ‘Not yet,’ he murmured, ‘if you must at all.’

The Andii eased backwards, acquiescing to the bard’s urgings – at least for now.

The Forkrul then raised arms to point up the slope to a higher ridge of stone. Kyle glanced up to see two there waiting. Stones crunched as the Jaghut elder passed through the circled Imass. She paused then, looking back to them. ‘One from each of us gathered here must come,’ she said. The words troubled Kyle in that he sensed something deeper behind them. Something profound and ritualized.

Further steps sounded over the stones as Silverfox stepped forth. With her came Kilava and Pran Chole. The Sayer youth, Orman, joined the Jaghut elder, the wicked-looking spear cradled in his arms. The matriarch gestured, inviting up Jethiss. He turned to Fisher, who nodded, and in turn reached out to pull on Kyle’s arm. Kyle resisted. ‘There are enough,’ he said.

‘No. The white blade must come. I understand this now. This is no accident, Kyle. This is why we are here.’ Fisher peered about, his eyes widening. ‘Great Abyss,’ he murmured, ‘Four. We are four again.’ He pressed his sleeve to his face, daubing away a sheen of sweat. ‘Gods guide us!’

Not understanding the bard’s words, but granting the man’s urgency, he relented, and followed up the slope.

Here, two Forkrul, no different from the others as far as Kyle could discern, awaited them. They stood tall, equal even unto the Jaghut, on gangly strangely jointed legs that looked able to bend backwards, with frail-looking thin arms, and long pinched heads. Oddly, each face bore a vertical scar, or suture, that ran from chin up to sloped skull. Kyle was not fooled by their frail appearance. He knew that they faced a great danger here, and not only they: all in this region faced destruction should these Forkrul bestir themselves.

One tilted its head, studying the Jaghut. ‘You trouble us again,’ it said.

‘Through no choice of mine,’ she answered.

‘False,’ broke in the other Forkrul, its voice as harsh as cracking stone. ‘You chose.’

‘Do you dispute this judgement?’ the first one asked.