It made no sense, no sense at all. Why here, amid the muck and squalor? And yet, there it was. Desire, fecund and insistent. It beat in his pulse like a drum, it swelled and hardened his flesh, it made the hair at the back of his neck tingle.

“This is his birthing-place.” Hunric turned back to him and grinned, his teeth very white in the mud-smeared mask of his face. He spread his arms wide. “Do you feel it, Turin? His Gift lingers, here!”

“You’ve swamp-fever, man.” Turin shoved his hair back from his brow, streaking it with muck. “Lord Satoris’ Gift was lost when Oronin Last-Born plunged Godslayer into his thigh.”

“Was it?” The tracker turned slowly, arms outspread. “This was the place, Turin. It all began here! Look.” His voice dropped to a whisper and he reached for his crude spear with the tip hardened by fire. “A slow-lizard.”

Turin watched, fighting despair and desire as Hunric the tracker stalked and killed one of the meaty, slow-moving denizens of the Delta. They were good eating, the slow-lizards. Mantuas, whooping and shouting in the chase, had been the first to suggest it, roasting the white meat over a fire that had taken ages to kindle. It was all different, now.

“What?” Hunric, gnawing at his prey, stared at him.

“Beshtanag,” Turin whispered. “Hunric, we have to get to Beshtanag!”

“Do we?” For a moment, the tracker looked confused. “Oh, right!” The febrile light in his eyes cleared and he lowered the slow-lizard’s carcass, blinking. “Beshtanag. It lies east, northward and east. We’re on the route, Turin.”

“Good.” Turin nodded. “We have a message to deliver. Remember, Hunric?”

“A message, right.” Hunric grinned, showing bloodstained teeth. “We won, didn’t we? Got the princess, the Lady of the Ellylon. Did you see her, Turin? You’re a poor substitute! Limbs like alabaster, throat like a swan. I could swallow her whole!”

“Don’t say that.” Turin shook himself. “The other message, Hunric! About Malthus’ Company?”

“Malthus.” It settled the tracker, and he pointed. “We need to go that way.”

“Good.” Turin sloshed alongside him. “Hunric,” he said, grasping the tracker’s forearm. “It’s important. We need to deliver this news to the Sorceress of the East. You do remember, don’t you?”

“Of course.” The tracker blinked. “It’s that way.”

He hoped so. He fervently hoped so. Because it was obvious, now, that no one had entered the Delta after them. No doubt lingered. They’d been here too long for it.

They’d been here altogether too long.