‘It can’t be… Not here. No, not here!’ cried Varens. His own flesh crawled. The wound in his back hurt more than it had when he’d received it.

He didn’t remember how he got the wound, but he remembered the fly he had swatted that last day in the field.

It seemed horribly significant.

His head pounded, and there was a roaring in his ears.

‘Seven! Seven! Seven! Seven! Seven! Seven! Seven!’ shouted Bolus. He stood, and pointed with a shaking hand up the gentle slope.

Garstand, the man Varens had met on the hospital balcony weeks ago, came out of the trees, his beard dishevelled and his gown filthy. Varens couldn’t see his face.

‘Garstand?’ he said.

‘What’s going on? What am I doing here? Varens? I was following Rusen. He told me to come. He said it was important!’ Unlike all the others, Garstand seemed to be in full possession of his faculties, but when he lifted his face towards Varens, Varens screamed. ‘Is it important, what we’re doing out here? I am cold. I should get back to bed.’

Garstand’s eyes had gone. Fat leeches hung down his face, their pulsing foreparts buried in his eye sockets. A crop of boils deformed his forehead, swelling even as Varens watched.

‘Why can’t I see?’ said Garstand. ‘I itch all over. Have I been bitten again?’

‘Throne preserve me!’ said Varens. The pain in his back was becoming maddening. He jammed his arm behind his back to scratch at it. His fingertips brushed something hard: there was a lump there, swollen, close to bursting.

‘One, two, three,’ said Bolus, counting everyone in turn with grave concentration. ‘Four, five, six.’ He pointed at Varens. ‘Seven.’

He patted his chest.

‘Seven. Seven. Seven,’ he chanted, and as he did so, he pulled out a stolen las-scalpel and thumbed it on. He held it so close to his eyes that his eyebrows curled in the heat.

‘No!’ shouted Varens.

‘Seven,’ said Bolus, and cut open his stomach. His innards felt out: diseased, putrid and crawling with maggots. ‘Seven,’ he said, and died.

Foul gas belched from the bed of the mere. More dead fish bobbed to the surface. Garstand was screaming, clawing at his face. Varens felt something moving under his skin. He tore off his gown, only to find the flesh of his chest writhing. Terrible pain lanced through him, and the wound in his back tore open.

‘Seven!’ a voice boomed across the marsh, and a phlegmy laugh followed.

Odd light shone from the marsh, then Iax changed forever.