Sorrel looked around. Rashelope was standing over the dead guard, bloody machete in her hand. Another guard lay face down, hands behind his head, his chest heaving. Rapt stood behind the third with his gun between the man’s shoulder blades. The guard’s face was scarred and his mouth was bracketed with the lines of age. Sorrel wondered if Drax spent his cruelty on his own people as well.

“Speak to your Colonel,” Rapt growled and prodded the guard with the gun. “Do it, or I’ll shoot you through the hips and you’ll never walk, guata or piss again without help.”

The guard lifted his head and shouted, “Colonel! You need to come out now. The camp is under attack!”

“Who’s that?”

“I’m Mitchell. Corporal Mitchell.”

“Where’s Lieutenant Shan?”

“D-dead,” said the guard. “Shan is dead, and Sherlock is captured. You need to come out. Please, Sir. Now. We need the key to the armoury.”

As soon as the door swung open, Sorrel ran at the man with her machete upraised. They collided and fell. She smelled shit and caught a fleeting glimpse of a figure chained to the wall by one hand. She leapt to her feet and saw a bald man, thickset, dressed in camouflage, reaching for a handgun on a desk behind him. She swung the machete at his head with all her force. The blow connected just above his ear. He put his hand to his cheek, as if trying to hold his head straight. Then he dropped to his knees and rolled over onto the wet, black floor.

She looked up and saw Rapt standing in the room. “You’re a warrior,” he said, nodding. “I never…” He kicked at the man on the floor.

“Where are the others?” she gasped.

“Fighting. See to your mother.” He turned on his heel and left. She shut and locked the door and walked over to the crumpled figure against the wall, grateful for the soft light in the room.

“Bibi?” she said, kneeling.

There was no response and Sorrel’s body went cold. She cupped her mother’s chin and gently lifted her face. Bibi’s eyes were unfocused, but she felt her mother’s halting breath on her hand. Her cheek was bleeding. “Bibi?” she said again.

Bibi stirred, her eyes fluttered open. “One? Is it really you?”

“It’s me. How badly are you hurt? Can you stand? Where’s the key for that shackle?”

“Left hand drawer, the table behind you,” Bibi whispered.

Sorrel unlocked the chain and tried to guide Bibi to a narrow bed in the middle of the room.

“No,” she said. “I won’t lie there. There’s drinking water on the table – bring that to me. I’ll be fine on the floor. Drag that – that man out of here. Then go, One. Do what you have to do. Shut the door when you leave but don’t lock it.”