The hands released Kalam. Groaning, the assassin managed to roll over. A giant of a man stood over him, his face tattooed like shattered glass. A long single braid hung down the left side of his chest. The man wore a cloak of bhederin hide over a vest of armour that seemed made of clam shells. The wooden handle and stone pommel of a bladed weapon of some kind jutted from just under his left arm. The broad belt over the man’s loincloth was oddly decorated with what looked to Kalam like dried mushroom caps of various sizes. He was over seven foot tall, yet muscled enough to seem wide, and his flat, broad face gazed down without expression.

Regaining his breath, the assassin sat up. ‘A sorcerous silence,’ he muttered, mostly to himself.

The man who now held the Book of the Apocalypse heard the gruff whisper and snorted. ‘You fancy no mortal could get that close to you without your hearing him. You tell yourself it must have involved magic. You are wrong. My companion is Toblakai, an escaped slave from the Laederon Plateau of Genabackis. He’s seen seventeen summers and has personally killed forty-one enemies. Those are their ears on his belt.’ The man rose, offering Kalam his hand. ‘You are most welcome to Raraku, Deliverer. Our long vigil is ended.’

Grimacing, Kalam accepted the man’s hand and felt himself pulled effortlessly to his feet. The assassin brushed the dust from his clothes. ‘You are not bandits, then.’

The stranger barked a laugh. ‘No, we are not. I am Leoman, Captain of Sha’ik’s Bodyguard. My companion refuses his name to strangers, and we shall leave it at that. We are the two she chose.’

‘I must deliver the Book into Sha’ik’s hands,’ Kalam said. ‘Not yours, Leoman.’

The squat warrior – by his colour and clothing a child of this desert – held out the Book. ‘By all means.’

Cautiously, the assassin retrieved the heavy, battered tome.

A woman spoke behind him. ‘You may now give it to me, Deliverer.’

Kalam slowly closed his eyes, struggling to gather the frayed ends of his nerves. He turned.

There could be no doubting. The small, honey-skinned woman standing before him radiated power in waves, the smell of dust and sand whipped by winds, the taste of salt and blood. Her rather plain face was deeply lined, giving her an appearance of being around forty years old, though Kalam suspected she was younger – Raraku was a harsh home.

Involuntarily, Kalam dropped to one knee. He held out the Book. ‘I deliver unto you, Sha’ik, the Apocalypse.’ And with it, a sea of blood – how many innocent lives shattered, to bring hasten down? Hood take me, what have I done?

The Book’s weight left his hands as she accepted it. ‘It is damaged.’

The assassin looked up, slowly rose.