‘Well,’ Icarium said after a long, thoughtful moment, ‘I shall venture out in any case. Will you accompany me, Mappo Trell?’

His eyes on the heaved pavestones of the floor, Mappo slowly nodded.

The wall of sand rose seamlessly into the sky’s ochre dome. Somewhere in that fierce, swirling frenzy was the Holy Desert Raraku. Fiddler, Crokus and Apsalar sat on their lathered mounts at the top of a trail that led down the slope of the hills, out onto the desert wastes. A thousand paces into Raraku and the world simply disappeared.

A faint, sibilant roar reached them.

‘Not,’ Crokus said quietly, ‘your average storm, I assume.’

His spirits had been low since awakening in the morning to find that Moby had once again disappeared. The creature was discovering its wild instincts, and Fiddler suspected they wouldn’t see it again.

‘When I heard mention of the Whirlwind,’ the Daru thief continued after a moment, ‘I assumed it was ... well ... figurative. A state of being, I suppose. So tell me, do we now look upon the true Whirlwind? The wrath of a goddess?’

‘How can a rebellion be born in the heart of that?’ Apsalar wondered. ‘It would be a challenge to even open one’s eyes in that storm, much less orchestrate a continent-wide uprising. Unless, of course, it’s a barrier, and beyond there is calm.’

‘Seems likely,’ Crokus agreed.

Fiddler grunted. ‘Then we’ve no choice. We ride through.’

Their Gral hunters were less than ten minutes behind them, driving equally exhausted horses. They numbered at least a score, and even considering Apsalar’s god-given skills, and the assortment of Moranth munitions in Fiddler’s pack, the option of making a stand against the warriors was not a promising prospect.

The sapper glanced at his companions. Sun and wind had burned their faces, leaving white creases at the corners of the eyes. Chapped, peeling and split lips showed as straight lines, bracketed by deeper lines. Hungry, thirsty, weaving in their saddles with exhaustion – he was in as bad a shape, he well knew. Worse, given he had not the reserves of youth to draw upon. Mind you, Raraku marked me once before. Long ago. I know what’s out there.

The other two seemed instinctively to understand Fiddler’s hesitation, waiting with something like respect, even as the sound of thundering horse hooves rolled up the trail at their backs.

Apsalar finally spoke. ‘I wish to know more ... of this desert. Its power...’

‘You shall,’ Fiddler growled. ‘Wrap up your faces. We go to greet the Whirlwind.’

Like a wing sweeping them into its embrace, the storm closed around them. A savage awareness seemed to ride the spinning sand, reaching relentlessly past the folds of their telaban, a thousand abrasive fingers clawing paths across their skin. Loose cloth and rope ends spiked upward, whipping with urgent rhythm. The roar filled the air, filled their skulls.