Nevertheless, they were being trailed by ... someone. The assassin felt it in his bones. He was tempted to lay an ambush of his own, but he was one man alone and his pursuers might be many. Moreover, he was uncertain whether Apt would assist his efforts – he suspected not. His only advantage was the swiftness of his travel. He’d found his horse after the battle without much trouble, and the animal seemed impervious to the rigours of the journey. He’d begun to suspect that an issue of pride had arisen between the stallion and the demon – his mount’s bolting from the fight must have stung, and it was as if the horse was determined to recover whatever delusions of dominance he possessed.

Kalam climbed back into the saddle. Apt had found the trail left by the fleeing survivors and was sniffing the air, swinging its long, blunt head from side to side.

‘Not our problem,’ Kalam told it, loosening the lone surviving long-knife at his belt. ‘We’ve enough troubles of our own, Apt.’ He nudged his mount and set off in a direction that would take him well around the trail.

In deepening dusk he rode across the plain. Despite its size, the demon seemed to vanish within the gloom. A demon born in the Shadow Realm, I shouldn’t be surprised.

The grassland dipped ahead – another ancient river track. As he approached, figures rose from cover along the nearest bank. Cursing under his breath, Kalam slowed his mount, raising both hands, palms forward.

‘Mekral, Obarii,’ Kalam said. ‘I ride the Whirlwind!’

‘Closer then,’ a voice replied.

Hands still raised, Kalam guided his horse forward with his heels and knees.

‘Mekral,’ the same voice acknowledged. A man stepped clear of the high grasses, a tulwar in one hand. ‘Come join us in our feast, rider. You have news of the north?’

Relaxing, Kalam dismounted. ‘Months old, Obarii. I’ve not spoken aloud in weeks – what stories can you tell me?’

The spokesman was simply another bandit who now marauded behind the rebellion’s noble mask. He showed the assassin a gap-toothed smile. ‘Vengeance against the Mezla, Mekral. Sweet as spring water, such vengeance.’

‘The Whirlwind has seen no defeat, then? Have the Mezla armies done nothing?’

Leading his horse, Kalam strode with the raiders down into the encampment. It had been carelessly laid out, revealing a sloppy mind in command. A large pile of wood was about to be set alight, promising a cooking fire that would be visible across half the Odhan. A small herd of oxen had been paddocked inside a makeshift kraal just downwind of the camp.

‘The Mezla armies have done nothing but die,’ the leader said, grinning. ‘We have heard that but one remains, far to the southeast. Led by a Wickan with a heart of black, bloodless stone.’