Distant screams rose above the wind’s more guttural howl. ho, the hills are alive with beasts. Foul-tempered ones at that. Three times in the past hour Icarium had led them around a Soletaken or a D’ivers. There was some kind of mutually agreed avoidance going on – the shapeshifters wanted nothing to do with the Jhag. But Sha’ik’s fanatics. . . ah, now they’re fair game. Lucky for us.

Still, the likelihood that Servant still lived seemed, to Fiddler’s mind, very small indeed. He worried for Apsalar as well, and found himself- ironically – praying that a god’s skills would prove equal to the task.

Two desert warriors wearing leather armour appeared ahead and below, scampering with panicked haste down towards the base of the gorge.

Fiddler hissed a curse. He was the group’s flank on this side – if they got past him ...

The sapper raised his crossbow.

Black cloaks swept over the two figures. They shrieked. The cloaks swarmed, crawled. Spiders, big enough to make out each one even at this distance. Fiddler’s skin prickled. You should have brought brooms, friends.

He pushed himself up from the crevasse he had wedged himself into, angled right as he scrambled along the slope. And if I don’t get back into Icarium’s influence soon, I’ll be wishing I had as well.

The screams of the desert warriors ceased, either with the distance the sapper put between him and them, or blissful release – he hoped the latter. Directly ahead rose the side of the ridge that had – thus far – marked Apsalar and her father’s trail.

The wind tugged at him as he clambered his way to the top. Almost immediately he stumbled onto the spine and caught sight of the others, no more than ten paces ahead. The three were crouched over a motionless figure.

Fiddler went cold. Oh, Hood, make it a stranger ...

It was. A young man, naked, his skin too pale to make him one of Sha’ik’s desert tribesmen. His throat had been cut, the wound gaping down to the vertebra’s flattened inner side. There was no blood.

As Fiddler slowly crouched down, Mappo looked over at the sapper. ‘A Soletaken, we think,’ he said.

‘That’s Apsalar’s work,’ Fiddler said. ‘See how the head was pushed forward and down, chin tucked to anchor the blade – I’ve seen it before ...’

‘Then she’s alive,’ Crokus said.

‘As I said,’ Icarium rumbled. ‘As is her father.’

So far so good. Fiddler straightened. ‘There’s no blood,’ he said. ‘Any idea how long ago he was killed?’

‘No more than an hour,’ Mappo said. ‘As for the lack of blood ...’ He shrugged. ‘The Whirlwind is a thirsty goddess.’

The sapper nodded. ‘I think I’ll stick closer from now on, if you don’t mind – I don’t think we’ll have any more trouble from Sha’ik’s warriors – call it a gut feeling.’