The apparition struck the Semk demon like a runaway armoured wagon. The single forelimb snapped forward to plunge deep into the demon’s belly, then pulled back in an explosion of spurting fluids. Clenched in that forelimb’s grip was something that radiated fury in palpable waves. The air went icy.

Pearl backed away until his heels struck Lostara, then he reached down one hand, eyes still on the scene, and gripped her weapon harness.

The Semk’s body seemed to fold in on itself as it staggered back. The apparition reared, still clutching the fleshy, dripping object.

Its rider made a grab for it, but the creature hissed, twisting to keep it out of his reach. Instead it flung the object away into the mists.

The Semk stumbled after it.

The apparition’s long head swung to face Lostara and Pearl with that ghastly grin.

‘Thank you,’ Pearl whispered.

A portal blossomed around them.

Lostara blinked up at a dull, ash-laden sky. There was no sound but their breathing. Safe. A moment later unconsciousness slipped over her like a shroud.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

An exquisite match of dog to master, the Wickan cattle-dog is a vicious, unpredictable breed, compact yet powerful, though by far its most notable characteristic is its stubborn will.

Lives of the Conquered

Ilem Trauth

As Duiker strode between the large, spacious tents, a chorus of shouts erupted ahead. A moment later one of the Wickan dogs appeared, head low, a surging rush of muscle, heading straight for the historian.

Duiker fumbled for his sword, already knowing it was far too late. At the last instant the huge animal dodged lithely around him, and the historian saw that it held in its mouth a lapdog, its eyes dark pools of terror.

The cattle-dog ran on, slipping between two tents and disappearing from sight.

Ahead of the historian, a number of figures appeared, armed with large rocks and – bizarrely – Kanese parasols. One and all, they were dressed as if about to attend a royal function, although in their expressions Duiker saw raw fury.

‘You there!’ one yelled imperiously. ‘Old man! Did you see a mad hound just now?’

‘I saw a running cattle-dog, aye,’ the historian quietly replied.

‘With a rare Hengese roach dog in its mouth?’

A dog that eats cockroaches? ‘Rare? I assumed it was raw.’

The nobles grew quiet as gazes focused on Duiker.

‘A foolish time for humour, old man,’ the spokesman growled. He was younger than the others, his honey-coloured skin and large eyes denoting his Quon Talian lineage. He was lean, with the physical assurance of a duellist – the identification confirmed by the basket-hiked rapier at his belt. Moreover, there was something in the man’s eyes that suggested to Duiker that here was someone who enjoyed killing.

The man approached, his walk becoming a swagger. ‘An apology, peasant – though I’ll grant it won’t save you from a beating, at least you’ll stay breathing ...’