Then Erelan spasmed. His boots kicked gouges through the pebbles. His hands waved blindly but still managed to push Hanako away. Erelan fell over on to his back, his eyes wide as they stared skyward. ‘She sings my name – in the ache within her – my love sings my name!’

‘What do you mean?’ Hanako asked. ‘Erelan?’

‘Dalk!’

‘Erelan!’

Something flashed to life in Erelan’s eyes, and they fixed suddenly on Hanako. Horror and terror warred in that wild stare. ‘Hanako!’ he whispered. ‘I – I am not alone!’

* * *

His belly filled with berries, Ravast dozed in the sun. They occupied a clearing they had spied off to one side of the trail, in which huge slabs of stone lay strewn about, marking some fallen temple, perhaps, or the gutted remnants of a looted barrow. No matter. The midday sun bathed the glade with sweet warmth, and the travails of the world seemed far away.

Tathenal was pottering among the menhirs, while Garelko snored loudly from his own bed of stone.

‘Ravast, I proclaim these Azathanai.’

‘Fascinating.’

‘You are still too young,’ Tathenal said. ‘Nothing of the profundity that accompanies antiquity is to be found in your squealing pup of a soul. While I, who have known a host of wretched decades – not as many as Garelko, let us be sure – I, then, am grown into the appreciation of our brief flit of life in the midst of this grinding, shambling, plodding march of pointless time. Did I say pointless? I did, and heed that well, Ravast.’

‘Your words are as a song to lull this child into sleep,’ Ravast said.

‘Like birds my wisdom flaps about your skull, despairing of ever finding a way in. The Azathanai are most ancient folk, Ravast. Mysterious, too. Like an uncle who dresses strangely and has nothing to say, but offers you a knowing wink every now and then. Yes, they can be maddening in their obscurity, and such knowing regard would wordlessly tell us of outlandish adventures and sights seen to steal the breath of lesser folk.’

Blinking against the glare, Ravast half sat up and peered across at Tathenal. The man was seated on one dolmen, the index finger of his right hand tracking the unknown words carved into the stone’s facing. ‘You speak of Kanyn Thrall—’

‘Who then wandered off again! Years, now, since last we have seen him, or known of his whereabouts. But now, at last, I am beyond caring. He but served as an irritating example. I was speaking of the Azathanai, and their obsession with stone. Statues, monuments, ringed circles, chambered tombs – always empty! – and their madness reaches yet further, Ravast! Stone swords! Stone armour! Stone helms, which will serve only stone heads! I imagine they shit stone, too—’

‘Well, we’ve seen enough suspicious pebbles on this trail—’