‘Not if I can find shelter, here in these hills. Somewhere to wait out the worst of the storm.’

‘I am making use of a cave,’ the woman said. ‘It is not far. Will you join me?’

‘I don’t see much choice. Yes. But first, can you help me remove my kit from the saddle?’

Together, they collected Threadbare’s gear. The horse still steamed with heat, and once, when Threadbare inadvertently brushed the beast’s flank, she saw again, in a momentary flash, a hide made colourless. Snatching her hand back, she blinked. ‘Did you see—’

‘See what?’

‘Nothing. Would you be so kind as to carry this?’

The woman collected the bedroll.

‘Lead on,’ Threadbare said.

Smiling again, the woman set out, up the steep hillside. Stepping carefully, hunched protectively around her injuries, Threadbare followed. ‘You’ve not told me your name,’ she said.

‘Nor have you told me yours.’

‘Sergeant Threadbare. You mentioned a friend. A Warden. I know – knew – many of them. Who was this friend of yours?’

They skirted the summit and edged down into a defile. ‘Her name was Faror Hend.’

Threadbare said nothing for a few strides, and then she sighed. ‘It may be that she is dead.’

‘No. She lives.’

‘You’ve seen her, then? Since the battle?’

‘She lives.’

‘You are the one named T’riss, aren’t you? The Azathanai.’

They traversed a twisted track flanked by sheer walls of raw limestone. After fifteen or so wending paces, the path suddenly opened out into a hollow, the level floor of which was crowded with shards of stone, many pieces of which seemed to bear mortar. A broad but low cave-mouth interrupted one of the high walls.

Threadbare studied the scene with narrow eyes. ‘That was sealed,’ she said. ‘It’s a crypt, isn’t it?’

T’riss faced the cave, one finger pressed to her lips. ‘A crypt? Why, yes, I suppose it was. Hence the corpse interred within.’

‘Dog-Runner?’

She glanced across at Threadbare, fine brows lifting. ‘Dog-Runner. Robust, are they not? Broad and strong, thick-boned, a heavy, projecting face, with ever so mild eyes of blue or grey?’ She shook her head. ‘No, not a Dog-Runner.’

Threadbare had begun shivering. ‘I need to get inside. I need to build a fire.’

‘There is one already built. A crack leading up takes the smoke, not that there is much smoke. The bones were very old, I think, to burn so readily.’

‘Azathanai,’ Threadbare said in a mutter, ‘you move awkwardly in this world of ours.’

Inside the shelter of the cave, just beyond a sharp bend, Threadbare found the hearth that T’riss had made, and saw a thigh bone threaded with cracked white, black and the orange gleam of fierce heat, resting athwart the ring of stones. The thigh bone, Threadbare saw, was as thick as her upper arm, and nearly of a length to match that of her shoulder to her fingertips.

‘No,’ she said as T’riss came in behind her, ‘not a Dog-Runner.’