The two witches reached Rance, who at the last moment pulled back and would have fled if not for Rebble’s sudden, somewhat harsh intercession, as he wrapped both arms about her. Rance struggled in his grip, and then sagged as if in a faint, slipping down to the ground.

‘No,’ said Galar Baras, moving forward. ‘This is wrong.’

One of the witches knelt beside Rance, who now hung by one arm in Rebble’s grasp, her hair covering her face, as motionless as if death had taken her.

As Galar Baras drew closer, Rebble looked over and met the captain’s eyes. ‘She’s fled,’ he said. ‘Not away. Inside.’

‘Rebble, let her go.’

He released his grip and her arm flopped down.

The witch who knelt beside Rance now held up a staying hand. ‘No closer, Lover of Death.’

The title halted Galar Baras in his tracks. He was unable to speak. From the ring of soldiers surrounding the parade ground, there was now utter silence. Not a sword cackled. The chain and scale had ceased their desultory murmur. Something had come into the air, potent and febrile.

The other witch began dancing with slow steps, her naked form swaying above her broad hips. ‘Watch me!’ she cried. ‘All of you! I am Vastala Trembler, Bonecaster of the Logros! Watch me, and I will open your eyes!’

* * *

Faror Hend pushed through the ring of silent soldiers, her eyes fixed on the prone form of Rance. Fear shortened her breath. There was nothing fair in this. Even Rebble, who had now taken two steps back from where the Bonecaster knelt over Rance, was making a mute appeal to Galar Baras who also stood nearby.

But the witch who had been dancing in a circle around Rance now began stretching her steps into an outward spiral, and some unseen power emanated from her, visibly pushing away both Rebble and Galar Baras. As Faror Hend drew nearer, she felt a pressure building against her, resisting each step. After a moment she halted, panting. The dancing woman seemed to be trembling, shivering, her form blurring as if seen through thick glass.

Rance suddenly cried out, her shriek answered by three thousand Hust swords with a fierce metallic shout. Staggering back, Faror Hend saw soldiers collapsing in the line, one after another, while others struggled, fighting against something – and now she could feel it, a slithering sensation beneath her armour, as if snakes had been loosed here. Yet, wherever she frantically reached, she felt nothing.

They are beneath my skin! She fell to her knees, desperately pulling at the straps and buckles.

* * *

An inexplicable rage filled Wareth as he pushed against the overwhelming pressure that rolled in waves from the centre of the parade ground. Whatever sorcery this was, it seeped through the armour as if it was little more than cheesecloth. It raced across his skin, and then burrowed beneath it, rushing into muscles and then bones. He was roaring his fury but could hear nothing but the deafening rush of that terrible power.