Glancing across at Haut, Korya saw him leaning on the axe. Water ran like a curtain from the rim of his helm, parting round the upthrust tusks but otherwise obscuring his face. She advanced on him.

‘Your name alone scared off a giant who’s been knocking down towers with his fists,’ she said.

Varandas grunted. ‘She accuses you, Haut, of notoriety. What say you in defence?’

‘Her,’ he replied. ‘Her fists.’

‘Very good,’ nodded Varandas, who then turned to Korya. ‘Thus, you have your master’s answer. I would continue to arbitrate this debate, but alas, I am getting wet. I go to light a fire in the hearth within—’

‘You don’t have a hearth within,’ said Korya.

‘Oh. Then I shall have to make space for one, of course. In the meantime, I suggest you thank your master for fending off the wrath of Kilmandaros. Why, I hear even her husband, Grizzin Farl, flees her temper. And now I see why.’ He then went inside.

Korya glared at Haut. ‘Who drove her from the valley?’ she demanded.

‘You should thank me indeed,’ he replied, ‘and be mindful of my courage these past few days. Twice now I have stood fast before the perilous ferment of a woman’s fury.’ He shouldered the axe. ‘As to your query, I suppose we shall find out soon.’

Something small and bedraggled darted out from the tower, scampered like a hare down the slope and was quickly lost from sight.

‘What was that?’

Haut sighed. ‘Varandas has been playing with dolls again, hasn’t he?’

* * *

With Arathan trailing his father, they rode among abandoned towers. The ground grew more uneven, the flatlands giving way to rounded hills. After a time, as the square edifices became more numerous, it occurred to Arathan that they were entering what passed for a city. There were no streets as such, nor was there any particular order to the layout of dwellings, but it was easy to imagine thousands of Jaghut moving to and fro between the towers.

The sky, a dull grey, was descending over them, and as they travelled onward the first drops of rain began falling. In moments, a deluge engulfed the scene. Arathan felt the water soaking through, defeating with ease the armour he wore, and a chill gripped him. He could barely make out his father ahead, the faded once-black cape like a patch of mist, Calaras like a standing stone that refused to draw nearer. The ground grew slick and treacherous and Hellar slowed her trot to a plodding walk.

Arathan fought a desire to slip still further back, to lose sight of his father. The strangeness of this city offered an invitation to explore, while the rain promised the mystery of all that remained unseen and, perhaps, unknowable. He felt moments from cutting a tether and drifting away.

Ahead, Draconus drew up before a tower and dismounted. Taking the reins in one hand, he led Calaras in through the gaping doorway.