‘The name says it all,’ Kargan said, looking ahead with Chloe. ‘Cinder Fen. Swamp of ash. Past the mountains is the heartland, though I have met none who have traveled there and made it home to tell the tale.’

Chloe shivered as chill fingers of cold air brushed her bare arms.

‘We must beach overnight at the tip of the promontory, a place where our camp will be farthest from the high ground,’ Kargan said. ‘There will be wild ones all around. Count on that, Chloe of Phalesia.’ He stood and looked down at her. ‘Escape if the sun god wills it, but I wouldn’t try it here.’

Kargan had obviously chosen the place where he would beach the Nexotardis well in advance. A finger of startlingly white sand jutted out from the shore, and he took personal command of his vessel, guiding the bireme to the extreme point, several hundred feet from the black rock faces and sheer cliffs. Gnarled black trees skirted the shoreline above the beach, somehow eking out an existence. The wind that plunged down from the mountains was cold, despite the expected summer heat. Inhaling, Chloe smelled the incongruous scent of char.

With the ship beached and the ramp out, Chloe saw that the dozen marines were once more armored, carrying long wooden spears and triangular shields in addition to the swords at each man’s waist. They trotted down the ramp and encircled the bireme, facing the mountains, each man warily watching the sky and casting his eyes over the cliffs.

Kargan barked swift orders. The ship was only beached enough to hold her fast against the tide and the oarsmen would stay in their benches, ready to leave at a moment’s notice. A sailor grabbed Chloe by the arm and led her down the ramp. With her feet on the crystalline sand, she gazed up fearfully at the mountains, where the darkening clouds swirled as if in the midst of an angry dance.

She was made to sit within the protective circle of the marines as the sun sank into the sea in the west. The soldiers never ceased watching as Kargan sent crewmen out to gather wood.

‘Fetch one armful each and then return. If I hear a single man speak of gemstones, I will cut out his heart and feed it to him.’

Soon a growing pile of sticks formed within the circle of marines. Hasha, the lean hook-nosed overseer of the oarsmen who had initially sat with Chloe and her father at the banquet, smoothed his curled mustaches as he knelt and placed some coals from a clay pot under the wooden stack. Before long a fire blazed, and the sailor with Chloe guided her to sit beside it in the sand.

She saw the slave Kufi handing out rations. ‘Is fire advisable?’ she asked as he handed her a plain ceramic bowl containing bread, olives, and cheese.