The clash with Leoman had begun well enough, a perfectly sprung ambush. And would have ended perfectly, as well.

If not for the damned ghosts.

Ambush turned over, onto its back like an upended tortoise. They’d been lucky to get out with their lives, these few. These last.

Fayelle well knew what had happened to the rest of Korbolo’s army. She had felt Henaras’s death. And Kamist Reloe’s.

And Raraku was not finished with them. Oh no. Not at all finished.

They reached a slope leading out of the defile.

She had few regrets—

Crossbow quarrels whizzed down. Horses and soldiers screamed. Bodies thumped onto the ground. Her horse staggered, then rolled onto its side. She’d no time to kick free of the stirrups, and as the dying beast pinned her leg its weight tore the joint from her hip, sending pain thundering through her. Her left arm was trapped awkwardly beneath her as her own considerable weight struck the ground – and bones snapped.

Then the side of her head hammered against rock.

Fayelle struggled to focus. The pain subsided, became a distant thing. She heard faint pleas for mercy, the cries of wounded soldiers being finished off.

Then a shadow settled over her.

‘I’ve been looking for you.’

Fayelle frowned. The face hovering above her belonged to the past. The desert had aged it, but it nevertheless remained a child’s face. Oh, spirits below. The child. Sinn. My old . . . student...

She watched the girl raise a knife between them, angle the point down, then set it against her neck.

Fayelle laughed. ‘Go ahead, you little horror. I’ll wait for you at Hood’s Gate ... and the wait won’t be long—’

The knife punched through skin and cartilage.

Fayelle died.

Straightening, Sinn swung to her companions. They were, one and all, busy gathering the surviving horses.

Sixteen left. The Ashok Regiment had fallen on hard times. Thirst and starvation. Raiders. This damned desert.

She watched them for a moment, then something else drew her gaze.

Northward.

She slowly straightened. ‘Cord.’

The sergeant turned. ‘What – oh, Beru fend!’

The horizon to the west had undergone a transformation. It was now limned in white, and it was rising.

‘Double up!’ Cord bellowed. ‘Now!’

A hand closed on her shoulder. Shard leaned close. ‘You ride with me.’

‘Ebron!’

‘I hear you,’ the mage replied to Cord’s bellow. ‘And I’ll do what I can with these blown mounts, but I ain’t guaranteeing—’

‘Get on with it! Bell, help Limp onto that horse – he’s busted up that knee again!’

Sinn cast one last glance at Fayelle’s corpse. She’d known, then. What was coming.

I should be dancing. The bloodied knife fell from her hands.

Then she was roughly grasped and pulled up onto the saddle behind Shard.

The beast’s head tossed, and it shook beneath them.

‘Queen take us,’ Shard hissed, ‘Ebron’s filled these beasts with fire.’

We’ll need it...