Jorrude said nothing. It would not do, after all, to utter a hasty, heartfelt agreement, despite their present circumstance. ‘Check on the others, Brother Enias.’

‘Were those truly the ones who rode that ship through our realm?’

‘They were,’ Jorrude answered as he fumbled with the helm’s straps. ‘And I have been thinking. I suspect they were ignorant of Liosan laws when they travelled through our realm. True, ignorance is an insufficient defence. But one must consider the notion of innocent momentum.’

From off to one side, Malachar grunted. ‘Innocent momentum?’

‘Indeed. Were not these trespassers but pulled along – beyond their will – in the wake of the draconian T’lan Imass bonecaster? If an enemy we must hunt, then should it not be that dragon?’

‘Wise words,’ Malachar observed.

‘A brief stay in our realm,’ Jorrude continued, ‘to re-supply and requisition new horses, along with repairs and such, seems to reasonably obtain in this instance.’

‘Truly judged, brother.’

From the other side of the crater sounded another cough.

At least, Jorrude dourly reflected, they were all still alive.

It’s all the dragon’s fault, in fact. Who would refute that?

They rode into the sandstorm, less than fifty strides behind the fleeing horse warriors, and found themselves floundering blind in a maelstrom of shrieking winds and whipping gravel.

Fiddler heard a horse scream.

He drew hard on his own reins, the wind hammering at him from all sides. Already he’d lost sight of his companions. This is wide-eyed stupid.

Now, if I was the commander of those bastards, I’d—

And suddenly figures flashed into view, scimitars and round shields, swathed faces and ululating warcries. Fiddler threw himself down against his horse’s withers as a heavy blade slashed, slicing through sand-filled air where his head had been a moment earlier.

The Wickan mare lunged forward and to one side, choosing this precise moment to buck its hated rider from the saddle.

With profound success.

Fiddler found himself flying forward, his bag of munitions rolling up his back, then up over his head.

Still in mid-air, but angling down to the ground, he curled himself into a tight ball – though he well knew, in that instant, that there was no hope of surviving. No hope at all. Then he pounded into the sand, and rolled – to see, upside-down, a huge hook-bladed sword spinning end over end across his own wake. And a stumbling horse. And its rider, a warrior thrown far back on his saddle – with the munition bag wrapped in his arms.

A surprised look beneath the ornate helm – then rider, horse and munitions vanished into the whirling sands.

Fiddler clambered to his feet and began running. Sprinting, in what he hoped – what he prayed – was the opposite direction.

A hand snagged his harness from behind. ‘Not that way, you fool!’ And he was yanked to one side, flung to the ground, and a body landed on top of him.