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...

And now they could hear the sound, a roar that belittled even the Whirlwind Wall in its fullest rage.

Raraku had risen.

To claim a shattered warren.

The Wickan warlocks had known what was coming. Flight was impossible, but the islands of coral stood high – higher than any other feature this side of the escarpment – and it was on these that the armies gathered.

To await what could be their annihilation.

The north sky was a massive wall of white, billowing clouds. A cool, burgeoning wind thrashed through the palms around the oasis.

Then the sound reached them.

A roar unceasing, building, of water, cascading, foaming, tumbling across the vast desert.

The Holy Desert, it seemed, held far more than bones and memories. More than ghosts and dead cities. Lostara Yil stood near the Adjunct, ignoring the baleful glares Tene Baralta continued casting her way. Wondering ... if Pearl was on that high ground, standing over Sha’ik’s grave ... if that ground was in fact high enough.

She wondered, too, at what she had seen these past months. Visions burned into her soul, fraught and mysterious, visions that could still chill her blood if she allowed them to rise before her mind’s eye once more. Crucified dragons. Murdered gods. Warrens of fire and warrens of ashes.