“You knew I’d be coming, but not my name?” Viktor forced bravado into his voice. There was fear, but distant. He felt the yearning more. A need. Even a kinship. “I expected better from Queen Malatriant.”

Filth-matted plaits danced as Elda tilted her head. Her lips hooked an old smile. “We have no need of names, you and I.”

Brambles crackled. A dozen shapes emerged from beyond the lantern light. A man in frayed proctor’s robes. A young girl, her hair still bound in fraying plaits. A woman swathed in a wolf-cloak. An older man in the silk scarf and weskit of the well-to-do. Most wore the homespun cloth of farmers. Two carried swords. Others bore labourers’ tools: mattocks, baling forks and shovels. All shared Elda’s glittering eyes.

“I’ve waited so long for this moment.” Elda extended her hand. “Come with me.”

The others formed a loose ring, as Ascension dancers gathering about a lumendoll. A piece of Viktor wanted to go to her. More than a piece. Desperate for an anchor, he stared into the lantern. It helped. Yearning flickered to vapour in the golden glow.

He slid his claymore free of its slings.

“I regret that I’m needed elsewhere.”

Elda laughed. The notes scraped across Viktor’s thoughts like steel on slate. “The needs of others are of no concern.”

The ring of thralls closed in.

Lantern still gripped tightly in his left hand, Viktor sent the claymore arcing towards the merchant. There was little threat in the clumsy, one-handed blow, but still the thrall stumbled away. Viktor hurled himself at the opposite side of the circle, angling between sword-point and mattock.

His shoulder struck a labourer’s ribs, driving the man back. The proctor moved to take his place, his sword held more like a ceremonial candle than a weapon. Viktor battered it aside with his own steel and lunged for freedom.

Sword abandoned, the proctor threw himself onto the claymore’s killing point. A scream parted pale lips. Others echoed the cry, as if his pain were their own. The man grasped at the crossguard and drew himself inch by bloody inch onto the blade. Giving voice to a last gurgling whimper, he sank to the soil, dragging the sword from Viktor’s grip as he fell.

Viktor backed away from the surviving thralls. Weaponless, he did the only thing he could. He called for his shadow.

It refused him. There was no fear, no reluctance . . . not even malice. It simply sank into his soul and did not rise.

Viktor scrambled away uphill. Only Elda hung back from pursuit, a knowing, ancient smile frozen on her lips. A mattock’s wild swing smashed the lantern. The forest drowned in hungry darkness.

“There is nothing to fear,” intoned Elda. “We are all one in the Dark.”