‘Keep running, until it’s too dark for them to track us at least. Then we’ll go on some more, to be safe.’

Fidele nodded wearily and they set off again.

It was raining harder now, water dripping constantly from the canopy above. They were following a narrow trail; the undergrowth about them was dense and impenetrable. Maquin had considered leaving the path, forging into the forest, but that would only make them easier to track and slow them down as well. Speed is what we need.

Something changed around them. Maquin sniffed the air; an earthiness rose above the other scents of the forest. He slowed, then stopped. Fidele stumbled into him, knocking him a step forward.

The ground shifted beneath him and his foot sank into the ground past his ankle, black mud bubbling up around it. His first reaction was to heave backwards, but to his horror it felt as if some creature had gripped and pulled at his foot.

At a quick glance the ground appeared normal, covered in lichen and vine, but as he looked closer he saw it shift, a ripple spreading about his boot. A sinking hole. Panic bubbled in his gut. He’d seen them in Forn, seen a giant trapped and sucked below the surface in a matter of moments.

‘Take my hand,’ Fidele said, stretching out to him. He gripped her wrist and very slowly leaned backwards, resisting the urge to heave with all his might. Slowly he felt his foot move, pulling free of the sucking mud. With a squelch and a popping sound his foot appeared and he was free. He nodded thanks to Fidele and drew his sword, prodding at the ground to negotiate their way around.

After that they proceeded more slowly. Visibility dropped steadily until shapes began to blur around them. They spilt into a clearing where dark shadows were heaped on the ground. Maquin saw the dull gleam of metal, heard a groan. He drew his knife, hissing at Fidele to stay back, then made his way forwards.

Thunder cracked overhead, lightning flashed, for a heartbeat illuminating the glade as brightly as highsun. Warriors were strewn upon the ground. The first he reached bore the eagle of Tenebral upon a battered cuirass, dead eyes staring, throat opened. Others were Vin Thalun. The last he approached still lived, a warrior of Tenebral; his breathing was laboured and uneven.

A shadow loomed behind Maquin and he tensed, but it was only Fidele. She crouched and stroked the wounded warrior’s forehead. He was a young man, his face pale and eyes wide with pain. He stared at Fidele, recognition slowly dawning.

‘My . . . lady.’

‘What is your name?’ Fidele asked him gently.

‘Drusus,’ the warrior breathed.

‘What happened here, Drusus?’

‘We fled the arena—’ He grimaced with pain. ‘Peritus’ orders. Split up, regroup in half a ten-night. But the Vin Thalun followed us. We could not shake them.’