“I will go on with the narrator, Thrushchurl, and Nikhinoch.”

His voice is muffled as though he spoke through a scarf.

Makemin’s silhouette lifts its arm and points off to the left, toward a jutting prominence of rock a few dozen yards away—the only high ground in the vicinity apart from the mound itself.

“Saskia. You take the rest up there and look for the enemy. If you see them near, signal us. If we receive no signal from you, we will go up to the mound.”

“You don’t think we should watch from the mound?” she asks.

“Don’t argue with me!” he snaps. His arm lowered, his form does not move. “On the slopes of the mound you would be too exposed. We four may go up with a better chance of escaping notice if the mound is being watched, and we don’t want to tell them how few we are. We’ve come too far to be sloppy now.”

“Yes, sir,” she says resolutely.

“If you see the enemy, fire on them only if you can get them by surprise. Otherwise, join us on the mound if possible. The wall surrounding the tower should be defensible. You will command these troops. When I return, I will bring back what we need with me.”

Saskia’s face almost glimmers. She salutes Makemin fiercely and turns on the spot.

“Come on—hurry,” she calls, her voice not loud but intense, low and penetrating. We four stand where we are, watching her go. After a few minutes, I can see them appear on the top of the prominence, taking their positions with care. Minutes pass. No signal.

Makemin turns on his heel and strides up toward the mound, which is beginning to loom above us. Its slopes are bare packed earth, and tapering, slender flues of enamelled metal protrude from somewhere deep inside, crowning it about three-quarters of the way up like a ring of spears planted in the ground. Near to me I pass an iron pinecone of skull creches—the dry sockets of the builders don’t stare down on us, the faceless faces of the skulls don’t make expressions for us.

Just at the base of the mound, Makemin leaves the road and moves quickly up its margin, leaning a little forward. We follow him, passing monuments of black glass, formed into bulbs, flat flows and fat rings, looking like bizarre arms with useless articulations. Once inside the crown of flues, I can see the tower is not as large as I believed—what I took for its base is a free-standing round wall closely surrounding it.

The wall glows faintly against black clouds; it looks like polished brass. There is no gate, the wall is simply interrupted. The gap is high and lean. Perhaps a gate had stood here once, and rotted away, but the gleaming wall, the featureless ends, belie that idea.