If he brought the other two flights down to support Quasim, they’d be fighting for spaces to land, getting in each other’s way as much as helping. But if he didn’t, and the Wild was out in force, he’d be abandoning the Peridot at a time of need.

Vasin ground his teeth in frustration – he’d only know if he was right or wrong when it was too late.

High in the sky behind him, Lord Lakshin Opal and his hunters were still trying to keep up, a gleaming band of white, magnificent and useless. This could all be over by the time they arrive.

Not confident in his own flight of hunters, provided by Lady Anuja Ruby, he signalled for them to circle, knowing that they wouldn’t be able to maintain height for long, and dived down after Quasim.

The Peridot’s battle cry was rapturous, the kind made by a man without fear, totally given to the joy of the moment, and Vasin could not help but be impressed by the sight of the great crystal sword flashing down into the water again and again. Where the blade struck, miniature waves sprayed up either side and the hiding shapes beneath the surface ruptured and split, a mix of steam and blood spouting into the air.

Quasim’s hunters dropped down around him, two of them moving to protect the tribute, the others stretched out single file, their Sky-legs cutting too deep into the soft mud.

Quasim was laughing again, raising his sword in salute to Vasin. ‘Do you see me?’ he called. ‘Do you see how they fall?’

Vasin saw. He saw the bubbling water at Quasim’s feet testifying to the death throes of the things that lingered there, but he also saw other disturbances in the water moving to Quasim’s back, and still more rising up around the other hunters. They had a vaguely human shape, but with blubbery pale skin and white filmy eyes, and flesh spanning the gap between fingers and toes.

Murkers, lots of them. They usually like to hunt alone or in threes, but I count six at least.

‘Behind you!’ he yelled as the first set of webbed hands broke the surface, reaching for Quasim’s ankles. Another quickly followed. Both Murkers endured the aura radiating from Quasim’s armour; suffering, their pallid skin blistering, a sacrifice of flesh given to get close.

Another oddity. Murkers never seek out pain this way. Is this another change? Is something else forcing them? Vasin glanced about, but there was no sign of any greater demonic presence. Whatever had put the Murkers up to this was either far away or still in hiding.