‘We should probably introduce ourselves,’ said Elowen, proceeding to tell the kittimew all their names. It listened carefully, nodding after each one.

‘And my name is Reeeeowwwreeeeowwwwwoooo wwwoooowwwfsst Fssst Fsst. In the kittimew tongue, that is.’

‘I don’t think I’m going to be able to remember that,’ said Lug. ‘What’s that written on your chest?’

The kittimew looked down to where a splodge of greasy black paint had been smeared over the mishmash of wool, leather and cotton that passed for its jerkin. It looked a bit like the skeleton of a fish.

‘That is the sign of my house,’ said the kittimew, puffing out its chest. ‘The family of the Half-Eaten Trout.’

‘Fish bone,’ said Liska. ‘It looks like a fish bone. Can we call you that?’

The kittimew looked at her for a long moment, as if wondering whether to leap on her and scratch her to pieces. Then it blinked its eyes and bowed its head. ‘Yes. That would be a good name.’

‘Great,’ said Liska. ‘Fishbone it is. Can we get down off this mountain now, please?’

‘Of course,’ said Fishbone. ‘We should probably hurry, I suppose. Or that hunter up there will catch you and kill you.’

Liska turned to look where Fishbone was pointing. As the mists shifted and swirled, she caught a glimpse, further up the path they had just walked down, of a slender figure hunched over the trail. She stared, heart pounding, as their tracker raised her head and looked down the path at her. Those blank, dead, ruthless eyes . . . it was Thresher and she had found them.

The mist closed over her a second later but by then they were already running, chasing after the scampering tail of Fishbone as he darted in amongst the boulders. From behind them came the sound of pounding, hungry footsteps.

Chapter 8

Through carefully placed towers of stones they sprinted, around boulders, beneath overhangs, leaping across springs of water, scrambling between toppled tree trunks. Liska’s breath rasped in her throat. Behind her, still attached by the rope, Lug sobbed and sniffed, whimpering with terror. Every now and then she had to stop and shout at him to hurry, or even haul him along like a sack of soggy potatoes.

They followed Fishbone as best they could but they were no match for his agility. He flowed up rocks and bounced off as if he were made of rubber. He swished between cracks that the others had to pause and squeeze through, every second waiting for a blade or spear to shoot out of the mist and hit them.