Still looking skywards, the Poxpunks edged back towards the smoking ship-wagon at the head of their trailer. ‘Come on, you lot,’ said the crimson-braided one. ‘Let’s take the big ’vern and scoot. Won’t get more than a barrel of oil from the runtling anyway.’

To Liska’s delight, the other Poxpunks jumped down from the baby wyvern’s back and followed their boss into the wagon, glaring at Liska as they passed. She kept her snarl up, ready to nip any of them that got too close.

‘You’re welcome to it,’ said the last Poxpunk as she passed. ‘Thing’s full of bloodbugs. More than half dead already, it is.’

‘Keep moving,’ Liska said, snapping her jaws. They watched as the Poxpunks climbed rope ladders and clambered through hatches, scrambling aboard their contraption. There was a hissing, creaking sound as more smoke billowed from its chimneys and then it rolled off across the Blasted Waste, towing the trailer behind it. The dead wyvern’s head lolled off the end, bouncing against rocks as it went.

‘Good riddance,’ said Lug. He looked even paler than usual and was wobbling on his feet a bit.

‘That was very brave, what you did,’ said Liska, gently nuzzling his hand.

‘Yes. Well.’ Lug’s voice was still shaking. ‘Fishbone said he was going to catch a rat in the night and put it down the back of my robe if I didn’t help. A fat, live one. With rabies.’

‘That was before I knew your magic was just making tiny wrigglers,’ said Fishbone. He had picked up one of the worms and was giving it an experimental lick. ‘Your body-changing trick is good though. Kittimew is hearing stories about humies who can make themselves into monsters.’

Liska folded her wings and nodded at Fishbone. Then she turned to follow Elowen, who was already on her way over to the bound wyvern.

The baby creature gave a muffled, mewling howl and blinked at them all. Its long, spiny tail thumped at the ground. As Liska padded nearer, her foxy nose was filled with the smell of sulphur and reptile, brimstone and lizard sweat. And there was more: the sweet, rotten smell of sickness. The wyvern was indeed unwell.

‘There’s something wrong with it,’ she said as they all gathered round.

‘Yes, it’s been tied up and jabbed with nasty spears,’ said Elowen.

‘No, some kind of disease.’ Liska walked around the creature, still in her griffyx shape, sniffing it gently.

‘Look,’ said Lug, pointing at the wyvern’s neck and chin. ‘It’s got lots of . . . leeches . . . I think.’ Clustered around the base of its head, dug into the soft skin of its neck and behind its horns, were hundreds of fat grub-like things. They twitched and pulsed, their heads buried in the wyvern’s flesh, sucking and feasting.