He counted three bodies, barely visible, half buried in the sand.

Without a word, he pulled the speeder into an aggressive turn, belatedly muttering, ‘Hold on,’ as Exor was almost thrown from his seat and into the rollcage above.

As they got closer, Ba’ken eased the throttle. The pitiable corpses were too slight, too small to be Fire-born.

‘Pilgrims,’ said the captain, uttering a quiet benediction. It was no more than he had suspected when none of the baggage trains had returned. Casting his eye farther still, he found the rest, not far ahead but their bodies were sunk deeper.

‘They were fools,’ said Exor, rueful.

Ba’ken replied, ‘The earth will reclaim them and the Circle of Fire will turn.’

‘Into fire and ash…’ said the Scout, his voice trailing off with his thoughts.

‘As we’ll all become in the end,’ added Ba’ken fatalistically, turning them around so they faced towards the fire canyon again.

Close up it was impressive, almost god-like in its power and violent majesty.

Huge plumes of smoke, ash and fire were billowing from the mouth of the gorge like hot breaths exhaled by some monster of Nocturnean myth. The shattered spines of rock were its broken fangs, the canyon itself its belly, thrashing in its death throes. If Emek had lived, Ba’ken believed the Apothecary would have found something poetic about its self-destructive beauty.

The four aspirants were suddenly of much lesser concern. Somewhere in the darkness and conflagration was Va’lin.

‘What could live in that?’ asked Exor, the implication obvious.

Ba’ken answered with an order: ‘Hand me the scope.’

Even with its enhanced magnification and visual filters, the captain could see little beyond the canyon’s maw.

He dared not get too close, the speeder was already taking hits from the debris kicked up by the storm. Within its immediate radius, there was no way of telling where another quake might split the earth or if a giant tremor was about to sunder the entire canyon and consume it whole. He smashed his fist against the console making the seismic returns shudder, crackle out of focus and then fizzle back again.

Ba’ken opened up the comm-feed. ‘Argos, how long will this helstorm last?’

There was a short delay before the Forge Master replied, ‘Impossible to predict with any certainty. It could be hours or even days, but that is the nature of the trial and the anvil upon which would-be Fire-born are tempered.’

‘One of my Scouts is in there. Va’lin.’

‘The Scorian?’ It was more of a statement than a question but Argos phrased it like one anyway.

‘Yes.’

‘There are no search teams, no reinforcements close enough to assist you in time, brother-captain.’ Another statement as Argos did the only thing he really could, relate facts. His last comment was knowingly facile. ‘You are on your own.’

Ba’ken laughed ruefully, ‘We’ve been on our own since Isstvan, Forge Master. Every fire-born son of Nocturne knows that. Surviving on our own with our guts ripped out is what we Salamanders do best.’