‘Murdering bastard!’ Za’tenga was scrabbling to his feet, half slipping on ash and cinder. His wounded leg wasn’t helping. With blackened knuckles, he gripped his knife hilt and yanked it free… Then stopped. Two barrels from a conjoined combat shotgun were staring him in the eyes.

Illion was halfway to them when he saw the moment and froze. He held out his hand, so did Za’tenga.

‘Enough blood,’ said the pathfinder, his tone pleading. ‘Enough has been shed already. Why can’t we all live?’

Za’tenga put the knife down. He did it slowly, careful to show Kade the blade.

‘Only the strong will live,’ said the Themian, ‘the weak will perish against the anvil.’ He looked down at Za’tenga’s leg. ‘And you are weakened, my friend.’

Kade looked up. ‘I need only you, pathfinder.’

As the shot sounded, Illion closed his eyes tight. When he opened them again the Themian’s body was a ragged, half-destroyed mess. Most of his legs were intact, the shell had hit him in the torso, pushing him back with the sheer force of the impact and then detonating inside his body. Internal organs, bone, it was hard to discern amidst the ruddy pile of viscera Kade had become. His head was several metres away, torn off his neck during the explosion.

Illion fought down an urge to vomit.

Za’tenga had already been sick all over the front of his fatigues.

Both turned to see a tall figure emerging from the smoke and drifting ash. The warrior looked battered, his armour broken and his trappings torn. He held a stocky looking pistol in his outstretched hand and his eyes were like two burning coals.

‘Come with me and you’ll live,’ said the newcomer, looking past them. Illion turned to see several slithering bodies, just burrowed up from the earth.

But this time the serrwyrms were not hunting. They were fleeing.

Above, the mountain roared, unhappy the insects scurrying in its fire-wreathed canyons had survived its wrath. It vented harder, as if trying to redress the oversight.

‘You know what this is?’ Va’lin asked one of the aspirants whilst on the move, a hawkish-looking boy with an old scar across his face.

He nodded. ‘A bolt pistol.’

‘Very good,’ Va’lin handed the weapon to him. ‘Keep it close and shoot two-handed. Try it in one and you’ll dislocate your shoulder, at best. It’s not meant for normal humans.’

Normal humans.

The expression had come unbidden and even though Va’lin’s transhuman apotheosis was in its relative infancy he could no longer be classed as merely ‘human’. The realisation was as chilling as it was empowering.

‘It will kick,’ he warned. ‘Use it to kill those bastards if they get too close.’

The fleeing serrwyrms were shadowing them, trying to escape the fire canyon’s fury just like their former prey. Shadows, all sinuous and fleet of claw, appeared sporadically through the ash drifts, a reminder that they were not alone.

‘Are they still a threat?’ asked the other aspirant. ‘I thought you said they were running, like us?’