The woman had gone. He scanned the street, trying to distinguish her slender form in the milling chaos. Then he caught sight of her. She was standing in the wide entranceway to an abandoned building on the opposite side of the road. He began elbowing his way towards her. But with a dozen paces to go, he froze.

In the doorway, a bizarre scene unfolded. The woman stepped smartly to one side, leaving an impression of her shape etched in the air. Rapidly, the outline filled. Bones, viscera, organs, arteries and veins appeared, then a casing of flesh. The blank face of her double took on features, which as they clarified strongly resembled the woman herself, though on closer inspection they displayed a more masculine set. Finally, clothes formed, identical to the garb the woman wore. The resultant being could have passed for her twin brother.

The doorway where the pair stood was gloomy, so it took Disgleirio a few seconds to notice something else. Some kind of fine web connected the twins. It was moist and gelatinous, and Disgleirio couldn’t shake the thought that it was a monstrous afterbirth. As he watched, it split and was instantly absorbed into the woman’s body.

He had never seen a meld before, but knew he must be looking at one now.

The twins exchanged affectionate smiles, and in unison walked out into the street. Curiously, both of them seemed to have a slight limp.

There were less people about, the bulk of the mob and their pursuers having moved on. But there were still enough to make Disgleirio worry for their safety.

His fears were justified.

The twins were staring at him. She made a comment Disgleirio couldn’t hear, and they laughed. Then she started to march his way. At the same time, something remarkable happened.

At first, her twin didn’t move. Then slowly, with all the ease and lightness of a child’s kite, he rose from the ground. When he reached the first storey of the building, he levelled, stretching his arms and legs out straight. The next second he was slicing through the air.

Quinn ducked. The glamour-twin swooped over him, just clearing his head. But the attack he expected didn’t come. Instead, the man swerved and flew down the street. He made for a knot of protestors nursing their wounds, diving at them. When they saw him coming, those who were able tried to scramble out of the way. The glamour-twin puffed his cheeks and spat a gout of flame which enveloped many of the crowd. The stragglers ignited, turning into fireballs, blundering and screaming. Their tormentor turned and made for another bunch of people further along who, seeing what had happened, were trying to outrun him.

Disgleirio watched in horror, to the extent that he momentarily forgot the woman. Then a movement caught his eye. She was almost upon him, charging, sending her sword in a great swipe that he had to jump aside to avoid. Their blades collided and the duel restarted.

Meanwhile, the glamour-twin soared over cowering bands of citizens, raining fire down on them. A buggy ploughed through the scene, the driver desperate to escape. The twin disgorged a spume of flame at it, and carriage and driver went up like tinder. The spooked horse, towing a blazing funeral pyre, surged in panic. With a grinding crash the buggy overturned, spilling its grisly load. The horse galloped on, dragging the burning remains and scattering onlookers.

Somebody loosed an arrow at the airborne man from an open window. His fiery breath charred the bolt before it hit. Veering, he headed back. Another arrow skimmed his way, but it was sufficiently off target for him to ignore. He turned his wrath on the archer, huffing flame through the open window and converting him to cinder. The room blazed, venting oily black smoke.

Disgleirio was only dimly aware of the slaughter. He was embroiled in a swordfight he was beginning to think he couldn’t win. The woman’s stamina never seemed to flag, confirming his instinct that she was replenishing her vigour magically.

They fought on, each seeking a chink in the other’s guard. Had either of them been a lesser talent the game would have been over long since. As it was, Disgleirio feared her staying power would be the decisive factor.

But as they fenced, he formed an impression. He could have been deceiving himself, but he got the feeling she wasn’t finding him as easy a mark as she thought. Self-deception or not, it gave him heart. His pace went up a notch. He dared to hope.

In the event, his determination wasn’t put to the ultimate test. He became aware of a vibration underfoot. It soon translated to the sound of thundering hooves. A large body of riders was approaching. His opponent heard it, too, and as though obeying some silent signal, they disengaged and backed away from each other.

Other sounds began to overlay the hoof-beats. Shouting, screams, the pounding of boots on cobbles. Disgleirio and the woman turned towards the source. Several hundred people were running their way, chased by a contingent of cavalry wearing the distinctive scarlet tunics of the paladin clans.

A handful of lead runners darted past Quinn and his adversary. More and more followed, until they were engulfed by a torrent of terrified people. Disgleirio lost sight of the woman, and after a moment resisting the tide he joined the stampede. All was chaos. He was carried along in a sea of frightened faces and bellowing voices. His shins were kicked and his ribs elbowed. He was jostled and shoved.

Somebody grabbed his arm and held on tight. He struggled violently, then saw it was the wounded Bladesman he’d ordered away. Following his lead, half dragged, he fought his way across the pugnacious flow of humanity. They eventually broke out onto a less densely packed stretch of pavement. The Bladesman hauled Disgleirio across it and into a gap between two decrepit shanties.

‘Thanks,’ he panted.

‘I know you told me to leave, chief, but-’

‘Forget it. It’s a good thing you didn’t.’ He glanced at the bloodstained, makeshift cloth binding the man’s arm. ‘How is it?’

‘I’ll live. What the hell was that flying thing, chief? And the woman?’

‘I think we ran into a meld.’

‘I thought they were a myth.’

‘Apparently not.’ Disgleirio looked out at the passing crowd and the paladins harassing them. ‘We can’t do anything here. Best to get away.’

His companion nodded. ‘Er, what’s that, chief?’

‘What?’

‘Your tunic.’ He pointed.

A scrap of paper was half stuffed in Disgleirio’s pocket. He took it out and unfolded it. There was writing on it, in block capitals. They read: INVASION OF DIAMOND ISLE IMMINENT. EXPECT MORE RAIDS ON

‘What is it?’ the Bladesman asked.

‘See for yourself.’ Disgleirio showed him the note.

‘Where did it come from?’

‘I don’t know. It must have been…somebody in the crowd.’ He scanned the street again, puzzled.

Two blocks away, sheltering in the entranceway to a stable, Aphri and Aphrim were locked in a lingering kiss.

‘We can’t loiter here, my love,’ she whispered, gazing deep into his barren eyes.

He nodded. There was something in that simple gesture which could have been interpreted as sadness.

‘Soon,’ she promised.

He shrunk in her embrace, not in stature, but mass. His body joined with hers. She drank him.

Aphri stretched, and belched.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder. She spun around, drawing her sword.

‘What the hell do you think you’re up to?’ Devlor Bastorran demanded.

She relaxed and let the sword slip back into its scabbard. ‘Just keeping my hand in.’

‘Fool. Do you have any idea the risk you’re running brawling in public like this? Not to mention forcing me to be seen with you.’

‘You worry too much. We were only disposing of a few malcontents. You should be grateful.’