Ben-Foran nodded. ‘Sir.’

Gently, Yron pushed the log out and entered the water after it, hearing Ben do the same despite his care. With long slow sweeps of his legs, Yron moved them out from the bank, heading towards the crocodiles. It was uncomfortable but necessary. Fortunately the current was slow and they reached the middle of the river quickly. There they turned and began to drift downstream.

‘Now’s the time, Ben,’ he said, voice quiet. ‘Try not to move at all. Search the surface. Tell me what you see. Breathe slow.’

The rain had stopped and the cloud was breaking up quickly, for which Yron was not grateful. Heavy rain upset natural senses, cloud kept cold blood that way. Conditions were changing fast but out here peace was total. The water was cool beneath the immediate surface, and the sounds of the myriad rainforest creatures muted somehow. He forced himself to relax, to listen and to watch.

Beside him Ben was admirably silent, his eyes forward. Yron turned his head. Nothing he could see. The mudbank remained still. It was exactly as he had prayed.

Ben jerked back, his leg twitching. ‘Dammit!’

‘What was it?’ Yron, tense all over again, looked immediately behind them.

‘Nothing, I . . . Ow!’ Ben slapped the water with a hand. ‘Something bit me.’

Yron went cold all over. They were twenty-five yards from the bank. It could prove a very long way. Something bumped into his boot. He felt another impact on his leather. He knew this behaviour. This was the vanguard of an invasion. The army would not be far behind and they were unstoppable. Piranha.

‘Swim, Ben!’ he shouted, thrashing his legs to action, driving them across the river. ‘Pump those legs and don’t you fucking stop! Swim!’

He knew it gave out distress signals but they had no option. The fish had scented blood from somewhere and he and Ben were the targets. As he swept his legs through the water, bringing the log around to steer them straight for the bank, he saw the mudbank was empty. The crocodiles were already in the water, heading downstream. Their thrashing had been like a call to feeding time and none wanted to miss out. They had a start of a hundred and fifty yards or so. It was going to be very close.

Ben was under concerted attack. His heaving legs made purchase difficult but piranha were quick and their jaws awesomely strong. He cried out again and again as they bit clean through cloth and into his flesh, every bite pumping more blood into the water, attracting more of the voracious killers.

From their left, the crocodiles closed in, strong tails powering them through the water faster than any man could hope to swim. The bank was nearing, moment by moment. Yron felt a sharp bite on his ankle through the leather of his boot. He thrashed his legs harder.

Ben moaned.

‘Keep going, son, almost there,’ urged Yron. ‘You can do it. Don’t you give up on me, lad.’

‘No . . . intention,’ gasped Ben, but he was weakening quickly.

‘So much more to teach you, Ben. Don’t let go now, don’t let go.’

Yron’s legs struck the bottom. Reacting instantly, he plunged his feet to the bed of the river and stood upright, dragging Ben with him. He forced his way through the stomach-deep water, feeling the press of the fish around him, their incessant probing, feeling the brush of teeth and the tearing of cloth.

With Ben practically under one arm and barely able to stand, he scrambled up the mud at the edge of the river and pushed Ben ahead of him, the boy stumbling through the shallows and falling forward onto the grass. His right leg was a bloody mess, his trousers shredded; one of his boots hung by its laces and his jerkin was ripped and torn around the waist.

‘Don’t stop, Ben.’ He heaved in a breath. ‘Not safe.’

Ben tried to get to his feet, made it to a crawling position and dragged himself up the slope of the bank. Behind Yron the water boiled. A crocodile erupted from the river, hammering at them with extraordinary speed. Yron slipped on the bank, fell onto his backside and pushed himself backwards, his back against Ben’s floundering body.

The crocodile came on, head still, running at its intended prey. Behind it, others fought each other in the shallows but it ignored them. Its jaws snapped once, missing Yron’s foot by a hair. The captain lashed out with his boot, catching it across the snout. It hesitated then came on. He kicked again, another good contact. The crocodile stopped and hissed.

‘Ben, go!’ he yelled. ‘Go!’

Below him, the huge reptile shook its head from side to side, gave Yron one last malevolent look and retreated into the water. He looked down on it from the top of the bank, stood and dragged Ben further into the forest and under cover. He laid the boy down and stared at his wounds.

‘Damn you, boy,’ he said, though his tone carried no anger. ‘You were cut, weren’t you?’

Ben nodded feebly then slumped back to lie prostrate. He was a mess. Ignoring the scratches and bites on his own body, Yron assessed his charge. Blood poured from Ben’s ravaged right leg, and oozed from more other places than he could count. Flesh had been ripped from bones, which showed through where the piranhas had got to work. Back home the leg would have been amputated; here it had to be patched up.

One thing was clear. If Yron didn’t bathe and dress the wounds with the right herbs, the boy was going to die.

Auum led his Tai along the banks of the River Shorth, his frustration growing. These men he’d ignored near the temple had proved to be difficult prey, and within his frustration there was a sense of grudging respect. A respect, though, that didn’t lessen the outrage at the crime for which the strangers would pay.

They had followed the easy trail north and then east to the banks of the river. Footsteps had dragged down to the shore and there the trail had gone cold. It was clear they had gone downriver but how far was currently not known. Duele had found a disturbed pile of driftwood just upstream and it was then that Auum had to confess his surprise. The tributary was quick, with rocks not far under the surface. Even with driftwood to cling to, the chances of injury were very high, and where the flow eased, the predators massed.

They moved on at speed, never more than five yards apart in a line that gave them a view across the river and deep into the forest eastwards.

‘Thoughts,’ he asked of them.

‘The ClawBound has sensed nothing of them north to Shorth’s Teeth rapids,’ said Duele. ‘I suggest they are back on land upstream of the rapids, possibly on the opposite bank.’

‘They moved quickly to the river yesterday,’ said Evunn. ‘They have direction and they are unharmed. They may have reversed, leaving a false trail.’

It had to be considered, but Auum dismissed it. ‘Not that good,’ he said. ‘But quick, yes. I suspect one of them knows of us.’

‘So he would take great risk to escape,’ said Duele.

‘Speed is nothing without guile. We will always be faster,’ countered Evunn.

‘To a stranger, distance is safety. They chase the goal of escape,’ said Auum. ‘We should alert the ClawBound west of the river. These strangers must not escape.’

A roar lifted above the buzz of the forest. It was echoed at greater distance. The Tai stopped, waited. It was communication. A series of calls circled out, some elven, some animal. Growls, whistles, wails, grunts and barks. Auum understood none of it. Despite the closeness of their alliance, the ClawBound never revealed any of their secrets. The TaiGethen would know what was relevant soon enough.

The discordant messaging went on, silencing the forest denizens. This was noise at odds, noise that meant trouble and the determination to find a cure. None of Tual’s creatures would interfere. Most would be scared by what they heard; an instinctive memory cowed them where they stood, caused them to land on the nearest perch or hold themselves still in the water or high in the canopy.