Poor Awin was surrounded. He straightened now and dropped his sword. He held up his hands.

‘Please,’ he begged. ‘I surrender.’

But they said nothing, just carried on advancing. Two came to his sides and grabbed an arm each. The third stepped up, pushed Awin’s chin up with one hand and drove his blade through the man’s neck with the other. The cat roared, the black and white elf exulted.

It was all Erys could do to stop himself crying out. He put his hands behind him, feeling his way. They found the trunk of a tree. Erys carried on, edging himself around it. His foot came down on a twig which snapped with a report like thunder in his ears. Elves and animal looked towards him. Awin’s body dropped to the ground and he died ignored.

Erys fought the urge to stop moving, to become even more silent. He saw them speaking to each other. They couldn’t see him. One of them came towards him, his eyes piercing green, catching the first shafts of sunlight. Erys kept on taking his gentle steps. He wanted to turn and run but was fearful of letting them out of his sight.

The elf came on but he was shaking his head. He said something then turned and rejoined the others. Another brief conversation and the cat and the spectral elf ran off to the north. The three others bent immediately to their task, and as Erys watched and the forest slowly obscured his view, packs were torn apart and bodies were searched. Erys’s last memory was of the elves systematically shredding every item of kit and clothing.

Wanting nothing more than to find a place to hide, Erys clung onto the CloakedWalk, turned and walked forward at last, hoping to find the river to follow all the way to the coast.

Yron had done everything he could. Dragging Ben-Foran into the obscurity of the forest, he’d laid him down on a clear patch of ground and used his soaking leather jerkin as a pillow of sorts. He’d lit a fire using rubbed bamboo and fashioned a rough tripod from damp wood. They both still carried the mugs they’d run from the temple with; Yron had forbidden Ben to discard his, knowing they might prove vital. He’d filled both from the river and balanced them on the tripod.

Taking off his shirt, he’d cut it into strips and put them in the water to boil. Finally, hoping no predators were attracted to Ben’s bloodied body, he made a quick hunt for legumia bark, rubiac fruit and vismia stems. He found none of the latter. He could have done with its antiseptic qualities and reminded himself to keep looking, assuming Ben survived.

The youngster was conscious when he returned and incredibly was struggling to sit up.

‘Lie back, boy,’ said Yron. ‘Best you don’t look.’

‘It’s bloody agony,’ said Ben.

‘I know. I got the odd nip myself.’ It was an understatement. Though the piranha had concentrated their attack on Ben’s legs, the Captain had been the victim of more snaps than he could count. Most were little more than exploratory attacks but enough were full-blooded bites to cause him serious pain. He mustn’t forget to treat himself. Ben would not be served by his own death.

Yron dropped the bark into the mugs and waited as it bubbled and spat.

‘You’ll be fine, Ben,’ he said. ‘You’ve broken nothing. It hurts like hell but I can numb the pain later. For now I have to clean it. That’ll sting but you’ll know it’s doing the job, right?’

The commentary was as much for Yron as it was for his frightened lieutenant. Yron stared up at the sky, seeing the smoke trailing up into the canopy. The cloud had disappeared and strong light was shining down, bringing with it humidity and heat. He was aware they’d have to try and move soon. The smoke, while keeping away the flies, was a beacon for any watching TaiGethen and their silent ClawBound brethren.

When he’d waited as long as he could, Yron took the mugs from the tripod and placed them by Ben. He cut the remnants of Ben’s trouser legs away, took a deep breath at what he saw and gave the stricken man a reassuring smile.

‘It’s not so bad,’ he said.

‘Liar,’ replied Ben. ‘Sir.’

Yron hooked a piece of cloth from a mug with a stick, let it cool a little in the air, then dropped it into his hands where he balled it up.

‘Try not to cry out,’ he said gently. ‘I have to do this.’

He began to clean the right leg, beginning at the foot. At the first touch of the infused cloth, Ben tensed and bit down on a scream. Yron pressed on; he really had no choice.

He had no real idea how long he worked. Meticulous and tireless for hour after hour, he cleaned each wound separately, biting his lip as he looked at the torn flesh, the flaps of skin and the deep bite wounds. The right leg was torn to bits. Bone and muscle were exposed and he covered what he could with the makeshift bandages. Perhaps magic could save it but they were far from such help and Ben’s survival chances were already low.

The left leg was better but his buttocks had both taken bites as had hips and lower stomach. Yron cleaned and bandaged, refilled the mugs again and again, kept the fire going and, latterly, made rubiac poultices for himself to try and combat any infection.

Finally, he dressed Ben in the remains of his trousers, helped him back into his leather armour, having used his shirt for bandages too, and sat him up. Ben-Foran was shivering in the heat as the shock of the attack began to set in. It was after midday.

‘We can’t stay here, Ben,’ Yron said, keeping his face close to the boy’s, forcing him to focus. ‘We don’t have to go far but we do have to go. Now I want you to prepare yourself, all right? Think strength, and know I’ll be supporting you. We can still make it.’

‘If you say so, sir,’ said Ben. His face was pale and sheened in sweat.

Yron smiled as best he could. If the infection didn’t get him, the blood loss or the shock just might. He turned from Ben to the fire, noting how the blood was already soaking through the boy’s bandages, and put out the blaze, trying to minimise the smoke as he did so. Ordinarily he’d have hidden the site, the embers and the remnants of the tripod to put off any pursuit, but with the TaiGethen it was pointless. Even without the fire these elves would have enough signs to track them easily.

Yron put his leather jerkin back on and stooped over Ben. ‘Come on, son. One arm around my shoulder, let’s get out of here.’

Gasping in pain, Ben hauled himself up Yron’s body. He leant heavily against the captain, not daring to put his right foot on the ground.

‘You should leave me, sir,’ he said. ‘You could make it on your own.’

‘To what purpose?’ said Yron as they moved slowly off, Ben in a half hop, half drag, wincing at every movement. ‘My duty is to my men. You represent my men.’

‘But—’

‘Decision’s made, Ben. Let me assure you, if I was carrying anything important I’d have left you. But I’m not. So shut up and save your energy for shambling.’

Through his pain Ben-Foran chuckled. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘No problem.’

Chapter 26

The east gates of Xetesk opened on a mild cloud-strewn morning. Three hundred cavalry and mages trotted from the portal, followed by fifteen hundred foot soldiers and dozens of wagons.

At the front of the column, riding with the Xeteskian commander, Chandyr, was Rusau, senior mage and member of the Lysternan delegation. He looked with dismay on the litter of bodies and rags that covered what had once been the refugee camp, now brutally cleared. Carrion birds took to the sky as the horses passed, clouds of flies buzzed angrily over the flesh left to rot and the air was tainted with decay.