something latched itself on to her, but it was their guide, returned to wriggle under her cloak.
Warran straightened then, his brows rising in amazement. ‘This is no storm.’
‘Of course it is,’ Jheval snapped from behind his scarf. ‘Now get down!’
The priest raised a warning hand to Jheval. ‘No. This is something much worse. Do not move.’ And he stepped out into the open.
‘Fool! Come back!’ Jheval moved to follow but Kiska stopped him.
‘Wait. Perhaps he knows what he’s doing.’ She had time for one glance around for the hound — had it found cover? — before the cloud engulfed them. The diffuse light of the day darkened beyond the murkiness of night. The noise was almost too loud to hear: it hammered her ears with its reverberation. Something bit her hand — a sharp nip — and she looked down to see some sort of fly feeding upon her. She squashed it. Jheval pressed his head to hers, shouting: ‘Bloodflies! Flesh-eating flies! They’ll flense the meat from our bones! Do something!’
But Kiska flinched away. She cuffed at her head where they crawled in her hair. She thumped her armour where they’d wormed their way beneath. The bites were an agony; they dotted her hands like a pox. When a nip lanced far within her ear she screamed, her howl inaudible even to her, and fell curling into a fetal ball.
She didn’t think she’d passed out but slowly she became aware that the ocean of pain was diminishing, fading to a lingering searing agony that no longer threatened to push her into unconsciousness. She rose and wiped her face, feeling a warm smear — her forearm was sheathed in fresh wet blood. Peering around through narrowed eyes she saw that the cloud of flies had receded. It circled them now at a distance: a churning wall of a million ravenous mouths.
The priest was there and he passed her a cloth. She took it to dab at her face and arms, wincing as the weave rubbed the raw wounds. Jheval rose, hissing and groaning. If she looked anything like him right now she was a mess: his face ran with blood, as did his hands and forearms.
She saw that not one wound scarred Warran. ‘You’re not bitten!’ Damn the man! How was it he escaped? ‘What’s going on?’
‘We had something of a negotiation, he and I.’
‘He?’
Warran held up his opened hands. ‘Well… it.’
‘What is… it?’
‘It is D’ivers. It appears to have haunted these shores of Chaos for some time. It has grown quite powerful, as you see.’
‘Negotiation, you said?’ asked Jheval, his voice clenched with pain.
‘It flees the Whorl,’ Warran explained. Raising his voice, he called: ‘Is that not so?’
As the horde circled, hissing and thrumming, the massed whisperings of the millions of wings changed timbre. The tone rose and fell and incredibly Kiska found she could understand:
The Hole hungers more than I…
‘What name should I call you?’ Warran asked.
We do not remember such things. We are many. No one name can encompass us.
‘Been here too long…’ Jheval muttered.
Kiska stepped forward. ‘We are travelling to solve the mysteries of this Whorl.’
So this Cloaked One with you claims. Beware, then. Many are gathered on its verge, intent upon capturing its power. Dangerous beings. Ones even I choose not to consume.
‘Our thanks.’
It is nothing. This Whorl troubles me. Remember, all you meet need not be hostile. But beware the Army of Light.
The cloud peeled away, churning and spinning, rising like smoke. It drifted off the way it had been flying — away from the blot of the Whorl. The three watched it go. Kiska jumped then as the twig- and cloth-guide stirred to life under her cloak and leapt high into the eerie non-sky.
Jheval was dabbing at his face. ‘That thing is fleeing exactly what we are headed for.’
‘It can’t eat a hole,’ said Warran.
Kiska eyed the priest. ‘What is this Army of Light?’
Warran cocked his head, indifferent. ‘I assure you I have no idea.’
Jheval muttered something sour. They continued walking. The Seven Cities warrior paced along next to Kiska. ‘I don’t know why you try,’ he said.
‘Try what?’
He jerked his head at the priest. ‘Him. Asking him questions. He’s done nothing but lie to us. He’s hiding something, I’m sure of it. Did you hear what that thing called him? “Cloaked”? He’s a scorpion disguising himself with us.’
‘You have not been so forthcoming yourself,’ the priest called loudly from where he walked some distance off, and Jheval growled his anger. ‘Who is not hiding things, hey, Jheval? Why is it, I wonder, that it is always those with the most to hide who accuse others? Why do you think that is… Jheval?’
Kiska cocked a brow to the Seven Cities native, who glowered, jaws clenched, saying nothing. There was no more talk that day and as the dimness of night gathered they found another of the small pools where pale transparent fish lazed. She and Jheval took turns washing and treating their wounds. Returning from the pool, Jheval was clean of his blood, but the angry red dots of the countless bites on his face and hands made him look like the victim of a particularly virulent pox. She supposed she looked no better.
Lying down on her spread cloak, her rolled gear under her head, she thought of the words of the D’ivers creature. Powerful beings had gathered to the Whorl. Beings even it chose not to attack.
And it had chosen not to attack them. Or rather, perhaps she should say that it had chosen not to attack Warran. There it was again. Cloaked. She agreed with Jheval, of course. Yet maddeningly there was nothing she, or he, could do about it.
The next day they continued on after breaking fast on the raw flesh of the fish. Oddly enough, it was Jheval and she who did all the catching — Warran wouldn’t go near them. Their usual walking order was she and Jheval leading, Warran bringing up the rear. This was how they were when, from beneath disguising layers of sand, armoured figures leapt up to bar their way.
There were more than twenty of them: some sort of patrol or guard, similarly clad in pale enamelled armour of cuirasses with scaled sleeves and leggings and white enamelled helmets. They carried pale shields, cracked and yellowed now, and the blades of their bared curved swords gleamed yellow.
Warran came up to stop beside Kiska. ‘The Army of Light,’ he announced.
Thank you very much.
One called something in a language Kiska did not know. The man tried several more until finally speaking in Talian. ‘Drop your weapons.’
‘Who are you to threaten us?’ Kiska shouted back.
‘Your companion also,’ the man answered.
‘We can take them,’ Jheval murmured, hardly moving his lips.
‘You do not really think this is all of them, do you?’ Warran said. ‘Best comply. Let’s not make a scene.’
‘Easy for you,’ Kiska answered under her breath. Louder, she called, ‘Very well. But this is hardly the way for civilized folk to behave.’ She knelt to set down her staff. Snarling his disgust, Jheval threw down his morningstars.
The party surrounded them, marched them on. The ground became more and more uneven. Their path wended round rocky outcroppings, boulders the size of buildings. At one point their escort stopped and spoke among themselves, their tone surprised. Then the white hound appeared, pushing its way through them to come to Kiska’s side. It paced there for a time with her; dried blood flecked its white and streaked-yellow hair.
‘Not far off enough, were you, hey?’ she told him — though she still dared not reach out to actually pet him.
They climbed a tall slope of loose bare broken stones, winding back and forth across its face until they reached the crest and saw an army spread out before them in a valley of black rock. Kiska was stunned; it was one of the largest gatherings of forces she’d ever seen. Tents dotted away into the distance. Smoke rose from countless fires. Their escort urged them on down the valley slope. As they descended the hound loped off — it seemed he had no interest in entering the encampment. Kiska watched it disappear among the rocks, feeling suddenly alone and
