They were at the edge of a field.

Before them, in the cold silver light, the rows of scarecrows were all in motion, limbs writhing like gauze-wrapped serpents or blind worms. Black blood was streaming down the flowers of the horrid plants had opened, exuding clouds of pollen that flashed like phosphorescence, riding the currents of night air.

And Nimander wanted to rush into that field, into the midst of the crucified victims. He wanted to taste that pollen on his tongue, on the back of his throat. He wanted to dance in the god’s pain.

Skint iek, weeping, was dragging him back-though it seemed he was fighting his own battle, so taut were his muscles, so contradictory their efforts that they fell against one another. On to the ground.

Clawing on their bellies now, back down the dirt track.

The pollen-the pollen is in the air. We have breathed it, and now-gods below-now we hunger for more.

Another terrible shriek, the voice a physical thing, trying to climb into the sky-but there was nothing to grasp, no handholds, no footholds, and so it shot out to the sides, closing icy cold grips upon throats. And a voice, screaming into their faces.

You dance! You drink deep my agony! What manner of vermin are you? Cease! Leave me! Release me!

A thousand footsteps charging through Nimander’s brain, dancers unending, unable to stop even had they wanted to, which they did not, no, let it go on, and on-gods, for ever!

There, in the trap of his mind, he saw the old man and his blood-and nectar-smeared face, saw the joy in the eyes, saw the suppleness of his limbs, his straightened back-every crippling knob and protuberance gone. Tumours vanished. He danced in the crowd, one with all the others, exalted and lost in that exaltation.

Nimander realized that he and Skintick had reached the main street. As the god’s second cry died away, some sanity crept back into his mind. He pushed himself on to his feet, dragging Skintick up with him. Together, they ran, staggering, headlong for the inn-did salvation beckon? Or had Nenanda and the others fallen as well? Were they now dancing in the fields, selves torn away, flung into that black, turgid river?

A third cry, yet more powerful, more demanding.

Nimander fell, pulled down by Skintick’s weight. Too late-they would turn about, rise, set out for the field-the pain held him in its deadly, delicious embrace-too late, now-

He heard the inn’s door slam open behind them.

Then Aranatha was there, blank-eyed, dark skin almost blue, reaching down to grasp them both by their cloaks. The strength she kept hidden was unveiled suddenly, and they were being dragged towards the door-where more hands took them, tugged them inside-

And all at once the compulsion vanished.

Gasping, Nimander found himself lying on his back, staring up at Kedeviss’s face, wondering at her calculating, thoughtful expression.

A cough from Skintick at his side. ‘Mother Dark save us!’

‘Not her,’ said Kedeviss. ‘Just Aranatha.’

Aranatha, who flinches at shadows, ducks beneath the cry of a hunting hawk.

She hides her other self behind a wall no power can surmount. Hides it. Until it’s needed.

Yes, he could feel her now, an emanation of will filling the entire chamber. Assailed, but holding. As it would.

As it must.

Another cough from Skintick. ‘Oh, dear…’

And Nimander understood. Clip was out there. Clip, face to face with the Dying God. Unprotected.

Mortal Sword of Darkness. Is that protection enough?

But he feared it was not. Feared it, because he did not believe Clip was the Mortal Sword of anything. He faced Skintick. ‘What do we do?’

‘I don’t know. He may already be… lost.’

Nimander glanced over at Aranatha. ‘Can we make it to the tavern?’

She shook her head.

‘We should never have left him,’ announced Nenanda.

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ Kedeviss snapped.

Skintick still sat on the floor, clawing periodically at his face, wracked with shivers. ‘What manner of sorcery afflicts this place? How can a god’s blood do this?’

Nimander shook his head. ‘I have never heard of anything like what is happening here, Skintick. The Dying God. It bleeds poison.’ He struggled to keep from weeping. Everything seemed stretched thin, moments from tearing to pieces, a reality all at once in tatters, whipped away on mad winds.

Skintick’s sigh was ragged. ‘Poison. Then why do I thirst for more?’

There was no answer for that. Is this a truth made manifest? Do we all feed on the pain of others? Do we laugh and dance upon suffering, simply because it is not our own? Can such a thing become addictive? An insatiable need?