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‘I told you. And there’ll be nothing from any of the other cities either. Look.’ Grek stood up, the defeated Ismetch troops clearing a path for him, and jabbed a talon at the map on the wall.

‘See these black pins? That’s the extent of their advance two days ago. God knows how far they’ve got now.’

Imalgahite smiled humourlessly. ‘They?’

Grek took a deep breath. ‘I… well… Something we know nothing about.’

Imalgahite nodded slowly. ‘Those mammals perhaps?’

‘No. At least, I don’t think so.’

Imalgahite ran a talon over his lips thoughtfully. ‘There is something out there, Grek. My men have seen it.’

Grek returned to his chair, frowning. ‘What do you mean?’

Imalgahite rubbed his brow, commas of greasy spines falling forwards over his face. ‘It… leaves things behind.’

He beckoned to a guard who produced a wet sack and laid it out on the table. Inside was an ominous lump.

‘Go on,’ said Imalgahite. ‘Take a look.’

Grek felt around inside the sack. Something cold and wet met the touch of his fingertips. Gingerly, he closed his claw over part of it and pulled the thing out.

He retched as a head tumbled onto the table before him. His claw flew to his mouth and his eyes bulged in disgust.

The head had been clumsily severed so that several vertebrae dribbled slackly from below it. The blue eyes were misted over and the once‐proud crest was cut and battered.

‘It’s Maconsa,’ gasped Grek, feeling bile rush to his throat. ‘My surgeon.’

He managed to pluck at the gelatinous stuff which coated the grisly relic. ‘What’s this?’

Imalgahite shrugged. ‘We have no idea.’

Grek pushed back his chair and flung the sack over Maconsa’s head. He pointed across the room at the recumbent Thoss.

‘This man – Thoss – he’s the keeper of our Temple. Last night when you brought him in here he was raving about something he’d seen. Out there in the jungle. He’s not made much sense since then but he claims this thing had the face of one our generals. Inside it.’

‘General Hovv, was it? Yes, I’ve read your reports. He went missing didn’t he?’

Grek leant forward. ‘Yes. With a whole brigade. For a while I thought he’d just taken himself off because of the armistice. Always was a die‐hard. Now I’m not so sure.’

Imalgahite’s expression softened. ‘What do you think, Grek?’

Grek looked around at his dispirited men and their suddenly frightened Cutch conquerers. Every one seemed to be hanging on his words. ‘You and I have different religions. That’s what this war was all about. But there is one common thread in both.’

Imalgahite nodded. ‘Go on.’

Grek took a deep breath. ‘I think… I think the Keth have returned.’

Imalgahite closed his eyes and folded his claws neatly together on the table. ‘So do I,’ he whispered.

* * *

Magna William Hon Yuen Yong stretched his shapely, elegant fingers across the table and sighed. It had been a long and desperately tedious day.

He had risen, as usual, at dawn and interrogated almost forty unbelievers before his breakfast of tiger‐bone tea and pork. But now, as sunlight streamed through the stained‐glass windows of his opulent chambers, washing the tiled floor with rainbow colours, he was rather afraid he might be bored.

The Magna was a tall, muscular man of some thirty‐five years, his beautiful Chinese features as smooth as the sumptuous purple robes which covered him. His hair was long, sleek and coal‐black, pulled tautly behind his head.

He got up from his throne and parted his lips into a cruel smile. He had an idea. At last, something to combat the endless ennui!

His rooms were enormous and sumptuously decorated in dark blue and gold leaf. A ceiling of staggering extravagance curved over the whole area like a gilded egg, legions of cool marble columns extending the opulence right down to the floor.

In amongst the muslin drapes, the fountains and exquisitely carved furniture were a series of triptychs, glinting dark and golden in the sunshine. Each showed a tall, sickly‐looking man in a variety of pained poses.

In one, he was offering a piece of the Host to a donkey; in another, he was preaching to