“We have to help,” she shouted. She pointed to one of the tents. “In there. Help him!”

No one reacted. So she did it herself, running away from the group, bursting inside the tent. There was a man inside beneath a heap of moving sand, swiping and struggling as an arm reached down his throat. She chopped at the mound with her dagger, kicked at it with her feet. It shifted, a quick movement, and a tendril came up from below to coil about her leg. It tugged, tripping her, but someone was there to catch her. Arms reached out, pulling her away.

“He’s dead,” the Wall was shouting. “That man is dead. There’s nothing we can do for him.”

They got her outside. Through the flaps she saw that Rolly was right; the man was no longer struggling. Only an arm reached up, out of the sand, as though trying to grasp for something, but soon even that was being drawn down into the earth, the world parting to swallow him up.

Horror twisted in her gut. The Butcher was shouting. “The river! The river! Run for the river!”

Saska could see some men fleeing out into the night, scattering, not knowing which way to go. All was black as tar and shrouded, a hell of shadows and death. “This way.” The Wall grabbed her, pulling her onward, Leshie and Del and Jaito following, Joy prowling, the Butcher still shouting out as they went.

They passed a fire pit. The flames had been put out, covered in sand. There was a blade here, lying alone, half buried, and a wooden cup as well. “That is Tellamin’s blade,” Jaito said. The youth was slim as a lance, with angular features and big brown eyes. “Tellamin had the watch.”

Tellamin is dead, Saska thought. He was another of the archers, though much older, a gnarled veteran of a hundred battles. And he never even made a sound.

The earth was rippling, moving their way like a wave. “Keep going,” the Wall roared at them. “Quickly! Go!”

They rushed on, passing more tents, more shadows. Del tripped at one point, and Jaito and Leshie hauled him up, and at another Joy gave out a hiss and sprung suddenly into the air, as a cat does, as something moved below her. She landed, snarling at the ground, slashing with her forepaws.

Saska grabbed her by the scruff of the neck, pulling. “Leave it!” she shouted. Then she leapt atop the starcat, kicking with her heel, and Joy pounced away to rejoin the others.

They reached the border of the camp. The watchman had been killed here too, the earth churned and disturbed. The torch he’d been bearing lay nearby, a thin finger of smoke curling from the embers. There was nothing else. Beyond was darkness, and swirls of fog, stirred by a haunting breeze. Saska peered out, saw the faint glimmer of the river thirty metres off. She gave a shout, and they rushed across the plains.

There were men at the river already, she saw. One was bent over by the banks, vomiting. Another was fighting for breath as a friend clapped a hand against his back.

“Stay with these men,” Sir Ralston commanded. “Butcher, protect them.”

The sellsword nodded. Saska turned. “Where are you going?”

“Back. There are many men still in there. I have to lead them out.”

She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. The Wall was already marching back toward the camp, bellowing. Another bellow came from much closer. “He’s choking,” shouted the man hitting his friend on the back. “Help. Nothing is working.”

“Let me.” The Butcher brushed the spearman aside, went behind the choking man’s back, hooked his arms around his waist, and lifted, squeezing. Saska had seen the manoeuvre performed before, with several firm thrusts intended to dislodge trapped food from the throat. Several times she’d seen it, and one time it had not been successful. This was the second.

“There’s too much sand, too much damn sand in him,” the Butcher was grunting, as he heaved and lifted, heaved and lifted. The choking man was tearing at his throat, eyes bloodshot and blaring, sensing the terror of his own demise. “Come on, cough it up! Cough it up!”

Then suddenly the man went limp, head rolling to one side, arms falling. The Butcher shouted out a curse and laid him down on the floor, opening his mouth, blowing, hitting at his chest.

“Please, save him,” the other man was saying. “Save him. He’s my brother…”

The Butcher kept trying a moment longer, then stood, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. He’s with the stars now.”

But there were no stars. Only ink-black skies and that ghostly fog and the sound of a brother weeping.

“Someone’s coming,” Leshie said.

Saska turned to the plains, saw more people approaching from the camp. The Baker was among them, dressed in his underclothes, and Sunrider Tantario as well, thank the gods.

“Brother.” The Butcher gripped the Baker fiercely. “The others?”

“Merinius is dead.”

“No,” Leshie shouted, at once. “He…he can’t be.”

“He is.” The Baker turned back, snarling, searching. There was a fury in his eyes over something. Others were rushing past him, paladin knights, spearmen of Houses Hasham and Nemati, some of the other sellswords. The Surgeon was with them, and Gutter and Gore, the last of them coughing violently as he went, his doppelganger supporting him. Many had sand in their eyes, their hair. A few had clearly been dragged out from the ground before they could be sucked under, sand and grit and bits of dirt clinging to their legs and torsos and chests.

“Where is she?” the Baker demanded, striding over, eyes intense, to clutch the Surgeon by the arm. “That striped bitch, where is she?”

The Surgeon pulled away. “Unhand me, or you’ll lose your arm.”

“I saw her, over Merinius. I saw her,” the Baker growled.

No one knew what he meant. Leshie punched the Baker in the arm. “What happened to him? Green Gaze. What happened? Tell me!”

The Baker pushed her away, marching back off toward the camp as his other two sellswords, Umberto and the Gravedigger, emerged. Both were sandy, stuttering, holding each other up as they came.

Leshie went to follow, but Saska held her back. “We’ve seen how they kill, Lesh. Merry must have been choked, or dragged under.”

“But he was on guard. He had the guard tonight. He’d have been wearing his armour…”

“Godsteel does nothing to these devils,” the Butcher growled. “The sand gets through the gaps. Down the throat. There’s no blade that can stop it.”

“But why?” Leshie asked, in half a whimper. She had liked the man she called Green Gaze, and had stolen into his bed once or twice as well, Saska knew. “Why are they killing us?”

“They are demons,” one of the paladin knights said, in a ragged voice. “Sand demons of the dark deity Hrang’kor. He was a shadow god. The creatures are his children.”

“They come at night and take your babes,” another called out, panting. There was more splashing as men entered the water, wading until they were at its heart, turning their eyes about in fear. “They are shadows of death and darkness. They do not drink or feed, they only kill for the joy of it.”

The disappearances, Saska thought. I should have listened. We should never have stayed.

Alym Tantario was shouting orders, calling for the names of the dead and the living and those who might yet be missing to be called out to him. There were dozens at the river now, more appearing from the dark of the camp every moment. The screams out there were growing quieter, the bustle of noise nearby increasing. Some men had gone to tend to the horses and camels, many of which were whinnying and honking and pulling at their lines. The sunwolves prowled about them, defending the steeds from attack, but what could any of them do? You cut them down and they just keep on coming.

Saska could hear the Surgeon rushing up the river, calling for the Tigress. From the darkness Scalpel came running out, stumbling as he went. He landed hard, dressed in nought but breeks, a misting blade in his grasp. He got to his knees, heaving for breath. “My wife…she is in there…help, I need help…”

“Butcher, go,” Saska said at once.

The Butcher grunted, striding off. He hauled Scalpel to his feet and they rushed into the mists. A few moments later they reemerged, Savage slung over the Butcher’s large, scarred shoulder, her head bouncing against his tattered cloak, one side shaved, covered in tattoos, the other flapping with long black hair which she kept braided by day. She appeared dead at first glance, but when the Butcher swung her down and lay her by the banks, Saska saw that she was breathing, though barely. There was sand about her lips and stuffed up her nose. “We need to clear that out of her airways,” Saska said.

They turned her over, hitting at her back, and the sand came coughing up. The woman gasped, eyes opening, spluttering for breath.

“Take her to the water. Wash her, Scalpel.” The man looks terrified, Saska saw. Theirs was a true love, there was no doubt. She looked out toward the camp. A worry was building in her chest. “Rolly’s been gone too long. We have to go and find him.”

“Let me,” said the Butcher. “I do not fear these demons.”

“I’m going too,” said Leshie.

The next time there’s battle, I’ll draw my blade and join in, Saska had told the Butcher, the day they took the Matian Way. Her blade was already in her grasp, blue and silver, glowing. “And me,” she said, stepping forward.