“There are murgu, still alive, trapped.”

Herilak wheeled about with a cry and Kerrick laid a restraining hand on his arm.

“Don’t,” he said quietly. “Put your spear down. Let me see to this. The killing must end somewhere.”

“No, never, not with these creatures. But I stay my spear because you are still margalus, our war counsellor who leads us in battle against the murgu, and I still obey your command.”

Kerrick turned about wearily and Herilak followed as he plodded his way through the heavy sand toward the burnt city. He was bone-weary and wanted only to rest, but could not. Were there Yilanè still alive? It did not seem possible. Fargi and Yilanè both had died when their city died — it was the same as being cast out, discarded. When this happened the Yilanè then suffered an irreversible change — he had seen it himself — that always ended in death. But, yes, there were exceptions, it was possible that some could still live. They could be the Daughters of Life: they did not die like the others. He would have to see for himself.

“We found them coming from one of the half-burnt groves of trees,” Keridamas said. “Killed one but the others scrambled back inside. It was Simmacho who thought you might like to see them, kill them yourself, margalus.”

“Yes!” Herilak said, turning about, an expression of intense hatred stripping his lips from his teeth. Kerrick shook his head with a great weariness.

“Let us see who they are before we slaughter them. Or still better let us take them alive. I will talk to them for there are things that I must know.”

They picked their way through the blackened killing ground, between the still-smouldering trees and past the piled corpses. Their path took them through the ambesed and Kerrick stopped, horrified at the tumbled mounds of Yilanè bodies. They looked uninjured, unburnt — yet all were dead.