Shadows gurned and twisted. One cried out for his attention, the youngest of his kin, the first to die in the Dry Fallen mutiny. One lumbered towards him, one-fanged and starving, in the shape of the thing which had sired him centuries ago. The dragon of Redgate raised its great and awful head, one-eyed and snorting false fire. He didn't look at who it held clamped between its teeth.

Ishtar had heat left in her. For some reason it startled him. He hadn't expected her to be warm. He scooped her up and clutched her tight as she screamed, and swung to find Shamash, where leaves and stems and flowers cradled him close.

More blood. More plants. They were thinner now, less lush, more utilitarian. Spiked and cruel-looking, drained of colour, they launched themselves like harpoons into the body of the leaning thing which overlooked the whole cave. Ishtar's cries reached a whining, breathless pitch. Struggling towards Shamash felt like running through treacle. The air was hot and stinking. The vines which held him stretched out and out and one-handedly, half-blind, the Brucolac groped in the dark to find him...