"What ho!" cries a voice, its owner racing towards me from the smoke and the noise. I blink while he fumbles with the rope.
The giants bellow as the small dark figures clamber up and over them. There are hundreds. Where did they come from? Still from the ropes they slide, ready for the fight.
My wrists are suddenly loose and free.
"Looks like we got here just in time," says the stranger. "Aha!" He waves a hat at me. He has the beginnings of a grand moustache and a mischievous smile.
"Who are you?" I hear myself spluttering. The smoke is still scorching the back of my throat.
"No time dear boy, no time, Look out!"
The tree splinters and sparks above my head, where a brilliant white sword has lodged itself into the wood. A rasping cry echoes across the valley, fading into the distance.
"Come!"
We run. Down the hill, out of that wretched smoke. The forest is still alive with fire, but we head for a dark cluster of trees, somehow untouched by the flickering fingers.
Before long there are footsteps behind us. Heavy, giant footsteps. A woman's voice shrieks into the air, something indiscernible, while the battle rages.
I stumble on the grass. We're in the open. My companion turns, and for an instant looks as though he is about to say something. He stands there, a word forming on his face, but the wide eyes above his bristling moustache are looking up and over my head.
It's then that I see it - all in an instant.
An arrow sticks out of his chest, buried deep, and dripping with blood. He falls to his knees, lifeless, like a rag doll. He slumps into the earth and is still.
Shock overtakes me. In a panic I struggle to my feet and start to run. Pain surges through me. Then:
"Stop!" cries a voice behind me. The Photographer. I spin to face her. She looks at me. She's less than pristine. Her crinoline is covered in mud and her face looks battered and worn. She has both hands in the air. I'm about to say something when another voice suddenly echoes from behind me, near the trees.
"You, you stop first!" she cries. I look round and recoil. I don't know how to believe what I'm seeing.
The Photographer, another Photographer, is somehow standing behind me, on the other side, clutching, of all things, Lustfulness's bow in her gloved hands. A quiver of giant arrows lies on the grass beside her. "Matt. Duck," she says, firmly.
"No! Matt!" says the first Photographer, eyes wide with fear. "Don't listen, she's..."
"Matt, get out of the way. Get out of the way."
"Who are... you... what the... what's going on?" I stammer. I turn to the second her. "Why did you kill, why did you kill him?"
"I didn't! It was her! You've got to believe me, Matt. She just wants you to think it was me, but she kidnapped me, that night in the woods. I'm the real Photographer. It's me! Don't you see it?"
"Matt, listen, it's not true, I promise. I'm real, she's lying. Look at me. Look at who's... I mean... she's holding the bow and she's - she's... she's pretending to be me..."
The first Photographer still has her hands in the air in front of me. The second, behind me, steely-eyed, clutches the enormous bow as though its weight is too much for her. At any moment she's going to fire.
"Matt, you must trust me. Get out of the way."
I close my eyes.
"You're going to kill me aren't you?" I say, quietly.
"Of course not. But she will, if you let her, if you go with her! Please, you have to believe me." Her voice wobbles.
"Come with me." says the other Photographer, calmly. "I can keep you safe from all this. I can protect you. She's going to kill you, Matt. After all we've been through! But the Maker, the Real Maker can keep you safe, not just now, but for ever. That's why I came back - to rescue you. She's been pretending to be me all along. She knows it. Look! She knows that if you come to me, he'll rescue us both, and you'll be free... home for good, with me... Come, take my hand, Matt, come... there's no other way now. Come with me."
I take a step. My whole body is trembling. Exhaustion, confusion, fear, maybe something else. I do want to be free. Her eyes are glistening with tears. One tracks its way down a muddy cheek.
"Don't do it Matt! Don't do it! She'll kill you!" cries the voice behind me. I hear the sound of the bowstring being pulled back.
"Come, Matt, come! All you have to do is take my hand," says the Photographer in front. She reaches out, both hands, mud-stained and bare. She takes a step towards me, her boots gently crunching the grass as she smiles. There's something about that, I think to myself. Something about the way...
I stop. Suddenly, it's as though the pieces all click together at the same time. For a brief moment, the fire, the smoke, the battle all make sense, crackling and raging around me, great and terrible. The giants - one, two, three, four... always four, and the Photographer - here, asking me to choose. Standing both in front of me and behind me, stepping towards me, boots upon this cracked old earth. I look her in the eyes.
I know what I must do.
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