He was weakening — he would not make it — he could not hold on any longer — with a sob he released his grip and in the last moment, tottering, he pushed with both hands, setting the stone — and then he was falling back, down, swallowed in cascading ash, stones, scouring chunks of rough pumice. Down the slope he tumbled, buried beneath ever more rubble. Hot. Suffocating. Blind. Drowning and one flailing hand was grasped, hard, by one and then two hands — small — a woman’s hands.
His shoulder flared in pain as that grip tightened, pulled him round. The collapsing hillside tugged at him, eager to take him — he understood its need, he sympathized, yes, and wanted to relent, to let go, to vanish in the crushing darkness.
The hands dragged him free. Dragged him by one bloody arm. The storm of voices raged anew, closer now and closing fast. Cold fingertips scrabbled against his boots, nails clawing at his ankles and oh he didn’t care, let them take him, let them-
He tumbled down on to damp earth. Gloom, silence but for harsh breaths, a surprised grunt from nearby.
Rolling on to his back, coughing through a mouth caked in ash. Eyes burning-
Desra knelt over him, her head down, her face twisted in pain as she held her arms like two broken wings in her lap. Skintick, rushing close to crouch beside him.
‘I thought — she-’
‘How long?’ Nimander demanded. ‘How could you have waited so long? Clip-’
‘What? It’s been but moments, Nimander. Desra — she came in, she saw into the ice — saw you-’
Fire burned his fingers, flicked flames up his hands and into his wrists, sizzling fierce along the bones. Fresh blood dripped from dust-caked wounds where nails had been. ‘Desra,’ he moaned. ‘Why?’
She looked up, fixed him with hard eyes. ‘We’re not finished with you yet, Nimander,’ she said in a rasp. ‘Oh no, not yet.’
‘You damned fool,’ Gothos said. ‘I was saving that one for later. And now he’s free.’
Nimander twisted round. ‘You cannot just
‘Why not? My point is, I needed that one. There is now an Azath in the blood of dragons-’
‘The spilled blood — the blood of dead dragons-’
‘And you think the distinction is important? Oh, me and my endless folly!’ With sharp gestures he raised his hood once more, then turned to settle down on a stool, facing the hearth, his position a perfect match to the moment Nimander, Skintick and Kallor had first entered this place. ‘You idiot, Nimander. Dragons don’t play games. Do you understand me?
‘It’s time to leave,’ Skintick said.
Yes, that much was obvious.
‘They’re coming now,’ Kallor said.
Kedeviss looked but could not see any movement in the gloom of the ruin’s entrance.
‘It’s too late to travel — we’ll have to camp here. Make us a fine meal, Aranatha. Nenanda, build a fire. A house of sticks to set aflame — that’ll make Gothos wince, I hope. Yes, entice him out here tonight, so that I can kill him.’
‘You can’t kill him,’ Aranatha said, straightening in the wagon bed.
‘Oh, and why not?’
‘I need to talk to him.’
Kedeviss watched her kin descend from the wagon, adjust her robes, then stride towards the ruin — where Skintick had appeared, helping Nimander, whose hands were dark with blood. Behind them, Desra.
‘That bitch sister of yours is uncanny,’ Kallor said in a growl.
Kedeviss saw no need to comment on that.
‘She speaks with Gothos — why? What could they possibly say to each other?’
Shrugging, Kedeviss turned away. ‘I think I will do the cooking tonight,’ she said.
Dying, the Captain stared across at the giant warrior with the shattered face. Woven carpets beneath each of them, the one on which sat the Captain now sodden with blood — blood that seemed to flow for ever, as if his body was but a valve, broken, jammed open, and out it came, trickling down from wounds that would never close. He was, he realized, back where he began. Opulence surrounded him this time, rather than grit and mud and dust on the edge of a dried riverbed, but did that make any real difference? Clearly it didn’t.
Only the dying could laugh at that truth. There were many things, he now understood, to which only the dying could respond with honest mirth. Like this nemesis warrior sitting cross-legged, hunched and glowering opposite him.
A small brazier smouldered between them, perched on three legs. On the coals rested a squat kettle, and the spiced wine within steamed to sweeten the air of the chamber.
‘You shall have to knock out some of the inner walls,’ the Captain said. ‘Have the slaves make you a new bed, one long enough, and other furniture besides.’
‘You are not listening,’ the giant said. ‘I lose my temper when people do not listen.’
‘You are my heir-’
