Jonathan Oliver

Wrath of Kerberos

PART ONE

A World Away From Home

CHAPTER ONE

When the first boot crashed against the door, Stanwick Tassiter dropped the candle. The flame caught the folios he had been reading, and the scholar was caught between the horror of the unexpected intrusion and the sight of his precious scriptures burning. As he batted at the pages, a blade appeared through a rent in the wood panelling of the door. He looked up, dismayed to see the design on the weapon. He now knew exactly who had come for him, and he wasn’t at all surprised; the texts he had been poring over were high on the Final Faith’s list of prohibited works. Stanwick had thought himself well guarded. Was it possible that Tremayne and Finch had given him away? They had always been amongst the most weak-willed of his acolytes.

Whatever. Stanwick had known the risks when he had taken up his studies, and so had made sure to create copies of his most important tomes. Those, the Faith would never find.

The door finally gave way and four heavily-armoured members of the Order of the Swords of Dawn burst into the subterranean archive. One of them rushed across the room and pressed a sword to his throat, while another forced Stanwick’s arms so far up his back that he let out a high-pitched squeal.

The commander — judging by the intricate designs on her breastplate — riffled through the charred pages on the desk and grunted with satisfaction.

“These will make a fine addition to the archive of forbidden literature at Scholten cathedral. Thank you for your help in taking such dangerous works out of circulation, Stanwick.”

Stanwick chose not to respond. He knew what awaited him now. He would spend a short amount of time in the depths of Scholten, at Katherine Makennon’s pleasure, before being sent to the gibbet. There would be no trial. Makennon probably wouldn’t even be aware of his passing.

“You know,” he said. “It would save us all a lot of time if you just spilled my blood right here. You could say I resisted arrest. It would be so much easier, in the long run.”

“I don’t think so,” the commander said. “Brother Sequilious was quite adamant that he wanted you all taken alive.”

A hood was thrown over Stanwick’s head and he was hustled from the room. He fell twice on the steps up to the surface — once so badly that he sprained his ankle — and by the time he was bundled through a narrow door and onto a bench, his leg was singing with pain. He bit back tears, not wanting the Swords to witness his grief, but he couldn’t stop a sob escaping his lips.

“Stanwick? Stanwick Tassiter?” a voice said, close by. A hand fumbled into his. “Yes, it’s Stanwick, all right. I’d recognise those soft academic’s hands anywhere.”

It was Alex, the blind weaver who lived not far from Stanwick.

“Alex, what are you doing here?”

He knew full well that the weaver regularly paid his dues at the local church. He couldn’t begin to imagine how the old man had come to the attention of the Swords.

“It sounds like the whole of Westbay is being rounded up.” Alex said.

The room lurched and there was the sound of wheels rumbling over cobbles. Stanwick realised then that he was surrounded by people whimpering and praying. He recognised many of the voices amongst the multitude, all people he knew would never consider defying the Final Faith. Why had Makennon ordered this mass abduction?

The carriage travelled for about ten minutes before coming to a halt. Stanwick could now hear the sound of waves pounding against rocks and, just below that, voices raised in song.

The door of the carriage was opened and Stanwick was herded out, along with the rest of the villagers. Alex still held his hand, until it was batted away by the flat of a blade. Chains were looped around Stanwick’s wrists and ankles.

With a shouted command and a sharp tug on the chains, a slow shuffle began up a steep and uneven path. An icy wind blasted against Stanwick’s left side and he sensed a sheer drop just a short distance from the path. Men and women of the Order of the Swords of Dawn ushered their captives on and Stanwick was appalled to hear the voice of Westbay’s own priest amongst them. Despite his misguided beliefs, he had never struck Stanwick as a particularly cruel or duplicitous man.

“Henry,” he called out, “please tell me what’s going on.”

“I’m sorry, Stanwick. Really I am.”

The singing was louder now and Stanwick was taken aback when he realised that the words were elvish. Why were the Final Faith using a song of that ancient race? More importantly, what were they using it for?

They seemed to be entering a vast echoing chamber now and he could taste magic in the air — burned cinnamon and wet stone. When his hood was savagely torn from his head and he finally saw the choir, Stanwick gasped.

Twenty-five pale young boys sang with the voices of angels. From the pitch of their song, he supposed that they had been emasculated. Their flesh was heavily scarified and tattooed; the designs seemed to dance to the ethereal cadences, and Stanwick felt a deep nausea as the illustrations held his gaze.

A knife prodding into his side soon snapped him out of his reverie.

“Move along. You’re holding up the line.”

Stanwick looked at the blood beading his trews. He left a trail of red dots as he followed the rest of the captives.

The choir stood on a natural balcony cut into the chamber wall and a slope led past them, down into the main body of the cave. The roof of the cavern was far above their heads and at the far side was a brilliant blue lake, its water slowly undulating to the distant sound of waves. Stanwick looked around him as the hoods were pulled from the prisoners. The frightened faces that greeted his tugged at his heart and the stench of fear — even in this vast space — was stifling. It wasn’t just the men and women of Westbay the Faith had taken; there were children here too, and a makeshift corral had even been constructed to house the village’s modest collection of livestock.

Behind them all, the choir’s song rose in volume as the torches ringing the lake were lit.

A man stood in front of the line of torches. He was tall and thin, even emaciated. His skin was smooth and pale, his head hairless, and as he disrobed, Stanwick saw that the rest of his body was the same. He passed his garments to a young man, who knelt briefly to receive a blessing before hurrying away with his bundle.

The thin man knelt, and a priest — Henry — came forward and placed an unsteady hand on the thin man’s head. Stanwick saw by Henry’s gestures that he was performing the ceremony of absolution. He wondered what sin the stranger had committed, that he sought forgiveness. Maybe, he considered with a start, he was seeking forgiveness for a sin that he was about to commit.

The ritual over, the priest withdrew and, at a gesture from the gaunt, naked man, the choir fell silent. The only sounds now were the whimpering of the prisoners and the lapping of the lake against the shore. A cadre of priests moved through the crowd, flicking pungent oil from silver sprinklers.

Stanwick’s stomach clenched as he recognised the smell.

It took him back to his mother’s deathbed — more than twenty years earlier — and the look of terror in her eyes as a priest had anointed her with the oil to ease her soul’s passage to Kerberos. Stanwick’s mother had never been a believer, but his father was, and it had been he who’d insisted she take the last rites. The ceremony had done little to relieve her terror, though, as her life slipped away and she had stared into oblivion.

Stanwick knew something of his mother’s fear now and he pulled at the chains that bound him, but there was no give in the links.

They were all going to die.

Brother Sequilious stood staring at the chained villagers gathered before him as he prepared the spell.

“What have we ever done to you?” someone in the crowd shouted. “What has the Faith got against Westbay?”

The fact was that the Final Faith had nothing against Westbay, but this coastal settlement was small enough that the disappearance of its populace could easily be covered up. Bandits would be blamed, or maybe the Chadassa.

Brother Sequilious closed his eyes. Behind him, a last small wave lapped at the lake’s shore before the water became unnaturally still. Sweat began to bead his forehead as he envisioned the wheel of dark energy that he turned with his gestures. The temperature in the cavern dropped and flames erupted from his open palms and raced across his body, although he was not burned. Instead, the fire seemed to tease his flesh. With a stifled groan, he climaxed; where his semen jetted onto the stone floor it hissed and spat.

The cries coming from the prisoners were louder now, but nothing could break Brother Sequilious’s concentration. The words that he spoke had been memorised from a fragment of Chadassa manuscript. He had never before used the magic of the sub-aquatic race and, as the last of the glottal syllables died away, he braced himself for a backlash of arcane energy. Instead, he felt a thrumming of power deep within, and his hands blazed with an intense, pure light. If he held onto this power for too long, it would consume him, and so he unleashed the tide of living fire over the huddled villagers.

They burned so fiercely that they were reduced to little more than bundles of blackened sticks within seconds. Yet still they stood, held aloft by the terrible magic that filled the chamber. The intensity of the passing of so many souls strengthened the spell and Brother Sequilious began to weave the final threads of the enchantment together.

Turning his back on the devastation, the sorcerer stared into the calm waters of the lake, channelling the energy surrounding him into its depths. At the same time, he envisioned the Llothriall — the vastly-treasured ship that Katherine Makennon had tasked him to retrieve.

A cool wind blew against his face and he could hear the crash and hiss of rolling surf. At first, just the merest sketch of a ship was visible above the lake, picked out in pale silver lines. If Brother Sequilious squinted, he could just make out the prow, rearing above him as though cresting the swell of a wave. But then it was gone, and, as the wind dropped, the sorcerer desperately clutched for the contact he had briefly made.

There it was again.

The sound of the sea was suddenly, shockingly loud, and Brother Sequilious staggered back as mountainous waves rose up all around him. He mustn’t lose his focus though, else the Llothriall would be forever lost. He stood in two locations at once — one below the ground, one above the waves, far from here — and, as the last of the villagers burned out behind him, he tried to bring these worlds together.

CHAPTER TWO

There was no escape from the heat. For over a week now, the Llothriall had been becalmed, the sea an emerald mirror upon which they sat, seemingly unmoving. As the days grew longer, the temperature began to rise, and the crew escaped below deck, although even here there was no respite. With not a cloud in the sky, water had to be rationed; often, tempers would fray. Several times, Dunsany and Ignacio got into blazing rows, some so intense that Silus had to intervene. Once, when Katya had tried to calm Ignacio herself, the ex-smuggler had turned on her, shortly thereafter finding himself incapacitated and locked in a store room. Four hours confined in the stifling darkness had insured that Ignacio never lashed out again

“Can’t you use your magic or something?” Ignacio asked Kelos one morning, as they lay on the deck, futilely praying for rain. “Can’t you just conjure up a wind to fill our sails and rain to fill our cups?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” the mage said.

In the end Kelos didn’t have to attempt any such sorcery, as they were struck by the mother of all storms.

No one saw it coming. Once it had passed, two of the sails had to be repaired and the hull had to be patched below the waterline. The only blessing was that the sudden change in weather had finally broken the back of the heat.

It didn’t last. The temperature climbed again, the cloud cover boiled away and they were caught once more in a swelter upon a still sea.

When they were on the edge of despair, when they were down to their last few cupfuls of water, the storm slinked back in, pacing the ship far to starboard, before rushing in and lifting the Llothriall high on the back of an enormous wave.

There had been a time when this would have posed little threat, when the Llothriall had been empowered by the magical gemstone at its heart and the song of the ship’s eunuch, Emuel. But the stone had been lost and Emuel no longer had any reason to sing. As they were tossed from wave to wave, all onboard thought that this would be the storm that finally pulled the Llothriall apart.

A shout from above had Silus racing for the stairs leading up to the maindeck, only for the boom to be the first thing that met him; the broken spar swinging round and sweeping him over the side.

The storm was silenced as the sea took him. For a moment, Silus saw the hull of the Llothriall as it was silhouetted by lightning, before a surge carried the ship away. He watched it go for a moment, before filling his lungs with salt water and striking out after it.

Even as the sea invigorated his body, he knew that his pursuit was futile. No matter the powers he had inherited from the Chadassa, Silus wouldn’t be able to outpace this storm. Once or twice he caught sight of the Llothriall, but the tempest departed as quickly as it had come, taking with it all trace of the ship.

Silus surfaced and looked around. The horizon on all sides was the same featureless blue. He could barely make out where sea met sky, and he had no inkling which bearing he should take to locate the ship. It would be all too easy to swim in entirely the wrong direction.

A fin broke the surface not far from where he trod water. A razor dolphin, from the colouring. Silus ducked his head back down below and saw that he was surrounded by a school of twenty or so. The razor dolphins brushed up against him as they tumbled through the water, clicking and whistling in delight at this strange new creature in their midst.

It was then that Silus realised exactly how he’d find the Llothriall.

He raced the school of razor dolphins to the seabed and they followed, eager to outpace him, and just before Silus touched the bottom he spun back and struck for the surface, leaping from the waves, the sleek bodies of the dolphins following in his wake, the rainbow sheen of their hides dazzling in the brilliant sunlight. As much as it might have seemed otherwise to any observer, this wasn’t just Silus killing time with frivolity. Through play, he was trying to gain a hold on the razor dolphins’ minds. The first time he had encountered this species he had found their thoughts slippery, almost impossible to gain a purchase on; but now Silus was beginning to hear and comprehend the song of their thoughts.

They wanted him to stay and play, to come hunting amongst the tuna shoals so that they could get a measure of what manner of creature he was. On any other day, Silus would have delighted in their requests, but now he had a task for them.

As he communicated with the razor dolphins some of them swam away, and then more followed, until he was left with only six looking quizzically at him, their clicks and whistles sounding almost doubtful. But Silus tried to make them understand how important it was to him that they help find the Llothriall. At one point he almost gave up. After all, these were an entirely different species, what possible empathy could they have for a human?

To his surprise, the remaining razor dolphins acquiesced, and soon he was swimming alongside them as they brought their echo location to bear in the hunt for the ship.

Night fell as they swam on and Silus thought he saw the flicker of lightning above, presaging another storm. He only hoped that if the Llothriall had been caught up in it, it hadn’t been torn apart.

When dawn paled the waves, he began to doubt that the razor dolphins would be any help at all. He had no idea if they had truly understood his request. It was possible that they were swimming alongside him merely for the company, or in the belief that Silus could lead them to fruitful hunting grounds, but then he saw something floating above them and struck for the surface.

It was an arm. Silus lifted it from the water, his horror abating when he realised that he was holding wood, not flesh. He recognised the slim hand of the elf maiden who was the Llothriall’s figurehead, and looked around for any sign of the ship. There was a dark shape on the horizon and Silus grabbed hold of the dorsal fin of a razor dolphin as it propelled him towards it.

He was relieved to see, as they drew alongside, that the ship had escaped the storm mostly intact; one of the masts had a hairline fracture and the boom would have to be reset, but they had come through worse before.

“Hello?” he called. “Katya? Dunsany?”

Silus laughed with joy when Katya’s face appeared above him and was delighted to see her look of relief in turn. On deck, the rest of the crew were just as happy to see him. Even Emuel cracked a smile.

Once onboard, Silus kissed Katya long and deep before taking Zac from her arms. He moved to the rail and pointed down.

“Look, Zac. Daddy’s new friends.”

“Fish! Fish!” his son squealed, and the razor dolphins responded to his delight.

“We tried to look for you after the storm,” Katya said. “But the tempest carried us away so swiftly. By the time it was over we didn’t even know where to start looking.”

“And we had no idea when the next storm would roll in,” Dunsany said. “We’ve been battered by two more since. There’s very little warning of their approach. They just rise from nowhere and attack.”

Silus looked around them. The sky was a brilliant, cloudless blue.

“Deceptive, ain’t it?” Ignacio said. “Come on, we best secure the ship before the next one arrives.”

Silus helped lash down anything likely to be swept overboard, and then he, Dunsany and Ignacio reset the boom and secured the masts. The sun was reaching its zenith as they finished, and all were drenched in sweat and out of breath.

Silus took a long draught from one of the rain barrels. He detected an odd taste in the water — something like cinnamon and burnt stone.

Now, fully prepared, the crew settled in to await the arrival of the next storm, but if anything, the sea was calmer than before. Silus felt the merest breath of wind, but after several minutes it became clear that it was not to be the harbinger of anything more significant.

On the other side of the deck, Emuel rose from the crate he had been sitting on and approached the prow. He stood at the rail with his back to them, his right hand rising, moving from side to side, the fingers twitching as they picked out the notes of a melody only he could hear.

Another breeze touched Silus’s face, and this time it was redolent with the smell of damp caverns and lichen-encrusted rock.

Kelos, too, had climbed to his feet, and he began to move towards the eunuch, who turned to meet him.

“You can hear that, can’t you, Kelos?” he said.

“There is… something, yes.”

“The song?”

“I don’t know.”

“Katya,” Silus said. “Get Zac below, now.”

Emuel began to sing. It was the first time in a long time they had heard him do so, and Silus had forgotten how pure and clear his voice was. The tattoos that covered the pale flesh of the emasculated boy started to move, entwining around each other, swirling to the music that all of them were now beginning to hear.

Katya stood at the top of the steps, entranced, Zac squirming in her grip as he reached out towards Emuel.

None of this seemed right to Silus. This wasn’t the same song that had once empowered the Llothriall. Why couldn’t any of them see that?

Ignacio, though, seemed to have an inkling. He ran up to Emuel and shook him hard.

“This is not the time!” he shouted. “Emuel, snap out of it, something is coming.”

And, indeed, something was. There was a darkness gathering on the horizon, moving swiftly and silently towards them.

Emuel did not stop. Something else added its voice to the song as, above them, Kerberos began to sing.

“Katya, I said go!” Silus shouted.

This time she acknowledged him and hurried below.

The darkness had arisen on all sides of the Llothriall. The small circle of sea on which they sat was beginning to rapidly shrink, and the only ones who seemed to be doing anything about it were Dunsany and Ignacio. They rushed about the deck, trying to ready the ship to escape this new threat.

But there was nowhere to go.

Silus to reach out to Kerberos, but there was no response from his god.

The darkness closed on the Llothriall, the song died and then they were falling.

With a terrific bang, Brother Sequilious was flung onto his back as a wall of ice-cold water crashed over him. There was the burn of salt at the back of his throat and he floundered on the cavern floor for a moment, before he realised that he was not drowning.

As he got to his feet an octopus dropped to the ground, its tentacles uncoiling from his thigh. All around him, fish littered the floor, mouths gaping as they drowned in the air. There was a strange smell about him; a smell that made the sorcerer’s balls shrivel in fear — the smell of magic gone wrong. He turned to the lake to see just how wrong.

He had retrieved the Llothriall, albeit only half of it. The broken ship sat a while on the lake, before beginning to keel over. He got a brief glimpse into the interior as water flooded in. Cabins had been sheared in half, spilling shattered furniture and broken cargo. The sorcerer thought that he saw a body hit the water as the ship sank. Soon, only a curve of the hull was visible. In despair, Brother Sequilious began to wade into the lake, desperate to salvage anything from his disastrous summoning attempt. But as the cold water rose above his thighs, he knew that it was useless. He had lost Katherine Makennon her greatest prize.

CHAPTER THREE

“Daddy?”

Silus was dimly aware that someone was prodding him in the cheek. One side of his face was on fire, the other side covered in grit.

“Daddy?”

There was that prod again, and now small fingers were trying to peel back his eyelids.

He tasted sand and tried to spit it out as he sat up, but his mouth was bone dry. His eyes watering, he could only make out a jumble of shapes before him. One of them resolved itself into the face of his son, Zac. The child was standing unsteadily, one hand leaning against Silus for support. There were tears in his eyes, and Silus immediately gathered him into his arms.

“It’s alright, Zac. We’re okay.”

But such promises were entirely empty, as Silus had no idea where they were.

Shallow dunes stretched away to the horizon; the sky cloudless and bleached almost white by the intense light of the relentless sun.

“Boat, daddy. Boat.”

Silus couldn’t see anything but sand and he didn’t know what had drawn Zac’s attention until he turned around.

The Llothriall sat with its stern facing them. The ground was dark and wet for several yards around the vessel, and fish thrashed in the sand as they drowned. Silus could see barnacles encrusting the wood, and seaweed clinging to the hull in places.

“Katya!” he shouted, as he ran towards the Llothriall. “Kat — ”

His breath caught in his throat as he saw what had happened to their ship.

Beyond the mainmast there was nothing; the Llothriall had been shorn in half as neatly as if it had been struck by an enormous blade.

“Katya?”

“Mummy!” Zac cried, his fists bunching in Silus’s shirt.

There was movement from somewhere within the ship; a sheet fluttered down, followed by a shoe. Silus heard a shriek and looked up to see his wife clinging to a doorframe, beyond which was nothing but a drop to the hot sand.

“Katya, thank the gods. Don’t move.”

He looked about him for any means to help her down, but the only thing nearby was a torn section of sail and it wasn’t long enough to fashion into a rope.

“Heads up!” came a shout, and a length of rope coiled down from the deck.

“Dunsany? Is that you?” Katya called.

“It is! Now, grab hold and climb down.”

Katya shinned down the rope, followed by Dunsany, Kelos and Bestion. It wasn’t just their ship that had been torn asunder; they were also missing some of their crew.

“Where’s Emuel and Ignacio?”

“I don’t know,” Dunsany said. “I haven’t seen them since the… since-”

“Since what?”

“What did happen? What’s the last thing you remember?”

They looked at each other blankly. A hot wind picked up, whipping sand about the ruins of the ship, singing through holes in the vessel.

“There was the song,” Kelos said. “Emuel said that he could hear the song. So, it was certainly sorcery of some kind. Nothing else could have brought the Llothriall here.”

“And here is?” Katya said.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen a landscape quite like this.”

Silus looked up at the cloudless sky and the one thing that had been staring them directly in the face — or, rather, hadn’t — finally hit him.

“Kelos, where has Kerberos gone?”

“I… but that’s impossible.”

All their lives the deity had looked down upon them; the vast azure sphere a permanent reminder of His watchful gaze. Without Kerberos, Silus felt lost, strangely bereft. Although it was Bestion who looked the most alarmed.

“He is gone. The Allfather is gone. This is the end.” The priest wailed.

“Don’t worry, Bestion, there’ll be a way to get back, you’ll see.” The mage turned in a circle, scanning the horizon, but everywhere looked much the same.

“Let’s gather supplies,” Dunsany said, at last giving them some purpose. “We’ll strike out and find… somewhere. This can’t be all there is.”

With half the Llothriall gone, their supplies were somewhat depleted. The galley had been cut in half, so food was scarce, though they had enough water to last several days. The remains of the sails were cut up to provide them with the makings of shelter, and bundles of broken planks would suffice as firewood should the temperature drop. There seemed little likelihood of that happening, however; as they struck away from the ruins of the ship, the sand beneath their feet burned as hot as coals.

Silus kept expecting to see Kerberos rising over the horizon as they crested dune after dune. But as the sun set, throwing their shadows far ahead of them, there was no sign of the god.

None of them slept well that night. The cold that rose from the ground was like winter come early and a vicious wind howled over the dunes, the mournful sound finding its way into their broken dreams.

The next day was very much like the one before. The same cruel sun, the same blank dunes.

Silus was beginning to wish they had stayed with the ship, when they heard a sound coming towards them from over the next rise.

With a high-pitched wheezing and an avalanche of sand, a small, rotund creature tumbled towards them, its many legs failing to give it purchase on the dune. It came to a stop on its back, its legs still frantically scrabbling.

Dunsany and Silus put away the swords they had half-drawn. It was clear that this thing was no threat, though as Bestion knelt down and reached towards it, Silus batted his hand away.

“No! Don’t touch it. You don’t know what it is.”

“Come on Silus, it’s just some strange… dog thing. I’m sure that it’s perfectly amiable, aren’t you fellah?”

Bestion helped the creature to its feet and it looked up at him with big wet mournful eyes. A long, thin tongue flickered briefly across its lips. There was a foul smell coming from it; its flesh was cracked and weeping in places.

“He seems even less suited to the terrain than us,” Katya said. “Do you think he was caught up in whatever sorcery brought us here?”

“Possibly,” Kelos said. “Though I can’t imagine where it may have come from. Although it does bear a certain resemblance to a thing I once saw in the Drakengrat Mountains.”

“It’s not getting up that dune again without our help,” Bestion said.

“Well, I’m not touching it,” Dunsany said. “Have you smelt it? It could have any kind of disease.”

“I say we leave it,” Silus said, though Zac clearly disagreed with him as he squirmed in Katya’s arms, determined to get closer to the creature.

The dog thing stopped whining and shuffled round to look back up the dune, its head cocked as though it was listening to something. Then they all heard it: a call. It came again, closer, and the creature responded with a yip, its feet scrabbling as it tried to race towards the voice.

“Come on,” Bestion said, picking up the creature and starting up the dune. He glanced back to see the rest of the crew looking at him with bemused expressions. “Stop worrying. It’s just a… dog, I think. Whoever owns him may be able to help us get where we’re going.”

Silus thought that Bestion’s line of thinking was perhaps a little naive, though as they crested the dune there was indeed someone coming towards them and the creature responded to its calls with a delighted yip.

The sun was behind the figure, making it difficult to make out its features, though it was about the size of a young child with a long, shaggy head of hair.

Bestion put the dog-thing down and it raced towards his master, who lifted him up, speaking to the creature in a sing-song voice.

The sex of the person now coming towards them was difficult to ascertain, though if Silus had to guess he’d say that it was a girl. Her skin was smooth. She had no fingernails, and when she smiled her teeth were all exactly alike. The girl’s eyes were disturbingly pale and Silus wondered whether she might be blind, though as she regarded them with interest, it became clear that this wasn’t the case.

“Hello,” Katya said. “Is that your dog?”

“We’re friends,” Dunsany said. “ Friends. Do you live somewhere nearby?”

“Whoever this child is,” Silus said. “I don’t think that she speaks our language.”

“And how do you know it’s a child?” Kelos said.

“Well, I mean… I… I don’t know.”

“Indeed. Never make assumptions.”

“You mean like Bestion did with that dog thing?”

“I mean never make assumptions that turn out be incorrect.”

“Thanks. That’s useful.”

The girl smiled at them and laughed. She said something before reaching out, tapping Silus’s hand and racing away.

“What did that mean?” Silus said.

“I believe,” Bestion said, “that you are ‘it.’ Come on.”

They hurried after the girl and her pet, losing sight of them several times and once going in the wrong direction entirely before they spotted her again, waiting for them atop a dune and gesturing for them to catch up.

Just before they reached her, the girl threw herself down the other side of the sandy slope, rolling over and over with the dog creature still in her arms, giggling hysterically. They were about to follow when what they saw beyond the dune arrested their descent.

There was a vast settlement in the middle of the desert.

As they watched, the girl reached its outskirts, dropped her pet and called out. Soon she was surrounded by a crowd of people, their gazes following the direction of her excited gestures towards where the strangers stood. They stared in silence for a moment before rushing towards them, calling out to others as they came, until there was a veritable tide of people flowing across the sand.

“Bestion, I hope that your assumptions about them being friendly turn out to be correct,” Silus said.

“Yes, so do I.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Emuel had often wondered how it would feel to be back in the arms of the Final Faith. The Church had nurtured him from a young age, ever since miraculous visions had been visited upon him as he toiled in the Drakengrat salt mines. Soon afterwards, word of the devout nine-year-old boy to whom the Lord of All had chosen to speak had reached the seminary at Nurn, and an emissary was promptly dispatched to take the boy under his wing, even though Emuel would normally be considered far too young to enter the order. Not only was he the youngest acolyte that the seminary had admitted, but he also quickly became the youngest priest — breezing through his studies, displaying a level of devotion and wisdom unusual in a boy his age.

It wasn’t long after his ordination that the Faith bestowed upon Emuel his own Drakengrat parish, installing him as an Enlightened One, pastor to a hardy mountain people. But Emuel’s flock came from much further afield than the Drakengrat range. Pilgrims travelled from as far as Gargas to receive his blessing, having heard of Emuel’s wondrous visions, some claiming that the slightest touch from the boy could cure all manner of illness.

The Archimandrites at Scholten cathedral closely monitored Emuel’s progress, and it wasn’t long into his ministry that Querilous Fitch was dispatched to talk to him.

As Querilous described to Emuel the special assignment that the Anointed Lord had chosen him for, the pale boy had grown even paler. After all, what they were asking him to do would radically change him. The use of sorcery to mark and alter his flesh went against everything he believed. But Querilous’s words were persuasive, his arguments cogent and passionately made, and when he laid his hands on Emuel’s head in blessing, the boy heard the voice of his god and knew, with a sacred clarity, that this was indeed the path that had been chosen for him.

Throughout the journey to Scholten Cathedral, Emuel felt the guiding hand of the Lord, and he felt sure that it was this same hand that guided the pen and the blade of the Final Faith surgeon as — accompanied by chants and the burning of astringent incense — he needled and scarified into Emuel’s flesh the ancient elven runics. Every inch of his skin was illustrated; the pain was indescribable. The greatest challenge, however, was yet to come, as the surgeon turned his blade on Emuel’s sex and began the process of emasculation.

Querilous Fitch had been there, through every long hour of the procedure, holding Emuel’s hand and praying him through the pain.

The first night after the operation, Emuel’s body sang with agony. The stitches and scar tissue throbbed with every beat of his heart. But Querilous had taught him that he should listen for the voice beyond the pain; use the purity of his agony to focus his mind so that he could hear the sacred song that underlay everything. And there it had been, very quiet at first, but growing in volume; the whisper of the divine blossoming into a song of stunning, heart-breaking complexity.

When he awoke, Emuel was certain that he was now complete, ready to board the Llothriall and take the Word beyond the Storm Wall for the first time.

But then they had come.

The first that Emuel knew of their arrival was the strangulated cry of the guard outside his cell door. A thin trickle of blood found its way towards where he lay, the lock of the door melted, and Kelos and Dunsany forced their way into his life.

In a matter of hours, Emuel had been spirited away from Scholten cathedral and onto the Llothriall, there forced to sing the song that had only just been revealed to him. The Final Faith’s flagship vessel had been stolen for an adventure that saw the deaths of many and the transformation of Emuel’s world. Yet there had never been a time when he had not heard the voice of the Lord of All. With their blades and their inks, the Faith had made him into something truly extraordinary.

But then the Llothriall had come to Morat — the wondrous city riding upon the crest of an eternal wave — and there the Stone Seers had revealed that the tattoos and the emasculation had nothing to do with whether Emuel could hear and channel the song or not. All he had ever had to do was listen; the sacred music had always been there. The pain and the indignity that he had suffered had been for naught. With the best of intentions, the Stone Seers had completely dismantled Emuel’s faith.

And now he sat before the man who had started him on that journey into spiritual turmoil — Querilous Fitch.

“You used me,” Emuel said, looking down at the restraints that cut into his wrists and bound him to the chair.

“The Lord uses us all, Emuel,” Querilous wheezed. “And you shouldn’t believe everything those apostates on Morat told you. After all, look what happened to them; they knew the terrible judgement of our god.”

“They were killed by the Chadassa.”

“I suppose that you could look at it like that.” Querilous chuckled, and the hollow, dry laugh echoed down the tubes that regulated his breathing. Emuel tried not to look at the foul contraption that kept the mind-manipulator alive, but it was hard to draw his eyes away from the pipes extending from the centre of Querilous’s chest, and the juddering apparatus that crowded the back of his wheelchair.

“You’ve changed,” he said.

“The whole peninsula has changed, and some of us have been caught up in events beyond our control. Myself, I met something rather unpleasant in the Sardenne. But, I can assure you that my current situation is temporary. Now, to matters at hand… Yuri!”

A sallow youth shuffled from the shadows and wheeled Querilous’s chair to behind where Emuel sat. Yuri lifted the manipulator’s crippled right hand and placed it on top of the eunuch’s head, where it slipped limply off.

“Damn it, boy!” Querilous snapped. “Do it properly or I’ll have you flogged.”

This time Querilous’s hand was more carefully placed and Emuel shuddered at the cold touch.

And then there was intense pain as Fitch’s fingers sank into his mind.

“Now, Emuel. What happened to the Llothriall? Let’s see what you remember.”

Before, when Emuel had heard rumours of Querilous Fitch’s power, he had dismissed them, sure that the kind man who had brought him to Scholten was incapable of such cruelty. But now he knew better. Everything the Final Faith’s enemies said about them was true; there was no method or sorcery they would not employ in fulfilling the will of the Lord of All, no matter how seemingly heretical.

Querilous’s voice filled Emuel as his last few moments onboard the Llothriall flickered before his eyes.

“Sorcery, certainly,” Querilous said. “But whose magic interfered with ours?”

It felt like the manipulator’s fingers were behind his eyes and, for a terrible moment, Emuel was afraid that they would be pushed from their sockets.

“Come on, Emuel, see for me. Show me who stole away your comrades and left you and Ignacio to face the music.”

Emuel was sure that he could hear the plates of his skull shifting; the pressure was unbearable and there was a warmth on his upper lip, a strong salt taste in his mouth. The angry sea seemed to roll all around him. Looking into the storm, Emuel thought that he caught a glimpse of a desert landscape, a brilliant blue sky.

“That’s it, Emuel. That’s it…”

Emuel pulled against his restraints, the straps biting deeply into his wrists. Even though Querilous held his mind, there was nothing the manipulator could do to lessen the eunuch’s hatred for him. Emuel focused on that anger now, and sawed his wrists back and forth until he heard the light patter of blood hitting the stone floor. With one great tug, he pulled his right hand sharply back, the restraint holding his blood-slicked wrist for only a moment. Querilous brought Emuel to the brink of unconsciousness, but the manipulator had once taught the eunuch how to use pain as a focus, and Emuel pulled himself out of the darkness using the anger and hurt instilled in him.

Emuel screamed as he arched his back, the startling sound echoing through the dank chamber. Reaching out with his right hand, he found the tube that connected to Fitch’s chest and pulled.

“Criminal scum!”

Ignacio’s forehead bounced off the wall, but before he could fall the man grabbed him by the hair and threw his head forward again.

“Vermin!”

Ignacio thought that this time his head made a curiously hollow sound as it cracked against stone. He’d quite like to sleep now; he was awfully tired and someone was calling his Ice cold water splashed across his face and, for a moment, Ignacio thought that he had fallen asleep while on duty on the top deck. But he wasn’t on the Llothriall, he was in a Final Faith prison, and the man who had thrown him repeatedly against the wall was standing over him — a bucket in his left hand, his right held out before him.

“Come on, get up. It doesn’t have to be like this, you know.”

“Really?” Ignacio said. “Because it would be nice if you stopped hurting me now.”

“And the pain will end, Ignacio, when you accept the Lord of All into your heart.”

“Oh, gods! No, no, no, no, no! Please, let this not be happening. I had enough of this shit as a child.”

“He will welcome you in, if you put your trust in Him. The Lord of All has need of people like you.”

“Listen, I have encountered the power of the Lord first hand, and, believe me, He’s not the all-loving god you seem to think He is.”

“Oh, but we know that, Ignacio. However, the fact remains that you are an apostate, and you now have a simple choice before you.” The man turned away and fumbled with something that sounded heavy and metallic. When he turned around, he was holding a pair of iron pincers. “You can repent of your sins, commit yourself to the Lord of All and join the Order of the Swords of Dawn, or I can pull your fingernails out, one by one, very very slowly.”

For a while, Ignacio endured the pain. He had been interrogated and tortured before, and he doubted that the Faith could do anything worse to him than the various port authorities he had run up against in the past.

He was wrong. The man of faith worked him with consummate skill and it wasn’t long until Ignacio was screaming for mercy.

And when he was shown the love and compassion of the Lord of All, when he was offered His forgiveness and sanctuary, Ignacio gladly took it.

For a moment, Yuri merely looked on in horror at the hissing air tube and his suffocating master. Then he quickly wheeled Querilous away from Emuel and fumbled with the pipe, trying to slot it back into the connection. By the time the breathing apparatus was re-attached, Querilous was a pale blue. Yuri looked at his master, horror overwhelming him at the thought he might be dead, until, with a shudder, Fitch came round. His eyes rolled madly for a while until they fixed on the eunuch, who was half out of his chair, his left hand still bound.

“Yuri, wheel me in close.”

“What are you going to do, Querilous?” Emuel laughed. “You’re nothing but a helpless cripple, with an idiot for an assistant.”

The idiot of an assistant was stronger than he looked; the blow that connected with Emuel’s head knocked him out cold.

“I had a feeling this interrogation was going to be pointless,” Querilous said.

The door to the chamber opened and Katherine Makennon swept into the room. She didn’t have any of her usual retinue with her. Querilous was especially pleased to note the absence of Jakub Freel, who had somehow managed to wheedle his way into the inner circles of the Faith.

Querilous’s assistant dropped to his knees and averted his eyes as the Anointed Lord came towards them.

“You are dismissed,” Makennon said.

“Anointed One, without meaning to question your wisdom,” Querilous said, “I am somewhat at a disadvantage without Yuri’s aid.”

“I do apologise. For some reason I keep forgetting about the extent of your… condition.”

“May I ask what brings you this far below Scholten?”

“I think, Querilous, that we need to employ a different tactic in our hunt for the fugitives. Have our two prisoners been adequately broken?”

Querilous looked at the unconscious form of Emuel and smiled. “I believe so. And the radicalisation of Ignacio is proceeding according to plan.”

“Then there is a sorcerer who may be able to help us. Although he is getting on in years, he’s one of the most powerful practitioners of magic known to the Faith. What is more, he has offered to give up his life in order to perform one last, overwhelming rite.”

The manipulator said nothing for a moment. The only sound was the hiss and wheeze of his breathing regulator as he stared at the Anointed One.

“What of Brother Sequilious?”

“He is sadly no longer with us. I do somewhat regret my punishment of him. But we all have our off days, do we not?”

Querilous wheezed in agreement.

“You have two days to prepare the prisoners. After that time they will be departing for the Drakengrat mountains with a contingent of the Order of the Swords of Dawn. We will have our fugitives, Querilous, and more importantly we will have Silus Morlader. The Final Faith could certainly use a man of his talents, in these uncertain times.”

CHAPTER FIVE

The inhabitants of the desert settlement surrounded them; reaching for their clothes, stroking their hair, tugging at their hands, all as they chattered in a staccato, high-pitched language. A finger prodded Silus painfully in his side and he slapped the hand away, only for another to tug at his shirt. It wasn’t that these people were being aggressive — that much was obvious from their expressions of happy curiosity — they just hadn’t seen folk quite like the ragged crew of the Llothriall before.

There was a commotion towards the back of the tumult and a metal staff rose above the heads of the crowd, sweeping from side to side as it approached. A path was cleared. The man wielding the staff was a little taller than most, and his white hair was cropped close to his scalp. Like those that surrounded him, his skin was pale and flawless, although there was something about his eyes that was disconcerting, and when he came to the head of the crowd Silus realised what it was: the man’s pupils were silver.

The crowd fell silent as the silver-eyed man looked at the crew, holding the staff out to each in turn. Dunsany looked ready to meet it with his sword, but a glance from Silus told him to be calm.

“We mean no harm,” Silus said, stepping forwards. “We find ourselves somewhat lost and were hoping you could help.”

As Silus spoke the man adjusted the rings running down the middle of the staff, each one inscribed with a symbol.

“What is this place called?” Silus persisted. “Are you” — another ring clicked into place — “native to this-”

The staff began to hum.

“I apologise for the delay,” the man said. “Though your words are not entirely unknown, it took me a time to configure the correct combination. Please, follow.”

The man turned and started to head towards the centre of the settlement. Silus stared after him for a moment before following, the rest of the crew following him hesitantly.

As they made their way through the crowd, Silus noticed the girl who had led them to this place looking at them with a kind of awe. She held up her pet and smiled, and he waved at her. She bashfully ducked back into the crowd and darted away.

Silus was grateful for the respite from the sun when they stepped into the shadows cast by the settlement’s houses. The dwellings that surrounded them seemed to have been sculpted from the sand on which they sat. A few rose a foot or so higher than their neighbours, and a few had domed rather than flat roofs, but otherwise they were very similar. However, rising above them all, Silus could just see the summit of something remarkable.

At first it was just a glimpse of twisted spires, the brilliant white stone reflecting the sunlight like mother-of-pearl, and reminding Silus of the shells he used to find scattered across the beaches of Nurn. As they approached the centre of the settlement, the sand structures began to dwindle in number and soon they could see through to the astonishing heart of this place.

“What is that?” Katya said. “A palace?”

And it was regal and magnificent, but it was like no palace Silus had ever seen, easily rivalling anything even the celebrated architects of Miramas could have dreamed into being. It was impossibly delicate, looking as though a strong wind would shatter the edifice in a moment, but there was an inner strength there; a sense of great power contained. The sun, pouring through the fine webs and arches of the structure, splintered into a thousand rainbows, throwing a beautiful prismatic spray towards them. The sand beneath their feet gave way to glass as they neared the structure, blackened and blistered, as though whatever force had placed this wondrous building here had produced a ferocious heat. Silus thought that he could detect a low rumbling sensation through the soles of his boots, yet the structure before them emitted no sound. Indeed, he considered, for the hub of such a substantial settlement, it was curiously quiet.

There appeared to be no obvious entrance to the structure — no doorway marred the perfection of the stone, no archways led within — yet, as they approached, the silver-eyed man did not falter in his step and passed right through the wall before them.

The crew were brought up short and Silus was just reaching out to touch the stone when the man reappeared.

“My apologies. Please, it is perfectly safe to follow.”

As they passed through the wall, they experienced a curious sensation, as though the grime of the desert had been removed from their bodies and they now wore freshly laundered clothes.

“It is necessary that we keep the environment onboard sterile,” said their guide. “If you will please follow me, I shall introduce you to the head of the council.”

From the outside, the structure had appeared to be the epitome of silent, graceful beauty. By contrast, the interior was a scene of controlled chaos.

The corridor in which they stood was thronged with people, all hurriedly going about their business. Most of them were similar in appearance to those who had crowded around them earlier, but some shared similar features with the man with the silver eyes. No, Silus realised, not just similar; they were identical.

The rumble that Silus had felt outside was here a deep, bass roar. He could barely hear himself think. He lost count of the number of steps they climbed, the number of echoing chasms they crossed by delicate crystalline bridges, before they came at last to what he could safely say was an actual door. The first they seen since entering the strange edifice.

The door was opened by another silver-eyed man, who nodded at his fellow, before receiving the staff from him and ushering the visitors within.

Here, finally, was quiet. Silus’s ears buzzed with the battering they had received on their journey, and it took him a few moments to realise that the silver-eyed man was addressing them.

“-having trouble with our engines, hence the noise. Master Illiun will be with us shortly. Here he is now.”

The man who entered the room was dark-haired and short. Unlike the other members of his tribe, his skin was marred by lines and creases, and there was a look of intense worry in his eyes. He took the staff from the silver-eyed man before dismissing him, and gestured to the chairs that surrounded the table in the centre of the room.

“Please sit,” he said, seating himself. “We had thought this planet uninhabited. I’m only sorry that you have encountered us at such an inopportune time. A few days ago, while preparing the ship for departure, we experienced massive engine failure, hence the chaos you have witnessed.”

“This, this… is a ship?” Dunsany said.

“Of course, I forget, our level of technology may seem to you somewhat confounding. Had we known of your presence we would have revealed ourselves more gradually. I’m only grateful that our translation device” — he gestured to the staff- “enables us to communicate. Clearly your language is not dissimilar to that of other cultures we have encountered.”

“Sorry, but I think that you have misunderstood the situation,” Katya said. “We’re not actually from here, wherever here is. We were brought to this place by sorcery and, in the process, our ship was destroyed.”

“I wonder,” Kelos said, “is it possible that whatever magic powers your ship is responsible for the Llothriall being brought to this place? After all, the failure of your… engine does seem to somewhat coincide with our arrival.”

“Magic?” Master Illiun said. “I’m sorry, but that word is unfamiliar to me.”

“You know, magic? Sorcery?”

Illiun shook his head.

“Perhaps I can demonstrate?” Kelos held out his hand, gesturing for the translation staff. Illiun handed it over and the mage placed it on the table before him. “Just something simple, to help you understand.”

Kelos held his hands out above the staff and closed his eyes. Soon, a look of pained concentration creased his brow. His hands formed into claws, trembling as he willed the staff into them. Finally, letting out an explosive breath, he opened his eyes.

“I… I don’t understand. It is the most base sorcery, it should be simple. I must be more tired than I realised.”

He handed the staff back to Illiun.

“There’s no need to apologise, I assure you,” he said. “The situation you find yourselves in must be very distressing. Where exactly do you call home?”

“Twilight,” Dunsany said. “And what is this place called?”

“We haven’t yet given the planet a designation,” Illiun said.

“I’m sorry, let’s just slow down for a moment,” Katya said. “I’m finding this hard to grasp. You, Illiun… your people are from another world?”

“Ah, yes, sorry. I sometimes take for granted a certain level of knowledge. At night, when you look up, what do you see?”

Katya couldn’t help but feel that she was being patronised, but she went along with it. “Stars.”

“Right, and some of those stars support habitable planets, just as the sun of your own world supports life. We have been travelling from world to world for many, many years.”

“I had heard that there were other worlds, out in the void,” Kelos said, “but I hadn’t really believed.”

“Oh, believe, my friend. There are many wonders, out there.” Illiun said. “Alas, we cannot stay on this planet for much longer. The entity is still in pursuit and it’s vital that we repair our engines.”

“Entity?” Bestion said. “What is that?”

“A determined enemy, one we have been fleeing for generations. Yet no matter how far we travel, it still finds us. Coming here, we hoped that we had finally escaped it. However, in the last few days our sensors detected the entity’s approach once again. We prepared the ship for departure, only for our engines to fail. There are minerals on this planet that can help us repair them, but we’re going to have to recover them quickly.”

“We’ll help you,” Silus said. He turned to his companions, who were looking at him in stunned silence. “What? What else are we going to do? The Llothriall is no more, we’re far from home, and something big and angry is heading our way. I say that leaves us with little choice; as far as I can see, Illiun and his people offer us the best hope of survival and of finding our way back to Twilight.”

“As we are new to this planet ourselves, we are still unsure as to the nature of the risks that may lie between us and retrieval of the mineral,” Illiun said.

“Trust me,” Silus said. “We’re quite used to risks.”

He squeezed Katya’s hand and she smiled at him, but there was a deep weariness in her eyes. On her knee, Zac suddenly pointed at his father before letting out a delighted squeal and clapping his hands.

“At least one of us isn’t feeling this overwhelming sense of impending doom,” Katya said, kissing the top of her son’s head.

“Of course,” Illiun said. “Any help that you can give us will be more than gratefully received. Certainly my people are delighted to have you amongst us. Tonight you will avail yourselves of our hospitality. I will provide you with a communication staff in order that you will be able to converse. Come the morning we will have a decision on how to proceed.”

The door opened and one of the silver-eyed men entered. “Please see to it that our guests are well looked after,” Illiun told him.

As they left the ship and headed back into the settlement, Silus looked up at the clear blue sky, wondering what manner of threat it was that this entity posed, and quite how they would escape it when the time came.

Back in the settlement proper, they were guided to one of the larger sand-dwellings, there to be greeted by a familiar face.

The girl grinned as she pushed aside the curtain covering the doorway, her pet scampering past her and weaving itself between their legs, emitting a discordant whine that sounded like no dog they had ever heard.

“Mummy and Daddy said that the strangers were coming,” she said.

Not wanting to be referred to as ‘the strangers’ for the rest of the evening, the crew introduced themselves and ascertained that the girl was called Hannah, which was also the name of her pet.

Once inside, they were introduced to Hannah’s parents — Rosalind and Shalim — who were so similar in appearance that they could have been brother and sister, though no one chose to comment, not wanting to jeopardise the hospitality of their hosts.

Within, the sand house was ordered and comfortable. The structure consisted of five rooms: a kitchen, a living area, two sleeping areas and a latrine. Hannah and her parents shared one of the bedrooms, along with the pet, while the remaining bedroom had been given over to the guests.

Once they were settled, the family asked them to join them for a meal and they sat in the living area, watching as Rosalind roasted root vegetables amongst hot coals.

For a while there was silence, none of the crew really knowing how to make conversation with these people, even with the aid of the translation staff; not that Hannah’s parents were particularly chatty. After being mobbed earlier that day, Silus had expected their hosts to show a little more curiosity.

“Hannah,” Bestion finally said. “Where did your pet come from? I haven’t seen any other animals in the settlement.”

“Hannah comes from another world. The people on the ship wanted her once, but the council decided they had no use for her. Mummy and Daddy said that I could keep her, but I don’t think that this place likes her very much.”

“And have you seen many worlds?”

“Lots and lots. Though not as many as Mummy and Daddy.”

“How long have you been on this world?”

“Not long,” Shalim said, joining the conversation. “But there is nothing here for us and soon we will be leaving.”

“Ah, yes,” Bestion said. “That would be because of the entity, wouldn’t it?”

Shalim returned to staring at the glowing coals.

“What sort of world were you born on?” Silus asked.

“Shalim and I were born on the ship,” Rosalind said. “Hannah was born on an ocean planet. We were happy for a while, there, before we had to move on.”

Zac began to struggle on Katya’s lap and she let him down onto the floor, where Hannah showed him a simple game with coloured pebbles. They became utterly absorbed in their play, paying not the least attention to the adult conversation going on around them.

“What about you?” Shalim said. “How did you come to this world? We didn’t see your ship land.”

With occasional interjections from Dunsany and Kelos, Silus told their story, including everything from stealing the Llothriall, to the defeat of the Chadassa, to arriving in the desert on a broken boat.

“It seems to me,” Shalim said, “that your homeworld isn’t a place to which you would want to return.”

“There are things there worth fighting for,” Kelos said. “And it is our home.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of running, Shalim?” Silus said.

“Indeed, but we hope that one day we will have run far enough.”

“I wish I had witnessed some of the sights you’ve seen out there,” Kelos said. “Just think: if we found the right world, we wouldn’t have to return to Twilight. No more Final Faith on our backs. We could start afresh. We don’t have to go home.”

As they talked, the sunset that had been edging into the room faded and then finally died. A sharp wind picked up, howling against the house, although inside they felt not the slightest breeze.

Katya hadn’t even realised that Zac had left them until he tottered back into the room, holding Hannah’s hand.

“Where have you been, wee man?” she said. “Playing with Hannah? Thank you for keeping him entertained, by the way. Are you hungry, Zac?”

“The stars are falling,” he said.

“What’s that, sweetie?”

“Come, see.”

As Katya and Silus got to their feet, Silus thought that he heard a low, deep thud as though something heavy had fallen to the floor in another room.

In the guest room they found Zac and Hannah kneeling on one of the beds, looking out of the window, their faces intermittently illuminated by brilliant flashes of light.

“Dunsany, Kelos… everyone! ” Katya said. “You may want to come and see this.”

Zac had been right; far out in the desert, stars were falling to earth. Most fell beyond the horizon, but a few landed closer to the settlement, throwing up huge plumes of glowing sand.

“My gods!” Dunsany said. “I’ve seen shooting stars before, but nothing like this.”

“Shouldn’t we be heading for the ship?” Kelos said. “I mean, if one of those things hit us…”

“We are quite safe,” Shalim said. “The ship will protect us and the bombardment will soon be over.”

And indeed it was. Silus blinked away the purple blotches swimming across his vision. Where the stars had come down, the sand glowed rose-red.

“It’s beautiful,” Kelos said.

To the mage, it may have been a wondrous sight, but as Silus watched the glowing sand darken, he’d never felt further from home.

CHAPTER SIX

Emuel felt himself being pulled in all directions at once. At one point his head was somewhere down around his knees, while his eyeballs orbited his right wrist. It felt like he had been disassembled and put back together again a million times. For a moment he found peace, letting go as his constituent parts tumbled away from each other into the void; Emuel wished his left ear well as it slowly somersaulted past him.

There was a sickening moment of disorientation before he rained down to earth, his consciousness pouring back into him like ice-water, making him clench his teeth against the sudden, migraine-inducing cold. All he could do was shiver, his breathing sounding loud and hollow. Emuel dreaded opening his eyes (did he still have eyes?) The repetitive booming sound he could hear must have been his heart, but when he reached out, feeling for it, he touched hot sand.

He rolled onto his back and looked into a cloudless blue sky. The sun had reached its zenith and he squinted against its harsh glare, before shielding his eyes, sitting up and looking around him.

The ground was spotted with blood and Emuel immediately checked himself, but he wasn’t wounded. Various pieces of equipment were scattered across the sand — bent weapons, crushed water flasks, torn clothing — and when Emuel picked up a shield he found that there was still an arm attached to it. Rings bedecked the fingers of the pale hand; it seemed it had belonged to one of the lieutenants from the Order of the Swords of Dawn.

“Hello?” Emuel called. “Anyone?”

But it soon became obvious that he was the only one here; a fact that he confirmed for himself by climbing a shallow rise and seeing that he was surrounded on all sides by desert.

Was this really Twilight? Looking up and seeing a sky without Kerberos, he didn’t think so.

Emuel tried to remember what had happened.

The ritual had been closed to all but the highest-ranking members of the Final Faith — not even Querilous Fitch had been invited to witness the performance — and had been conducted in a monastery high in the Drakengrat mountains. Emuel’s heart sank when he saw the location, for he had often come here on retreat, to meditate and pray in the beautiful gardens. But there was now no sign of the order of silent monks who had lived here, and the gardens had been allowed to run riot, swallowing the small chapels that dotted the grounds.

Emuel had been unnerved to discover that the sorcery that was to be performed during the ritual had never before been attempted, but Katherine Makennon herself had assured them that she had tasked the ritual to a sorcerer more powerful even than Brother Sequilious.

Albrecht Wolf looked to be old enough to be the great-grandfather of the previous Anointed Lord. He tottered up to the altar on two canes, dragging his right foot behind him. When he placed his apparatus before him, his right hand shook so badly that he knocked over a chalice, spilling a stinking tarry substance that slowly dripped down the stone. No one rushed to help him, and Makennon did not seem in the least perturbed by his infirmity; indeed, she treated Albrecht with the greatest of reverence, and Emuel thought that he could even sense fear when she talked with him. Once Albrecht had prepared his apparatus, the Anointed Lord knelt before him and kissed the ring on his right index finger before leaving the temple with her retinue.

Albrecht looked up at those now gathered before the altar with cataract-clouded eyes, and though his vision was obscured, Emuel could feel the old man’s gaze searing into his. Ignacio stood beside Emuel, dressed in the garb of a footsoldier of the Order of the Swords of Dawn. He didn’t once look at the eunuch or register his presence. Something had been done to him, Emuel wasn’t sure what, but there was nothing left of the man he had once known. Flanking them were two dozen soldiers of the Swords, led by two lieutenants. Emuel was of the opinion that this wouldn’t be nearly enough to apprehend Silus and the crew of the Llothriall, but kept this thought to himself.

Albrecht refilled the chalice and then stepped around the altar, offering its contents to one of the lieutenants. The man gagged on the first sip, but Albrecht kept a hand on his shoulder as he forced the foul liquor down. On the last swallow, sweat poured down the lieutenant’s brow and his face visibly paled.

The cup was re-filled and passed to the second lieutenant, who drank deeply and quickly. He dropped the chalice and his shoulders hitched, but he managed not to vomit.

Next Albrecht lifted a plank of wood from the altar and, painted upon it, Emuel saw one word: Llothriall. Albrecht burned this relic of the broken ship, inhaling the smoke and uttering something in a foreign tongue between wracking coughs.

As far as sorcery went, Emuel had witnessed more impressive rituals, and as the old man bent double in the grip of another coughing fit, he wondered whether Albrecht would die before the ceremony could be completed. Then, as he straightened up, put his right arm on the altar and a knife to his wrist, Emuel realised, with a shudder, that the sorcerer was going to die regardless, that the ritual wouldbe completed.

Albrecht pressed down with the knife, but he had to saw the blade back and forth before his flesh gave way. Even when it parted there was no immediate trickle of blood. The only sound in the temple was the sorcerer’s ragged breathing, as he sought to sever an artery.

Finally, the blade did its job and a crimson thread worked its way down Albrecht’s wrist. He worked the knife and the thread became a trickle, the trickle a flood, and a great scarlet sheet poured down the face of the altar. Despite the life flowing from him, Albrecht still stood, holding the gazes of the men and women before him.

As the blood flowed from the foot of the altar and washed across the flagstones towards them, Emuel wondered just how much of the stuff this dried husk of a human sorcerer could contain. It lapped up against their boots, the coppery stench of it making his eyes water as it surrounded them in a widening pool, quickly spreading to all corners of the temple. When the tide reached Emuel’s ankles, the warm blood began to seep through his britches. He looked behind him to the temple doors, wondering whether he could escape before the Swords could cut him down. The blood quickly rose to his waist and something within the crimson flood brushed up against his thighs. Looking down, Emuel realised that there were things swimming in the scarlet pool. Beside him, he saw something black and scaled curl around Ignacio’s wrists. His friend didn’t blink, didn’t make a sound as he was pulled beneath the surface. Nobody else seemed to notice Ignacio’s passing. In fact, nobody but Emuel was reacting at all to the horror that surrounded them.

Another member of the Swords was dragged under, and another. Soon Emuel was the only person, besides Albrecht, left standing. The blood had reached his chest by this point and Emuel realised that even if the creatures didn’t get him, he would surely drown.

The room swayed. Below the surface of the blood, Emuel could see pale lights, bobbing like lanterns; he thought that they looked like faces. So enraptured was he by their glow that he didn’t react when the blood finally closed over his head. When he took his first breath, letting the warm liquid pour into him, the lights danced around him like a multitude of stars, and he was torn apart.

Clearly the ritual had been a failure. Not only were the Llothriall and her crew nowhere in the immediate vicinity, but now most of Emuel’s companions lay dead on the sand, while the rest had seemingly vanished into thin air.

As far as he could see, he had two options: he could remain where he was and wait for his supplies to run out, or he could strike out into the desert and hope that there was more to this place than an endless expanse of sand.

Emuel chose the latter option, gathering up what little usable equipment he could scavenge from the detritus that surrounded him. Most of the weapons were bent or warped, but he did manage to find a serviceable sword. More importantly, he found two intact water flasks and enough trail rations to last three days. Securing these about his person, he set out, heading away from the sun. He realised that he might die amongst the dunes, but the thought of staying where he was and just waiting for death to find him didn’t appeal.

The sound of the wind amongst the dunes reminded Emuel of the song of the Stone Seers — the great canticle that had kept the city of Morat afloat — and he added his own voice to the song, the harmony lifting his spirits a little, making him feel somewhat less alone. It wasn’t the desert itself that Emuel found the most daunting, however, it was the seemingly infinite sky that hung above him. Without Kerberos, he felt exposed, open to whatever lay beyond that deep cyan expanse. When he found himself stumbling across the head of a dune and momentarily losing his footing, he was terrified that he would fall into the sky and just keep on falling.

Once the sun began to set, Emuel rested. He ate a strip of dried mool and watched the colour of the landscape change. The wind dropped and the song of the dunes died. Emuel had never experienced such silence. Without the soft glow of Kerberos to relieve the night, he could barely see his hand before his face. The temperature fell and he could hear things stirring in the sand. He dared not move, but when no strange creatures came for him, he pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders and settled back, staring into the heavens.

He wondered whether any of the points of light above him was a god, like Kerberos. Maybe all of them were gods, and the Final Faith — indeed, every religion on the peninsula — was wrong about humanity and its place in the universe. Emuel supposed he should have felt despair at this thought but, strangely, he didn’t.

Swift lines of light drew themselves across the heavens. Emuel had seen shooting stars before, but never in such multitude. He found their silent brilliance moving and sent up a prayer of thanks to whatever might be out there.

With a terrific roar, a flaming ball of rock arced over him and fell to the earth, not more than a mile from where he lay. Emuel sat up to see a glittering plume of sand raining back down to earth from the impact site. He looked up, nervously watching for any more burning rocks falling from the sky, but all was as it had been before.

His heart racing, Emuel gulped down a mouthful of water before looking towards the great hole that had been punched into the desert floor. The sand surrounding it glowed a pale rose, then a deep scarlet as it cooled. He could hear a gentle hissing, as of gas escaping, and a hollow creaking noise. Hitching his pack onto his back, he set off, all the while checking above him and gingerly shielding his head with his cloak.

When he reached the edge of the steaming pit, Emuel overbalanced and fell on his back, scrabbling with his arms for purchase, his feet momentarily kicking against nothing but air. Recovering himself, he stood and peered down into the crater.

The steam obscured whatever it was that sat at the heart of the pit. There was a stench of rotting eggs and Emuel gagged; he tore a strip of cloth from his robe and tied it over his nose and mouth. Eventually the clouds dispersed and he saw a perfectly spherical rock, nestling in the blackened sand.

Emuel cautiously picked his way down the side of the pit. At the bottom he looked up; the obsidian jewel rose before him to a height of just over seven feet. He put his hand to the stone, and it was flesh-warm. He rapped lightly upon it and it responded with a judder that made him stagger back. He watched it warily for a few moments, but the sphere remained still, and Emuel approached again.

This time he thought that he could hear a low rhythmic thudding and, putting his ear to the stone, he heard the unmistakable sound of a slow, steady heartbeat. The realisation that this wasn’t just a rock, and that there was something within the sphere, cut through Emuel’s curiosity to where raw fear lay. He began to scrabble his way back up the side of the pit, but before he could pull himself out, there was a loud crack and he looked down to see a jagged rent running from the top of the sphere, a clear fluid leaking from it. Another fissure appeared, then another; an entire section of stone dropping back to reveal part of what lay within.

And that was what really sent Emuel racing away from the hole and sprinting across the sand, for there, staring out at him from the heart of the broken black stone, was a huge, yellow eye.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Ignacio shut the telescope and handed it back to Lieutenant Stefanelli.

“I can confirm that there is no sign of Emuel or Lieutenant Berling.”

“That’s seven members of the expedition we’ve lost,” Stefanelli said. “What is more, we appear to be nowhere near the remains of the Llothriall. I have absolutely no idea where we are, for that matter. I mean, where is Kerberos?”

Ignacio was perturbed by the note of panic that had entered the lieutenant’s voice. This man had been hand-picked by Katherine Makennon to lead the expedition, but he was already losing control. He looked back towards the camp, but nobody among the tents and equipment would meet his eye. A few were praying, while the remainder were polishing swords, although quite what they expected to meet in all this nothingness was beyond him.

“Brother Sebastian,” Ignacio said, waving over the priest. “Can you perhaps use magic to ascertain the location of the Llothriall? It could be that it’s close by and we just don’t realise it.”

“Ignacio!” Stefanelli snapped. “May I remind you that until a few days ago you were considered nothing less than a heretic by the Final Faith. Just who do you think is in charge of this expedition?”

“I don’t know, sir, but, with all due respect, it doesn’t appear to be you.”

“Sinner!” Stefanelli began to draw his sword.

“Please, Angelo,” Brother Sebastian said. “ Please. Let us try what Ignacio suggested. I’m sure that he didn’t mean to undermine your authority. The Lord of All forgives, lieutenant. We must remember that.”

“The Lord of All also punishes the wicked.”

Nonetheless, having had the last word, Lieutenant Stefanelli backed down.

Brother Sebastian drew a circle in the sand, marking the circumference at three points with thick oil from a stoneware flask, which he re-sealed and handed it to Ignacio.

“If I may have your assistance, brother, I will be most grateful.”

Ignacio helped the priest lay out the elements required for the spell to work. He had never had the discipline for magic himself, and these days it was solely the preserve of the Final Faith. He could remember a time — during the last war between Vos and Pontaine — when every town or village had at least three mages amongst their citizens. Now any unlicensed use of magic was seen as blasphemy. Having witnessed the destruction that could be wrought through sorcery, Ignacio found himself in sympathy with this measure. After all, wasn’t the Church just trying to protect the common people?

Brother Sebastian sat in the centre of his circle and closed his eyes. Ignacio was aware of the rest of the camp watching them, urging the priest to locate the broken ship they had been sent here to find. After half an hour, there were impatient coughs and the shuffling of feet. Ignacio thought that perhaps the priest had nodded off — he could understand that, in this heat — but when a fly landed on his nose, Brother Sebastian swatted it away angrily before opening his eyes.

“They’re not there.”

“What are not there?” Lieutenant Stefanelli said, striding over.

“The threads. There is simply no magic to call upon.”

“I don’t understand,” Ignacio said. “How can there be no magic?”

“So, let me get this right, we’ve been sent to a place with no Kerberos and, more importantly, no magic!” the lieutenant cried, a note of hysteria entering his voice. “Well, isn’t that just great? That silly bitch Makennon and her ancient wreck of a sorcerer have gone and sent us God knows where on a mission we can’t possibly fulfill. We’re farked! Good and proper farked!”

“How dare you refer to the Anointed Lord as a silly bitch?” Brother Sebastian said, getting to his feet. “She is the Lord of All’s representative on Twilight.”

“Yes, but here her authority counts for shit.”

Ignacio knew blasphemy when he heard it and, as a member of the Swords of Dawn, he was supposed to punish blasphemy wherever he encountered it.

He drew his sword.

“Stand down, Lieutenant Stefanelli. You are relieved of your duties, by the authority vested in me by the Anointed Lord, Katherine Makennon.”

“What?”

“You have committed an act of blasphemy and are no longer fit to serve as a representative of the Order of the Swords of Dawn.”

“Brother Sebastian,” Stefanelli said. “Kill this man.”

But the priest wasn’t armed, and even if he had been it was clear he had no inclination to carry out the lieutenant’s order. Indeed, nobody in the camp had moved to interrupt the altercation. As the newest recruit to the Swords, Ignacio was taking an enormous risk, but ever since the light of the Lord had been revealed to him, he was determined to take his duties seriously.

Lieutenant Stefanelli used his own sword to bat away Ignacio’s blade.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ignacio. Has the sun got to you? Do you even know how to use that thing? Makennon only sent you on this expedition because of your affiliation with the rogue crew of the Llothriall. Don’t think for a moment that the Faith has any trust in you as a member of the Swords, or that it was ever the intention that you return from this expedition alive.”

Ignacio brought his sword to bear again. “Stand down, Lieutenant Stefanelli.”

The man standing before Ignacio was easily a head taller than he and broader across the shoulders, but he had killed bigger men before. The lieutenant’s anger would work against him.

When their blades met, Ignacio shifted his weight onto his back foot and circled Stefanelli’s sword around his wrist, before forcing it away. For a moment there seemed to be an opening, but the sunlight suddenly blazed from Stefanelli’s weapon, dazzling Ignacio and forcing him to swing blindly. Fortunately he connected with Stefanelli’s attack before it could pierce his belly and forced the tip of the weapon down into the sand.

Ignacio stepped back and circled around to his right, so that the sun was now on his left, and moved to attack.

Stefanelli was a fraction too late to turn Ignacio’s blade and he cried out as a deep cut appeared in his right bicep. Whatever zeal and righteous hatred drove him on enabled him to keep hold of his sword, but his forearm was now soaked with blood and he was visibly pained.

“Stand down, Lieutenant Stefanelli.” Ignacio said again, meeting the man’s gaze with his own, trying to match the look of righteous fury that he saw there.

“Angelo, this is insanity,” Brother Sebastian said. “Please, do what Ignacio says, just until we get this misunderstanding sorted out.”

Lieutenant Stefanelli didn’t respond to the priest’s pleas; instead he moved in on Ignacio again, swinging his sword in low, coming in close and stepping so that Ignacio had to turn to face the sun.

Momentarily blinded, Ignacio still managed to parry Stefanelli’s next few lunges. The lieutenant was weakening now, his face grey. He shifted his grip on his blade and fractionally changed his stance, and Ignacio saw his opportunity.

Ignacio feinted to the right and stepped in close on his left foot. Stefanelli fell for the bluff and Ignacio’s sword went low into his back, the tip emerging briefly from his side before withdrawing.

Ignacio flicked blood from his sword as Lieutenant Stefanelli fell to his knees.

Brother Sebastian came over and prepared to perform the last rites, until a hand on his shoulder stilled him.

“No, brother,” said a petite, dark-haired warrior of the Swords, whom Ignacio remembered was called Susannah. “This one does not deserve your mercy, or absolution.”

Susannah grabbed Stefanelli by the hair and, with one efficient strike from her blade, removed his head from his shoulders.

“Burn the remains, Brother Sebastian.”

Susannah threw the head to the ground and held her hand out to Ignacio; blood slicked her palm.

“The Lord of All chose well, Ignacio, and has revealed to us his chosen warrior. Will you lead us on this expedition?”

Ignacio looked at the headless corpse at his feet and the blood staining the sand. His had been the hand of judgement and it felt right that his sword had been the tool of the Lord’s vengeance.

“Do you see the light, brother?”

“Yes.” Hadn’t this been the glory revealed to him in the cells of Scholten Cathedral? Hadn’t this been the path that the Lord had intended he take all along? “Yes, I see the light.”

“Then lead us. Help us to find Makennon’s heretics and bring them to justice.”

Ignacio took Susannah’s hand. Once the Final Faith had been his enemy, but now he could see that all he had been running from was his own destiny.

Emuel didn’t know how long he had been crawling. Perhaps days. Once he had walked, but his water had run out, the sun had leached the last of his strength and he had been reduced to this — a babbling infant amongst the dunes. Even when the night came there was no relief; the moon burned as hot as the sun, its brilliant white heat searing into the very core of him.

He had come as far as his body would allow and the darkness that was closing in had little to do with the night. Emuel welcomed it, but until it claimed him there was time for one last song.

He took something of the song of the dunes, something of the song of the Stone Seers and something of the song at the heart of the Llothriall, and wove the cadences together. Though his throat was dry and his lungs ached, the quiet music that came from him made the coming end seem somewhat less terrible.

Emuel’s breath faltered and he struggled to draw the air he needed to finish the song; it came only in a whistling gasp. His heart slowed, each beat shaking his body, the silences between them becoming longer and longer.

In one of these silences he heard something moving across the sand towards him. He managed to raise himself on his elbows — though doing so caused him incredible pain — and what Emuel saw filled him with horror.

The thing that had hatched from the obsidian egg had found him.

It moved with its belly low to the ground, crawling on four stumpy legs that seemed unsure of themselves, as though they had only recently learned how to walk. Behind it, it dragged a barbed, whip-thin tail and the evening breeze rippled the paper-thin membranes of its wings. The creature’s hide was jet-black and reflected the moonlight in a golden sheen. It had grown since hatching: it stood almost three feet high at the shoulder, and was approximately the length of a grown man from its snout to the tip of its tail.

Emuel hoped he had outpaced the beast, but now it was clear that it had been following him all along. Sensing his weariness, it was moving in for an easy meal. The eunuch didn’t have the strength to defend himself, so he sent up a prayer for a quick death.

As the beast came, it was accompanied by a sighing that, at first, Emuel took to be the wind, but as the creature loomed over him and its hot breath blasted into his face, he realised that the noise was coming from deep within its throat. The creature swayed in time with its song. It was then that Emuel realised what it was doing; it was repeating the song that had not long since come from his own lips. The music was growing in strength and Emuel felt strangely invigorated by it. His body no longer burned with the dry heat of the desert, his breath no longer scalded his lungs.

The creature looked into Emuel’s eyes as the song came to an end. It unfurled its wings and, as its shadow fell over him, Emuel thought that this really was the end. But instead of being devoured, he was gently plucked from the ground and laid across the creature’s back.

The creature began to sing again as it carried him across the sand, introducing its own variations on Emuel’s theme — singing melodies that the eunuch had never heard before, that had the suggestion of something other, something alien; something vast.

The creature’s back rolled beneath him and Emuel was reminded of the swaying of the deck of the Llothriall. He wondered where his friends were now and whether the Final Faith had finally caught up with them. He hoped not; he would rather they were dead than in the clutches of Makennon or Querilous Fitch.

With the moon and stars gently rocking above him, Emuel found himself being lulled into sleep, and he went with it, grateful for its sanctuary.

He awoke what seemed like only moments later, rolling over and landing heavily on the ground, his right hand sinking into something cold and wet. He looked up to see the creature sitting back on its hind legs, looking down at him almost expectantly, and then he looked round to where he had been brought.

They were by a lake, surrounded on all sides by low, chalky hills. It was still night, though the moon was now on the wane. A great chorus of insects and amphibians shouted their song to the stars. Emuel realised that, beside himself and the strange creature, this was the first real life he had encountered in this arid place, and he found himself strangely moved by this night chorus.

Emuel staggered forward as the creature’s snout prodded him in the back. He tumbled to his knees by the water’s edge and it was only as he did so that he realised how fiercely thirsty he was. He drank long and deep and the most wonderful coolness spread through him, banishing all memory of the desert.

There was a soft snuffling behind him and he turned to see the vast lizard settling down to sleep, curled around its tail, its wings folded tightly to its sides. Emuel put his hand on the creature’s flank and was surprised to find that its flesh was dry and cool.

Wrapping his cloak about himself, he lay next to his new companion and, feeling reassured by its presence, slept himself.

The fish that he managed to palm out of the shallow water the next day tasted foul, and Emuel doubted that cooking them would have made them any more palatable. Not that his companion was complaining; the creature wolfed down two of the spiny, dull-scaled things and then went sniffing around for more. Emuel wasn’t inclined to go fishing again, however. Instead, he sat looking out across the water, wondering what direction they should strike out in next.

The creature sat behind him, flexing its wings, creating a pleasing breeze that played across the back of Emuel’s neck, ruffling his hair. He closed his eyes and began to hum idly to himself, the creature soon picking up the tune and joining in.

“Hey,” Emuel said, turning around. The creature cocked its head and snapped its jaws. “How about we play a game? Remember this?”

And Emuel sang the song he had been singing when the creature had first come to him in the desert. When he stopped, the creature took over and, together, taking turns, they wove a complex, eerie melody. Emuel could taste the taint of magic in the air, and he looked down to see the tattoos that covered every inch of his flesh entwining around one another, moving to the rhythm of the song.

“What are you?” he wondered as the creature closed its eyes, seeming to move deeper into the music. He smiled and put his hand on the creature’s head. It nuzzled his hand and licked his palm. “I shall call you Calabash,” Emuel said, remembering the old choirmaster of his church in the Drakengrat range, whose legendary voice had attracted the praise of many a parishioner.

A high-pitched keening sounded from across the water and Emuel and Calabash raced to the water’s edge. On the far shore was a creature almost identical to Calabash, although this one’s flesh had a dark ochre hue.

The creature raced up and down the shore, calling out to Calabash, clearly desperate that they be united. However, it soon became obvious that this creature neither had the wisdom, or the intelligence to navigate the lake’s perimeter as, with a cry, it threw itself into the water.

At first it appeared to be a strong swimmer, its snout cutting through the water like the prow of a yacht. But its wings trailed behind it, weighing it down, and as it reached the centre of the lake, its strokes began to slow.

Emuel did nothing the first time the creature went under, sure that it would struggle on and reach them. The second time it went down, however, he could see the fear in its eyes. Without stopping to disrobe, Emuel threw himself into the lake.

The water was warm and he could feel the trailing fronds of weeds brushing against his ankles as he struck out. The only thing to mark where the creature had been was a stream of bubbles, rising slowly to the surface. When Emuel reached that spot he struck down blindly, his hands sweeping through the murk until they knocked against something that felt like a stick. Emuel grabbed hold and pulled, hauling the creature to the surface by the edge of one of its wings. It thrashed against him and cried out, but Emuel rolled onto his back and pinned the creature’s wings to its sides. The creature emitted plaintive cries as Emuel carried it back to shore.

Out of the water the creature shook vigorously, snapping its wings forward and spraying Calabash and Emuel. It reared on its hind legs as though to intimidate them, but when Calabash did nothing and Emuel merely patted its flank and smiled, it settled down and began to sniff around them both. Calabash darted away a few times and once nipped the creature on the nose, but the bite wasn’t intended to wound, merely warn, and soon both creatures were exploring each other, ending their examinations with querulous calls and flapping wings.

Emuel sang and was delighted that this new arrival joined in with as much gusto as its mate. Its voice was more delicate than Calabash’s, and he was reminded of another member of his choir. “Anania,” he said, recalling the slight woman who had used to sing the song of the sacraments so beautifully.

As though the memory of his choir had summoned them, they were suddenly surrounded by a host of voices, as more of the creatures clambered over the hills surrounding them, calling to one another as they came, singing out their joy at finding their brothers and sisters. Emuel found himself at the centre of a family of winged lizards, and as they stared at him with their brilliant eyes and flapped their wings and snorted their joy, he felt that amongst these strange beings, he had found a sort of home, a congregation with whom he could share his joy.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Now that they had been trekking across it for some time, Silus was beginning to appreciate the beauty of the desert. It wasn’t quite the arid, lifeless landscape that he had first thought. Instead, it seemed to be a living entity in itself, its moods changing with the hour of the day. Dawn would see it whisper into life, the wind finding its voice as it hissed across the dunes, gently rousing them from sleep. The pale sun would soon grow in intensity, however, and they would struggle against its glare, the heat mocking them by conjuring up mirages of cool, clear water that disappeared the moment they drew close. At the height of the day they would take sanctuary in tents and shelters, though even out of the sun the heat was incredible and they could do nothing but sit and watch the sand phantoms dance before them, too tired to even talk to one another. Once the sun began its slow trek down the sky, they would set off again, their journey becoming easier as the land gave up its heat and the soft wind cooled the sweat on their backs.

All this toil was worth it, Silus kept telling himself, for the sunsets.

He had never thought of sand as having any colour, but as the sun began to dip behind the dunes it revealed the full palette of the desert — from a fiery red to a deep midnight blue. Despite being drained from each day’s journey, he and Katya would sit and watch the display, apart from the rest of the camp, not talking but holding each other; and this, for now, was enough.

Lead by Illiun, the crew of the Llothriall and a selection of people from the settlement had set out several days earlier, having sufficiently provisioned themselves from the ship. Silus and his friends had got on peaceably enough with their new companions, though Kelos had a distrust of the three silver-eyed men who accompanied them. The silent servants talked to no one but Illiun, seemed to take no food or water and, at night, they didn’t sleep, but stood watch over the camp, unmoving as they stared into the desert. “I don’t like those things,” Kelos had confided in Silus. “They’re not natural.”

“What do you mean ‘not natural’?”

“They appear to be artificial, magical constructs of some kind, but there’s just no magic there.”

And this, Silus knew — and not the appearance of their strange alien companions — was what was really bothering Kelos. Each night the mage would sit and try and practise his art, but each night when he reached for the threads of magic he would find them absent.

“A world without sorcery, Silus. Before we came here, could you have even conceived of such a thing?”

“But didn’t sorcery bring us here, Kelos?”

“I don’t know anymore.”

Something had gone out of Kelos. Dunsany tried to cheer him with ribald songs and simple affection, but even though the mage would join in with the occasional verse or smile at his friend, his responses were empty.

Silus knew how he felt. He, too, was feeling lost on this dry and savage world. Before he had come here, he had been something special, unique. The Chadassa blood that ran in his veins linked him to the ocean, giving him extraordinary abilities: the ability to breathe water as easily as air, the ability to connect to any mind in the ocean no matter how alien, and a burgeoning preternatural strength. But he wasn’t on his world now. Here there was no ocean and no god, and Silus was just a man. Although he professed to Katya that was what he had wanted all along, he still felt the call of the sea, still dreamed of swimming through lightless deep-water trenches, communing with creatures that no human eye had ever seen. Here he felt impotent, unable to protect those he loved should they be threatened. It was true that he was proficient enough with a blade, but who knew what manner of creature they would encounter here, or whether it could be met with nothing more than tempered steel?

Out of all of the surviving crew of the Llothriall, though, it was surely Bestion who looked the most lost. For him, the absence of his god was bad enough, but he was utterly appalled to find himself amongst a people without faith. Illiun’s people put no faith in any god, and Bestion would spend hours sitting with them, arguing points of theology, trying to make them see that a life without God was a life without hope. And they would argue that on countless worlds they had seen the damage that faith had done: whole planets devastated by conflict wrought in the name of one deity or another; innocent people punished or murdered for espousing ideas at odds with an established church.

“Can you not see, Bestion,” Shalim said to him one evening, “that a life without a god is a life without tyranny? Does having a god make you any more capable of appreciating the wonder of existence, or the majesty of the universe?”

But rather than being swayed by these arguments, Bestion was frustrated and even angered. Once, when he had been on the point of boiling over with rage, Silus had stepped in, taking the priest outside the camp and sitting with him at the edge of the lamplight.

“Bestion, you shouldn’t let these challenges to your faith affect you so. They should strengthen you, not bring you to despair. Father Maylan once told me that there are many paths to God.”

“But there is no god, Silus. Look up. His absence is there for all to see.”

Without the presence of Kerberos — or the Allfather, as Bestion called the deity — it was clear that there was nothing Silus could say to the priest that would reassure him. Though the settlers continued to try to reach out to him, Bestion was becoming increasingly distant, often walking far ahead of the main group. Silus worried that they would lose him in the desert, but each night he would return to the camp, sitting beyond the warmth of the campfires and gazing into the heavens, as though willing his god to return.

There was, however, one person who seemed happy enough with the circumstances they found themselves in — Zac. He had fast made friends with Hannah and spent almost as much time with the girl and her parents as he did with Katya and Silus. This didn’t trouble Silus, he was happy that at least someone was making the effort to fit in. Zac had even picked up some of the language of Illiun’s people, conversing with Hannah in simple broken sentences. And Hannah wasn’t the only playmate that Zac had, for there were several children of varying ages amongst their party, some as young as six months. Silus had questioned Illiun on the wisdom of allowing children on the expedition, but he had dismissed his concerns, saying, “The families of our tribe do everything together. Besides, our sentinels will protect them from danger.” He nodded to the silver-eyed men, who stood impassively around the perimeter of the camp.

Despite Illiun’s reassurances, Silus tried not to let Zac out of his sight, and any time his son wasn’t in his immediate vision his stomach would lurch and his mouth would go dry.

The desert was silent on the night that Zac went missing.

The wind died just before sunset and the camp retired early, no one seeming in the mood for conversation or story-telling, each merely concerned with wrapping themselves up against the bitter cold and retreating into sleep. Even Zac appeared subdued, the serious expression on his face more befitting a man in his middle years than an infant. A song after feeding soon sent him into a deep sleep, his small body lying slack and warm in Silus’s arms. He settled his son into his blankets before stretching himself out beside Katya.

Silus nuzzled his wife’s neck, inhaling the comforting smell of her as he planted small, gentle kisses just below her hairline. At first she didn’t respond and he feared that things were still broken between them, but then she arched her back, pushing her bottom against his crotch before reaching behind her and stroking the length of him through his clothes. Despite the cold they both quickly struggled out of their clothing — elbows and knees striking each other in the dark. They tried to be as quiet as possible, so as not to wake Zac, but when Katya mounted him neither of them could hold back. They made love urgently, almost clumsily, as though they had only just remembered how it was supposed to be done, and Silus came shortly after Katya.

Katya looked down at him and smiled. “Hello.”

“Hello,” said Silus.

“Gods, but I needed that.”

“Me too.”

“Almost as good as that first time, out on the Ocean Lily.”

“I’d only just met you. You shameless hussy.”

“Shut it, fish boy.”

“Ouch, hurtful.”

Silus wasn’t sure which of them felt it first — that absence — but it was Katya who leaned over him to check on Zac.

“Silus, Zac isn’t by you, is he?”

By the fear in her voice, she clearly already knew the answer to that question. After everything that they had been through, to lose Zac now, out here where there was nothing, felt unutterably cruel and unjust.

“Zac!” Silus’s call immediately alerted the camp. Bestion was already out of his tent and standing before them. “Have you seen him?”

The priest shook his head and Katya ran over to where Hannah’s parents were sleeping. They were struggling into wakefulness when she opened the flaps of the tent and when they saw Katya’s face they immediately looked around for their daughter. But, like Zac, Hannah wasn’t there.

Illiun stood outside the tent, one of the silver-eyed men by his side. “Katya, what’s wrong?”

“Hannah and Zac are missing.”

“You know the children?” Illiun said to his servant, who nodded. “Good, then take another with you and search the area.”

Two of the silver-eyed men set off into the night and Silus moved to go with them.

“No,” Illiun said. “They will find them. There’s no sense in you going. The sentinels are far better equipped to deal with any dangers they may face out there.”

“But Zac’s my son, Illiun. I can’t just do nothing.”

“Illiun is right,” Shalim said. “The sentinels will find our children.”

Though astonished at the seemingly calm and accepting manner of Shalim and Rosalind, Silus decided to put his trust in their leader. After all, these people were more familiar with this world than he.

After an hour of waiting, staring into the campfire and gripping Katya’s hand, Silus was becoming restless.

“Let me go and help look for them,” he said, getting to his feet. “Illiun, trust me, I can fight.”

“I have no doubt of that, Silus, but can you see in the dark? Can you scan miles of terrain while moving just a few yards? The sentinels will find them.”

In the third hour of waiting, several other members of the camp were growing restless, some whispering to each other and looking over at Illiun with expressions of concern. Their leader, however, did not stir. Instead he sat and waited patiently, as though utterly certain of the children’s safe return.

In the fourth hour of waiting one of the silver-eyed men knelt down and conferred with Illiun. Silus was close enough that he could hear what the sentinel said.

“Units four and seven have stopped reporting in.”

“‘Stopped reporting in’?” Silus said. “What does that mean? You said that we could trust these things, Illiun.”

For the first time since Silus had met him, Illiun looked unsure of himself.

“Fark this,” Silus said. “We’re going after them. Kelos, Dunsany, Bestion, Katya — you’re with me. Anybody else who wants to help, you’re very welcome, though I suggest that you arm yourselves first.”

Katya looked relieved that they were finally taking action, while Dunsany belted on his sword with a look of satisfaction, almost as though he had felt the embrace of an old friend.

“We’ll find them,” Silus said to Katya. “I know that they’re alive.”

“Really. Is this prescience another one of your powers?”

Silus said nothing, already aware of just how dreadful the consequences would be for him and Katya if they didn’t find their son.

Shalim and Rosalind joined them as they set off, as did Illiun and a handful of others, including one of the sentinels. They called out to the children as they went, although the night seemed to swallow their voices almost as soon as they were out of their mouths. The desert was still and the light of the campfire faded quickly behind them. The going became harder as the slopes of the dunes became more pronounced. They would struggle uphill, ankle-deep in sand, only to reach the crest of the hill and find themselves struggling to keep upright as they half-tumbled down the other side. After mere minutes of this, Silus’s ankles were singing with pain.

“Surely they can’t have gone far?” he said to Katya. “I mean, why would they even have wandered away from camp? What is there to see out here?”

“Perhaps they were taken,” Katya said.

“Don’t say that. Please. We must hope for the best.”

They crested the next rise, to see a scattering of huge stones protruding from the sand: boulders, scoured smooth by the desert winds, their surfaces so polished that even in the dim starlight Silus could see his reflection in them. They looked like great black jewels. He wondered whether this was what the desert itself was made from, these huge rocks whittled down to grains by the passage of time and the weather.

Ahead of them, the sentinel had stopped before a cluster of the dark rocks. He held his metal staff ahead of him, his head cocked to one side, as though listening to something. Then he placed his staff on the ground and began weaving around the rocks. At first he appeared to be randomly careening amongst the boulders, but as Silus watched, he realised the sentinel was walking around the same seven stones, in a wide double loop.

“Unit twelve,” Illiun called. “Have you found something?

But the sentinel didn’t respond; instead he was humming to himself, a disconcerting sound that had something of the angry drone of wasps about it.

Drawing closer to the stones around which the silver-eyed man was dancing, Silus could taste an unpleasant sour metallic tang in the air. He looked down to see the hairs on his arms rising.

“Magic?” he asked Kelos.

“No, I don’t think so,” said the mage. “It feels a bit like that first time we stepped aboard Illiun’s ship; that same charge in the air.”

“Shouldn’t somebody offer to be our silver-eyed pal’s dance partner?” Dunsany said. “It looks like he’s getting a bit twitchy.”

The speed with which the sentinel was circling the stones was increasing, each loop drawing him fractionally closer to the rocks until, inevitably, he came crashing to a halt.

The sentinel lay in the sand unmoving, staring up at the boulder with which he had collided.

“What the hells was all that about, Illiun?” Katya said. “Was the thing supposed to do that?”

“Unit twelve, report.” Illiun called.

The sentinel didn’t move.

“Unit twelve, report!”

Dunsany went to stand over the prone figure. The silver was fading from the sentinel’s eyes, flickering slightly as they dimmed. His mouth was stretched into a rictus grin and his fingertips danced lightly over the sand. Dunsany knelt down and put his fingers to the sentinel’s throat but could feel no pulse. He leaned over and put his ear close to the silver-eyed man’s mouth, listening for any sign of breath. But instead of the soft whisper of exhalation, there was a low buzzing sound, slowly gaining in pitch.

“I think…” Dunsany called, “I think that he may be okay; though it’s sort of hard to tell.”

The sentinel screamed: a sound like a thousand stuck pigs squealing in a vast abattoir; a sound so terrible that it was a small mercy that Dunsany was instantly deafened in his right ear. It was no consolation for the pain he felt, however, as the sentinel jerked upright, gripped his face and attempted to pull the flesh from his skull. Dunsany thrashed around with his right hand, trying to get a grip on his sword, but his fingers kept skittering across the pommel.

In the end it took not only Illiun, but also Silus, Katya and Kelos, to pull the sentinel away from Dunsany, by which time blood was trickling out of his ear and angry purple bruises were rising around his face. Kelos skewered the twitching sentinel on his blade.

Even with a sword sunk halfway to the hilt in the sentinel’s chest, he still took a long time to die. Instead of blood, a pale blue viscous fluid slowly leaked from his wounds. From his mouth came a pungent smell, like burning hair.

“I thought that you said we could trust the sentinels?” Dunsany said, rounding on Illiun and gripping him by the front of his shirt. “That thing almost killed me.”

“I don’t understand,” Shalim said. “The sentinels have never done such a thing before. Illiun, what happened?”

“We felt a charge in the air, just before the sentinel went crazy,” Kelos said, turning to Silus for confirmation.

“Yes. Something like the feeling you get before a thunderstorm.”

Illiun walked up to one of the stones and put his hand to its surface. When he pulled it away, Silus noticed small flickers of static electricity leaping from the stone to his palm. “It’s in the stones,” he said. “Whatever affected the sentinel is in the stones.”

“Then we better find the other two before they harm our children,” Rosalind said.

They followed Rosalind and Shalim past the corpse of the sentinel and further out into the desert.

It wasn’t long before they heard Zac and Hannah crying.

“Oh, thank the gods,” Katya said, running towards the sound.

They came to a depression ringed by more of the black stones, arranged so as to form a natural amphitheatre, at the centre of which was a bizarre, chilling tableau.

One of the sentinels was crouched over Zac with his right knee resting in the middle of the child’s back, pinning him to the ground. Blue froth slowly bubbled from the sentinel’s mouth as he gathered small stones towards himself, dragging them through the sand and carefully arranging them in two neat rows by Zac’s head. Occasionally the sentinel would twitch violently, emitting a noise like sheet metal tearing; eliciting, in turn, even greater cries from the boy.

At first they couldn’t see Hannah, only the form of the second sentinel as he capered around the perimeter of the depression on all fours, throwing up screeds of sand as he suddenly changed direction. But then they all heard the child’s cry and saw Hannah dart between two huge, jagged rocks. She was bleeding from a graze on her forehead and, as they watched in horror, the sentinel raced towards her, lashing out with his metal staff, striking the rock just above her head.

Shalim was already sprinting towards the sentinel, but the silver-eyed man was considerably swifter and soon lost him amongst the stones. Hannah threw herself into her father’s arms, sobbing and looking towards where her friend was pinned to the sand.

“Help Zac, Daddy, please.”

But Shalim was too concerned with getting his daughter out from amongst the stones to be able to help Zac. Besides, both Dunsany and Silus were already racing towards the boy.

The sentinel was on his feet before Silus could reach his son, and he threw the stone in his fist with all his might. It missed Silus but connected with Dunsany’s cheek, tearing a ragged gash in his flesh. Dunsany dropped to the sand, screaming in pain, only for Kelos to help him to his feet and step protectively in front of his friend.

The sentinel had another rock in his fist now, and he raised it above Zac’s head. Curiously, for a man about to commit murder, there was no emotion at all on the sentinel’s face.

Silus swung his sword, but the sentinel jumped back, deflecting his attack with the stone in his right hand, while snatching up his metal staff in his left.

“Silus, drop back,” Kelos shouted. “I know something about staff-to-staff fighting.”

Silus ducked back as the mage stepped forward, swinging his own staff in a wide arc that cut the sentinel’s legs out from under him. For a while the silver-eyed man lay on his back, allowing Zac to run towards his parents. The sentinel didn’t stay down for long, though, and soon he was back on his feet, raining down blow after blow on Kelos’s staff.

“Lead him back amongst the stones,” Illiun called. “Whatever energy is coming from them may help confuse him even more.”

Kelos looked up as Illiun spoke, the momentary distraction allowing the sentinel to thrust forward and knock out two of the mage’s teeth, sending him stumbling. But Kelos used the stumble to his advantage, drawing the sentinel with him, back among the shining black rocks.

The mage could feel the energy rolling from the dark stones and he wondered what this strange force was doing to the sentinel. The blue liquid that had been bubbling from the sentinel’s mouth now came in spurts as his shoulders hitched, spraying Kelos’s face as he led the sentinel further into the jagged maze.

Between two stones, leaning towards each other like drunken partners, the sentinel came to a stop. Kelos didn’t question what the silver-eyed man was doing, but thrust the tip of his staff firmly and forcefully into the centre of the sentinel’s forehead, instantly flooring him. The silver was beginning to flicker from the sentinel’s gaze, but Kelos was taking no chances and dispatched him with two more quick blows.

The mage didn’t see the second sentinel racing towards him, gibbering like something from the deepest cells of Scholten Cathedral, but Silus did. He shouted out a warning, but Kelos didn’t seem to hear him.

Silus ran almost as soon as he saw the silver-eyed man, but too much distance still lay between him and the mage. Doubling his efforts, Silus used two low rocks as a launch, stepping from one to another, before throwing himself forward and onto the back of the sentinel. For a moment Silus rode the bucking silver-eyed man as they careened around the boulders, before he was thrown from his back to tumble onto the sand.

Silus looked up to see the sentinel right himself and sprint back towards him, racing across the sand like a rabid dog. He only just had time to raise his sword as the sentinel leapt. The sky was blocked as the silver-eyed man sailed over him, only to come to a sudden stop a foot above him, looking down at Silus with fading eyes.

There was a sound like lips moistly parting as the sentinel began to sink down the length of the sword — his blue blood streaking the metal — until he came to rest, pinning Silus under his weight, his lips pressed against his cheek, viscous blood now pouring freely from his mouth.

Silus struggled to push the corpse from him and retrieve his sword. It came out of the sentinel’s chest in a tangle of wires and translucent tubes. He turned to see Katya staring at him with tired, frightened eyes, holding Zac, silently sobbing, to her breast.

Silus embraced them both, glad to feel their warmth and reassuring solidity against him.

“I’m sorry,” Illiun said, coming up behind them. Silus shook off the hand he placed on his shoulder. “Nothing like this has ever happened with the sentinels before. It’s this planet; those stones. Something-”

“What are those things?” Silus said, interrupting him.

“Sorry, I don’t understand.”

“The silver-eyed men; the sentinels. They’re not human. What are they?”

“Androids. We built them ourselves, programmed them ourselves. Believe me, they would never willingly attack a human being.”

“And yet they did.”

“They’ve been our guardians for generations, Silus. Shalim, you know; you’ve grown up alongside the sentinels. Your uncle was part of the team that developed the most recent model.”

Shalim was breathing hard and shaking. He looked down at the corpses of the sentinels and then towards the dawn, just beginning to pale the horizon.

“We need to return to the ship,” he said.

“But the mineral, Shalim. Without it we’re grounded.”

“And how are we supposed to find the mineral without the sentinels? Guess? Come on, Illiun, you know it’s impossible.”

“I think returning to the settlement will be for the best,” Rosalind said. “Maybe we can get the ship’s engines restarted some other way.”

“And when the entity finally finds us, and wipes us from the face of this world?” Illiun said.

“Well, we can’t stay out here! Together we stand a chance, surely?”

“Rosalind is right, Illiun,” Silus said. “Who knows what else is out here? We’ll be safer back at the settlement.”

“We’re not safe anywhere, don’t you understand that?”

But Illiun’s words fell on deaf ears, as Silus lead the party away from the circles of stones and back out across the desert.

CHAPTER NINE

They had only been a few days out from the settlement, but the return journey seemed to take longer; exhaustion and despair took their toll. Illiun was on edge, constantly scanning the sky as though expecting it to fall on him at any moment. A few times Silus heard him muttering about the entity, but when he tried to calm him down, he refused to talk. Shalim and Rosalind were less pragmatic in their approach, openly criticising Illiun, soliciting snide remarks from the rest of the expedition, fomenting anger.

“You mustn’t let your emotions run so high,” Silus said one evening. “This rage does nothing to help us, or the settlement itself. Let Illiun be.”

“He put our children at risk,” Shalim said. “He has put us all at risk, coming to this place.”

“He only meant to protect you, Shalim. I know what it’s like to be helpless in the face of danger to your loved ones, to be powerless to protect them when things go wrong. Illiun’s suffering is punishment enough, believe me.”

Even so, Shalim did little to mask his newfound distaste for their leader, and he and Illiun didn’t talk for the remainder of the journey.

When the dunes rising around them became familiar — though quite how he could distinguish between mounds of sand, he couldn’t quite fathom — Silus’s spirits began to lift. Indeed, the morale of the party seemed to be on the rise as the settlement grew near. Perhaps, some of them reasoned, the ship would be alright after all; perhaps they would now actually be able to leave this planet and escape the attentions of the entity.

The smell coming to them from over the next rise, however, soon put paid to any hopes they had. The odour was unmistakable. It was the same smell that had washed through Silus’s hometown of Nurn the night the Chadassa had slaughtered the populace. It was a smell he had become intimately familiar with on several occasions since.

When Silus and his companions had first discovered the settlement, a friendly crowd had greeted their arrival, open and delighted faces welcoming the strangers. But this time there were few to greet them, and those that limped towards them carried their injuries heavily, grief written deeply upon their faces. One woman clutched a hand to her shoulder, blood trickling between her fingers. A silver-eyed man held her aloft by her right arm, his fingers digging into her flesh. The sentinel had also been injured; his cheek torn, exposing his metal jaw, his artificial innards spilling from a hole in his side.

“You!” Shalim said, pointing at the sentinel. “You did this.”

“No!” yelled one of the men hobbling towards them. “The sentinels did not do this. Others came.”

“What others, Braden?” Illiun said.

“Humans. Wielding swords. Shouting about the… Lord of All.”

“Silus, do you know these people?” Illiun turned to him.

Acutely aware of the eyes upon him, Silus opened his mouth to answer, but for a moment nothing came. “I…”

“Yes,” Dunsany said. “We know of them. Trust me, they’re no friends of ours.” Turning to Braden, he said, “Where are they now?”

“Once they had their fill of killing, they forced their way onto the ship and sealed it. None of us have been able to get in since.”

“Could you not have fought back?” Katya said. “Did none of you think to stop them?”

“My people are not trained to fight,” Illiun said.

“Well, you may want to teach them that skill. This is the Final Faith,” Katya said, “and they’re as tenacious and violent as this ‘entity’ you keep talking about.”

“Perhaps they’ll be willing to speak to us,” Silus said. “We did sort of steal something from them.”

“And broke it,” Dunsany added.

“That’s a good point,” Kelos said. “I don’t think they’re going to want the Llothriall back now.”

“Let’s find out shall we?” Silus said. “Perhaps they can at least tell us where we are.”

As they made their way through the ruins of the settlement — those who had followed them back out of the desert now searching for loved ones, or sifting through the wreckage of their homes — Silus was shocked by the number of corpses they came across.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “Why would they slaughter these people? How could they have possibly offended the Faith?”

“They have no god,” Dunsany said. “And you know full well how the Final Faith treat the godless.”

When killing was driven by religious zeal and the unshakeable certainty that what you were doing was right, then there was little that could be done to slake its hunger. Silus found himself sympathising with the beliefs of Illiun’s people. Living without a god was no bad thing, if all a deity brought with it was hate and destruction. For all its preaching on hope, love and the life to come, this was the truth of the Faith; the child’s corpse that lay at Silus’s feet as he stood amongst the ruins of a house spoke more clearly of the nature of the Lord of All than all the songs and prayers of the elect ever could.

The trail of destruction led all the way to the ship, and there Silus could see that at least one of the members of the settlement had fought back. Lying at the base of the ship, the crossed circle on his tabard marked by his own blood, was a member of the Order of the Swords of Dawn. Circling his neck was a collar of deep purple bruises, beaded with a scarlet dew. His sword lay broken by his side.

Illiun rolled the corpse over with his foot, so that it was facing down, and then, holding his hand out before him, he walked towards the ship. But instead of passing through into the interior of the vessel, he was brought up hard against the outer wall.

“I don’t understand. The ship’s protocols are programmed to my touch.”

With a breath of air that carried the odour of burning oil, Ignacio appeared through the wall of the ship before them. He drew his sword, but his hand was stilled when his gaze took in Silus.

“Ignacio!” Silus said, stepping back to get a good look at his friend. “Gods, but what are you wearing?”

The tabard that Ignacio wore bore the crossed circle of the Final Faith, along with the tears and splatters of battle.

“It’s so good to see you, Ignacio,” Katya said, gathering him up in a warm embrace. “We had thought you lost with the rest of the Llothriall. Is Emuel with you?”

Ignacio didn’t return the hug. Instead, he looked at Katya as though he didn’t recognise her, before pushing her away with the flat of his blade.

“Silus Morlader,” he said. “You are to return with us to Scholten, there to come before the Anointed Lord.”

Silus laughed, until he saw that his friend was deadly serious. “What did they do to you?”

“I saw the light.”

“And are you responsible for this?” Dunsany said, gesturing behind them to the settlement.

“I was part of the skirmish that saw the heathens punished and their artificial men slaughtered, yes.”

“But you hate the Final Faith, Ignacio,” Dunsany said. “You and your brother were always going on about what scum they were. Do you not remember?”

“Things are different now, Dunsany.”

“Look,” Silus said. “Why don’t we talk this over?”

“I concur.”Ignacio gestured and more Faith soldiers appeared. “Divest them of their weapons and bring them inside.”

Seeing that they were outnumbered, Silus allowed Ignacio and his comrades to escort them into the ship.

Within, there was none of the frenetic activity and noisy chaos they had experienced the first time they had boarded the ship. Instead, the atmosphere was more like that of the cloisters of a cathedral: their footsteps echoing back from the high vaulted ceilings, someone chanting, a prayer repeated breathlessly and, behind that, the sounds of sobbing and the occasional muffled scream.

“Katherine Makennon must want the Llothriall back very badly to go to all the trouble of sending you guys,” Silus said.

“It is not just the ship the Anointed Lord wants,” Ignacio said. “She is also adamant that you return to Scholten.”

“So that I can answer for my supposed heresies, no doubt? Seriously, why go to all this trouble to punish just one man?”

“The Anointed Lord does not wish to punish you. She knows what you are and has need of your talents.”

“May I ask how you found us? We don’t even know how we came here ourselves.”

“Magic brought us here. And magic will return us.”

Kelos was clearly about to say something in response to that, but a glare from his escort pre-empted his words.

“What happened to Emuel?” Katya said.

“He was with our party before we left, but something went wrong with the ritual and we were separated,” Ignacio said. “More than likely he is dead. This is a savage place.”

“It is, indeed,” Silus said. “I don’t suppose you know where we are, for that matter?”

“That is not our concern. We are simply tasked with returning you to Scholten. Brother Sebastian is, at this moment, preparing the ceremony.”

A door dilated open with a hiss, and Ignacio and his companions ushered them into a long metal corridor. Lights placed at regular intervals within the floor flashed rapidly in sequence. A deep bass hum emanated from the walls and, just above that, Silus could hear voices raised in unison.

“Illiun, what’s beyond that door?” Silus said, gesturing towards the end of the passageway.

“The engine room. But… why are we being taken to the engine room?”

“Maybe the Faith are going to attempt to steer this ship for home,” Dunsany said, humourlessly.

“Without power, how could they?”

As they reached the end of the corridor, the door opened and they were bathed in light and warmth.

The chamber beyond was on a scale grander than anything Silus had ever seen. The engine room was bigger even than the nave of Scholten Cathedral, and though it shared some of that edifice’s architectural sensibilities, here there was no order and calm sanctuary but cluttered, noisy chaos. Before them, a procession of arches marched away into darkness, leading deep into the heart of the ship, towering over irregular mounds of machinery alive with movement and light. Far above, the ceiling was lost within a confusion of cables and wires, some of which swung free, sparking and filling the air with a smell like singed hair. Others dropped down to disappear into the machines or the black, corrugated floor. Amidst all this, dwarfed by the arches and shuddering metal devices, several members of the Order of the Swords of Dawn stood in a circle, stripped to the waist and holding hands as they maintained their chant.

“Once Brother Sebastian is ready,” Ignacio said, gesturing to the elderly man at the centre of the group, “the ritual can begin and we will return to Scholten. For the moment, stay exactly where you are.”

Ignacio and his comrades drew close around them, their naked blades a statement of exactly what would happen if any of them attempted to escape.

“Ignacio, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” Kelos said, “but how do you expect this ritual to work when there is no magic to draw on? You can dress up sorcery in whatever fancy chants and arcane gestures you want, but without the threads we’re not going to get very far.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ignacio laughed (and was it Silus’s imagination or, even behind that cold sound, was there not the slightest remnant of the ex-smuggler left, the merest hint of his humanity?) “We’re surrounded by power. Here we have all we need.”

“This is not magic,” Illiun said. “What you call sorcery, we call technology. However, I must admit that what you have done here is impressive. How did you restart the engines?”

“Engines?” Ignacio said. “I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.”

“Look. I know that this may sound strange,” Illiun continued. “But if the engines are working, it’s of paramount importance that we leave this world right away. Something dreadful is coming, and it will be the end of us all.”

“Oh, you’ll leave this world, alright. Wait until Makennon hears of what a godless, blasphemous bunch you are.”

“Ignacio, listen to me. You can interrogate us, do whatever you like to us, later, but if we have the chance, we should leave now. Don’t you understand, all of us will die!”

The chanting came to an end. The elderly man within the circle of celebrants stepped forward and said in a voice that belied his frail frame, “Brother Ignacio. The preparation is complete. When you are ready, we shall begin.”

Ignacio and his comrades ushered the party forward.

Silus gripped Katya’s hand. Zac struggled in her arms, his squeal seeming to pierce through to every corner of the vast room. Silus tried to soothe his son, but when he saw the intense fear that filled the small boy’s eyes, he realised that any gesture he could make would be futile. A similar tired fear lined the faces of Dunsany and Kelos as they, too, joined hands, walking towards whatever doom awaited them, united in defiance and acceptance. Bestion was quietly praying to himself, searching one last time for his god in this godless world, his fingers entangling the wooden beads hanging around his neck. Illiun looked frantically about him, as though searching for an escape route, while Shalim, Rosalind and Hannah brought up the rear, silent and pale with shock.

The ritual circle parted and they were ushered within, along with Ignacio and several soldiers of the Swords. Brother Sebastian took a small bottle of oil from a pocket and uncorked it. The stench that rose from the vessel was stomach-churning.

“Gods,” Kelos said. “I’ve encountered Chadassa with a more pleasing odour.”

“Silence!” Ignacio shouted, prodding Kelos with the point of his sword.

Brother Sebastian gestured for Kelos to step forward, before drawing a circle on his forehead in the pungent oil. He did the same for the rest of the party, the ritual circle closing behind them once he had made the last mark.

“Brother Sebastian, this is pointless,” Kelos said. “Trust me on this. Reach for the threads. Go on, see what you find.”

“I do not need to reach for the threads,” the Final Faith sorcerer said, throwing up his arms to encompass the room. “We are surrounded by power. I, Brother Sebastian, will be the first person to channel raw magic. The power of this ritual will make me amongst the most favoured of Katherine Makennon’s mages.”

“Really, this so-called power is not what you think. Brother Sebastian, there is no magic on this world. Your spell will fail.”

“Silence him,” the mage said, and one of the Faith’s soldiers held his sword to Kelos’s throat. “Ignacio, are we ready?”

“We are ready, Brother Sebastian. Take us home.”

The sorcerer took hold of one of the cables running into the floor and tugged with all his might. For a moment it appeared that his strength wouldn’t be up to the task, but eventually, with a fizzing pop, the cable came free, sparks cascading from its end, filling the chamber with the smell of ozone.

“Behold, my children. Raw magic. The very clay the Lord of All moulded in shaping the universe.”

Silus didn’t know a great deal about the workings of sorcery, but he was fairly sure that whatever was running through the cable in Brother Sebastian’s hand, it wasn’t magic. What the sorcerer planned to do with such energy, he dreaded to think.

Brother Sebastian took his place in the ritual circle, holding onto the left hand of the man to his right, while the woman to the sorcerer’s left laid her hand on his shoulder.

“The circle is complete. The ritual can begin.”

Brother Sebastian threw back his head as the rest of the circle bowed theirs. “Lord of All, channel through me your eternal glory, so that we may return home and bring these heretics, criminals and usurpers into your just and merciful care. Lord, I am your vessel. Fill me with your power!”

And with that, Brother Sebastian pushed the sparking cable against the exposed flesh of his chest.

There was a blinding flash and the lights in the vast chamber went out, only for the scene before them to be illuminated by a strange, ethereal glow. Silus blinked away the purple blotches swimming in his vision as he tried to understand what he was seeing.

The ritual circle twitched and danced as tongues of lightning sparked between them. The shock of hair rising from each celebrant’s head would have been comical were they not quite clearly dead, their flesh cooking where they stood. The only thing that prevented them from falling to the floor was the brilliant energy that bound them together, encasing each of them in a fine web of living fire. More sickening than this strange sight was the smell rising from the bodies. If you closed your eyes it could be mistaken for roasting pork, and Silus was appalled to find his stomach responding with a hungry gurgle.

“Zac, don’t look,” he shouted. But it was too late, and there was worse to come.

They cried out in horror as one of the women in the circle was suddenly consumed by flames, great black clouds rolling from her body as it burned. Silus flinched when her eyes burst in the heat, showering him with boiling vitreous humour. And then the whole circle succumbed to the conflagration, enclosing those within in a ring of fire. They started to choke as smoke enveloped them. Silus tried to shield Zac and Katya from the intense heat, but it was no use, his shirt was already smouldering on his back. If they didn’t break out of the circle, they’d cook along with the ring of corpses.

With a snap, Brother Sebastian’s left arm fell from his body — the burnt charcoal of his limb shattering as it hit the floor — followed by the cable, its power now spent.

Seeing their chance, Silus grabbed hold of Katya and shouted, “Everybody with me. Quickly!”

Shielding his head with his arm, Silus charged, colliding with one of the burning bodies, barging out of the circle in a shower of flames and sparks. He looked down and, seeing that the ends of his trousers had caught fire, batted out the flames before turning to check that they had all made it through.

Fifteen soot-stained faces stared back at him. Behind them, the bodies in the ritual circle were beginning to gutter out, the human candles that had burnt so brilliantly crumbling to ash as they watched.

“I told you,” Kelos cried, rounding on Ignacio. “I told you there was no magic. Are you going to continue with this charade, or can we have the real Ignacio back now?”

“I suggest that we keep this argument for later,” Silus said. “Right now, I think that we should be tending to the wounded of the settlement. Ignacio, perhaps you and your remaining men can help try and clear up some of the damage you’ve done?”

Ignacio looked about him like a man emerging from a dream. His shaking hand ventured to his sword before falling away. Behind him, one of the surviving members of the Swords whispered into his ear, a woman with jet-black hair and striking features. Ignacio’s gaze cleared as she spoke, and Silus was appalled to see something of his earlier fanaticism and hatred return.

“We will not sully our hands attending to the heathens,” he said, straightening. “We will see to our own dead.”

“Then we’ll leave you to them,” Silus said, leading the way out of the crippled engine room, followed by his weary companions.

They headed for the exit from the ship, but before they could reach it there was a terrific bang and a metal stanchion swung free from the ceiling, smashing into the wall just inches from where they stood. All around them the ship was beginning to creak and shudder, groaning like a galleon caught in a maelstrom. The floor shook and buckled, rivets popping free from the metal plating of the deck.

“What’s happening?” Silus shouted.

“We have to get off the ship,” Illiun said, forcing his way past the broken stanchion.

Outside, things were no better. Great cracks raced across the ground, zigzagging across the settlement, swallowing up houses and people. Clouds of dust shot out of the rents in the earth, obscuring the scene before them, but doing nothing to hide the screams of the people caught up in the chaos. Above them, the sky darkened and there was a rumble of thunder; a vicious wind whipped up seemingly out of nowhere, to tug at their clothes and steal the breath from their lungs.

“Illiun,” Silus shouted. “What is it? An earthquake?”

“It’s the entity,” he said. “It’s found us. I knew that it was too late. I’m sorry, so sorry. I tried, really I did.” He fell to his knees and began to sob, his grief consuming him more wholly than the desire to preserve his own life.

And then there was silence.

The cloud obscuring the settlement slowly dispersed. People wandered out of the mists, pale as phantoms, powdered from head to foot in dust. There was no sign of the storm now. It has dissipated as quickly as it had rolled in. Above them was a brilliant blue sky, but there, on the edge of the horizon, was a smudge, a smear of darker colour as though dusk had come early.

“Dunsany, do you still carry your telescope?” Silus said.

“Yes, why?”

“Hand it to me, please.”

Silus trained the telescope on the horizon.

It wasn’t dusk that he saw there, however, but the upper edge of a great azure disk.

Bestion knew exactly what it was. “Allfather! Allfather, you have returned to us. Lord, I knew that you would hear my call.”

And indeed it was the Allfather. Rising above the desert plain, casting its shadow across the whole settlement, was the god they all knew intimately.

“It has come,” Illiun wailed. “Our end has arrived. The entity is here.”

Silus realised that this was the threat Illiun had been talking about all along; this was the entity that had made exiles of his people.

Kerberos.

CHAPTER TEN

Calabash dropped to its haunches and Emuel rolled from the creature’s back, tumbling to the ground, rudely awakened as he came up hard against a boulder.

“Can you not give me more warning next time?” the eunuch said, brushing the dust from his clothes.

But Calabash didn’t respond. Instead, it sat stock still, staring at the horizon.

It was then that Emuel realised just how quiet it was. He couldn’t hear the usual hisses and groans of the following herd. He turned to see that the other dragons were mimicking their leader: sitting back on their haunches, wings folded against their flanks, silently watching the horizon as though waiting for something.

Dragons.

There was no other word for them. Emuel had been able to deny the evidence before him when the creatures had been no bigger than ponies, but they had grown at an alarming rate over the last few days, until he finally had to admit that he was indeed surrounded by the creatures of legend.

In all the stories of dragons he had encountered, they were always either on the verge of extinction or the last of their kind, ensconced in some mountain eyrie, occasionally venturing forth to terrify the populace of a village and devour their livestock. Emuel knew that some magical catastrophe had done for Twilight’s dragons, but he had no real idea as to the nature of the apocalypse. Was this world, he wondered, the true home of the dragons? Had they never been native to Twilight in the first place? Emuel reflected what a privilege it was to be amongst such creatures.

Calabash shifted and gave a soft bark, and Emuel looked up to see a deep azure band edging over the mountains. Several days earlier they had left the last of the desert behind; the terrain they now found themselves in was no less forbidding or lifeless, yet something was now breathing life into the ragged peaks, washing them in a colour that reminded Emuel of dusk on Twilight. There was a tingling sensation in his arms, as the tattoos there started moving. The flowers inked amongst the elven runics slowly opened, lines of script in a language Emuel didn’t recognise snaking out from amongst the black petals. Where they wrote their story onto his flesh, it burned.

Calabash sang. It began with a deep, repetitive rhythm, like a heartbeat. At first it was just Calabash’s voice, but as the mountains took on the colour of the huge disk rising over them, the rest of the dragons added their own voices to the song. Some took the base rhythm and kept it going — the thuds and clicks resonating deep within their throats — while others wove delicate melodies into the music, the harmonies seeming to rise not just from the dragons, but the very earth itself.

As one, with a sound like a great whipcrack, the dragons snapped their wings open. They were swaying to the song now, their eyes alight with the twilight glow. Their feet began to move, lightly at first — the soft padding of their claws on the ground barely audible — but soon they weren’t just swaying, they were dancing, pounding out the rhythm of the music into the dusty earth.

Emuel wept, as he hadn’t since the death of his parents. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks and his chest hitched. He could barely breathe, but he didn’t care, because it felt so wonderful; the song had released something in him.

He cried for the way he had been used. He cried for the loss of his manhood, and all that had been denied him with that one vile act. He cried with joy that he, not much more than a boy from Drakengrat, had been gifted with such sights as were revealed to him now. He cried for a faith that had been shattered, and which he had rebuilt himself, painfully and slowly, on his own terms. He cried for the loss of his friends, and the thought that he would never see them again. He cried for the destruction of the Llothriall and the realisation that he would no more guide that majestic vessel through the storm.

But most of all he cried because, looming large over the arid mountains, looking down on him, was the face of his god.

As Kerberos cleared the range, Emuel went to stand beside Calabash. The ground shook under the force of the dragons’ dance and he stumbled, but Calabash nudged him back on his feet with the tip of its snout, without losing its rhythm. Emuel laughed and began to move in time with Calabash, delighting in the music rolling from the creature as it led the song.

The ancient texts, the stories, the songs, the plays — not one of them had ever talked about this; this act of sheer creativity, of beauty, of pure, unmediated joy. In the legends, dragons were killers, jealous recluses guarding hoards of treasure that they couldn’t possibly ever spend. Like most things he had been taught, Emuel was coming to realise the legends were wrong.

“What are you?” he cried.

Calabash’s voice changed, the clicks and deep thumps coming from its chest now giving way to something more breathy, less frantic. Each new element added to the song’s power. Emuel found himself swaying in time with the dragon, matching its movements exactly, like a snake caught by the gaze of a charmer. Calabash’s wings slowly flapped, fanning Emuel with a cool breeze that dusted the last of the desert from him. When the dragon brought its head low, Emuel leaned forward to look deep into its eyes, and it was then that Calabash let the song tell the dragons’ story.

Deep within the heart of Kerberos, beyond the storms that give voice to its wrath, lies a place of absolute silence, quieter than death, yet it is here that creation begins.

They are tiny at first, no bigger than a thought, because that is what they are; a god’s will. But soon they flicker into true being, a heartbeat clothed in flesh. They hang in the darkness, tiny pulsing lights strung like stars throughout the deity’s firmament. Even now they are calling to one another, the song growing in strength as cells divide and consciousness awakes.

Though these creatures are part of the deity itself, Kerberos marvels at the life within it, at the complexity of thought that develops as the creatures sing themselves into being.

When they are fully formed, the god begins to gather certain minerals from its atmosphere, weaving these around each dragon foetus, until they are encased in rock impervious to all but the mightiest of forces.

It is time to let its children go. Beneath Kerberos’s gaze a whole new world turns, one that has not yet heard the song of its creation. And so, the god sends its children out into the void. Hundreds upon hundreds of eggs hurtle out into space, the vast azure sphere of Kerberos quickly spiralling away from them, only for the larger planet below to gather them into its embrace. With a quick succession of terrific bangs, they hit the upper atmosphere, but it is not this that awakens the dragons, but the heat of the flames that engulfs each egg as it falls, incubating them, completing the life begun by Kerberos.

They seed the earth, the impacts cracking the shells, allowing the dragons to break out and crawl forth. They sing for their brethren, letting the music that filled them in the womb of their god reach out to others of their kind, until they are gathered as one family, waiting for the time when Kerberos will rise over this dead earth and reveal to them His will.

So engrossed was he in Calabash’s story that Emuel didn’t at first notice when the song came to an end. The dragons had settled down and were gazing up at Kerberos. The azure sphere was so close that Emuel could see the lightning storms flickering within the god. All was silent as the dragons waited to hear the voice of their creator. The tattoos still writhed on Emuel’s flesh, as though dancing to some unheard music.

There was a pulse of energy, a pure sheet of lightning momentarily engulfing Kerberos, washing them all in a brilliant radiance that had Emuel closing his eyes and shielding his face. Calabash raised its head and howled, the eerie ululation echoed and repeated across the herd. Emuel staggered as Calabash prodded him with the tip of his snout. For a moment his heart sank as he thought that the dragon was trying to push him away, but then he understood. Calabash was gesturing for him to climb onto its back. Emuel had already ridden the dragon a few times, and the experience had been terrifying; once he was settled, he made sure to press his legs firmly against the creature’s flanks, grabbing onto the bony protrusions that grew from the back of Calabash’s neck.

Emuel’s stomach turned over as the creature lurched forward, but he managed to stay seated. He looked back to see the herd following, the ground they had anointed now churned beneath their feet. Their advance was slow at first but soon they gathered momentum, the scenery rushing by in a blur as they raced into the mountains.

Foothills flashed past at breakneck speed, the dragons easily negotiating the rise and fall of the land as they climbed ever higher. When they had set off, Calabash had led the herd, but now others raced past the dragon and its rider, all respect for their leader forgotten in their urgent desire to reach their goal. Emuel was jerked around on the dragon’s back, though he managed to maintain his hold, even with hands that were beginning to ache from the effort of hanging on. In what seemed like no time at all, they had left the foothills and were beginning to climb the mountain range itself. Calabash didn’t once slow as it threw itself through ravines, crawled along the edges of precipices and curled its way around jagged peaks. For much of the journey Emuel closed his eyes, but when he did open them, once, he found himself staring up at dozens of dragons negotiating the ceiling of a hollow in a cliff face above him. Or were he and Calabash on the ceiling, and the other beasts on the floor? Emuel quickly shut his eyes again.

After several hours the rolling motion of Calabash’s back slowed, and Emuel looked around to find that they were now high amongst the peaks. There was almost no further for the dragons to climb. It was bitterly cold, the air so thin that Emuel’s chest laboured with each breath. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself as the dragons passed through a shallow valley and onto a plateau. All that lay above them now was the wide open sky.

The dragons came to rest here and stood for a time, silently contemplating the sky, before? as one? unfurling their wings. Emuel wondered then why the dragons hadn’t simply flown to this place far above the world. In fact, now he came to consider it, he had never seen the dragons use their wings for flight.

Calabash staggered to the left, momentarily unbalanced, and Emuel realised then that the dragons had never before flown. They were like newly-hatched chicks, ready to test their wings for the first time by throwing themselves from the nest.

The eunuch found that he no longer wanted to be on Calabash’s back, but before he could dismount, the dragon was on the move. Emuel considered throwing himself to the ground, but it was flowing so quickly beneath him that the moment he hit, he’d break every bone in his body. So he clung on, tears streaming from his eyes, as he watched the edge of the plateau rushing towards them.

Ahead, the first wave of dragons threw themselves into the air and dropped from sight. Emuel sent up a prayer, putting himself into his god’s hands, and he was still whispering the benediction when Calabash’s feet left the ground and the sky took them.

They fell.

Emuel clung on tight as the wind howled about them. All around them dragons were hurtling towards the earth. One, with scales the colour of a cornfield, collided with a spur of rock, shattered stone following the senseless dragon down, its useless wings entangled around it. Emuel cried out as he saw more dragons broken on the side of the mountain, unable to bring their wings to bear in time. Calabash hit a pocket of warm air that lifted them for a moment, holding them seemingly motionless as dragons continued to rain down around them, but with a crack and a sudden drop in pressure they were soon falling as quickly as before.

“Fly!” Emuel shouted. “Damn it, fly!”

Not that he expected his encouragement to do any good. However, almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth, Calabash banked to the right and began to spiral down in a controlled descent. Other dragons were now also gaining the use of their wings, rising on updrafts, or gliding towards the plain below. They began to spread out, breaking into groups of two or three as they dispersed along all points of the compass, calling to one another as they went, their cries gradually becoming fainter and fainter.

Calabash pumped its wings and turned towards the west, Emuel easily shifting his weight with the dragon, becoming used to the feel of the creature beneath him. A flock of dragons ahead of them were now little more than dark specks against the setting sun. Emuel watched them wink out one by one. A moment later, two dragons flew in to flank Calabash. One had scales the colour of sunflowers, the other was a silvery grey with eyes as bright as diamonds. They called to Calabash and the dragon nodded to acknowledge their presence, before turning to look back at Emuel.

The eunuch patted his mount’s flank and settled himself more comfortably upon the gently rolling back. Twilight seemed so far away now, yet Emuel found that he no longer missed it. This place — this world of dragons and burgeoning potential — was his home now.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Ignacio and the remaining members of the Order of the Swords of Dawn began to sing hymns. For Silus, it was the last straw.

“You know what? You can take that elsewhere. I mean it.” Silus backed up his words by drawing his sword. He didn’t care that he and Ignacio had been through so much together, that they had once fought side by side; if he didn’t stop with the ‘Holy Holys’ and ‘Most Blessed on Highs’ right now, he was going to get a sword in the guts.

“But He has come to show us the way,” Ignacio said, a beatific smile on his face. “He has come to bring judgement to this godless world.”

“Ignacio, if you do anything to make matters worse I will stand by these people and I will fight you.”

Silus stared into Ignacio’s eyes, trying to find some remnant of his old friend, but the ex-smuggler’s gaze remained curiously blank.

Shaking his head, Silus went back to helping look after the wounded and the dying.

The Swords had gone through the settlement like a whirlwind, killing virtually everything in their path. No wonder Vos had prevailed against Pontaine in the last war, Silus considered, when Katherine Makennon had such men at her disposal. The Pontaine army, as organised and well-equipped as it had been, just didn’t have a chance against an enemy with such a capacity for cruelty and a lust for slaughter.

He found Katya tending to a little boy with a nasty head wound. His right eye had been gouged out; Silus tried not to wince when he looked at the bloody cavity. Zac was sitting on the ground nearby, smiling to himself as he ran sand through his fingers, seemingly oblivious to the suffering around him. Sometimes Silus worried about his son’s emotional health.

“Do you know where your parents are?” Katya was asking. “When did you last see them?”

“They ran,” the boy said. “I couldn’t keep up. And then they were gone, cut down.”

Silus could see the anger on Katya’s face, the desire to turn on the people who had done this and make them pay, but for the sake of the boy she remained calm as she sponged blood from his brow.

Above them, on the crest of a dune, Bestion was praying, facing the direction of the risen god, his forehead to the sand in submission. He’d been crouched in this manner for several hours. Silus was saddened to see the priest abasing himself in this way. He could remember a man with dignity and compassion, a man whose faith bound him to the community he served, but all that had gone. Now Bestion blindly looked to Kerberos for answers.

Bestion finally rose and brushed off his robes. Silus raised his hand when the priest looked his way, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he headed in the direction of Ignacio and the Swords, there to confer with them in a huddle. Silus was horrified when Ignacio shook hands with Bestion, welcoming him in amongst the fanatics.

This had not gone unnoticed by Kelos.

“That,” said the mage, sitting down next to Silus, “is not good.”

“Looks like they’re recruiting,” Silus said.

“Think we should stop him?”

“I don’t think we can.”

“What are we going to do, Silus? We can’t just stay here. We certainly can’t hang around with the Swords for much longer. Do you think that if we asked nicely they’d just let us go? Though, now I come to think of it, it’s not like there’s even anywhere to go on this godforsaken world.”

Dunsany wandered over. His arms were stained red to the elbows, and Silus couldn’t remember ever having seen him look so tired.

“You know what?” he said. “I’m beginning to regret that we ever stole the Llothriall in the first place.”

“No regrets, Dunsany,” Katya said. “If we had stayed in Nurn when the Chadassa attacked, our son would never have been born. Trust me, I don’t blame you for what has happened.”

“As ever, Katya,” Dunsany said, “were I differently inclined, I’d gladly steal you from this brute.”

“Hey!” Silus protested. “May I remind you that this brute has saved you on several occasions, thank you very much.”

“By the way,” Kelos said, “has anyone seen Illiun?”

“I think he retreated into the ship,” Silus said. “No doubt he’s on board somewhere, having a nervous breakdown. I’ll give him another hour and then I’ll go and have a word, try to make him see some sense about the ‘entity.’”

“And how do you feel about it?” Katya asked.

“I don’t know,” Silus said, looking up at Kerberos.

He thought that he would be pleased, that it would give him hope to see his god again. Yet he had reached out to Kerberos and felt nothing. “I don’t think I understand Kerberos anymore.”

There was the clash of metal on metal and Silus looked up to see a commotion amongst the Swords. The group parted as a blade flashed, revealing two figures engaged in combat. One was Ignacio, the sword in his hand dancing with consummate skill; the other was one of the silver-eyed men, handling his weapon as though he wasn’t entirely sure as to its use. Someone had armed the artificial man, Silus was sure of it. The sentinel wouldn’t have done this of his own volition; otherwise, surely, he would have attempted to block the blow that sheared away much of his left arm.

There was a cheer as the sentinel finally managed to land a blow, though it was more through random flailing than intent. A group of settlers had gathered to egg the sentinel on. The loudest of them was Shalim, who stood at the head of the rabble, his fists bunched at his sides, his face scarlet with anger. No matter how loud he shouted, however, the silver-eyed man was not built for this manner of combat. When the sentinel tripped over his own feet, Ignacio dispatched him by removing his head from his shoulders.

As viscous blue blood pumped over Ignacio’s boots, Shalim and his comrades fell silent.

“Which one of you is responsible for this?” Ignacio said. There was no reply. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me. I said, which one of you is responsible for this? Which one of you blasphemers would stand against the Swords?”

There was still no response.

“Brother Auden, kill the gentleman with the blond hair. Perhaps that will encourage someone to speak.”

“Ignacio, no!” Silus was on his feet and racing towards them. “Stop this, now!”

“Silus, perhaps you have forgotten that as a fugitive from the Final Faith you have no say in this matter. Brother Auden, you may continue.”

“And I said no!” Silus unsheathed his sword and forced the acolyte’s blade to the ground. Brother Auden looked back at Ignacio, not quite sure how he should respond.

“Ignacio, where exactly is this getting us?” Silus said. “We’re all stranded on this world. There’s nowhere for any of us to go, and, thanks to the Sword’s actions on the ship, Illiun and his people have lost everything. How do you hope to punish them any more than they already have been? Just let them be.”

“The Lord of All has spoken, Silus. These godless people must be punished.”

“Really, Ignacio? I mean, reall y? When you first joined the crew of the Llothriall you were one of the most godless men I’d ever met. You’d often rail against the Final Faith and how they used to make you and your brother’s lives as smugglers so difficult. Yet here you now stand, wearing the symbol of the crossed circle. What did they do to you, Ignacio, to make you change your heart so radically?”

“I saw the light. The Lord of All spoke to me.”

“No, I’m almost certain that He didn’t. Trust me, you don’t know the first thing about the deity.”

“It is true that Silus has a great affinity with the Allfather,” Bestion said, stepping into the quarrel. “I have witnessed it myself.”

“Ignacio, you were there when I channelled the power of Kerberos to destroy the Chadassa,” Silus said. “I know the Lord of All, and I know that He wouldn’t want you punish Illiun and his people in His name.”

“But they reject God,” Ignacio said.

“That is their choice. It doesn’t mean they are a threat to the Final Faith. Are you sure that Makennon would be so concerned about this lifeless place when she has more than enough on Twilight to worry about? Besides, we have bigger concerns ourselves. Like how to get home.”

“The Lord of All will guide us home.”

“And He told you that, did he?”

Ignacio’s silence was answer enough.

“Then why don’t you talk to Him? ’ It was the black-haired woman Silus had seen conversing with Ignacio earlier. “Perhaps you can succeed where we, His most devout soldiers, have failed?”

Though the woman clearly meant this as an attack on Silus, he realised that she did have a point.

“Bestion, you once helped me leave my body and commune with Kerberos,” he said. “Do you think you can do that again?”

The priest twisted his robes in his hands as he looked at the ground. “Without the sacred spices and incense it will be difficult. To leave one’s body takes a great deal of preparation.”

“Incense, did you say?” Kelos said, joining them. “Now that I believe I actually have. Spell components I can do, just don’t ask me to perform any sorcery.”

“Bestion, can you help me talk to our god?” Silus asked again.

“It may take many hours.”

“We’re not going anywhere.”

“Ignacio,” said the dark-haired woman. “Is this not blasphemy, presuming to let this unbeliever speak for us?”

“Oh, trust me,” Silus said. “I believe. Ignacio knows.”

“He’s right, Susannah,” Ignacio said. “At least let him try. It can do no harm.”

“Thank you. And when we get back home, I will be more than happy for you to take me to Makennon herself. I’ve a few things that I’d like to talk to her about.”

The quietest place that Bestion could find to conduct the ceremony was a small room deep within the bowels of Illiun’s broken ship, reached via a rickety iron spiral staircase that swayed and creaked as they descended. At the bottom, Bestion opened a door that lead into a bare room constructed entirely from sheets of black metal. There was a grille in the ceiling that let in a faint breeze, bringing with it the odour of raw sewage.

As the priest prepared for the ritual, Silus sat on the floor. He had never felt so far from his god. Despite this, he tried settle his mind as Bestion lit the cones of incense that Kelos had provided for the ceremony.

Bestion began to chant. The sound echoed from the walls, creating a resonance that Silus felt deep in his chest. He remembered the breathing exercises the priest had taught him, and his chest rose and fell to the rhythm of Bestion’s words. The room became uncomfortably warm and the smoke of the incense stifling, but still Silus drew it deep into his lungs, even as his body fought against him.

He blinked and Bestion was no longer before him. He thought that he saw the priest moving through the mist that had obliterated the boundaries of the room. Other things roamed there, too, some of them not entirely human. Though they drew close, they never fully revealed themselves. Like Bestion, they were chanting, adding to the litany with guttural, alien sounds.

Something brushed Silus’s forehead very lightly, but even this gentlest of touches was enough to send him tumbling into darkness. For a moment he panicked, thinking that the priest had severed his hold on his body only to send him into the eternal night of death. When the light of stars began to pierce the darkness, however, he relaxed.

Below Silus now turned the dry, dead world from which he had been sent. Even without moving, he knew what hung above him; he could sense its call. He reached out and found himself deep within the clouds of Kerberos. He’d gladly stay here forever, abandoning his body for the embrace of the god. Silus was surprised to find that this thought caused him no guilt, and it was this realisation that made him aware of the dangers he faced here. He had to focus, and so he asked the question that had been on his mind ever since they had come to the settlement.

“Who is Illiun? Where do his people come from?”

The azure clouds surrounding him darkened, the rumble of thunder preceding a flicker of lightning.

Again Silus travelled without moving. He found himself hanging before a new world: a blue-green planet. For a moment he thought that it was Twilight itself, but it couldn’t be. Vast continents dominated the globe, bejewelled with the lights of hundreds of cities. A small grey moon orbited the planet, and here, too, he could see the lights of civilisation. He watched, astonished, as ships rose and fell between the planet and its satellite.

When Kerberos spoke, its voice seemed to come from within himself.

Twilight is not the only world that hangs in the eternal void; there are others, worlds long dead, the discarded toys of youthful deities. The planet that turns before you now is one such world. With this creation, I thought that I had finally realised the full potential of my power. Millennia before your time, Silus, a faithful people thrived here, dedicating their lives to the advancement of their own kind, all the while worshipping the being that had given them life.

Silus’s perspective shifted and now he was looking down on a huge, shining city at the centre of which, like a needle thrusting into the heavens, stood an impossibly slim tower.

My churches were architectural marvels, the likes of which have not been seen on any world since. Here there was no theological dissonance, no separate creeds or offshoot cults to stir up conflict amongst the populace; when the hymns were sung and the prayers chanted, it was with one voice, and to one god.

Inside the tower, in a church bathed in the light of a hundred stained-glass windows, priests wearing robes of myriad colours administered to the largest congregation Silus had ever seen.

Not one man, woman or child was without faith. The sermons and prayers of the priesthood drew the people closer to me. Each new church and cathedral erected in my name drew the faithful’s eyes heavenward to gaze in wonder as I slowly turned above them. I welcomed their adoration, but I should have known when to keep them at a distance. For in being drawn closer to a god, does not humankind find the desire to be more like gods themselves?

As you can see, Silus, this civilisation was far in advance of your own. Instead of magic, they had technology. They discovered the way to the stars, though their disappointment was great when they found that the cold stretches of space open to them were without life. Their cities spanned whole continents and not one person wanted for anything.

But the spirit of humankind is to always strive for better, and this they did, and in so doing they committed a blasphemy so great that it would lead to their destruction.

Silus fell through the city, tumbling so far that he thought he would pass right through the planet’s core. Instead, he came to rest hanging over another city, this one easily as big as the metropolis above it, though here, far beneath the ground, there were none of the usual sounds of life. When Silus looked more closely, he saw that no vehicles or people moved on the city’s thoroughfares; it was as though the place was deserted.

Not deserted, Silus, merely waiting for its citizens to be born.

Within these buildings they slept, cradled in artificial wombs, dreaming in amniotic slumber. In striving to be closer to their god, the people of the world that I had created claimed a right that only a deity should wield; the right to create life. This world’s scientists were the midwives to a new race, engineered to be the servants of their creators. Artificial men and women emerged from the womb fully grown, ready to serve their masters. Though this disturbed me greatly, I did not intervene. I had given my creations free will and I had learned hard lessons — across many worlds created and destroyed — of the perils of taking that away, once given.

Silus was inside one of the buildings now, in a hall that seemed to stretch on forever. Within were ranked an endless succession of smooth round objects, like huge pearls. There was a muggy heat coming from them that reminded him of the cow-sheds during calving on his uncle’s farm. He watched in astonishment, and horror, as the perfectly smooth surface of each pearl began to wrinkle and split; fully formed adult humans pulled themselves out of the slime in which they were immersed, and stepped forth.

The children of my creations were, like their parents, utterly brilliant. Their minds were incisive and focused. Yet still they were willing to serve, using their gifts for the betterment of the world to which they had been born.

Silus watched as the artificial humans integrated themselves into the civilisation above. So like their creators were they, so convincingly human, that soon it was impossible to distinguish between those of natural birth and those who were the product of science.

Their integration into society was seamless. However, in one area this new race was very different to their creators; they were godless. They soon came to reason that as they themselves had not been created by a deity, then what use was there for such a thing? They observed none of the rituals and ceremonies of the faithful, although, for a time, they tolerated the religion of their masters. But unlike the minds that had created them, they were evolving. Soon their intellects were beyond those of their creators, and the servants quickly became the masters. So dependent on their artificial people had my children become that they did not realise that they had been usurped, happy, as they were, for their every need to be administered to, all the while sinking into comfortable complacency. The artificial race came to control every aspect of their lives.

Then came the first blasphemous act of this new race. Religion was banned and the churches and cathedrals — any place of worship, no matter how small — were shut down. Such beliefs were backward, the artificial race argued, and did nothing to advance the cause of humankind; spirituality was the reserve of the superstitious and the frightened. That these beliefs be entirely eradicated over time, a programme of enforced sterilisation of those who stubbornly held to their faith was put into practice. This, finally, shook my people out of their slumber, though not before the majority of them had succumbed to this tyranny. Those who had avoided the needles of the doctors took up arms, only to be brutally put down. They knew nothing of war, but their creations learned the art quickly. Once the populace had been subdued, seeing that their actions would not be universally embraced, the artificial race decided to drop the facade of progressive rationality entirely.

I had given my people free will. I had decided not to interfere in the world that I had created, and which they had shaped. I had tried a rule of absolute power before, on other worlds, and it had led to a people who only praised me because they were afraid. But when the artificial race triggered a terrible weapon, destroying an area much larger even than the peninsula you call home, Silus, the wrath of old returned.

Silus was hanging above the planet once more and he shuddered in horror as flames took a whole continent in their grip and turned it into wasteland in less than the blink of an eye.

I was too late to intervene. My people were eradicated. My beautiful world, which had been created and populated entirely by my will, was ruined, now ruled over by an alien race that paid me no heed. Only when I rained down fire, unleashing a destructive force more powerful than their own, only then did they truly hear me, and for a moment some of them actually believed.

In my rage, however, I had missed something.

Silus’s perspective shifted again, pulling him away from the inferno raging below, the continents sinking into seas of lava before being obscured entirely by globe-spanning clouds of smoke. Now he was staring past the burning world into space, and for a moment he didn’t realise what it was that he was supposed to be seeing. But then Silus saw it — a brilliant streak of light burning into the heavens, rising from the planet below like a meteor in reverse.

That was a ship carrying Illiun’s ancestors, the last remnants of the artificial race. When my destruction of the planet began, some of the usurpers acted quickly, throwing themselves into the void to escape my wrath. And for millennia they have evaded me, using their technology and their growing knowledge of the void to seek out the places where time and reality are at their weakest, punching holes through space and putting whole universes between us.

But now their means of escape lies in ruins, and it will be you, Silus, who will now be the agent of my judgement.

S ILUS AND HIS companions had grown close to Illiun and his people during the time they had spent together. Katya had helped Rosalind and Shalim look after Hannah, and Zac had become firm friends with the small girl, integrating with the family just as if they’d been neighbours back in Nurn. Not once had these people threatened them. Granted, the silver-eyed men had attacked Kelos and Shalim, but that had been nobody’s fault but the savage world on which they found themselves. In fact, the people of the settlement simply did not have a violent bone in their body, as evidenced by their inability to defend themselves against the Order of the Swords of Dawn. Yet Kerberos was now telling him that they were of a people that had been responsible for the death of an entire race, killing them merely because their philosophy differed from their own. Was it right to finish what Kerberos had started, and kill the few surviving remnants of that ancient civilisation? Silus couldn’t believe that they posed a threat to anybody in their present state.

He could feel the god’s displeasure at this thought even before it spoke. The clouds that enfolded him darkened again and, for a moment, Silus got the sensation that he was being drawn deeper into Kerberos. He fought against the pull, fearful that the deity’s displeasure would mean his dissolution.

Illiun and his people are not just a threat to yourselves, but the whole of Twilight. This dead world that you have come to will one day be your home. You are on Twilight, Silus, but far in your past.

Silus’s mind reeled. The idea was almost beyond belief. Where was the vast ocean that he knew so well? Would this dead place one day be far beneath the waves?

The sorcery that saw the wrecking of the Llothriall clashed with the energies unleashed by Illiun’s ship when it punched its way into this realm, pulling you and your companions back through time to a Twilight not yet begun. If Illiun and his people are allowed to remain here, to breed and grow on this young world, then the life you know, the people you love, will never have been. Katya and Zac will blink out of existence. Everything will unravel into oblivion. There will never have been a Twilight as you know it. These people are not a part of my plan for your world, Silus, and, really, what are the lives of this few, compared with the countless millions? Would you let this handful of usurpers live, at the expense of your own race? They are not human. Remember what I have shown you.

I am sending a creature to this world, one which can remove the usurpers from existence, just as their existence threatens your own. Seek this being out, bring Illiun and his people to justice for what they have done. If you fail, you and all those you love will be consigned to oblivion.

“But why me?” Silus said. “Why can’t you eradicate them yourself, or use the Swords to enact your wrath?”

Because they trust you. I would rather they walk to their deaths voluntarily, unknowing, than fight against me again. They have escaped me far too many times for me to take that risk. This is where it must end, Silus. You must be the agent of my wrath.

Silus was blinded by a flash of light as a storm raged in the heart of his god. A wave of nausea washed over him and he realised that he was back in his body, his heavy flesh anchoring him to the floor. He could hear Bestion crawling around him, still chanting the words that had sent him into the presence of Kerberos. He tried to call the priest’s name, but his throat was too dry and he couldn’t make his lips work. Silus reached out and grabbed Bestion’s arm as he shuffled past, and the priest looked up with a startled expression, before realising that Silus had returned. Bestion brought him water then, and helped him to sit upright. The priest looked as ravaged as Silus felt, his robes soaked with sweat and his face pale.

“Has the Allfather spoken?” he asked, the desperation for any news of his god writ large on his face. “Will He lead us to safety?”

There was a knock on the door then and Katya stepped into the room, holding Zac; Silus noticed that his son had been crying.

“I’m sorry,” Katya said. “You were such a long time and we were getting worried. Is everything okay?”

“Well, Silus?” Bestion said, ignoring the interruption.

Silus looked at his wife and child and realised then what truly mattered; the only thing that mattered.

“Kerberos has spoken,” he said. “Help me to my feet so that I can tell everybody the good news.”

PART TWO

Arrivals And Departures

CHAPTER TWELVE

Scaroth wasn’t sure which of his wives he was eating. It definitely wasn’t First Wife, as she was tucking into the carcass herself, glowering at him over the fire as she fed. Maybe it was Seventh Wife. He hadn’t seen her in a few days, although the last time he had she was being more than a little friendly with one of his shamans, so it was entirely possible she was now ensconced in his tent, doing the deed. That was the problem with having over forty wives; it was so hard to keep track of them. Scaroth didn’t feel much guilt, then, when he had to slaughter one to feed his tribe. Food was scarce and times were hard. The only thing left to hunt was a species of toad, and even then you had to boil it for hours to neutralise the poison in its flesh. He had considered moving the tribe on, seeking more fertile land, but he knew from experience that this would be pointless. Everything in this world was dust and rocks. He’d once asked his shamans why their god would treat them this way, but amongst the knuckle bones and entrails they’d found no answers. Many generations had passed since their god had shown his face, and all their prayers and sacrifices hadn’t brought him back.

Scaroth was sucking the flesh from a thigh bone (as leader of the tribe, the best cut of meat was, of course, his to claim) when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Wrenk, jumping up and down on his perch at the edge of the camp, waving his arms about his head.

Scaroth put down his meal and stood, looking towards the guard.

“Something’s coming!” came the faint shout. “Something is coming!”

Scaroth looked to the others, but they were too intent on their food to pay much heed to Wrenk, though when the first rays of azure light washed across the foothills, some of them did look up.

“What is it, Wrenk?” Scaroth called.

“Something’s coming!”

Wrenk tumbled off his perch and ran down the slope towards them, still waving his arms above his head. There was no doubt about it, Scaroth thought, the boy was touched. But then, in his infancy, his son had been almost killed by Tenth Wife fighting with Eleventh Wife, claiming that the child was hers. Scaroth remembered well the horrible sound baby Wrenk’s head had made when he’d been dropped on it.

“Wrenk, be calm. What is coming?”

“Burning blue disk, rising over the world!”

“Shut up, Wrenk!” said First Wife, scratching her right tit as she noisily scraped her teeth against a fragment of skull. “We’re eating.”

But there was indeed something coming, Wrenk hadn’t been wrong about that.

The light that flooded down into the hollow was like nothing Scaroth had ever seen. Its azure brilliance picked out each individual amongst the stark rocks, highlighting them and making their dark-green flesh shimmer. The sphere that rose high above them was much much larger than Small Yellow Fire God That Comes With Day. Maybe, Scaroth thought, this is our god. Maybe he has returned to us now that times are so bad.

But when he looked to his shamans they seemed as unsure as he. Indeed, nobody in the tribe knew how to react to this divine arrival. Some had taken to fucking, rutting as though their lives depended on it, as though the end of the world was here and this was their last chance; others glanced up and then continued eating, while others sobbed, rocking back and forth in the dust as tears rolled down their dark cheeks.

“You!” Scaroth called one of his shamans over. “What is that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is it our god?”

“The old stories say that the god of our people was much smaller. And red.”

“But this is a god, right?”

“Must be.”

“Then we make an offering. See what happens.”

The wives of Scaroth collectively breathed a sigh of relief when the sacrifice was not chosen from amongst their number. Instead, it was decided that as Wrenk had been the first to see the god, then it should be he that was offered up to the deity. This had to be explained to the boy several times, but when it sank in he gave himself gladly, even smiling as the bone knife was plunged deep into his chest. Scaroth wasn’t sad to see him go. Once the ceremony was over, they could feast on whatever the god did not take.

The shamans danced. The shamans pulled out Wrenk’s guts and held them aloft. The shamans dabbed the blood from the corpse on the forehead of every member of the tribe. The shamans burned the sacred bones of the First and inhaled their smoke.

The shamans might as well have done nothing, for all the effect it had. The god hung there, silent and impassive, oblivious to what was going on below him. So, they waited. But eventually the tribe got bored of waiting for divine intervention and began to fight over the remains of Wrenk. His corpse was quickly pulled apart and consumed.

Some time later, despite his full belly, Scaroth had to concede that he really was not happy. He looked around at the tribe and saw again that their numbers were dwindling. He would only be able to slaughter his wives to feed his people for so much longer before they began to eat themselves into extinction. Few children had been produced in the last season’s couplings and only a fraction of those had survived.

Though their sacrificial ritual had borne no fruit, Scaroth still looked up and offered a prayer to Big Blue God, asking that there be good hunting or, failing that, many more children.

Scaroth’s tummy rumbled. It had been several days since the slaughter of Wrenk and he had eaten nothing but dried toad flesh and some moss. The latter had made him feel distinctly strange for a time, and he had looked up at Big Blue God, terrified that he would fall into his azure clouds and be consumed. The feeling had passed, however, leaving him nauseous and weak.

Now the tribe was growing restless as hunger began to take hold. Squabbles had broken out when it was revealed that someone had been hoarding a strip of flesh from Wrenk’s corpse. This wouldn’t feed anyone for long, though, so, after calming the dispute, Scaroth had gathered the wives together in order that he might choose one to feed the tribe.

He’d just singled out Twenty-Third Wife when Third Wife let out an almighty yell and hurled a rock at his head. He ducked in time to avoid it braining him, though it nicked his ear and hot blood dripped onto his shoulder. The rock that Third Wife had thrown, however, was just the first drop of rain before the true storm struck; a hail of stones pounded down around him, the thud as they struck the earth only fractionally louder than the cries of rebellion from the angry wives.

A knee was planted firmly in the small of Scaroth’s back. Thirty-Second Wife had him by the throat and was just about to stick him in the eye with a knife, when his soldiers finally mustered themselves and waded into the melee. Though his men were well-trained and armed with the finest blades, in the wives of their leader they faced a force fuelled by a deep hatred, fermented over many, many years. With naught for weapons but the stones that surrounded them, the angry women were able to kill a quarter of Scaroth’s men before they were finally suppressed. The slaughter that followed was perhaps the worst in the tribe’s history. It only ended when the remaining wives fled into the hills. Scaroth watched them go, too demoralised to send his men after them.

“At least we have plenty of food now,” said one of his sons, only to be clipped around the back of his head for his stupidity.

“Idiot! How are we going to eat all this before it goes bad?” Scaroth gestured at the red earth and the mounds of sundered limbs. “And once this is all gone, what then?”

“We make more wives?”

Scaroth could do little but shake his head and go and find a distant rock upon which to sit and contemplate the tribe’s fate.

It didn’t take him long to come to the conclusion that he just wasn’t a very good leader. He was certainly nowhere near as able as such legends as Thangar Void Eater, or the much-vaunted Onth of the Mountains, who had ruled over a vast settlement back when food had been plentiful and their god’s face had shone down upon the earth. It was clear that this world and his people were done with Scaroth, and so he put his back to the setting sun and walked away.

Scaroth hadn’t been walking for long when he came to the edge of a pit he was sure hadn’t been in this part of the range the last time he had come this way. He got down on his belly, shuffled forwards and looked down into the earth.

It was then that he realised that Big Blue God really had answered his prayers, for here was good hunting indeed.

Three of the biggest lizards Scaroth had ever seen lay sleeping at the bottom of the pit, curled around one another and accompanied by a small pink-skinned creature covered in black marks. It did cross Scaroth’s mind to wonder what this runt was doing with such magnificent beasts, but that didn’t really matter. What did matter was that here was enough food to feed his tribe for a long time to come. He had to return to his people and tell them the good news. They would sing his praises for delivering them from hunger. Now they would show him true love and respect, and Scaroth would become a great leader after all. All thanks to Big Blue God and the gifts he had bestowed.

Pride swelling in his breast, Scaroth stood and raised his arms to the azure sphere, sending up a prayer of thanks — silently, lest he disturb the creatures sleeping below. When he turned and started for home, his foot dislodged a rock and it went tumbling down the pit, bouncing off the head of the yellow one before clattering to a halt.

Scaroth froze, praying anew that he hadn’t woken the slumbering beasts, but this was one prayer Big Blue God was not about to answer, because the giant yellow lizard opened its eyes and let out a piercing howl that shook the very ground upon which he stood.

When his legs began to work again, Scaroth ran, hoping that he would have time to mobilise his tribe before the fearsome creatures were upon them.

Emuel was wrenched out of sleep by Anania’s cry, scrabbling to his feet as the dragon clawed its way out of the hollow. Piotr and Calabash weren’t far behind, the latter pausing only briefly to allow the eunuch to climb onto its back. Emuel caught sight of something green darting into the foothills as they crested the lip of the pit. Anania went after it like a hunting hound after a hare, its enraged cry echoing from the surrounding terrain.

As he was jolted about on Calabash’s back, Emuel’s hand ventured to his belt, checking his sword there. He had little idea how to effectively wield the weapon, but he found the weight of it reassuring. If it came to a fight, though, he doubted he would need it. After all, what more effective weapon could there be than the three dragons?

From ahead of them, where Anania had just disappeared over the brow of a hill, came the sound of voices raised in horror and surprise. Emuel could hear the clatter of weapons being unsheathed.

The stench reached Emuel shortly before they entered the valley: burning flesh, faeces and unwashed bodies. Had he been to the deepest part of the World’s Ridge Mountains, he would have recognised the creatures that surrounded Anania. As it was, he had no idea that the savage green-skinned humanoids clambering all over the dragon and jabbing at it with their weapons were orcs. Anania was staggering beneath the weight of them and Emuel wondered how the dragon had allowed itself to be so overwhelmed. Did it not know how to fight? Then he saw the ropes that bound Anania’s jaws together. Somehow the orcs had managed to muzzle the dragon, and now they were concentrating on tripping it, weaving a cat’s cradle of ropes between its legs and slashing at it with their swords.

Calabash roared, and though the orcs turned to look at the new arrivals, for Anania it was too late. The dragon crashed to the ground, and was swarmed over by the savage creatures and dispatched by a thousand cuts.

Emuel was almost hurled from Calabash’s back as the dragon barrelled down the hill and into the melee. The orcs threw themselves at the creature with vicious delight, but Calabash was not as unprepared as Anania had been, and it slammed into the greenskins, scattering them and crushing them underfoot. As Calabash reached the edge of the encampment it swung round, almost unseating Emuel in the process, and turned to face its aggressors. More orcs were swarming towards them, seemingly undeterred by the slaughter of their comrades. Calabash stood stock still, watching them come, and Emuel was about to kick the dragon’s flanks and urge it onwards when Calabash took a deep breath. The loose flaps of skin on either side of the dragon’s throat inflated, the flesh distending like the skin of a balloon, and there was a sudden sharp smell in the air that reminded Emuel of grain alcohol. The orcs were so close now that Emuel drew his sword, ready to meet their charge. But the orcs didn’t get the chance, for Calabash let go the breath it had been holding — the pouches on either side of its throat collapsing as it did so — and a torrent of fire poured forth from its jaws. Emuel threw his arm up to shield his eyes from the brilliant glare, and the sleeve of his cloak began smouldering from the intense heat. When the inferno dissipated, he looked up to see the smoking, burnt charcoal forms of hundreds of dead orcs. Calabash looked back at him then, an expression in its eyes that almost looked like concern.

“I’m fine. I’m fine,” Emuel said, patting its side. “Just give me more warning next time.”

Piotr hurried in on their flank, dispatching any orcs not taken by the conflagration. Emuel swung his sword as Calabash waded once more into the melee and was amazed when a few of the creatures fell to his blade. Something like glee burned in him, before he realised that he was — had been — a man of the cloth, and that murder was prohibited by his vocation. In any case, the matter was taken literally out of his hands when the tip of the sword lodged in the breastbone of an orc and the weapon was dragged away as the creature fell.

To Emuel’s right, Piotr smashed a wooden tower to splinters with a swing of its tail, the orc that had been guarding it flying into the air like a rag doll, only to be snatched up in the dragon’s jaws before it could hit the ground; even over the cry of the enemy and the clash of weapons, Emuel could hear the crunching of bones.

The greenskins had been pretty well routed by now, although a motley group of them remained: encircling the dragons, wielding spears, occasionally shuffling forwards with threatening gestures. Its meal now done with, Piotr made to charge the line, but a bark from Calabash put paid to that, and the dragon came meekly to its companion’s side.

Emuel slid to the ground as Calabash settled back on its haunches, hurrying away as he realised what was about to happen. He quickly scanned the area for a weapon, and spotted a curved shard of bone, inscribed with a strange script and with a rough wrap of leather for a handle. It felt wrong in his hand somehow, but it would have to do for now. He found himself to be unafraid as he faced the orcs. They weren’t so evil-looking really, not in comparison with the Chadassa. He’d faced worse odds before.

As Piotr and Calabash took deep breaths, Emuel raised his weapon and screamed defiance.

Despite everything — Scaroth considered — it had actually gone quite well. He had been as surprised as the rest of them when they had downed the first big lizard so quickly. And now they had the final two monsters encircled, even with the casualties they had suffered, he felt a renewed pride in his men.

Oh, but they would eat well tonight. And then they would give much thanks to Big Blue God for his gift of good hunting. Yes, today was a good day. Today was a day the shamans would commemorate with their songs and rituals.

He was about to give the order to close in on the big lizards when they both breathed in deeply. Scaroth knew what was about to happen, but he had his great uncle’s enchanted hide shield in his right hand and he believed fervently in its magical protection.

“Men… attack!”

Scaroth’s warriors roared as they charged. The air around the orcs rippled as noxious fumes began to roll from the dragons’ mouths, and then there was intense heat and light and Scaroth’s soldiers fell to ash. His shield held, initially, but as Scaroth raised it above his head and cried out, it fell apart. He swallowed and looked up at the black dragon that towered over him. He would not let himself be afraid. He understood that he deserved this fate. He had brought death to his people, and for that he was ready to pay the price. But it was not in the nature of an orc to go out without one final act of defiance.

“I am Scaroth!” he shouted, raising his bone staff and stamping his right foot hard against the ground. “You have killed my people; you have taken everything away from me. Now I-”

But Scaroth didn’t get to finish his sentence, for Calabash breathed out and scattered the orc king to the wind.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Silus shook as another dry heave gripped him and a string of saliva slowly dripped to the floor. He wasn’t sure whether it was the after-effects of the incense used in his communion with Kerberos, or the stress of what he was about to say to Illiun and the settlers that had made him so sick. Katya knelt beside him, rubbing his back and making soothing sounds. He didn’t feel at all deserving of her sympathy.

Eventually the nausea subsided and he got unsteadily to his feet.

“Okay now?” Katya said.

“I think so, thanks.”

Silus had told Bestion to gather everybody together, and he found them in the vast, harshly-lit hall of the ship’s council chamber. Someone had set up a podium for him in front of the ascending tiers of seats. He raised his hand against the glare of the lights as he took to the stand. Silus had hoped for the occasion to be somewhat less formal. As it was, he felt like a preacher, about to deliver a sermon heavy with blood and thunder.

It broke his heart to see the expressions of hope and trust written on the settler’s faces, but Silus knew that he had no choice but to follow Kerberos’s plan; if not to save Twilight itself, then to save his wife and child from oblivion. This was why he was going to have to spin his lie.

“Kerberos — the entity — has spoken to me,” he began, “and I am to deliver His message to you.

“Although I know, Illiun, that you and your people fear my god, He is not without compassion. Kerberos has spoken to me of your origins, your flight across the universe and the deprivations that you have suffered. It is true that your ideology differs from that of our god’s. It is true that you have committed what the Swords would deem blasphemies. Now, however, you need run no more.

“Kerberos has agreed that you may finally settle upon this world.” There was a collective sigh of relief at this. “But not in this place. I have been tasked with leading you to a new land where you will be allowed to make your new home, in the understanding that you will not leave the territory given over to you.” There were rumblings of dissent and Silus waited for them to die down before he continued. “Should you do so, the punishment will be severe.”

The wave of anger that greeted this statement was so sudden and vehement that Silus staggered back, almost tripping over the edge of the platform. The settlers were all shouting at once and he noticed the Swords growing restless, clearly wanting to silence the outrage with their blades.

“You will listen!” Silus shouted, and eventually the tirade of abuse died down to discordant grumblings.

“Thank you. Kerberos has spoken, I am merely His mouthpiece. It is I who argued your case; I who appealed to my god for compassion. If I had not intervened on your behalf, you would have been annihilated in the blink of an eye.” Yet, still he would lead them to their deaths. “I have done my best for you, but this is not your world. You are not part of His plan. But, through my communion with the god, I have enabled the deity to see a solution which does not involve your slaughter.”

By the look on Ignacio’s face, it was clear that he would have considered the slaughter of Illiun and his people a better solution.

“Illiun,” Silus said. “You must realise that this is the best option for you. When Kerberos appeared in the sky you feared instant death, but now you have been given the hope of a new life, free from the fears of old, all your debts to Kerberos paid. Please, you have to understand that this is difficult for me too.” And it was, it truly was. But if Illiun and his people were not brought to their deaths, then the entire population of Twilight, no matter where they be, would be plunged into nothingness. Silus just couldn’t have that on his conscience.

“And what of us?” Ignacio spoke up. “What happens to the rest of us after you have led these heretics to the promised land? Where are we to settle? We certainly can’t live with these blasphemers.”

“Kerberos has assured me that He will take us all home.”

“Where you will answer to Katherine Makennon for your crimes!” said Susannah, rising to her feet and raising her fist.

Silus saw Kelos roll his eyes and whisper something to Dunsany.

“I will be more than happy to answer to Makennon on our return.”

“How long will it take to reach this new home of ours?” Illiun said.

“I don’t know,” Silus admitted. “But I will follow the guidance of Kerberos and He will show me the way.”

“Do you always show such slavish devotion to your god?” Shalim said. “Has it ever occurred to you that He might not have your, or our, best interests at heart?”

“If you denigrate the name of Kerberos one more time — ”

“Susannah, stand down!” Silus shouted.

Susannah looked like she was going to defy him, until Ignacio put a hand on her arm and gestured for her to be seated.

“Thank you, Ignacio. I appreciate it.

“And Shalim, I can assure you that Kerberos has often come to me in times of great need. It is through His machinations that I and my companions are here today. It is through His intervention that my son, Zac, was saved from the clutches of the Chadassa’s god.”

“We will go,” Illiun said, rising to his feet. “Silus had already shown us that he is a man of courage and dedication. It is clear that he has a personal relationship with the entity and that he has won us a reprieve from a fate we were certain would befall us. We shall prepare ourselves for the journey.”

“Thank you, Illiun,” Silus said. “Gather together anything you think you’ll need. We will leave in two day’s time.”

He left the room before anyone could rise from their seat. Zac reached out to him as he passed, but he didn’t even look at his son. The shame of the lie he had just sold to the settlers burned deep in his breast, and he could feel a sharp nausea rising from his gut.

Silus staggered from the ship and vomited into the sand.

That night he began talking in his sleep. Katya listened, but couldn’t make out anything more than a jumble of nonsense words. Silus’s brow creased as he fought with a stream of formless dialogue, sweat gluing his shirt to his chest. Katya stroked the back of his hand, hoping to soothe him out of his nightmare. As soon as she touched him, Silus cried out. She shook him, but he clawed his way to wakefulness slowly, shouting all the while and disturbing Zac, who began to add his own distress to the cries of his father.

Katya gathered up Zac, before climbing back into bed beside Silus. The small boy whimpered in her arms and she noticed that when Silus looked at his son, his eyes filled with tears.

“Bad dreams?” she said.

“The worst.”

“Daddy was shouting,” Zac said, burying his head beneath Katya’s chin.

“It’s okay, Zac. Daddy was just having a bad dream.”

“Yes, Zac,” Silus said. “Just a bad dream. Go back to sleep now.”

Zac soon nodded off and Katya returned him to his own bed. Next to her she could feel that Silus was still awake, but she didn’t say anything, only letting herself relax when his breathing became deeper, more regular. She realised, then, that she was afraid of her husband.

Katya looked out of the window at the night sky, to where the cold light of Kerberos masked the glimmer of the few stars she could see. She remembered back to her first night with Silus, bathed by glow of the deity as they made love on the deck of his fishing boat, the Ocean Lily. Katya wondered if, even then, Kerberos had been drawing up His plans for Silus; whether the first time they had come together as a couple she was already losing him.

When he had first smiled at her across the crowded village square, all that time ago, Silus had seemed like a godsend. The Feast of Absolom Zavak was in full swing, and virtually everybody in Nurn was carousing and feasting in the name of the long-dead saint. That was one of the few consolations of the Church; the Final Faith had so many saints to its name that you were never far from the next feast day. It certainly made living under Katherine Makennon’s edicts somewhat more tolerable.

At this particular celebration, Silus demonstrated none of the boorish behaviour of the other local men. Not for him the drinking competitions or wrestling — mock-fights that often turned into genuine fisticuffs, with egos hurt and bones broken. Instead, Silus sat beside his mother, chatting to her while he entertained his niece with a game of coloured stones. He had caught Katya looking at him as he made the child laugh, and he had briefly raised his hand, sharing the moment with her. For Katya it was so refreshing to be acknowledged with something other than a leer or a grope that she fell in love there and then.

When she had later told her future sister-in-law how she had led Silus away from the festival and seduced him, Karen had responded shock: “You little tart!” But she had only half meant it, and Katya and Silus’s lovemaking that night was far more than a drunken fuck fuelled by booze. She wouldn’t have given herself to him if it hadn’t felt so right, and Katya was sure that Silus wouldn’t have responded purely on the whim of desire.

Eight months later they were married. At the insistence of Silus’s mother they had taken their vows before a priest of the Final Faith, although they later held their own ceremony out on the Ocean Lily, just out of sight of shore and witnessed by a handful of their closest friends.

While Katya would hesitate to describe the years that followed as domestic bliss — the life of a fisherman’s wife is fraught with worry and hardship — she was happy with her lot, and Silus was an attentive and loving husband. Their lovemaking hadn’t lost its intensity; she never saw anything but compassion and kindness in his eyes. But no matter how often they gave themselves to each other, their coupling refused to bear fruit.

Both Katya and Silus came from big families. They had enough nieces and nephews between them to never want for the company of children, but none of these children were their own. Each time Katya’s period arrived, to her it felt like a failure. And then the cycle of hope and disappointment would start all over again. Often she would weep hard and long in Silus’s arms as the first cramps closed a fist around her womb. She feared becoming childless and embittered, like her aunt in Oweilau, and she well knew how the Final Faith judged barren women. However, Katya refused to believe that this was the judgement of the Lord of All, so no matter how much it pained her, no matter how many times she raised her hopes to have them dashed, they kept trying.

Finally, the miracle came.

By this time, Katya had started to come to terms with being a family of two. When they made love there was no longer the pressure of procreation; now they gave themselves to each other for the pure pleasure of it. There was still the desire for a child, but it didn’t burn quite so fiercely, didn’t tear at Katya and Silus as it once had.

When Katya’s period was late, she thought nothing of it — often in the past it had failed to arrive on time. Then, one morning, while she had been helping Silus bring in the day’s catch, the strong smell of the fish had caught her like a slap and she had emptied her stomach onto the quay. Katya lived in a fishing town, she was married to a fisherman; never before had she been so affected by the smell. She dismissed it as the onset of a cold, or a stomach bug, but when she threw up every day for two weeks, and her period didn’t show, she knew what was happening.

“I’m pregnant,” she announced one afternoon, as Silus sat mending nets by the fire. They wept in each other’s arms then, thankful that their prayers had finally been answered.

As Katya had come to learn, however, such happiness was fleeting. A few months later the Chadassa invaded Nurn and they had been forced to flee. Everything had changed, not least her husband. From being a quiet, considerate fisherman, Silus had gone on to become the saviour of a nation, fighting against the foul alien creatures who had bequeathed him his burgeoning preternatural powers. Katya had been appalled to discover the legacy that linked Silus to the Chadassa, especially in consideration of their son. Zac, however, had so far displayed none of his father’s talents when it came to the sea. He was a perfectly normal little boy, seemingly unscarred by the events that they had all lived through, and Katya had grown closer to him day by day, while drifting away from her husband.

She had fallen in love with Silus at a glance. When he had first spoken to her, Katya felt like she had known him all her life. Lying beside him now, on an alien world, she had never felt more distant from her husband. Silus was no longer hers. Other forces guided his fate now, and Katya felt like a mere passenger, carried along by events beyond her control. She wanted Silus to hold her and tell her that everything would be alright; that one day they would return home and things would carry on as normal, but he had fallen so far from her that she no longer believed any of that was possible.

Silus began to mutter again in his sleep and Katya wondered whether he was conversing with Kerberos, and what the god was asking of him now.

Illiun sat amongst the piles of mouldering paper, water pouring through a hole in the ceiling and lapping at his heels. Though coils of wire snaked across the floor, there was no danger of electrocution; the ship was dead, and in a few hours he would leave it for the final time. Once Illiun had made his preparations for their exodus, he had lit a candle and come here into the depths of the vessel, hoping to salvage at least some memento of his people’s long history. The archive room, however, had been all but destroyed — the data cubes containing their history had been burned out in the power surge created by the Swords’ misguided sorcerer, and the paper records had been turned to pulp by water from the ruptured pipes. Thousands of years had been reduced to nothing. The only history they now had were the stories they carried in their own heads. Illiun understood that it could have been a lot worse for them; that they would have been annihilated by the entity but for the intervention of Silus, and that it was only through his mediation that they had been allowed a hope of survival at all. But it still hurt to know that for all the centuries they had been running, for all the generations raised on the promise of a better tomorrow, all Illiun could now offer them was some far corner of a desolate world.

He didn’t blame Silus; he had done his best for them. If any blame was to be shouldered, then it would be shouldered by Illiun alone. He had been there at the end of the world that had created them. He had taken the ship, leading his people on an exodus across the stars, keeping the story of their origins alive while all around him generations of his people had come and gone. Through the ship, Illiun had lived for thousands of years, and now that the ship was dead it was only appropriate that he share the fate of the people he led.

But he wouldn’t leave without a physical memory of their past.

Illiun ascended to his own quarters, skirting around fallen girders and crawling through crumpled corridors. His bedroom was blackened with smoke and the lights in the ceiling hung on frayed cables, slowly swaying in the warm breeze that breathed through the broken ship. However, one thing remained untouched and this he lifted from the bedside table.

The photograph showed Illiun standing beside an elderly man, grinning, with his arm around his shoulders. Tears trickled down his face as he studied the picture, remembering back through the millennia to the man who had given him life, who had made him the leader of a whole new race created by science.

“Forgive me father,” he said. “I have failed you.”

Illiun tucked the photograph into his jacket before making his way out of the ruined ship. His thumb stroked the picture’s surface as he looked to where his people were gathering, collecting together their possessions for the long journey ahead. Taking one last look back at the vessel that had carried them through the void for so long, he turned and joined them.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

For the last three days they had been following the star that Kerberos had placed in the heavens to guide them. In all that time, Silus hadn’t slept once. His exhaustion lay on him like a physical burden, compounded by the weight of the guilt he carried for his role in the coming genocide. He looked to Katya and Zac, hoping to draw strength from the knowledge that he was doing this for them — for all of Twilight — but they had been growing increasingly distant from him of late. Katya wouldn’t meet his gaze or return his attempts at affection; Zac spent more time with the settlers than with his father, gleefully chasing Hannah through the dunes, or being carried on the shoulders of one of the adults. When this was all over, how would Silus explain to his son the role that he had had to play in the slaughter of his friends? How could he ever be a Daddy again to this little boy after that? He wished that there was an ocean here into which he could retreat, leaving the human part of him behind forever. Even in this realm of sand and harsh winds, he could hear the song of the sea, and he longed for a chance to lose himself again in its depths, relinquishing all responsibility.

“There sits a man who has something on his mind.”

Silus looked up to see Dunsany standing over him.

“Care for some company?”

He was about to say no, retreat back inside himself, but he realised that the misery into which he was descending was doing him no favours, and putting him even further from those he loved.

“I reckon that star’s getting lower,” Dunsany said. “Looks like we’ve almost reached our destination.”

The light burned low on the horizon, perceptibly larger than it had been a few days ago.

“Silus, if you don’t mind me saying, you look all in. When did you last sleep?”

“Can’t remember. Just desperate to return home, you know? Even with what faces us there.”

“I know what you mean. It would be good to have something other than sand to look at for once.”

Silus was desperate to share the burden of his guilt with Dunsany, but if he told him the truth of Kerberos’s plans then there was a chance that Illiun would discover them, and that would endanger everything. Instead, he leaned over and placed more wood on the fire; one of the planks they had taken from the ruins of the Llothriall.

“How’s Bestion holding up?” he asked.

“Better, I think. Ever since Kerberos showed His hand he’s seemed considerably happier, filled with a holy purpose, as it were. Which is more than can be said for you.”

“Sorry?”

“Well, you’ve spoken with a god,” Dunsany said. “Surely that enriches you spiritually, gives you a greater insight into all of… this?”

“I suppose so. It’s… well, it’s complicated.”

“Clearly. There’s no doubt about it, Silus Morlader, you’re a hard one to figure out.” Dunsany sighed and stretched. He reached into his jacket and retrieved two thin cigarillos. “Smoke? Something else I managed to salvage from the Llothriall.”

“Yeah, sure. Why not? It’s been a while.”

Silus accepted the cigarillo from Dunsany and lit it from the coals glowing at his feet. He inhaled deeply, feeling the musty smoke filling his lungs. The smell reminded him of his father and the small shack near the harbour at Nurn, where he had repaired his nets and tarred his ropes. Silus felt as though he had spent most of his childhood in that shack, learning the trade. And although that was millions of years and thousands of miles away, he found himself blinking away tears, a sudden sadness threatening to break out into wracking sobs.

“You alright, Silus?”

“Fine, fine. Just thinking about Nurn.”

“Ah yes, Nurn.” Dunsany didn’t say anything more than that, merely stared into the fire as he smoked.

“Those things will be the death of you, you know.”

“Illiun,” Dunsany said, getting to his feet. “Do join us.”

“Thank you.”

Silus looked away as Illiun sat beside him, hoping that the flush of shame that reddened his face would be credited to the heat from the campfire.

“We were just thinking of home,” Dunsany said. “A million miles away or more now for you, I suppose.”

“I can’t even begin to calculate the distance from this planet to the world we once held dear,” Illiun said. “We’ve run for so long and so far it doesn’t seem to mean anything anymore.”

“Tell us about your home.”

“It was not our home, not really. It was bequeathed to us — a gift from our creators. We were created as stewards of our world, protectors of the environment which supported and nurtured those within it.”

“Sorry,” Dunsany said. “Did you say your creators? Were you not, then, created by a god?”

“No. We are children of science, much like the silver-eyed men but far more advanced. My people’s lifespans are approximately the same as your own, and they reproduce in much the same way, yet their ancestors were born within artificial wombs deep beneath the cities of our world. I was the first, and was tasked with leading my people, becoming their overseer. As such, my creators granted me a greatly increased lifespan.”

“So Bestion was right,” Silus said. “You are a godless people.”

“It’s true that we were not created by a god, although our creators themselves were people of faith. The god they praised, however, did not interfere in their lives; he merely enriched them.”

“Then why did he turn on you?” Dunsany said. “Why did the entity pursue you across the void?”

“No, you misunderstand. The god of my creators is not the same being as the entity. The entity destroyed my creators’ god.”

Silus was beginning to feel a sinking sense of dread. Had Kerberos lied to him? Was there more to the history of Illiun’s people than he had been told, or was Illiun even now spinning a lie?

“Tell us of the entity,” Dunsany said. “What did Kerberos do?”

“The first signs of its approach to our world was the rise of a new faith; an insidious church that promised much but gave little, all the while instilling its hateful theologies within its growing flock. A new god was coming — the priests of this religion said — a new deity, stronger than the one who looked down upon them, who would guide them all to a golden age of prosperity and spiritual discovery. The one everyone thought of as their god was nothing of the kind, merely a spiritual leech, feeding on souls to sate its own greed. There was no heaven. There was no better life to come. Those who gave themselves to this old, redundant god were giving themselves to oblivion. But those who dedicated their prayers and worship to the coming god would see life eternal.

“This new church made people afraid, and in their fear they gave themselves over to the new faith entirely.”

“We know another faith which operates along very similar lines, don’t we, Silus?” Dunsany flicked the stub of his cigarillo into the fire. “Fear seems to be a very good way to get people to believe.”

“Indeed,” Illiun said. “But there was nothing we could do for our creators. It was not our place, as their servants, to draw attention to the mistakes they were making. All we could do was continue in our allotted tasks, managing the environment that their new god would soon destroy.

“Almost nothing of the old religion was left when the entity, Kerberos, showed its face. At first it was just a blue smudge out on the edge of the void, far from our own sun, but year by year it grew, as did the new church. The astronomers observing its approach said that it moved like no heavenly body they had ever seen, ignoring all laws of physics as it fell into an erratic orbit around our planet. The adherents of the new faith greeted its arrival with a religious fervour that, more than once, threatened to spill over into violence. The few remaining disciples of the old faith looked on in dread, yet dared not raise their voice against the new order.”

“And you’re sure that this new god was Kerberos?” Silus said.

“There is no doubt that the entity that brought such destruction to my home is the same that now hangs above our heads.”

“But you’re wrong about Kerberos. You must be. Don’t you see th-”

“Silus. Hush! Let Illiun finish his story.”

“I’m sorry. Please, go on.”

“There is no need to apologise,” Illiun said. “It took a long time for the entity to show its hand. For years it hung beside the pearlescent sphere that was the old god, the clouds that wreathed its form showing nothing but the occasional flicker of lightning. But then, on the anniversary of the fifth year of its arrival, Kerberos began to eclipse the old god, the great blue disk moving slowly across its face. The clouds of Kerberos darkened as it moved into full eclipse and then it blazed with a light many times the magnitude of our own sun. Those who had been watching the eclipse were instantly blinded. In the Royal Observatory, the head astronomer was said to have had his eyes cooked in their sockets as he watched through the great telescope.

“Across the face of our world raged many storms: the seas rising up all around the coasts and washing away cities that had stood for thousands of years in one violent deluge; hurricanes tearing into the sturdiest of structures and scattering the people sheltered within like dandelion seeds; torrential rains putting whole lands under water within moments.

“When Kerberos moved once more, the god that it had eclipsed was gone. It was as though it had been consumed by the usurper.

“Those of the new faith who had survived the maelstrom sang the praises of their god with renewed fervour, reasoning that as survivors of the storm they were truly of the elect. And they were indeed chosen, but not in the way they had hoped.

“The adherents of the new faith were the first to die. There was no warning, no prelude to this mass cull; they simply expired where they stood, each with his or her eyes raised to the heavens and a look of abject horror on their faces.”

“Wait a minute,” Dunsany said. “Are you saying that Kerberos killed your creators?”

Again, Silus wondered whether Illiun was lying, perhaps to hide the crime of which Kerberos had told him his people were guilty. But then there was still that doubt — what if Kerberos Himself were deceiving Silus? After all, as Dunsany had pointed out to him many a time, who truly knew the mind of a god?

“That is indeed what I am saying.”

“Then how did you escape?” Silus said.

“Not all of us did escape. However, as Kerberos had been approaching our world, some of us had been working on a project that would enable us to leave it. Those who had created us had tasked us with turning our minds to the exploration of the void. They had observed other bodies out in the darkness, so they set us to building a vessel that would enable us to reach them. In the thousands of years it took for Kerberos to reach our planet we’d built a ship, though instead of being used for exploration as intended, it was used to escape the wrath of the entity.

“When it became clear that Kerberos was going to harvest the planet of the lives that populated it, I gathered together those I could and herded them onto the ship. Even as we took to the skies, the planet was dying all around us, food for the vile leech that had come to feed upon us. The entity was not expecting anybody to escape, and once it realised what we had done it came after us. And we have been running from it ever since.”

And now I’m to complete what Kerberos began, Silus thought.

No matter the truth of Illiun’s story, it did not change the facts. If he and his people were allowed to remain here — to breed, to grow into a new civilisation on this young world that was destined to become Twilight — then everything they knew would never be; they would tumble into oblivion as their future history unravelled.

“Dunsany! Dunsany!”

Kelos came running towards them, kicking up great plumes of sand in his haste. Silus unsheathed his sword and stood, ready to face whatever threat was now coming their way. However, as Kelos stumbled and slid down the dune towards them, it was not an expression of fear he wore on his face, but one of anticipation, excitement even.

“It’s here!” the mage said, gripping Dunsany’s arms.

“What’s here, Kelos?”

“Magic. I can finally sense magic. This world isn’t completely dead after all.”

“Where?” Silus said.

“Not far, perhaps a day’s travel in the direction the star is leading us. Gods, I never thought I’d find the threads again. I can’t begin to tell you how relieved I am.”

Silus looked towards the star burning low on the horizon. Kerberos had said that Silus was to guide Illiun and his people towards a certain creature. Was it this that Kelos had sensed?

As Silus prepared to gather together the camp, he thought that he heard a low, distant keening.

Emuel barely had time to scrabble onto Calabash’s back before the dragon took to the air. Below them, Piotr sniffed at the ground where the last of the orcs had been destroyed, before following them. The dragon kept its distance, however, as though not wanting to intrude on Calabash’s grief. And was this what the dragon was feeling, Emuel wondered? Was this why the creature did not respond to his touch? He felt sure that he couldn’t know the mind of a being so alien, but he thought that he sensed a certain tension in Calabash, a certain heaviness in the way it held its head.

They followed the light of the setting sun as it retreated before them, and Calabash put on an extra burst of speed, as though trying to outrace the night. The temperature quickly tumbled as the stars wheeled above them and Emuel tried to pull his cloak closer about his shoulders. The wind that tore at him made this a far from easy task, and at length he had to sacrifice his cloak to the wind, lest he also lose himself. In shirtsleeves and tunic the cold bit deep, but though he shouted at Calabash to land, to seek shelter, the dragon flew on.

Emuel could see nothing below them now; there was only the dark, featureless plain. Kerberos hung low to their right and Emuel offered up a prayer to the god to intervene: to remind its creature of the passenger that clung on even against the gales and the cold that assailed him.

When Emuel lost the feeling in his hands, he gripped even harder with his knees. He found himself reminiscing about the mines he had worked in as a boy. How absolute and shocking the darkness had been the one time his lamp had run out of oil as he’d been operating a trap; the stink of guano and the small soft sounds of movement close by; the tickle of insects as they crawled across his exposed flesh…

Only when a brilliant flash shone through his eyelids did Emuel realise that he had fallen asleep. He snapped open his eyes and jerked upright, almost losing his hold on his mount.

Ahead of them a burning ball of rock was spiralling towards the earth, a tail of black smoke trailing from its rear to entwine the dragon and the eunuch. Emuel gagged on the stench of sulphur as the smoke rushed against his face. Calabash wheeled to follow the meteor, dipping its wings as it went into a dive, calling out to Piotr as it went.

The roar of the meteor grew louder as they followed it into a steep-sided valley, violet and emerald flames erupting from fissures in the rock, washing the scene below them in a strange, frenetic light.

Emuel could well guess at what lay within the heart of the burning stone, and Calabash and Piotr sang it down to the earth as it streaked low over a desert landscape. They landed almost at the same time as the meteor, the sand thrown into the air by the great rock’s impact falling around them in a glittering rain. Emuel slid from Calabash’s back and tumbled to the ground, where he waited for sensation to return to his limbs.

Ahead of him, the egg that lay in the centre of the glowing pit was bigger than any Emuel had yet seen. It rose over the dragons, its surface a pure obsidian that reflected their questing forms. Calabash moved in close, only to skitter back as the egg cracked with a sound like the breaking of a great slab. A single claw emerged through the rent, dripping with a pale viscous fluid, and Emuel was shocked by its sheer size. It withdraw as the egg shuddered again, the fractures marbling its surface multiplying in number as the creature within battered against its confinement.

Emuel and the dragons flinched as the egg shattered. There was a powerful downdraft as the creature within unfurled its wings, and they looked up as the stars were eclipsed by the dragon’s vast form.

The dragon howled, and the deep, bass sound of its call resonated in Emuel’s skull, bringing on a dizzying wave of nausea that threatened to take him to the edge of consciousness. He stumbled against Calabash, whose own voice harmonised with the monster; Piotr joined in, adding further depth to the song. The creature that now stood before them was more than twice the size of Emuel’s companions, its scaled flesh the same azure as the deity whose face seemed to race through the clouds above them, and indeed the dragon’s flesh appeared to move with the same urgency, the blue scales darkening and lightening in tandem with the god that looked down on them all.

The dragon brought the song to an abrupt end and looked down. Calabash and Piotr bowed their heads, and when Emuel didn’t do the same the azure dragon’s head snaked down — the graceful curve of its long neck reminding Emuel of a swan’s — until it was face-to-face with the eunuch. Emuel looked to either side of him, mentally urging his companions to give him a sign as to what he should do. He was about to reach out his hand and lay his palm against the dragon’s head in a gesture of friendship when — with a great intake of breath that sounded like the wind whistling in a deep cavern — the giant lizard roared.

A foetid wind blasted against Emuel’s face, seeming to sink into his flesh and insinuate itself throughout his body. The eunuch felt his bladder and bowels loosen. He cowered, expecting to be devoured at any moment. Instead, the dragon rose on its haunches, its head held to one side as though it was listening for something.

Hot piss trickling down his leg, Emuel heard it.

From every direction came the response as the dragons spreading across the globe raised their voices, joined by Calabash and Piotr, revelling in the call of their fraternity. The blue dragon grunted and took to the air. Emuel watched it go, amazed that something so vast, so obviously heavy, could fly. He was still watching it snake through the skies when Calabash nudged Emuel onto its back and, followed by Piotr, took off after their new master.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

They had all seen the star finally fall to earth, had felt it as a deep bass thud that made the desert sand shiver. Silus knew, then — looking towards the column of smoke rising from just beyond the horizon — that he could no longer bear the weight of his guilt. If he was going to lead Illiun and his people to their deaths, then he needed confirmation that he was doing the right thing from someone other than Kerberos. Illiun’s story had shaken his faith in the deity, and every kind gesture from the settlers, every act that showed them to be nothing less than entirely human, no matter their origin, made his task all the more difficult.

So he approached Katya as she sat chatting by the campfire and said, “We need to talk.”

She nodded as though she had been expecting this, handed Zac into the care of Rosalind, and let him lead her out beyond the light of the flames.

Away from the camp, Katya turned and was about to open her mouth — let all her worries and fears flood out — when Silus held up his hand, silencing her.

First he told her that he loved her and Zac — no matter what happened to them, that would never change — and then he told her of the task that Kerberos had entrusted him to perform and everything he had learned about this world; explained to her that if it wasn’t carried out then the future history of Twilight would be unwritten.

“I’ve tried to justify it to myself,” Silus said. “After all, what are the deaths of tens of people, compared to millions? But this isn’t as straightforward as destroying the Chadassa; those alien creatures were demonstrably evil. No matter which way you look at it, these… these are people, Katya, human beings, and my god is asking me to murder them.”

Seeing the despair on his face, she took Silus into her arms, and though she still didn’t know how to respond to what he had shared with her, she said, “Shh, it’s okay. I still love you.”

“I don’t know what to do, Katya. How can I stand against a god? And how when the consequences of doing so would be so dire?”

Katya sighed. All the tiredness and the toll that the journey had taken on her were written on her face.

“I suppose that sometimes we just can’t fight against destiny,” she said. “Sometimes it’s impossible to understand the odds we’re up against. You were called, Silus. You told me that yourself. Last time you listened to that call, you helped save Twilight from the Chadassa invasion. This time the threat is harder to understand, but the stakes are higher. This will be our world one day, this is ourworld. We must make sure that nothing happens to interfere with that.”

Silus looked up at the great azure sphere that had set him on this path, and silently cursed the fact that there had to be a god at all. Without Kerberos, life would be so much easier.

A sudden pulse of light washed across the face of the deity and he knew that the time had come to put the final plan into action. But before that happened, he would once more have to commune with Kerberos.

“Katya, promise me that you’ll protect Zac from all of this. He’s too young to understand.”

“I promise. But you have to promise that you won’t hide from us anymore. No matter how strange things get, no matter how dangerous, you mustn’t forget that you are a husband and a father.”

“I promise. I love you.”

He kissed her long and deep, and then went to find Bestion.

Kelos bowed as his audience applauded. The tiny apparition that he had conjured chased the children, who squealed with delight as they tried to escape from the purple bear with the glowing green eyes. Catch them it did, though, before exploding in a cloud of candy-coloured butterflies, each singing an aria before disappearing in a burst of bubbles. The children rolled in the sand, laughing until their eyes leaked and their sides ached. The adults looked on, amazed and delighted by Kelos’s conjurations. Ever since the mage had felt the presence of magic — the source not far distant from them now — he had taken to entertaining the travellers of an evening. Admittedly, he could do little more than basic cantrips and conjurations, but once they reached the source of that raw power, he would be able to do so much more. For now, these small sorceries were like a long drink of cool water on a baking hot day.

“Someone’s enjoying themselves,” Dunsany said, as he stepped into the circle of spectators.

“Ah, ladies and gentlemen,” Kelos said, performing a gesture with his hands that outlined Dunsany’s form in a glittering gold aura. “My beautiful assistant.”

There were wolf-whistles from some and Kelos noticed the appreciative glances of a handful of women, not to mention a couple of men.

“Well, you can’t have him. He’s mine! But for now, my glamorous assistant will help me to demonstrate… the disappearing man!”

“The disappearing man?” Dunsany whispered.

“Yes, the disappearing man. You remember that one, don’t you?” Kelos whispered back.

Dunsany shook his head.

“Back in the day? That grubby little place we had above the butcher’s shop in Allantia? Performing shows twice nightly down at the Broken Oar just to meet the rent?”

“Ah, yes! Sub-dimensional pocket?”

“Sub-dimensional pocket.”

Noticing that the audience was growing restless as the performers whispered between themselves, Kelos produced a sack from the folds of his cloak with a flourish.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the disappearing man!”

Kelos placed the sack on the ground and opened it out before stepping in. He pulled the hessian up around himself and above his shoulders, before finally ducking his head below the opening. Dunsany secured the mouth of the sack with a rope and stepped back.

“Now,” Kelos said from within the sack, “I need absolute silence. Glamorous assistant, will you please intone the words of power? On the count of three: one… two… three!”

“Dissapeariariumanissium!” Dunsany shouted.

Kelos dropped feet-first into the sub-dimensional pocket — the opening to which was located in the base of the sack — before closing it around himself. The air within was musty and the darkness absolute. Sub-dimensional pockets were handy for storage, but weren’t somewhere you’d necessarily want to spend much time. Kelos knew that, above him, the sack would have crumpled, seemingly empty, and he was about to re-emerge with a flourish and reap the applause when he sensed a presence.

Something was pushing against the walls of this mini-dimension. That should have been impossible; nobody but a sorcerer of the highest calibre could intrude on this reality.

A thin line of light drew itself across the darkness before his eyes, as a wickedly curved and lethally sharp talon tore into the wall of the sub-dimensional pocket. There was the sound of voices raised in song — Kelos thought of Emuel — and then the mage was tumbling towards the light, his stomach turning over and over as though he were falling a great distance. He prepared himself for a bone-shattering impact, only to find himself kneeling on all fours, warm sand beneath his palms.

He didn’t dare look up, because he knew that the source of the raw magic he had sensed from far across the desert now stood before him, and the thought of looking upon so much power filled him with terror. He considered that perhaps he was in the presence of an adept shadowmage; one who had mastered control of all the known threads of magic. The low growl that emanated from somewhere above him, however, put paid to that theory.

A great clawed foot thudded into the ground just inches from Kelos’s head, and he cried out. Finally, he looked up.

Nothing that Kelos had read in ancient texts or seen painted onto the walls of Old Race ruins could have prepared him for the sight of the dragons. He felt awestruck, deeply moved and profoundly honoured that he had been graced with the presence of these legendary creatures. Without understanding how, he knew that it was the dragon standing directly before him — its huge azure wings unfurled, its head held proudly to one side — that had plucked him from the sub-dimensional pocket. Although they were just as beautiful, the two smaller dragons flanking it didn’t exude the same raw power; they seemed subservient to the azure dragon, hanging back as it examined the mage. Experimentally, Kelos reached for the threads of sorcery that flowed from the azure dragon, and was stunned by the possibilities they offered. Usually when he prepared a spell, he found only the thread of elemental magic open to him, but here every channel of power was open. The azure dragon — he realised — was magic itself; the very stuff of creation.

“Kelos?”

For a moment he thought he was hallucinating. Being in the presence of concentrated magic tended to have strange effects on the human mind; this would certainly account for the vision of Emuel sat atop the black dragon. The vision called his name again and Kelos decided to play along.

“Emuel… why are you riding a dragon?”

“It is you! It really is!”

The eunuch dropped down from his enormous mount and raced to gather up the mage in a very un-Emuel-like bearhug. Feeling the warmth of the young man against him, Kelos realised that this was no vision.

“Good gods, Emuel! We thought you lost when the Llothriall was destroyed.”

“The spell that was supposed to retrieve the ship backfired, and the Faith retrieved only me and Ignacio. The Order of the Swords of Dawn brought us to find the rest of you, but I got parted from the main party. I don’t know what happened to Ignacio or the Swords, but my friends here rescued me from the desert.”

“Your friends? You do realise what these creatures are, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes. Beautiful aren’t they? The black one, that’s Calabash. Piotr is the silver-grey one over there. The azure one… well, I haven’t named it yet. Really, we’ve only just met.”

“I can’t believe I’m seeing this. All my life I’ve read about these creatures — their role in the cycle of magic, theories on their extinction — but I never, ever thought I’d see one, let alone three. There is such… such power here. Any sorcerer would give their right arm to be where I am right now. The possibilities these creatures open up are almost boundless. In fact…”

So lost in his reverie did Kelos become, that it was only when the eunuch shook his shoulder that he realised he was trying to talk to him.

“…I said, where did you come from? Are the others here?”

“What? Oh… yes, yes. The others. Yes, sorry, Emuel, you’re right. We must get back to them, though I’m afraid to say that Ignacio and his new friends are now amongst their number. No matter. It may be that I can use the power of the dragons myself to perform a sorcery that will send us all back home. Just imagine it! The most audacious spell ever performed, breaking down the boundaries of time and space!”

“Old man, you’re babbling.”

“Sorry, sorry. Quite right, Emuel. Quite right.” Kelos looked up at the stars above him. “Right, I must return and inform the others.”

“In that case, hop up beside me.” Emuel said, mounting Calabash.

“Hop up?”

“Yes. It will be far quicker to fly.”

“Oh, I know that you’re going to fly,” Kelos said, and Emuel noticed that the mage had begun to make strange gestures with his hands, a faraway look in his eyes. “But with the magic flowing from your friend here, I can simply weave a spell to send myself back. I must, after all, prepare our companions for what they are to witness. Be the herald of the good news, as it were.”

And Kelos began to fade from before them, until he disappeared completely.

Dunsany stood beside the empty sack, looking at the faces of the expectant audience and wondering what to do.

When they had performed this trick in the past, Kelos had usually re-emerged well before this point, hungry to reap the applause. However, five minutes had now passed with no sign of the mage, and people were beginning to mutter amongst themselves. Dunsany sighed and opened up the sack.

His gut clenched as he saw that the sub-dimensional pocket had collapsed. Had the artefact taken Kelos with it, perhaps trapping him forever on some other plane of reality?

There was a pop of air being displaced, followed by a gasp from the audience. Dunsany looked up, wondering what could have elicited such a response. At first he couldn’t see anything other than the bemused expressions of the people sitting before him, but then there was a tap on his shoulder and he turned around.

“Ta da!” Kelos said, his arms wide, a smug grin on his face.

Dunsany embraced him, relieved to see his friend safe and well. But then, remembering that they were supposed to be performing a trick, he took his partner’s hand and turned to the audience before leading him in a bow.

The applause was thunderous, and once it died down there were many happy faces drifting back through the camp, to tents and bedrolls; the settlers filled with the wonder that the mage and his impromptu show had brought.

When they were alone, Dunsany turned back to Kelos.

“What the hells happened? That certainly was never part of the original trick.”

“You know the magic that made this little show possible? Well, I’ve found the source!”

“And that made you disappear?”

“Yes. Well… no. It’s complicated. But… Dunsany, here’s the thing. We can use that magic to go home. I can perform the spell to send us back; reverse the magic that brought us here. We don’t even need Kerberos. This…” Kelos swallowed, his words starting to run away from him. “This will be the greatest act of sorcery ever performed by a human being. And if I can bring one of the creatures back with us… You have no idea of the possibilities such power presents!”

“No, you’re right. I really don’t. Look, I think we should speak to Silus about this.”

“I agree. Where would we find him at this hour?”

“The last time I saw him he was with Bestion. I think that the priest was preparing him for communion with Kerberos. It may be that he won’t want to be disturbed.”

“Oh, trust me, Dunsany. When he hears what I have to say, he won’t mind at all.”

Silus had hoped for compassion, leniency. After all, didn’t the Final Faith preach that Kerberos forgave those who truly repented? Admittedly, that repentance was often attainted through the use of torture, or posthumously attributed to the heretics who had died in the flames of the naphtha gibbets; but the possibility of forgiveness was still there. A deity could have a change of heart.

Kerberos had not had a change of heart. Instead, Silus was told to gather everybody together to prepare for the final journey. This night he would lead them further into the desert, there to bring Illiun and the settlers into the presence of the creature who would administer the wrath of a wronged god. As to the nature of this creature, Silus had no idea. He only hoped that whatever death the settlers faced, it would be quick and painless.

When they were gathered before him, Silus tried to take reassurance in how few of them there actually were. What are the deaths of tens of people, compared to millions? he had said to Katya. But though he repeated this to himself as he prepared to speak, he didn’t truly believe it. These were people, not monsters, and they trusted him.

“Kerberos has spoken. We are near our journey’s end and your new home awaits. Just a few hours from here, we will come to a place where you can settle. Here, there will be water, land you can farm — everything you will need to survive. Gather up your belongings, and be ready to leave in an hour.”

As he turned to make his own preparations for departure, he saw Kelos and Dunsany hurrying towards him.

“Good news!” the mage said, as he came to a halt.

“Well, I could certainly do with some of that right now.”

“Why, what’s the matter?” Dunsany said.

“Nothing that you need to worry about. I’ll tell you later.”

“This is going to sound crazy…” Kelos began.

“Crazy, you?” Silus said.

“…but I think that I can send us home myself. I can manipulate the threads to reverse the magic that brought us here, sending us all back to Twilight. We can even bring Illiun and his folk with us; they won’t have to live on this harsh world.”

“And what about Ignacio and the Swords? As soon as we get back home, they’ll simply want to bring them to ‘justice.’ They’ll be escaping from one prison and into another.”

“I’m sure that we’ll think of something. Isn’t getting back the most important thing right now?”

“But Kerberos has promised to send us back.”

“Yes, yes I know that. But… look. It’s not every day that a mage of my standing gets the chance to perform such a spell, and I know that I can do it. Hells, with the access to the power available to me I can do virtually anything! Just give me this chance, Silus, please. You don’t know how important this is to me. You do trust me, don’t you?”

He did. They had fought together on more than one occasion; the mage had risked his life in the fight against the Chadassa and had understood and nurtured Silus’s preternatural powers. More than this, Kelos was a friend. Not only did Silus trust him but, he realised with a start, he trusted him more than his god. If they could return to Twilight with the settlers, then they wouldn’t have to worry about them affecting the past history of this world. Far from being responsible for their deaths, he could actually rescue them.

“What do we have to do?” he said.

“Out there is something that will change everything,” the mage said, pointing into the darkness. “For now, you don’t need to alter your plans at all. Just trust me when the time comes, okay?”

“And just what is out there?”

“Please, Silus. Just give me this one, okay?”

He looked at the anticipation and excitement on Kelos’s face and realised that he couldn’t disappoint him. If there was a chance they could avoid the destruction that Kerberos was planning, then he would take it.

“Still a showman, huh, Kelos?” he said. “Planning for the big reveal?”

“That’s my man,” Dunsany said, throwing an arm around the mage’s shoulders.

“Okay, if you’re sure that it’ll work, I’m happy to go along with it.”

Kelos nodded and embraced Silus, before hurrying away to gather up his possessions.

A S THEY STRUCK out across the desert for the final time, a sense of quiet anticipation settled over the travellers. The few conversations were hushed and brief; most just stared ahead of themselves as they put one foot in front of the other, wondering what they would find over the next rise.

Katya walked beside him, Zac held snugly against her chest. He was fast asleep and, though Silus didn’t want to wake him, he could see that he was weighing his mother down, tiring her quickly.

“Here, let me take him,” he said, and Katya gratefully handed him over.

“Where we going, Daddy?” Zac asked, as he woke to find himself resting against his father’s shoulder.

“Home, Zac. We’re going home.”

“You seem more certain of that now,” Katya said. “It’s almost as if your burden has been lifted.”

He wanted to tell her the good news — wanted to tell everybody — but he didn’t want to deny Kelos his moment.

“I think that everything is going to be alright,” he said.

Katya seemed to accept this and they fell once more into companionable silence.

Though the night was cold, Silus thought that he saw a heat haze shimmering from the sands ahead. Kerberos loomed low in the sky, the bottom edge of the great disk almost touching the horizon. He couldn’t help but feel caught by the gaze of the god. As he stared into the depth of those azure clouds, he saw something silhouetted against them, moving swiftly. Silus turned to Katya, wondering whether she had seen the same thing, but she was looking at the ground, lost in her own thoughts. There was a sound like the screech of an owl, an answering call, and then something else was moving between them and the god. This time, he saw the outline of a vast wing, the tip of a snout. What was that, some kind of bird? He noticed that there were three shapes now and they were flying directly towards them.

“Katya, what do you think those are?”

“What? Oh.”

“What they are,” Kelos said, coming up behind them, “is our way home.”

“Kelos, I’m not sure about this.”

But it was too late. The massive creatures were already wheeling above them, spiralling slowly down.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

As the shadows of the dragons moved across the sand towards them, some drew their swords and others began to back away, ready to make good their escape. Kelos, realising that the expedition was in danger of breaking up before he’d even had the chance to weave his spell, raised his arms.

“Everybody! Do not be afraid, for these creatures are our liberation. They mean you no harm.”

The azure dragon landed first, sinew and muscle creaking as it slowly folded its massive wings. The hairs on the back of Kelos’s arms began to prickle as the creature’s power washed over him. The two other dragons swooped low over the group, causing some of them to stumble and fall, before landing. They sat back on their haunches and watched the azure dragon expectantly.

“Emuel?” Katya said, when she saw the pale figure sliding from the black dragon’s back.

The eunuch raced towards her — ignoring the pointed glare of Ignacio — and threw himself into her arms.

“It’s so good to see you all,” he said.

Silus nodded to the pale young man, seeing how Emuel’s tattoos writhed across his flesh. He could feel the build-up of magic himself, coming from the great winged lizards. He had to hand it to Kelos, he really hadn’t expected this. But there was still that thread of fear; the doubt that the mage really knew what he was doing.

“Are those…?” Katya said.

“Dragons, yes,” Emuel said. “But don’t worry, they rescued me. Kelos thinks that he can use their power to send us all home.”

“I just hope he’s right.” Silus drew his sword.

The grey dragon, Piotr, went sniffing amongst the group of humans, making querying sounds in the back of its throat, occasionally looking back at its larger blue-skinned companion. Calabash sat back on its haunches and looked towards Emuel, its head cocked as though listening out for something.

“Silus,” Illiun said. “What are these things?”

“It’s okay. We’ve had a slight change of plan, that’s all. This way will be better, right Kelos?”

“Oh, yes. Yes indeed.”

The mage turned to the azure dragon, emptying his mind as he reached for the threads. But just as he was about to channel the power of the creature and intone the first words of the spell, it attacked.

From its jaws poured not flames, but tendrils of light.

They flowed slowly, twining around and through each other as they fanned out. Though Kelos was standing in their path, they curled around him, instead seeking others in the group. The light was as fine as gossamer and beautiful, but what happened to those it touched was not.

The man the first tendril alighted on did not appear to be afraid, but that was perhaps because he didn’t fully realise what was happening. It was only as he began to unravel that fear gripped him. There was no blood, no rending of flesh: he simply came apart like a badly woven tapestry, his brief cry quickly snatched away as he spiralled into oblivion. His son, who had watched his father’s appalling dissolution, cried out and charged the azure dragon, his fists clenched and tears streaming from his eyes. However, as he raged against the creature, it simply turned to him, breathed, and he was gone.

Now there was full-blown panic, but Piotr roared and advanced on those attempting escape. Calabash jerked to its feet, but made no further move, instead making an alarmed keening sound as more succumbed to the azure dragon’s wrath. Emuel watched, appalled, as two women dissolved with barely a whisper, forced into the azure light by Piotr. The silver-eyed men tried to protect their masters, swinging crackling staffs. But their weapons were of no use, and they came apart just as easily as the rest.

“Silus, do something!” Illiun shouted.

But Silus was doing precisely what his god had asked of him. The azure dragon was the creature of which Kerberos had spoken. Were he to do nothing more than watch, he would be fulfilling his god’s will. He saw Hannah crying, clutching Rosalind’s hand as the two of them cowered behind Shalim. Silus looked to his own son, and saw the fear and confusion there. He realised what he had to do. This was murder, pure and simple. It didn’t matter that his god has asked it of him, it would end now.

He turned to Katya and Emuel. “Take Zac and run. Don’t stop. Go as far as you can. I will find you.”

Katya clutched Zac to her breast as she and Emuel hurried away, but the press of panicking bodies was growing ever tighter as the dragons hemmed them in, like cattle being driven through the gates of a slaughterhouse. The light of the azure dragon was everywhere, unmaking those it touched. Emuel waited for death to reach them, but then he heard Calabash’s call. Pushing his way through the press of bodies, the stench of fear all around him, he led Katya and Zac to the dragon.

“Emuel, what are you doing?” Katya shouted. “That thing will kill us!”

Calabash brought its head in low and opened its jaws. For a moment, Emuel thought Katya would be proved right, but then the dragon nudged them behind it, shielding them from the slaughter as it stood protectively before them.

Piotr roared as it moved against Shalim, who stood with his fists raised for want of a better weapon. Seeing his friend in danger, Silus ducked under the dragon’s right flank as it swung around, the great sail of its wing soaring over his head and slamming into Shalim’s chest. The man dropped, badly winded, as, behind him, the threads of light sought out his wife and child.

Silus tumbled between Piotr’s hind legs and found himself on his back, looking up at the pale belly of the beast. He drove his sword up, but the blade bowed against the tough flesh, barely making an impression. He was about to try again when the dragon shifted and turned to face him. Now out of the creature’s shadow, Silus saw that Shalim had taken the opportunity to hurry his family away from the site of the massacre, and he urged them to keep going.

Piotr growled, and as it did so Silus saw two great fleshy sacks inflating on either side of its throat; the dragon’s belly might have been armoured by thick hide, but these looked very vulnerable indeed.

Silus feinted to the left; the dragon snapped at empty air and growled in frustration, its neck pouches distending further. Silus came in close and swung his sword, the skin of the pouch above him slowly peeling back as his blade cut deep. A thickly-veined membrane rolled slowly away from the incision, hanging like a goitre. He lashed out again and Piotr cried out as the membrane finally ruptured.

Silus didn’t know what he had expected dragon’s blood to look like, but it wasn’t this pale, almost translucent tide that now washed over him. The substance covered him from head to toe — it was in his eyes, his hair, he could even taste the acrid tang of it at the back of his throat. Whatever this was, he realised, it wasn’t blood. It smelled something like the pitch they used to tar the hulls of ships in Nurn, or the naphtha employed in the immolation of heretics outside Scholten Cathedral.

He wiped his eyes just in time to see Piotr swing round again, its great scimitar-blade teeth only inches from his face as it breathed out. Silus saw something like a spark deep in the dragon’s throat and there was a gust of hot wind. When the beast made a sound like a cough and shook its head, Silus dived beneath its jaws, before leaping back to his feet. Seeing the wound in the dragon’s throat, he struck out again, and this time was rewarded with a rich, amber flow.

As the dragon’s blood drenched him, he felt a peculiar surge of energy. Before he knew what was happening, he was on his knees, darkness descending. He was not afraid, for he saw now that he was beneath the waves and the song of the ocean surrounded him. A weak glimmer of sunlight barely revealed the shapes that moved below, but he knew what they were. After all, their blood ran in his veins.

They opened their arms to welcome him and everything that was human fell away.

Kelosfelt the surge of magic as the dragon’s blood was spilled and saw the terrible change that it wrought upon his friend.

Silus fell, his eyes rolling up until they showed only the whites, his back arching until the mage was sure his spine would snap. Indeed, even from where he stood, he could hear the bones shift. Silus cried out as, all along the curve of his back, black spikes punched through the flesh, blood tricking from the wounds. His shoulder blades realigned and grew, fan-like protrusions slicing through skin and spreading out in quills of black bone. The fingers of his hands elongated, the nails growing into sharp talons. Silus’s screams were muffled as his jaw distended and his gums shrank back from teeth that now looked as keen as blades.

The raw magic in the dragon’s blood had woken that which had lain dormant — or which Silus had suppressed — and the Chadassa nature had become his own.

Kelos watched Silus fight like the creatures who had bequeathed him his powers, with a ferocity and blood-lust that chilled the mage. When the dragon tried to close its jaws around him, Silus’s right arm lashed out and his fist punched through the roof of its mouth. He didn’t need his sword now, and he soon finished Piotr, the amber blood of the dragon soaking the sand around him in a spreading pool.

Seeing its companion slaughtered, the azure dragon raised its head and let out a long ululating call. The answer seemed to come from all around them, and soon Kelos saw dark shapes to the east. From this distance they looked like a flock of crows. More dragons were winging their way towards them, the beat of their wings whipping the desert sands up into spirals as they came in to land.

As the azure light of the dragon had begun to seek out and take apart Illiun’s people, Ignacio led his people in song; the Swords raising their voices to their god in praise of His judgement. Now, however, they clearly had a more pressing concern, as the monster that Silus had become headed their way.

“Die, demon!” one of Ignacio’s companions yelled.

Kelos couldn’t help but admire the man’s determination, but his faith stood him in no stead against the claws of the Chadassa hybrid. He was torn apart within moments, his gore covering his companions as they began to draw their own swords.

This was all going horribly wrong. Kelos had meant the revelation of the dragons to be awe-inspiring, a prelude to the audacious sorcery he would perform to send them all home. Now they were surrounded by more of the terrible creatures, fighting had begun to break out amongst their own kind, and soon Illiun and his people would be entirely eradicated. Kelos no longer had time to carefully channel the power of the azure dragon, but needed immediate access to its magic, and he had just seen the best way to achieve that. He was only sorry that it had come to this; the death of such a magnificent beast would be a tragedy.

Ignacio himself was now facing off against Silus. Unlike his brother in faith, he had fought against the Chadassa before and had already scored a few hits. Bloody red stripes banded Silus’s torso, one so severe that Kelos could see ribs through the wound.

“No!” he shouted, as Ignacio brought his sword to bear once more. “Don’t, I need him.”

Ignacio danced out of the way of Silus’s talons and turned to the mage as he raced towards them. “Keep out of this, Kelos. Much good Silus’s plans have done us. Now let the true agents of Kerberos deal with this.”

“Silus… Silus, look at me,” Kelos said, ducking in front of Ignacio and waving his arms. As ruthless as he knew the newest recruit to the Swords to be, he didn’t think that Ignacio would go through him to get to Silus.

Kelos barely retracted his stomach in time to avoid Silus’s swipe to his torso. Had he been standing an inch closer, he would have been disembowelled.

“That’s it, come to Kelos. You remember me, right?”

He drew Silus back, step by step, taking him ever closer to the azure dragon. Only a few of the settlers remained; Illiun was amongst their number, and he was doing his best to protect the survivors. Kelos could just make out Katya, Emuel and Zac huddling against the flanks of the black dragon, who appeared to be shielding them from the conflict. Katya noticed the mage and raised her hand and smiled, assuring him that they were safe.

Kelos continued to draw Silus onwards and when he felt the heat of the azure dragon at his back, he tumbled to the side, hoping that Silus would now ignore him and switch his priority to the larger target.

Kelos was glad to see his instincts pay off, as Silus launched himself at the dragon.

The mage was hypnotised, for a moment, by the sheer brute violence before him.

The azure dragon was all controlled rage and precise, focused force. Katherine Makennon would give her right arm to acquire such a weapon, Kelos considered. Perhaps, then, it was just as well that he would no longer be attempting to bring any of the dragons back to Twilight.

Somehow, Silus had managed to clamber onto the dragon’s neck; he made a sound that was somewhere between a growl and a scream as he sank his teeth into the creature’s rough hide. Kelos felt the sudden rush of magic as the first drop of the dragon’s blood was spilled, but it wasn’t enough. For the sorcery he intended to perform, he required a full sacrifice.

The mage suddenly ducked as the dragon turned, its tail coming round like the boom of a ship caught by the wind. He regained his feet quickly and backed away, only for a ferocious gale to whip up the sand around him as something moved between him and the sun. Kelos looked up to see more dragons coming in to land.

As the Swords drew their weapons and warily eyed the new arrivals, Kelos hurried to gather up the rest of the group. He was dismayed to see that, besides Illiun, few of the settlers had survived the azure dragon’s attack, though he was relieved to see Shalim, Rosalind and Hannah amongst their number. Bestion remained with the Swords, supporting their assault on the newly-arrived dragons with prayers and chanting. No matter, they would be close enough for the spell to take effect.

Kelos felt the surge of power as more of the azure dragon’s blood was spilled. But when he turned to look, Silus was nowhere to be seen and there were patches of scarlet amongst the pools of amber.

The azure dragon stumbled. It sported a deep gash across one eye and its right wing was hanging by just a few threads of sinew, although there was more than enough fight left in the beast to deal with the remaining humans cowering in its midst. Yet more dragons were darkening the sky, spiralling down to join their companions. Two of the Swords had fallen to claws and teeth, though Ignacio himself still stood and, fighting alongside another of his cadre, brought one of the great winged lizards down. But the magic that bled out of the creature was not sufficiently powerful for what Kelos intended. For that, only the azure dragon’s blood would suffice.

And as the great dragon closed in on them, the mage weighed up their options.

He could, he supposed, use the magic that already surrounded them to kill them all before the dragons had the chance. Instantaneous death by sorcery was surely preferable to the pain they would experience as they were torn apart by these creatures. The only other option was to teleport himself and his companions to elsewhere on this world, but the dragons would find them soon enough and their supplies were likely to run out well before then.

“Daddy! Daddy!” Zac shouted, though it was not a cry of distress but a call of greeting.

Kelos turned, but all he could see were dragons. Then he noticed one of them behaving peculiarly, shaking its head as though trying to free itself of some annoying insect. But what clung to the bony protrusions that grew from the top of the dragon’s skull was no insect.

Silus had dug his clawed feet into the neck of the dragon and was guiding it by yanking its head this way and that, batting its companions aside as it lurched across the sand.

The azure dragon, intent on the humans before it, didn’t see the beast lumbering towards it. As it opened its jaws to strike, Silus force his mount’s skull down and spurred it into a charge. Just before the two creatures struck, he launched himself at the blue-skinned dragon, slamming into its flank and digging in with his claws. He clung to the beast, limpet-like, as it bucked and spun; no matter what it did, it could not dislodge him. When the dragon finally began to tire, its great chest heaving with every breath it took, its cries becoming more and more plaintive, Silus tore open its throat and spilled its rich golden blood across the sand. There was so much of it that it lapped up against Kelos’s heels, the heady stink of it astringent in his nostrils. The thrill of so much power was almost too much, and the mage had to damp down the sorcery he could feel flowing through him, lest the raw magic tear them all apart.

All around them, the dragons raised their voices in a song for their dying master. To them, this may have been the most beautiful of melodies, but to Kelos it sounded like a thousand enraged cats scrapping in a room full of broken harps. They now had only moments before they were torn apart by the enraged beasts, and Kelos tried to shut out their cries as he concentrated on weaving together the threads of sorcery.

There was a sudden stink of ozone and then lightning was striking the ground all around them. Kelos quickly threw up a shield against the rain of actinic fire. Looking up at Kerberos, he grinned.

“Nice try, you bastard. But guess what? We don’t need you anymore. Ladies and gentlemen, please ready yourselves; this may be a bit of a bumpy ride.”

The azure dragon breathed its last and Kelos took the creature’s escaping lifeforce and intermingled it with the power rising from its cooling blood. Then, sensing each and every one of his companions around him, holding their faces in his mind, he began to reverse the spell that had brought them to this godforsaken world.

There was a quiet that put Kelos in mind of a small country church on a weekday afternoon. It was strangely calming, although when he looked around him, the scene was utter chaos. Hearing nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat, he smiled. This was true power, true sorcery; in comparison, everything he had done before had been nothing more than tricks to please the simple-minded. On his return to Twilight he would be lauded as the highest mage on the peninsula. None would be able to equal his power. He could feel the very fabric of existence in his grasp. The ground was crumbling beneath them; the sky was falling with a sigh; stars tumbled and sang and Kelos saw, just for a moment, exactly how everything was put together.

And it was only a simple matter, then, of opening a door and ushering his companions through.

PART THREE

A History Lesson

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

He welcomed the shock of the cold water, letting the sea into himself as he sank into its depths. He called to his brethren, but though they had seemed to surround him just moments before, now there was no sign of them. He looked down at himself and saw that his flesh was changing: its dark hue growing pale, the claws with which he had so joyously shredded the flesh of his enemies receding. He felt diminished, empty. He was the only one of his kind. He was alone. He was Silus.

On remembering his name, everything else fell away like the wisps of a dying nightmare. The last thing Silus could remember was the harsh brightness of the desert and the dragon looming over him, amber blood gushing from a tear in its throat. Now he found himself drifting, looking down into the depths of the ocean. From somewhere nearby came a slow repetitive thud, like the beating of a vast heart.

A flash lit up the water twenty yards to his right. A shockwave buffeted him. Tendrils of blood snaked from his nose, drifting around his face as he blinked away the blotches crowding his vision. When the murk cleared, Silus saw a rain of debris falling slowly to the seabed far below. Turning amongst the shattered spars, shredded cloth and scattered weapons were many bodies, and dismembered parts. Men clawed at their throats as they were sucked down into the darkness, their last breaths escaping them in streams of silver bubbles. They fell through water inky with gore. Shoals of quicksilver fish darted through the blood and viscera, feasting on the offal, some even brave enough to take bites out of men not yet dead.

Silus moved to help, but before he could reach any of the drowning men there was another flash, closer than the first, the explosion stunning him for a moment so that he could do nothing but watch as a sinking ship, trailing bodies in its wake, tumbled towards him.

Sensation returned to his limbs and he darted out of the way of the tumbling vessel, only to become caught up in its wake, dragged down with the lithe, pale bodies that spilled from the dying ship. Just before the darkness became absolute, Silus pushed himself away, striking for a surface painted scarlet, ochre and green by the fires that raged above.

As he emerged, Silus was assaulted by the sounds of battle. Not that he could see the conflict, for a dense fog hung over everything, heavy with the stink of gunpowder. Vast shadows moved within the pall, occasionally emitting gouts of fire, illuminating the water and showing Silus the broken bodies that floated there.

“Silus!” It was Katya, swimming through the dead towards him. “Thank the gods, you’re alright.”

He hugged her so hard that he almost dragged her under.

“Where’s Zac?” he said.

“With the others. Come on.”

She led him to a rowboat, its oars missing and its hull blackened by fire. Within were huddled their companions, starting with each fresh explosion, staring into the fog with fearful expressions. Illiun had survived the assault of the dragons, although of his people only Hannah, Shalim and Rosalind had survived.

“I’m presuming,” Silus said as he scrambled into the boat, followed by his wife, “that this isn’t what you intended, Kelos?”

“No.”

There was a peal of thunder and the water erupted ten yards off to starboard, lifting the boat on a swell that threatened to capsize them.

“Well then, do something!” Silus shouted.

“I can’t,” Kelos said. “The only reason I managed to perform the sorcery in the first place is because I had the blood of a dragon. Here, I don’t have enough power to do it again.”

With a roar, a line of fire arced over their heads, before silence descended. A break in the fog briefly showed them the dull copper disk of the sun and, just beginning to move before it, the azure glow of Kerberos. To port and starboard, shadows loomed, rearing up like cliffs. But cliffs don’t move, and when two vast galleons hove into view, their flanks bearing down on them, panic began to break out in the small vessel.

“Row!” Ignacio shouted.

“With what?” Katya said. “We don’t have any oars.”

Gun ports opened alongside each ship, and they were close enough now that Silus could see the spark of fuses being lit.

He dived overboard, quickly filling his lungs with water, drawing the very essence of the ocean into himself. Positioning himself directly beneath the rowboat, Silus closed his eyes. He focused on the flow of blood through his veins and the movement of the water around him, and opened up a channel; a strong current taking him in its grasp, the water blood-warm and echoing with the beat of his heart. Silus raised his arms and the rowboat was borne aloft on the back of a wave that quickly curled down the narrow channel between the two great ships, just as the sliver of sky above them began to disappear.

The boat sped out onto open water, the power of the wave quickly diminishing. Behind them, the ships’ cannons fired, the galleons erupting in flame, blown to matchsticks in an act of mutual destruction.

“I don’t think that those were Final Faith ships,” Dunsany said. “Just what the hell is going on here?”

“It seems,” Silus said, pulling himself back into the boat, “that Kelos has landed us in the middle of war.”

Ahead of them, the water was crowded with ships. Vessels of all sizes jostled against each other as bodies flung themselves from deck to deck, swords flashing as boarders were repelled and corpses pitched into the churning waters below. Cannon fire punctuated the roar of hand-to-hand combat, ships sinking swiftly as they were holed below the waterline, only for others to just as quickly take their place. Silus had never witnessed naval battle before, but he had always imagined it would be more graceful than this; neatly regimented fleets dancing around each other as they exchanged fire, each side taking their turn as though playing some civilised game of strategy. This was as bloody and chaotic as any land war; perhaps more so, for out on the open water there was nowhere one could retreat to. Once battle was joined, it was all or nothing.

In the confusion, it was difficult to tell who was fighting whom. The combatants appeared to be human, though one side was unnaturally tall — lithe, pale figures who moved with a graceful sure-footedness — while the other was stockier and shorter. It was these latter who appeared to have the upper hand. What they lacked in martial skills and finesse, their ships more than made up for with payloads of heavy munitions. Their cannon balls were barely slowed by the hulls of the enemy vessels, but punched straight through ship after ship before finally falling into the sea. On some of their ships were mounted vast crossbows, their projectiles, when fired, skewering men horribly, their points opening up as they punched into flesh so that the victims could be reeled quickly in and brutally dispatched. Seeing this, Silus couldn’t help but be reminded of the stories he’d heard concerning the whalers of the Sarcrean islands.

A stain was spreading from the waters of the battle, lapping up against the rowboat in oily red waves. Two men were swimming towards them, shouting for help as they floundered. Ignacio rose and held out his hand. One of the men grasped it, babbling his thanks as he tried to gain purchase on the slippery boards, only for Ignacio to lean in close and open up his throat with a dagger. The other man, seeing the fate of his comrade, began to back-paddle, but he was tiring swiftly and the second time his head bobbed beneath the surface, it failed to re-emerge.

“You… you… Ignacio, how could you?” Katya said, her voice quavering. “Zac saw that.”

“And he’s seen worse,” Ignacio said. “Katya, we don’t exactly have a lot of room to move around on this useless dinghy. If we take on any more people, we’ll sink. Someone has to think of these practicalities.”

“Kelos, why did you even bring Ignacio and his new friends with us?” Katya said, exasperated.

“Trust me, Katya, it was as much an accident as me landing us in the middle of a war!”

Ignacio looked back at the handful of Swords who had made it through the time rift with them, but his comrades had nothing to say. They looked just as stunned as everybody else; their righteous ire quashed by everything they had seen.

“That man you just killed,” Kelos said. “Was it just me, or didn’t he look a bit like a… well… an elf?”

“And those short chaps with the deadly cannons…?” Dunsany said.

“Gods, I’ve sent us back to Twilight alright, but we’re in completely the wrong era. This must be the last great war between the elves and the dwarves. I’ve read of the fierce naval battles they engaged in. The dwarves came to naval combat late, but they quickly took to it.”

The boat began to pitch wildly as something beneath them pushed its way to the surface.

For a moment Silus thought that it was a deep-water leviathan, come to find the source of the detritus that was raining down into its territory. But as dark water rolled from the back of the huge barrel-like body, it revealed not flesh, but wood.

“What in the name of Kerberos is that?” Silus said.

The craft was three times the length of the rowboat. From its tail rose a steel fin that swung back and forth with a squeal of metal bearings as the vessel turned to face the conflict. The nose of the craft was a bubble of thick glass that magnified the squat, shirtless man sitting within, sweating profusely as he yanked at levers and twirled the small brass wheels housed between his feet.

“Is that…?” Silus said.

“A dwarf? Yes,” Kelos replied.

The dwarf — looking up briefly from his controls — seemed equally as surprised to see them, but then the vessel was past, the corkscrew propeller at its rear kicking up a crimson spray. It came to a halt about five yards from the battle and a hatch opened up in its back. Steam wafted from the opening as the dwarf climbed onto the roof of his ship, pulling a golden robe around himself. He faced the battle and threw up his arms. As he did so, a dozen ships disappeared, sucked swiftly under by the whirlpools that now raged at the heart of the conflict. The dwarf gestured again and lightning lanced down from the cloudless sky. The stench of cooking flesh drifted towards them, as those who still floundered in the raging waters were cooked in an instant.

“That’s nothing,” said Kelos. “I could do that, with enough practice.”

The dwarf gestured again and the gold thread of his robe unravelled, spinning itself around him in a shimmering cocoon.

“That, I admit, I would have trouble with.”

However, the dwarf’s magical protection proved to be for naught. One of the elven ships swung about and there was the report of a single cannon. A few heartbeats later, the dwarf and his fantastical vessel were reduced to a shower of gore and splinters.

“That was way too close for comfort,” Katya said, as the rowboat bobbed alarmingly on the swell.

Silus looked around for signs of further dwarven submersibles, but the craft they had seen appeared to have been unique.

“Such a shame,” Kelos said. “I’d have loved to be able to examine that wondrous device.”

Despite having taken such heavy losses from the mage’s assault, the elves battled on, throwing themselves at the dwarves even as their ships burned or fell to bits around them. Silus saw an elf woman climbing the rigging of a ship as the sea slowly claimed it. Gaining the crow’s nest, she turned to face in their direction. When she sang, her voice cut through the roar of the battle, the delicate and complex song finding its own place at the heart of the maelstrom. For a moment, Silus thought that the song was just for him, that the elf had recognised in him a kindred soul, but then a comment from Emuel made him turn.

“Lord of All, there’s a whole fleet of them!”

The ships sailing towards them now far outclassed any of those currently engaged in the conflict. Silus counted at least twenty vessels, with more shimmering into existence beyond them, wreathed in the flames of sorcery. The sails of the ships billowed silently with a wind that had nothing to do with the weather, the sail cloth shining with a rainbow sheen like oil moving on water. The figurehead at the prow of each vessel had been sculpted into the likeness of an elf maiden, and the mouths of these wooden women sang a harmony to complete the song calling to them.

“Song ships,” Emuel said. “The ancestors of the Llothriall.”

Tears were rolling down Emuel’s face as he answered with a song of his own, the tattoos on his body writhing as they responded to the magic.

The fleet began to move past them. The ships were far larger than any they had so far seen, yet left no wake.

The dwarves had spotted the newly-arrived elf fleet and let loose with a barrage of cannon fire. But though their aim was true, their missiles turned to dust the moment they closed on the ships. Silus expected to see decks bristling with soldiers, readying themselves for boarding actions, but on the deck of each song ship stood only a single figure. The elf fleet closed swiftly around the enemy ships, encircling them. The dwarf ships, in a final act of desperation, exhausted their magazines in a deafening salvo that lit up the sea for miles around and obscured both the fleets in a stinking fog. But when the mists cleared, the elf ships were still there, their hulls unmarked and the song unbroken.

Figures began to plunge into the sea, as dwarves threw themselves overboard, clearly deciding that attempting to swim for it was preferable to what the elves had in store. Silus wondered how a magic so beautiful — this sorcery written in song — could be so feared, but then the melody changed and the cadence grew more frantic and he discovered exactly what the dwarves so dreaded.

Emuel had closed his eyes to be better able to focus on the song, opening himself up to its ethereal power. This was beyond anything he had heard before, beyond even the song of the Stone Seers which had once so filled him with awe. It was a song of protection: a nurturing, calming melody that enfolded him like a mother’s arms. Within it, he knew no harm would come to him. But then, something changed. The transition was so subtle that Emuel didn’t realise the true nature of this new song even as he began to mouth the words. There was a sense of mild irritation, an annoyance that spread through him, swiftly turning into rage; he opened his eyes to see the tattoos that covered every inch of his body tearing at each other like savage beasts. A creature moved through the thicket of black ink thorns that now entwined his right arm, and when Emuel saw its baleful gaze, he was certain that the monster would have launched itself at him had it not been imprisoned by his flesh.

While the song had a marked effect on the eunuch, on the dwarves it was more profound.

They had begun fighting — not against the elves, but amongst themselves.

Emuel saw a female dwarf throttling a male. She knocked him cold before hoisting a cannon ball high over his head and letting go. The dwarf’s skull shattered, driven into the deck beneath him by the impact of the heavy iron sphere. Elsewhere, former comrades were pitted against each other — all military training forsaken as they sought the quickest kill, no matter how messy or brutal the means. Decks were soon running with blood, the bodies piling up swiftly on the planks — survivor turning on survivor until the last dwarf standing, seeing that there was none left to fight, turned his weapon on himself and took his own life. Even in death, however, the dwarves found no peace, for from the throats of the corpses came the song that had destroyed them, its dreadful low cadence a funeral dirge that chilled Emuel’s blood.

He looked to his companions to gauge their reactions to what had just taken place, and was appalled to see them turning blank gazes on one another as the song overwhelmed them. Emuel tried to interject, but his protestations did little but earn him a bloodied nose from Dunsany. The song was coming from his companions’ throats as they tore into each other and, listening to its dreadful sound, Emuel realised what he had to do.

Managing to compose himself, even in the midst of the chaos surrounding him, Emuel sang; a sheen of sweat beading his brow as he concentrated on countering the music of the elves. When Ignacio drew his sword and swung back his arm to take a swipe at Katya, Emuel almost faltered, but finally he found the heart of the music.

Ignacio’s weapon dropped from suddenly slack fingers and he looked down at Katya as though unsure as to why she was kneeling before him. She looked up in turn, an expression of confusion written upon her face.

“Ignacio, what are you doing?” she said.

“I don’t know. I can’t remember the last few moments at all. What happened? Why is Emuel singing?”

Emuel’s song came to an end at the same time as the elves’.

Silus looked at the now silent dwarf vessels and immediately shielded Zac’s eyes from the horrendous carnage.

“What did they do?” he said.

“They sang,” Emuel said. “Their song did this.”

“I think that they heard you,” Katya said as one of the song ships broke away from the fleet and headed their way.

There was more than the solitary figure they had seen earlier on the deck, now; a whole host of curious faces looked down at them as the vessel drew alongside the boat. There was urgent, muffled conversation from above, before a rope ladder unrolled down the side of the ship, thudding against the planks.

“An invitation?” Kelos said.

“But what if it’s not safe?” Katya said.

“Really, I don’t think we have many options here. We either stay on this oarless boat, and eventually die of thirst, or we join the elves.”

Illiun looked up. “These people, they are very different from yourselves. Is this place truly your home?”

“Yes,” Kelos said. “Well, no. Look, it’s complicated. We’re a few years out, is all.

“ A few!” Silus said.

“Okay, several thousand.”

“Come on,” Dunsany said. “I for one can’t wait to meet our hosts and examine their magnificent ship.”

“Just don’t try stealing it,” Kelos said.

“As if I would.”

Emuel followed his companions as they made their way up the side of the ship, glancing up once to look at the pale faces that gazed down upon them.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Standing at the prow of the song ship, Silus recognised the familiar curve of the north shore of Allantia, but that was all he recognised. Where he expected to see the south of the island curving gently back down to the sea, instead it continued unbroken — its gentle hills dotted with pasture and woodland — all the way to what must be (or would one day become) Freiport. Allantia was thus connected to the mainland, not an island at all, and Silus wondered what cataclysmic future event would lead to its separation from the peninsula.

The fleet hugged the shore as it tacked to the west, eventually entering a half-moon bay. At its head sat the largest harbour Silus had ever seen. Yet more song ships were berthed there in ordered ranks, their tarred hulls gleaming, the odour of magic pouring off them, distinct even at this distance. But even more impressive than the elven fleet was the city that lay beyond the harbour, shining in the midday sun. It marched up the tiers of the surrounding cliffs, each layer meticulously constructed so that nothing was out of place, and carriages ascended and descended the slopes with no obvious means of propulsion.

Silus’s eyes were naturally drawn to the building that graced the headland like a crown, its many wings encircling the entire apex of the bay in marble and glass. Above this palace — for what else could it be? — the sky was just as busy as the waters of the harbour. Tethered balloons bobbed gently in the light wind rolling from the headland, while men with wings of canvas and wood leapt from platforms, swooping over the city before heading out to sea or circling back inland. Silus had heard stories of wondrous elven cities, but the only remnants of these that the people of his own time had found were broken pots or shattered archways, nothing to suggest anything on this scale. He wondered what event would so meticulously remove such settlements from the map and leave little more than dust in its wake. Could the elves or the dwarves have an inkling of the apocalypse heading their way?

The elves on the song ship had been quiet — even dismissive — during much of the voyage, interacting with their human guests as little as possible, beyond making sure they were fed and kept warm. Silus had expected that they would at least be questioned about their presence at the battle, but if the elves had any curiosity about this they hid it well.

“It’s true that I never thought I’d see Twilight again,” Katya said, coming up behind Silus and slipping an arm around his shoulder, “but even if I had, I never imagined I’d see it quite like this.”

Zac clutched her left hand, looking goggle-eyed at the approaching city and squealing with delight when he spotted the balloons drifting high above it.

“It makes our home, our own time, seem dull by comparison, don’t you think?” Silus said.

“I can honestly say that life with you has never been dull.”

There was a rattle of a chain and then a great splash as the anchor hit the water.

Their companions joined them on deck as the gangplank was lowered to the quay. One of the elves gestured to them to disembark; Silus thanked him, and he looked away and frowned as though, in speaking, Silus had somehow offended the elf.

“This is your home?” Illiun said, when they stepped ashore.

“Yes and no,” Silus said. “It is our home, but our home as it used to be a very long time ago. If you see what I mean.”

“No, not really.”

It would take a while for Illiun to get used to their new situation, Silus considered. At least, here, they didn’t have dragons to contend with. He looked up at Kerberos, which appeared almost serene as a skein of light cloud drifted across its face. The god had been silent thus far and Silus had no intention of opening himself up to its influence.

An elf led them to one of the carriages he had noticed earlier. They seated themselves on the low benches and, with a shudder and a jolt, it started moving. Silus turned to see that they were ascending a gleaming set of rails.

The elf stood in front of the door through which they had entered, his arms folded, his expression blank.

“Don’t talk much, do they?” Dunsany said.

“I get the impression,” Emuel said, “that they don’t like us very much. Certainly no one on the song ship would talk with me.”

“They did come across us in the middle of a conflict,” Silus said. “It’s natural they’re suspicious. They probably think we’re spying for the dwarves.”

“I blame Zac,” Kelos said. “I mean, look at him, he looks shifty enough to be a spy.”

“Spy!” Zac shouted, pointing at the elf, and Katya burst out laughing, although she soon stopped when the elf’s expression darkened.

The carriage silently ascended the city and Silus watched as a procession of buildings rolled past. Each tier of the metropolis appeared to have been built to a specific function.

The first level was given over to industry: smoke billowed from workshops and smithies rang to the sounds of weapons being crafted. In an open yard, Silus saw ranks of looms, their shuttles zipping back and forth as the men and women working them produced yard after yard of shimmering material; the same cloth, he realised, that was used for the song ships’ sails.

The second tier was almost as noisy as the first, housing, as it did, the city’s nurseries. The children Silus saw there may have been elves, but they ran and shouted and sang and cried and screamed just like any other infant. Zac reached out as they passed, clearly distressed that he wasn’t going to be able to join in with the fun.

The tiers became less noisy as they ascended. The pale marble buildings of the upper levels were light and airy, sporting many archways and windows. Within, elves were engaged in a variety of studious activities. Scholars strolled through sun-lanced cloisters, their attention focused on the texts raised before their faces, while in another district there was the unmistakable staccato flash of sorcery being used and strange chemical smells wafting from open windows.

The penultimate tier was where the city barracked its army. Silus saw into a courtyard packed with soldiers in orderly ranks, listening to the bellowing of an elaborately uniformed man as he strutted before them like an enraged peacock.

The carriage finally came to a halt at the apex of the city and the door opened onto a wide, tree-lined avenue leading all the way to the palace entrance. Their silent chaperone was the first to alight, and he led them at a brisk pace towards the vast building.

It was then that they got their first glimpse of the only humans, besides themselves, they had seen since arriving.

Stooped amongst flowerbeds or perched on ladders high within fruit trees, the men and women looked up as they passed. They appeared surprised — even shocked — to see the entourage being led towards the palace, but when the elf leading the visitors glanced their way, they instantly dropped their gazes and engaged themselves intently in their tasks. There was something strange about these humans’ appearance: their noses were wide and slightly flattened, the irises of their eyes so large and dark that they almost occluded the whites, while their flesh was pale with the slightest hint of blue.

“Excuse me,” Silus said, hurrying to catch up with the elf. “Who are those people?”

There was no reply. Instead, the elf strode up to a pair of massive double doors and rapped upon them, before briskly turning on his heel and marching away.

“Nice to meet you too,” Dunsany shouted after him. “Thanks awfully for your hospitality.”

The doors were opened by two simply-dressed and equally silent elves, who seemed to be struggling to hide their disdain for the humans before them. They nodded once in acknowledgement before turning and striding down the great hall, looking back over their shoulders once, briefly, to make sure their charges were following.

On the walls of the hall hung enormous portraits — darkened with age, their oils cracked and flaking — depicting what Silus assumed were elf nobles. In recesses at regular intervals were all manner of dull-looking antiquities: cracked urns, vases of dark-green stone and tarnished weapons. Overhead, the ceiling had obviously once been a riot of colour, but the fresco that adorned the stonework had long since fallen into disrepair, the fantastical creatures and beings that looked down upon them appearing almost saddened by the decay.

They reached the far end of the hall and the elves opened another huge set of double doors. Inside, the gloom was even greater than that through which they had just passed. Silus blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust, and wondered what the function of this chamber could be, until, at the far end of the room, two chairs resolved themselves from the surrounding darkness. Upon them sat an elderly elf couple, staring dead ahead, their expressions fixed, as if they had been sat like that for quite some time. They wore plain grey robes and on their heads were copper crowns, unpolished and unadorned. Scattered around their feet lay what appeared to be the remains of previous meals: small bones, dried fruit peel and curled husks of bread.

Their chaperones bowed to the regal couple before departing.

Silus waited for the elves to speak and only when he cleared his throat was there the merest glimmer of acknowledgment in their eyes.

The man seated on their left took an unsteady breath. “The humans,” he said.

“Yes,” Silus said, and for a moment it seemed like that was to be the entirety of their conversation, but then the woman blinked and shook her head.

“We do apologise,” she said. “We have been meditating for such a long time that we were, at first, unaware of your presence. Please, let us provide you with refreshments.”

She pulled a bell rope and moments later a human servant entered (as pale and stooped as her companions outside), carrying a tray of cups. Silus had expected the proffered drink to be a fine wine or sherry, but it was water: lukewarm and somewhat brackish. He saw several of his companions subtly pouring it on the floor, rather than allowing it to pass their lips.

“I am Llorithrian, ruler of this city,” the man said. “And this is Nualla, my wife and commander-in-chief of our armed forces. I must say, you were the last thing our sailors were expecting to find in the midst of the conflict. Have you come from one of the camps, on the east coast, perhaps?”

“Camps?” Silus said. “No, we didn’t come from a camp.”

“You seem unusually… evolved,” Nualla said. “I had heard rumours that the humans were developing at a more rapid pace that we had at first anticipated, but you are the first we’ve seen to give credence to the rumours.”

Silus remembered what Kerberos has revealed to him all that time ago; that the human race had been created by the elves, evolved by magical means from the dying aquatic race known as the Calma. Which would be why, he realised, the unusual appearance of the humans he had seen in the city. They were considerably closer to their aquatic roots than the humans he knew. But what was this talk of camps, and why had the humans they had seen all been engaged in servile tasks? Had the elves created the human race only to use them as slaves and menials?

“If you are not from one of the camps,” Llorithrian said, “then where are you from?”

“Here. Twilight,” Kelos said. “But a Twilight far in your future. I used sorcery to create a rift in time and space, attempting to send us all home, but instead we find ourselves stranded, thousands of years in our past.”

“ You are from our future?” Llorithrian said.

“Yes.”

“Then what can you tell us of the elven race millennia from now? Have we finally vanquished the dwarves? Has our empire gone from strength to strength? Have we-”

“Llorithrian, please!” Nualla said, cutting off her husband’s stream of questions. “Can you not see that our guests are tired?”

“Of course, of course. I’m sorry. These are questions our scholars will no doubt ask you in the fullness of time. Such an extraordinary claim will have to be thoroughly investigated. For now, you must remain in the palace. We will, of course, see that your needs are attended to.”

Llorithrian pulled the bell rope again and the same servant who had earlier served them drinks entered.

“Please show our guests to their quarters.”

Silus was more tired than he had ever been, and he was looking forward to snuggling up in a luxurious bed beside his wife, while Zac slumbered contentedly nearby, but the room to which they were led would have looked more at home in a boarding school or a barracks than a palace. There was to be no privacy; ranks of narrow single beds marched away from them, covered with thin grey blankets and straw-stuffed pillows. Beside each bed was a battered steel chamber pot and a pitcher of water. There were no windows and the room was barely illuminated by the tapers that flickered and guttered in the candelabra high above them.

Silus was about to turn and ask the servant a question when the door was closed and locked from the other side.

“Wow. Talk about hospitality,” Dunsany said.

“At least we’re safe,” Illiun said. “Even this is preferable to what we have been used to over the past few days.”

“True,” Silus said. “I’m sure that they will give us our own rooms once they’ve had a chance to talk to us properly.”

The faces of his companions told him they weren’t quite as sure as he.

Sixteen of them had made it through the time rift. Besides Illiun, only five of his people had survived the attack of the dragons: Rosalind, Hannah, Shalim and two harrowed-looking men. None of the silver-eyed men had made it, though Illiun was still in possession of one of their translation staffs. Ignacio and his company of Swords had been similarly decimated, with only three Final Faith warriors now amongst their number. Emuel, Katya, Zac, Dunsany, Kelos and Bestion all looked ravaged by the trials they had been through, and their desire to return home and be done with all this was written plainly on their faces. But here they were: a hundred miles or more and thousands of years from their homes. Silus realised that they would probably never return, and there was nothing he could do; he could certainly no longer turn to his god for help.

He settled himself on one of the cots and looked up at the wavering darkness above them.

“Well, we may as well get some rest while we can,” he said. “I’ve a feeling it’s going to be a long night.”

Some time later — Silus wasn’t sure how much later, though he noticed that only one of the candles above him was still lit — there was the sound of the door being unlocked and a female elf entered, dressed in plain clothes and carrying a sheaf of papers. These she consulted before looking out across the room.

“Kelos.”

“Yes?” the mage said.

“Will you come with me, please?”

Kelos looked at his companions, as though unsure as to whether he should resist or not.

“Go on,” Dunsany said. “What harm can they do? They’re elves. History talks of them as a genteel race.”

“Yes, quite right. Please, lead on.”

Kelos watched the woman lock the door before following her along a wide corridor, up several flights of precipitous stairs and to a light airy room that looked out over a view of the city.

“Impressive,” Kelos said, standing before the floor-to-ceiling windows. A gull rose beyond the edge of the cliff, riding a thermal in front of him, before turning to catch the wind.

“Please,” the woman said, “be seated.”

She gestured to a chair in front of a desk and then sat herself on the opposite side.

“I understand that you used sorcery to” — she paused to look at her papers — “create a rift in space and time, which brought you here. What were you trying to escape?”

“A god.”

“A god?”

“Yes, Kerberos.”

“Interesting. I understand that some do indeed believe Kerberos to be a deity. The worship of Kerberos has become particularly prevalent amongst the humans. Do all worship Kerberos in your time?”

“Most people don’t have a choice.”

“And why were you trying to escape the god?”

“We angered Kerberos by harbouring fugitives that He had been seeking to destroy.”

Seeing the expression of confusion on the woman’s face, Kelos explained about Illiun and his people; how Kerberos had consumed the god that once looked down on their planet and how Illiun had lead a group of exiles into the void, hoping to escape the anger of the usurper god, only to be pursued across the millennia.

“I can’t claim to fully understand you,” said the woman, “but I do know someone who will want to talk to you.”

The elf walked over to the wall, where an extendible brass tube sat in its housing. This she raised to her lips.

“Keldren, please. Yes, I do mean Keldren. Thank you.” There was a long pause, during which the woman looked at Kelos, her gaze unwavering. The mage felt like he was being stripped bare by her scrutiny. “What? Yes, it is she. I have someone I believe you are going to want to talk to. It concerns Kerberos, amongst other things. Yes, we’ll wait.”

The woman slid the tube back into its housing before re-taking her seat. She didn’t say anything, but instead resumed her study of Kelos. He began to squirm under her gaze, before looking out of the window and humming a tune to himself.

Eventually the door opened and an elderly elf male entered. He blinked and shielded his eyes against the light flooding the room. “You wanted to see me?”

“Keldren. Your studies take in Kerberos, and related religious belief within human culture?”

“I thought that no one cared. I must admit, I’m somewhat flattered.”

“I make sure I know of all our academics and their studies, Keldren. At any rate, I believe that you will want to speak to our guest, Kelos. It sounds like he’s had rather an interesting experience concerning Kerberos.”

The elderly man shuffled over and brought his face close to Kelos’s own. “What an unusual example of his race.”

“Kelos is something of a special case. He claims to come from the future, having been displaced in time due to sorcery.”

“Really? How extraordinary.”

“Indeed. I believe that you two have much to discuss. Keldren, if you wouldn’t mind?”

The woman bent to her papers again, making it clear that they were both dismissed.

“A human sorcerer, ” Keldren muttered to himself as he led Kelos through the palace. “How extraordinary.”

“Then the humans amongst you aren’t magic users?” Kelos said.

“No. Nor would they be allowed access to magic even if they had the ability to wield the threads. I must say that you are most eloquent for a human.”

“Thank you, I think.”

They had descended so far through the palace that Kelos reckoned they must now be deep within the cliffs upon which the city was built, perhaps even below sea level. Indeed, there was a distinct briny odour to the air and, in places, the stone walls were covered with barnacles.

“I know,” Keldren said, noting Kelos taking in their surroundings. “It’s not ideal. The atmosphere plays havoc with my texts, and these tunnels are often flooded. If it weren’t for the protective wards I commissioned — at my own expense, I must add — my library, and I along with it, would have been washed away long ago. My area of expertise is rather obscure, so, alas, I find myself relegated to the sub-levels. I suppose I should be grateful that I have a room in the palace at all.”

The room was hardly in the palace, Kelos considered, but he didn’t say anything as the silver-haired man unlocked a door slimed by gelatinous moulds and ushered him into the damp room beyond.

Despite the less than ideal surroundings, Kelos had to admit that Keldren was in possession of a most impressive library. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled every wall, and he couldn’t help but examine the wealth of literature with avarice. With an academic thrill, he recognised some of the titles on the spines; works that would, in his own time, be some of the most sought-after magical texts. And here they were, in pristine condition.

“My gods,” Kelos said. “You have Treatises on Dwarven Stone Magic and… and is that Calma Theology and Related Aquatic Magical Thinking and Practice? I’d heard, but never, ever thought I’d see…”

He was momentarily struck dumb by wonder as he fingered the binding of the legendary work, noticing, as he did so, that the gold foiling appeared to be brand new.

“What? Oh, yes, I had that bound last year. But how can you have heard of it? I only had five copies of the work produced and I’m fairly certain I’m the only one to have actually read the thing. Sad, really, seeing as I’m the author. But, like I said, my studies do tend to be confined to the more obscure subjects.”

“Hang on, you’re the… Of course, why didn’t it strike me earlier? You’re Keldren Dremos Enthrold!”

“You have heard of me?”

“Heard of you? Your name is legendary amongst practitioners of sorcery, your works the most prized! I must say that I’m a massive, massive fan. I adore Sea Water: Divination, Transformation and Communication. I practically based my entire study of elemental magic on it!” Kelos saw the blank look on Keldren’s face. “Oh… of course. Sorry, you probably haven’t written that one yet. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. Anyway, Dwarven Stone Magic is equally as brilliant.”

Keldren grinned, the delight transforming his face into the features of one more youthful. “I say! I didn’t think anyone cared. It’s marvellous, just simply marvellous, to meet one such as yourself who appreciates my studies. It’s nice to know that I make a difference. My works persevere, even if the elven empire doesn’t.”

“That’s a somewhat pessimistic view to take, don’t you think?”

“It’s true though, isn’t it?” When Kelos didn’t answer, Keldren nodded. “Which bring us to Kerberos. Tell me, what do you know of that most unusual entity?”

Kelos told him of everything he and his companions had been through: how Silus had developed a unique ability to commune with the god; how Kerberos had used its powers to save Twilight from an invasion of the Chadassa, and how they had discovered a more sinister side to the god when they had met Illiun and his band of interstellar refugees. He also told Keldren of the Final Faith, and how it used military fear to enforce belief in Kerberos as a god.

“I have certainly observed the roots of the Final Faith in the humans of our time,” Keldren said. “And I can understand why some may consider Kerberos a god. But the central tenet of the Final Faith is incorrect. Kerberos is not the one true god. Kerberos is just one of what was once a pantheon of beings” — Keldren moved over to one of the bookcases — “and, if I am correct in my supposition, there were twelve such entities.” He reached up and tugged at the spine of a huge book, which shifted a few inches before becoming jammed. “Would you mind…?”

“What? Oh, yes, of course.”

Kelos helped the academic wrestle the mighty tome out of its niche. When they finally freed it, it took the two of them to lug it over to a bookstand. The boards of the cover had become warped, no doubt due to the damp atmosphere, and when Keldren threw open the book, a shower of dead silverfish drifted to the floor.

“Now, where were we? Rather interesting volume, this, you know. Found it in the remains of an ancient ship. Anyway… Ah yes, one of the twelve, but we only know the names of five of the pantheon. Kerberos you know. There are — or rather were — also Chazra-Ney, Rehastt, Faranoon, and Hel’ss. Of these, only Kerberos and Hel’ss remain.”

“What happened to the others? Were they consumed, just as Kerberos consumed the god of Illiun’s homeworld?”

“You’ve hit the nail on the head, my friend. You see, the beings of the pantheon are constantly at war. Academics have speculated, of course, but the origins of this antagonism are simply unknowable. What we do know, however, is that during the course of this conflict several of these beings have consumed each other. In doing so, they grow in power.

“These beings — gods, if you like — thrive on the life energies of the planets they shape. For instance, Kerberos feeds on the energy of the departing souls of this world. So, your Final Faith has something when they say our souls fly to the clouds of Kerberos when we die. Without us, Kerberos’s power would diminish and it would eventually perish, burning out like a dying star. And the conflict is far from over. The two remaining entities covet each other’s creations and the lives that enrich them, and it will only be a matter of time before Hel’ss shows its hand and launches an attack on Kerberos. When that happens, it could mean the end of everything.” Keldren noticed Kelos blanch. “Oh, there’s no need to be alarmed. Hel’ss won’t enter the orbit of our world for a good long while yet.”

“How long do we have?”

Keldren opened a drawer and took out a long vellum scroll, which he rolled out onto a table. Kelos saw star charts and calendars inked on the soft leather.

“Hel’ss will enter Twilight’s orbit on… well, see for yourself,” Keldren said, pointing to a date on the scroll.

“That’s… why, that’s next year. I mean… I mean it will be next year, in our time, as it were. There must be something we can do! It… we have to get back. Warn everybody.”

But even as he said the words, Kelos realised that there was genuinely nothing he could do. He just didn’t have the power to take them all home. Just as the god of Illiun’s world had been consumed by Kerberos, Kerberos would be consumed by Hel’ss. Their world would end.

“Take comfort in the fact that you are safe here,” Keldren said, laying a hand on Kelos’s shoulder. “You shall die long before the final battle between Hel’ss and Kerberos. Anyway, that is entirely by the bye, since you and your companions will not be allowed to leave the city.”

There was something Kelos didn’t like about Keldren’s tone, and he turned to see that the academic’s expression had darkened.

“You can’t keep us here, surely?”

“Oh, but we can. You are humans; you were created by the elves to serve. And, besides, as unusually evolved examples of your race you must be studied.”

“This is outrageous! We’re not subjects in some scientific experiment.”

“All I can promise is that I will supervise your treatment myself, Kelos, along with those companions of yours… Emuel and Silus, was it? As magic users, they too must be studied.”

“And what will happen to the rest?”

“They will go to the camps. They will be treated well.”

Having already seen the humans in the city, Kelos doubted this very much.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The last thing Katya could recall was eating the meal of thin, peppery gruel the servant brought them, some hours after Kelos had been taken away.

When she opened her eyes, it was obvious they were no longer in the palace dormitory. The ceiling here was much lower and the room considerably smaller. By the light of the weak fire that guttered in the centre of the room, she could just make out the mounds of bodies scattered across the earth floor. Several of them were groaning as they came to. A hand reached from the darkness and gripped her arm; she turned to see Dunsany struggling out of sleep.

“Gods, my head!”

“It was the food,” Katya said. “The bastards drugged us. Where are Silus and Zac? Zac! Silus!”

When there was no response Katya ran to the door, but however hard she tugged on it, it wouldn’t open.

“Where is my son?” she shouted at the iron-banded planks. “What have you done with my child?”

“They separate the adults from the children,” a voice said, the speaker hunched by the fire, wrapped in a dirty cloak. “You won’t see him again.”

“But… this is monstrous. We’re not slaves!”

“You’re human, aren’t you?”

“Well, yes.”

“Then it’s no more than you deserve. It’s what we are. The elves made us. The elves own us.”

The cloaked figure drew back its hood. The pale face that looked up at her reminded Katya of the workers they had seen outside the palace. The man’s expression was blank, almost imbecilic, and his large round eyes seemed to absorb the firelight.

“You know,” Dunsany said. “One day you will be far more than slaves. The human race will rule this land. The elves and the dwarves will be mere memories; stories we tell our children.”

The man chuckled thickly.

“Get some rest, for now,” he said. “Work starts soon.”

“Work?” Katya asked, but he would say no more.

She found it impossible to rest. The anger that burned within her demanded focus, but she could hardly rage at her companions, and all her pounding on the door achieved was bleeding fists. Silus, Zac, Kelos and Emuel had been taken away, the rest of them discarded like so much human trash.

“I swear to the gods, Dunsany. The first pointy-eared bastard that comes through that door is going to get my fist right in its face.”

Several hours later, there was the sound of bolts being drawn back and Katya leapt to her feet. But when she launched herself at the tall, lithe woman who entered the room there was a crimson flash, and a smell of burning hair, and darkness swiftly descended.

Zac may have only recently just learned to walk, but he could crawl alright, and that was all that was required of him. He was gathered with the other human children before a vast wall, its apex lost far above them in the gloom of the cavern. Deep holes had been tunnelled into the wall at regular intervals, and it was in front of these that they now stood. The man who had led them down here had handed each child two glazed clay balls. He told the children that all they had to do was crawl as far as they could into their assigned tunnel, before dropping the balls and crawling quickly out again. It was a game, he said. But people who played games didn’t generally look as terrified as the children around him, Zac considered, and, anyway, what sort of game did you play deep underground, in tunnels lit only by the glowing minerals veined through the rock walls? Because Zac was so young, he was given into the care of a slightly older child, one who had more grasp on what they were being told.

“And remember,” the man said. “When everybody gets back out of their tunnel, we all have to run away, really really fast. The first one out gets a prize. Sound fun?”

The man may have been using the language of play, but his face was deadly serious, cruelly stern. Already some of the infants in the group had started to cry. Fat tears trickling through the dust on their cheeks; snot heavy with grime pouring from their nostrils.

By the look on the man’s face, he wished he could slap the children into silence. But he didn’t.

“Okay, everybody before their tunnels. Good. Now, on three. One. Two. Three. Go!”

Zac hesitated for just a second before following his companion into the narrow slit in the cold rock wall. Within, he could barely move his shoulders, but the man shouted something behind him and, remembering his angry face, Zac forced himself onwards. For a while he could hear the shuffling and sniffling of children in adjacent tunnels, but as they went deeper that soon faded away, until the only sound was their breathing. Zac couldn’t see a thing, and he thought that maybe this wasn’t a game at all; that they would be trapped here in this never-ending darkness and he would never see Mummy and Daddy again. Zac had been in frightening situations before, had seen many scary things (like the monster Daddy had turned into), but none of them had been as terrifying, or as lonely, as this. He began to cry.

“Shh!” the boy in front of him snapped. “We’re almost there.”

There was light up ahead: a soft glow permeated the darkness. Just before it ended, the tunnel widened slightly and Zac found that they could stand.

Before them, the entire wall of the tunnel was glowing. Zac could feel the warmth pouring from the stone, and he knew that this was where the man wanted them to place the clay balls. He looked up at the spheres in the boy’s hands. They were giving off a strange smell. The boy grinned nervously before dropping them at his feet, where they began to sink into the stone floor with a hissing sound.

“Go!” he said.

Zac hoped that he would be the first one out. He hoped that he would win the prize the man had promised them. Giggling, he thrust himself back up into the darkness of the crevice, wriggling for all he was worth. He was almost out — he could see the lights in the vast cavern beyond the next turn — when, with a loud thud, jaws of rock snapped shut before him. The tunnel behind him shook and filled with rubble, thrusting his knees painfully up against his chest. Zac struggled to breathe through the clouds of rock dust enveloping him, stinging his eyes and scouring his throat.

Then there was silence — absolute and terrifying — before the cries of trapped children reached him in the darkness. Zac looked behind him and saw a pale, bloody hand reaching from a pile of rock, the fingers barely grazing his ankle. He heard the shouts of the overseer as if from a great distance, before he was silenced by what sounded like metal ringing on stone.

Zac struggled, but all he could move were his fingers, and these could do little more than weakly paw at the rock before him. It struck him, then, that he might die. He’d never seriously considered his own death before, but now that he did, he realised what a terrible and unjust thing it would be. He wanted his parents; Mummy and Daddy would make it alright. But they weren’t here, and there was no way they could get to him.

Zac yelled for all he was worth and was answered by the many voices of the children trapped in the darkness. Some of the cries were cut short when a tremor shook the walls. The rock creaked and groaned; Zac could feel the floor rippling beneath him and he cried out even louder as panic gripped him.

When a warm liquid began to trickle over his hands, he thought that it was his own tears or blood. But then the trickle became a gush and soon a tepid stream was lapping about his body. There was a strange smell; a charged feeling like the approach of a thunderstorm. Zac blinked as a shaft of light punched through the rock before him. The stone was melting, trickling away like wax before a flame. He could hear movement beyond: adult voices; children responding with delight and relief.

The last of the boulders blocking Zac in dissolved, and he could see a short, bearded man crouched in the half-light of the open shaft. Steam wreathed his hands where he moved them about the tunnel’s walls, and he was muttering something beneath his breath, in a tongue that Zac didn’t recognise. He looked up as Zac crawled towards him and grinned.

“We’ve got a live one here, boss. Come on, wee man, let’s get you out of this mess.”

The man enclosed him in his broad arms and helped him from the shattered mouth of the tunnel. Zac blinked in the lights of the main cavern, seeing other children being helped from the collapsed tunnels by more of the short, bearded men. One whole side of the chamber wall had collapsed, spilling rubble far into the cavern.

At least twenty-five children had been sent into the tunnels; Zac saw only six amongst the men and women who now crowded the chamber. He looked around for the elf who had led them down here and saw his headless corpse at the feet of a squat, broad man, who was cleaning blood from the blade of his axe. He noticed Zac gazing at him, and smiled.

“Don’t yer worry yourself, sunshine. That pointy-eared bastard won’t be bothering you no more.”

The dwarf’s grin scared Zac more than the blood on his blade or the corpse at his feet. The jagged teeth that loomed out of the patchy ginger beard covering his face looked just like the broken stones that surrounded them.

“You might want to stand back somewhat,” said a voice behind him. It was the man who had rescued him. His hands were flat against the cave wall and sweat beaded his forehead as he began to chant. Zac stumbled back as the rock began to give way beneath the man’s hands. One whole section of the wall above him bowed outwards, looming over the dwarf like a great belly of stone. The man looked up nervously, but maintained his litany.

When the stone began to drip and trickle around his hands, the dwarf stepped away from the wall.

“Everyone back,” he shouted. “It’s going.”

Zac was swept aside by a woman with bright red hair as a dark waterfall tumbled into the chamber, sloshing up against their feet in a warm flood and filling the air with the sharp smell of liquid rock. He could see pale shapes tumbling within the wash and as the tide drew back, revealing their true forms, he gasped.

Eight children lay on the cavern floor, their bodies crushed and broken.

“No, no, no!” the dwarf shouted as he attempted to revive one of the children.

“You weren’t to know, Orlok,” the woman holding Zac said. “None of us knew the elves were using child labour in this part of the mines.”

“It was my idea to force our way into this chamber. It was my sorcery that led to the collapse of the tunnels. If we’d come in further up the shaft, none of this would have happened. We’re supposed to be here to liberate the humans, Greta, not kill their young! ”

Orlok’s voice rose to a fierce shriek, startling the surviving children and eliciting fresh cries of distress.

“The longer we stay here fretting over what has been done, the longer the elves will have to mobilise. You can’t throw away our mission because of collateral damage.”

“You call children ‘collateral damage’? Is that really what you think?”

There was a tense silence as the dwarves glowered at one another.

“I knew that this would turn out to be a stupid idea,” Greta finally said. This was met with a collective sharp intake of breath, but though Orlok’s face turned a deeper crimson, he made no move towards the woman.

“I want Mummy and Daddy,” Zac wailed.

Orlok looked at the small boy, the threat of tears glistening in his own eyes. His face hardening, he drew his axe. The double-headed blade caught the light of the cavern and made Zac blink.

“Oh don’t you worry, little man,” Orlok said. “We’re going to find your parents and then we’re going to bring this whole place crashing down around those elven bastards!

“Soldiers!” There was the rattle of metal as a hundred men and women stood to attention. “Move out!”

Katya’s fingers were bleeding. For the last six hours or so she had been standing in the blazing sun, sorting through tray after tray of rocks, picking out the stones with even the faintest glimmer of green mineral before discarding the rest. Although she was aware that she had been assigned one of the most tedious tasks as punishment for her attack on the elf guard, she would much rather be doing this than toiling in the tunnels far beneath their feet.

The mine was located several miles from the city, in a deep valley bordered by precipitous granite cliffs on one side and a thickly-forested ridge on the other. Soot-stained chimneys rose from the valley floor, belching noxious fumes which rose to gather into a dark cloud, turning day to dusk. Beyond the smoke stacks sat the head of the main shaft, crowned with a creaking wooden frame. The frame supported a vast oak axle, on which two iron wheels turned, lowering and raising the huge cage that carried workers into and out of the depths. From the great lengths of rope that played through the metal wheels, Katya assumed that the mineral seams must lie many feet beneath them. She could only imagine the hellish conditions down there; the men and women who emerged from the shaft often appeared to be on the verge of collapse, their bloodshot eyes staring out blankly from faces black with soot.

Two days ago she had seen Illiun, Shalim, Rosalind and their compatriots enter the cage. Before it had descended, Rosalind had reached out to Katya.

“If you see Hannah, tell her that Mummy and Daddy are okay.”

But Katya hadn’t seen their daughter, and when Illiun and Shalim had come back up, Rosalind was no longer with them. Katya had tried to talk to Shalim, asking him what had happened to his wife, but he wouldn’t speak. Katya had been alarmed to see blood on his lips, and had appealed to one of the elves for help, but she had been roundly ignored. Workers, it would seem, were eminently expendable.

Katya flinched as a shadow fell over her, afraid, for a moment, that it was one of the guards come to berate her for some presumed slight. But when she looked up, it was Dunsany, carrying another tray of rocks for her to sort through.

“Have you had any further thoughts on making our escape?” she said.

“Beyond how impossible it would be, you mean?”

“Well, we can’t stay here for much longer. Have you seen Shalim? If he’s sent down again, he won’t come back up.”

“You talk as though this is a temporary situation, Katya. As if there’s any hope at all.”

For a moment Katya didn’t know what to say. Here was a man who had been full of a lust for adventure, who had never hesitated to throw himself into the most perilous of situations; and now he had been reduced by slavery to little more than a shell.

“I don’t know about escape, Katya, but I’d do anything to have Kelos back.”

When Dunsany’s shoulders began to hitch, she took the tray of rocks from him before he could drop it on his feet. She held him and was shocked by how frail he felt, as though he had aged decades in just a matter of days.

“I’m sure that wherever Kelos is, he’s thinking the same thing,” Katya said. “Trust me, we’ll get out of this. You’ve got to have faith.”

“Like Ignacio and his friends, you mean?”

Katya looked over to where their former crewmate was breaking rocks. The crew he sweated with all wore a scrap of rag tied to their upper right arm, upon which was painted the crossed circle: the symbol of the Final Faith. It hadn’t taken Ignacio long to start preaching to his fellow slaves and, with Bestion’s help, he had soon amassed a regular congregation. The elves didn’t seem at all alarmed by this burgeoning faith. Katya supposed that with their minds on Kerberos and the rewards He would give to them in the hereafter, the members of this new cult were less likely to foment rebellion. Indeed, gauging from the way the elves allowed them to gather in prayer every time they broke for lunch, they were actively encouraging the belief.

“I think that what we’re witness to here,” Dunsany said, “is the beginnings of the Final Faith itself; the earliest church.”

“Who’d have thought that Ignacio would become a vital part of church history? If only his brother could see him now.”

“You two!” One of the elves had noticed their conversation and was heading their way. Katya saw the diamond-studded tips of the flail at his belt, and her back flinched at the memory of their touch. She fell to her task after warning Dunsany, with a glare, to go back to his.

“We’ve already had enough trouble from you.” Katya didn’t look up. “What were you discussing with your friend?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing…?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“You may be more evolved than your fellow humans, but you all bleed the same.”

“No, please.”

The elf uncoiled the flail, the barbs catching the light. From the corner of her eye, Katya could see Dunsany running towards them, a rock in his raised fist.

Before he or the elf could strike, the ground trembled and a smoke stack exploded, showering the workers with hot brick shrapnel and sending a plume of black smoke high into the air. The wheels at the head of the pit began to spin wildly as the cage that had been about to descend suddenly dropped. Katya saw an elf pulling on the emergency brake, but it broke off in his hands; above him, the iron wheels screeched in protest, sparks showering from them as they spun out of control. Even when there was no more rope to play out they continuing spinning, and from somewhere far beneath their feet came a deep hollow thump as the cage hit bottom. Katya closed her eyes, but the image of broken bodies pulverised among sharp rocks and iron wreckage would not fade.

The elves looked about them, seemingly searching for someone to blame. To the man with the flail, it appeared to be all too clear who was the perpetrator of this chaos.

Before she knew what she had done, Katya had taken a rock from the tray in front of her and thrown it with all her strength. The elf dropped, his eyes rolling back in his head. A thin trickle of blood snaked from his nose and his heels kicked against the dirt.

Katya had never intended to be the instigator of a rebellion — had never even thought herself capable of taking another person’s life — but her one act of violence ignited the spark of hatred that had simmered for so long within the slaves, and soon rocks were being hefted and pick-axes raised.

Before the battle for human liberty could be joined, however, the granite cliff that loomed over the mine exploded, and the dwarven horde poured forth from the rift.

C HAPTER T WENTY

“Fascinating, ” Keldren said, as Silus swam through the waters of the flooded room. “And it is Chadassa blood that runs through his veins, giving him these abilities?”

Even through the murk of the dirty sea water, and the barrier of thick glass, Kelos could see the pained expression on his friend’s face, and it made him want to defy Keldren. But if he refused to help the wizard in his studies, he’d be more than likely shipped off to one of the human slave camps, there to die an anonymous death amongst the suffering masses. Here, he could at least try to alleviate his friend’s suffering.

“Kelos? I asked you a question.”

“What? Yes… sorry. Silus does indeed have a link with the Chadassa, but he’s no monster.”

“Ah, yes. Well, that bring us to the next part of our experiment, doesn’t it?”

“Please, Keldren. Is this really necessary?”

“How do you think all those great works of mine got written, Kelos? How do you think I managed to be so precise in my observations? Theorising is all very well, but no substitute for experimentation and observation. Now, let us see what happens when I do this…”

Keldren moved his hands and, even before the sorcerer began to intone the words, Kelos recognised the elemental spell he was weaving. The hairs at the back of his neck prickled; he could taste the sharp tang of ozone.

Keldren flung out his hands and a bright shockwave burst through the water of the flooded room.

Blinking away the purple blotches that crowded his vision, Kelos saw Silus floating, perfectly still, bobbing face-down in the centre of the water tank, blood misting from his mouth.

“Gods, you’ve killed him! Keldren, what have you done?”

“Don’t worry. I’m certain he’s not been harmed.”

“Really?”

When Silus opened his eyes, Kelos let out the breath he had been holding; the pupils were pure obsidian, and he shuddered as he realised what was about to happen.

Silus’s transformation was as rapid as it had been when the dragon’s blood had drenched him; the water darkened as the Chadassa form came to the fore, everything that was human sloughing away.

“Oh, but that’s just… beautiful,” Keldren breathed.

He pushed his face up against the glass, entranced by what Silus had become.

“Just imagine an army of these: aquatic warriors. The dwarf navy wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“Keldren, I really wouldn’t stand that close.”

“What? Nonsense, we’re perfectly safe.”

The glass shook as Silus drove himself against it, his claws making a horrendous screeching sound as they scrabbled against the other side.

“Not to worry,” said Keldren, giggling nervously. “That glass is inches thick.”

With a bang, a hairline crack jumped across the glass, beads of water slowly forming along its path.

“Vent the tank, Keldren.” For a moment the wizard was transfixed by the gaze of the Chadassa hybrid, the wall of the tank creaking ominously as water pooled at his feet. “ Now! ”

Keldren shook himself and leapt for the metal wheel protruding from the wall. For a moment it looked as if it would refuse to turn, until Kelos added his own strength. The heavy iron floodgates on the far side of the tank opened and the water sluiced out; the metal grille covering the mouth of the tunnel prevented Silus from being flushed out into the sea.

When the last of the water had drained away, the glass wall of the tank finally gave way in a cascade of fist-sized diamonds. In the blink of an eye, Kelos threw a magical shield around himself and Keldren.

Silus writhed on the floor, tangled in a skein of seaweed, dragging air into his lungs as his flesh slowly changed hue; claws withdrawing, eyes clouding momentarily as the black sheen of the Chadassa left them. Kelos kept up the shield for a moment longer, until he was sure that the monster within his friend had finally retreated.

“You have my thanks, Kelos,” Keldren said, brushing himself down. He walked over to where Silus lay. “He’s unconscious. I’ll allow you to tidy up in here, then if you can join me in my study, we can proceed with our next experiment.”

“But-” And Keldren was gone, leaving Kelos staring across the devastated room to where his friend lay.

“I’m sorry,” he said, bringing Silus round and helping him to sit up. “Really, I am.”

“We have to get out of here,” Silus croaked.

“I’m trying to moderate the effects of Keldren’s experimentation. Trying to make him see that what he is doing is wrong. If any of the elves can be won over, then it is surely he. At least he has given me a freedom of sorts.”

Silus merely stared blankly at his friend, until Kelos was forced to look away.

“Can you stand?”

“Just about.”

Kelos helped Silus to his feet and lead him out into the corridor.

“We can run, Kelos,” Silus said. “We can get out of here, find Katya, Zac and the others and go. You can perform the spell and send us all home. Take us away from all this.”

“I really can’t,” Kelos said, keeping his voice low for fear of Keldren overhearing them. “For a start, this place is impregnable. Keldren only trusts me with the keys to certain rooms, and the maze of tunnels is so confusing that I couldn’t possibly begin to imagine the way out, even if I could get past the main doors. And I can’t just magic us all home again. The spell that sent us here required a vast amount of raw magic; without something as powerful as the blood of a dragon, I will never be able to repeat it.”

Kelos unlocked a door and ushered Silus into the sparsely furnished room beyond. When he saw the look of despair on his friend’s face, as he took in the straw-stuffed mattress and the jug of briny water that sat on the stone floor, his heart sank.

“Give me time, Silus. I’ll think of a way out.”

He locked the door before his friend could say anything, only too aware of how empty his promises had started to sound.

Keldren looked up from the book in his lap as Kelos entered.

“Ah, good. I trust our subject has been secured?”

“If you mean did I put Silus back in his prison, then yes.”

“Come now, there’s no need to be like that. Just think of all the good work you are doing, adding to the sum of our knowledge, helping to make the elven empire great.”

“And the rest of my friends, the ones who were sent to the camps? How are they helping make your civilisation great? How does their suffering contribute to the glory of your people?”

“Would you care for some brandy?” Keldren said, uncorking a bottle.

“No, I would not care for some brandy.”

“You’re quite right, of course. We have work to do. We can imbibe later. For now, we have our next subject to attend to; fascinating to think of a human wielding elven magic. But, anyway… lead the way, Kelos. Lead the way.”

Emuel couldn’t move, couldn’t even look around to see who had just entered the room, so securely tied was he to the marble table. At his wrists and ankles, the leather straps had broken the flesh; dried blood crusted his bonds and stained the stone beneath him. The eunuch had been stripped bare, and for all the time he had spent in his presence, Kelos was still shocked by the scars of the boy’s emasculation.

“Keldren,” he said. “Silus may have the potential to be dangerous, but I can assure you that Emuel does not. This is entirely unnecessary.”

“On the contrary, my friend. Not knowing the limits of his power, we have to assume that Emuel is just as dangerous as Silus.”

“Emuel?” Kelos said. “Can you hear me?”

Emuel opened his mouth, but no sound emerged.

“What is this?”

“A precaution. As Emuel uses song magic, I cast a silence spell upon him. Now, let us begin our examination.”

Keldren held out his hands and, with a pop of displaced air, an open book appeared in them. The wizard ran his finger down a page, muttering to himself. Looking up, he fixed Kelos with an intense stare.

“Why was Emuel emasculated?”

“To preserve the pitch of his prepubescent voice. An adult human voice is normally unable to achieve the range required for elven song magic.”

“Ingenious. Cruel, but ingenious. And what can you tell me about his tattoos and scarifications? Why did somebody go to all the trouble of so marking his flesh?”

“Elven runics,” Kelos said. “A way of opening Emuel up to the magic of song.”

“Interesting. But not all of these are elven runics. This one here — the symbol that looks a bit like a crescent moon on its side, entangled in vines? — well, that is dwarven. A profanity, an insult in runes. Nothing more than crude graffiti.”

“I understand the Final Faith based their designs on ancient elf spells.”

“Yes, well, they were wrong then, weren’t they? But not entirely. See these? These are actually elven runes, but they’re like none I’ve seen before. At first I thought that they might be based on an earlier form of script. But, from the text here” — he indicated the book — “I’m now certain that’s not the case. The runes are elvish, but a form of the language not from our past. Therefore…”

Kelos looked blankly at Keldren for a moment, before he realised what the wizard was getting at.

“From your future? Magical canticles that have yet to be developed?”

“Exactly!” Keldren said, triumphantly. “There is magic here that no elf mage has yet wielded. Emuel is a repository of future magical knowledge. I will be able to extrapolate from the runics upon this one young boy to produce song magic of a power that none on the peninsula have yet witnessed. Such an advantage could have vast implications for the mages in our military. What you have gifted to us here, Kelos, is a potential weapon in the war with the dwarves.”

“Emuel is no weapon, Keldren. And I didn’t gift him to you, any more than I gifted you Silus. If you don’t remember, we were taken against our will.”

Keldren closed the book and placed it beside Emuel. “May I remind you, Kelos, that as a gesture of goodwill I have given you certain freedoms? This is in recognition of our bond as mages. Do not abuse my hospitality; you can be given over to the camps like that!” Keldren snapped his fingers.

Kelos opened his mouth, but could think of nothing to say. He considered reaching for the threads, weaving a spell with which to attack Keldren, but he realised that any magical duel would likely end in his own death. This was, after all, Keldren Dremos Enthrold, the finest Old Race mage of his generation and a legend amongst those who studied the art of sorcery. He supposed it was true what they said: you should never meet your heroes.

“I’m sorry, Keldren. Please, proceed.”

“See, dear boy? I knew that my trust had not been not misplaced. Now, let’s see if we can get our newest acquisition to sing, shall we?”

Later, Kelos was allowed to bring Emuel some food and water. Keldren had thoughtlessly left the eunuch bound to the table, and when the mage freed him, he was barely able to stand. Keldren hadn’t so much coaxed the boy to sing as torn the songs from him.

Kelos held a stone jug to Emuel’s lips, and he drank thirstily.

“Why are you doing this, Kelos? Why are you helping that man?” he said, after he had quenched his thirst

“Because if I don’t, things would be so much worse for you and Silus. Emuel, I’m doing what I can. I’ve been trying to work on Keldren, but it’s taking time.”

“If I have to endure this for much longer, I will die.”

Emuel was right. There was only so far he and Silus could be pushed. And once Keldren had concluded his experiments, what then? Kelos wondered at what cost the wizard’s sorcerous knowledge had been brought. Were all the great works that he so admired — that had formed the foundation of Kelos’s life in magic — so steeped in the blood of others? It sickened him to kowtow to a man of such lax morals and disregard for others, yet it was the only way he would get the measure of him. The wizard seemed to know the ultimate fate of his race: their destruction in an apocalypse that would wipe all but the smallest traces of their civilisation from the map. What if he could offer Keldren the means to survive? If Kelos could appeal to the vanity and hunger for knowledge that so obviously drove the wizard, would he abandon his own kind?

Kelos had to hope so, as it was the only option open to them. He and his companions might be the only humans in existence who knew of the true nature of Kerberos, and the threat they all faced from Hel’ss. If he couldn’t win Keldren round, then their future was decided with the end of all things.

“Either way, Emuel,” Kelos said. “I can promise that it will all be over soon.”

Keldren had set a fire going, the coals banked so high that they threatened to spill onto the hearth and ignite the rug. The heat from the flames offered little comfort, instead intensifying the humidity in the poky little study and making Kelos break into a sweat. Keldren, however, appeared perfectly at ease, even swathed as he was in his velvets and linens, all wrapped about by an ebon cloak. What was it about magic, Kelos wondered, that attracted people with such ostentatious tastes?

“This is all for nothing, you know,” Kelos said, sitting opposite the wizard and fanning himself with a pamphlet on the uses of mountain herbs in divination.

“Sorry?” Keldren said, glancing up from his reading.

“All this,” Kelos said. “All your knowledge will prove to be for naught. In the end the elves will fall along with the dwarves.”

Keldren looked back to the book in his hands and didn’t say anything. He lifted the wine glass from the table beside him and drank, and carefully placed the glass back down again.

“You know the truth of this, don’t you, Keldren? Just as you have calculated the coming of Hel’ss to my own time, you have calculated the destruction that will come to the Old Races.”

“The Old Races? Hah! Is that what you call us? Rather an ignominious phrase to describe the two mightiest empires Twilight will ever see, don’t you think?”

“You are avoiding the subject.”

Again, Keldren’s eyes went back to the book in his hands.

“Keldren!”

“Yes, Kelos. I understand what you are saying. But these, these survive,” Keldren said, gesturing with the book. “My studies will go on to form the foundation of modern magical thinking.”

“But what if I told you you could witness for yourself how important your works become? Just think, you could know the true significance of your legacy to magic. What other master of the sorcerous arts could ever hope to claim such knowledge?”

“Oh, Kelos, bless you. You’re talking in mere fantasies. I must admit that I feared I had pushed you too hard. Besides, I am already fully aware of the significance of my studies. I am, after all, the finest magical thinker of my time. You said so yourself.”

“No, you don’t understand. I said the finest magical thinker of my time. It will be thousands of years before the true significance of your works will be appreciated.”

“But… but the work I am doing here is of vital importance to the elven empire.”

“Really, Keldren? Then why have they buried you so far beneath the city, within these rotten tunnels where your library is constantly at threat from mould and insect infestation? When did the king last directly call on your services?”

“I… I…” Keldren was getting to his feet and it seemed, finally, that the warmth of the room was affecting him, for sweat now beaded his brow. “I am Keldren Dremos Enthrold!” he shouted, throwing his cloak back like some second-rate stage magician.

Kelos waited for a moment before he spoke, allowing the wizard to fully appreciate the impassive expression on his face.

“You will be entirely forgotten by your own generation. Your name will mean nothing until two hundred years before my time, when this, your library, will be discovered far beneath the waters of Freiport bay, still protected by the magical wards that you set in place. It will be the greatest discovery of elven magical texts in the history of the human race, and a whole new branch of elemental magic will be founded on the works that here surround us.

“But you won’t ever get to appreciate that, Keldren, and no one in the elven empire will ever sing your praises. You will have been dead for thousands of years before this discovery; by then, the empires of the elves and the dwarves will be just so much dust.”

Keldren sat back down heavily and took up his wine glass, looked into its contents and then, with a growl, threw the glass into the fireplace. He shot Kelos a glare of such intensity that the mage scrambled to his feet, worried that he had perhaps gone too far.

“You dare speak to me in this way? You, a mere human? Has it escaped you that were it not for the elves, the human race would never have existed? We should have terminated your kind as soon as you dragged yourselves from the sea.”

“Without my kind, all this will have been for nothing. My race continues the work that you began and if you kill me, Keldren, you will never see the fruits of your studies.”

Keldren glowered, then sighed. “You’re right, of course. They don’t value me, you know. If they did I would at least be granted a post at one of the academies of magic.”

“In my time, Keldren, an entire university has been established in your name: The Keldren Dremos Enthrold School of Elemental Magic. Scholars come from all over the peninsula to study there.”

“That is wonderful, but I shall never get to see it. Like you say, our empire will crumble into dust.”

“But that’s what I’m trying to tell you! I can show you the future, Keldren. I can show you wonders you could never imagine and, in return, you can aid us in our fight against Hel’ss, using your vast magical knowledge. You may not be able to do anything to prevent the destruction of your own kind, but why not turn your talents to saving our race? A people who continue your good work?”

“And how are you going to make this happen?”

“If I can again perform the spell that brought us all to this time, then I’m certain that I’ll be able to propel us forward into our own era. But I’ll need your help with something first.”

“And that is?”

“I was only able to perform the spell in the first place because I had access to a vast reservoir of raw magic. Now, I understand that in the bay sits an entire fleet of song ships?”

“Yes? And?”

“Each of those song ships is empowered by a magical gem. If we can gain access to a store of such stones, then I will be able to use the power within them to perform the spell once more.”

Keldren laughed and shook his head.

“I don’t understand. What’s so funny?”

“Oh, Kelos. I may be Keldren Dremos Enthrold, but I don’t have access to such stores. If I were to be found in such a restricted part of the docks, I would be arrested on sight. I’m just a lowly mage in a dank basement study; I don’t have the clearance to go wandering around the most jealously-guarded of the empire’s assets.”

Kelos was silent for a moment, staring into the flames of the fireplace. “Then… then I fear we are lost.”

“Come now, Kelos. That’s not the spirit. Is this truly the man who stood up to the great Keldren? What was this vast reservoir of power that enabled the sorcery in the first place?”

“The blood of a dragon.”

“Really? Good grief.”

“See? I told you we were lost.”

“No, no. Not at all. You see, serendipity may well have placed the solution within our grasp. As it would happen, one of my colleagues, living on the borders of the Sardenne Forest, has recently written to me concerning the sighting of a great lizard in the foothills of the World’s Ridge Mountains. Now, let me see.” Keldren sorted through a haphazard pile of papers that sat upon a low desk. “Ah, yes, here we are. ‘I, with my own eyes, saw a flash of scaled flesh, the swish of a vicious barbed tail, and heard the beast’s roar; a sound which chilled me to the core.’ Hah! Yes, Alymere always had a sense of the melodramatic.

“Anyway, if this does indeed turn out to be a true sighting of a dragon, then it sounds like a trip to the World’s Ridge may be just what we require.”

“I don’t know, Keldren. It’s an awfully long way.”

“Clearly, then, you are not as well-read as you claim.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Zephyros Translocation. Volume Two, page one hundred and twenty-four of Elemental Sorcery and Applications of Natural Magery.”

“Yes, yes, of course! How stupid of me. I must admit that I have only attempted that particular spell once. Doesn’t it require the ink of a chasm squid?”

“It does indeed. Good job, then, that I live by the sea. Now, let us plan our journey, and then inform Silus and Emuel of the good news.”

As Keldren unrolled a map, a skein of dust detached itself from the ceiling and a coal shifted in the fireplace, rolling out onto the hearth.

But only when the door of the study flew off its hinges did the two mages finally look round.

CHAPTER TWENTY- ONE

Silus had been on the verge of sleep when the floor of his cell collapsed, spilling him into the passage below. His fall was cushioned by the short, stocky man on whom he’d landed, and who swore profusely as he extracted himself from beneath him.

“Gods below!” the dwarf said. “Where did you come from?”

Silus pointed to the hole above them.

“See, Orlok?” a female dwarf said, emerging from the darkness. “I told you that wasn’t solid rock. Surely any fool could see that?”

“So suddenly you’d like to lead this mission, is that it, Greta?”

Beyond the bickering couple, Silus could see more dwarves crowding the tunnel — all heavily armed and armoured — and amongst them several frightened human faces. His heart surged with joy when he saw Katya and Zac within the huddle, and he pushed his way past Orlok and Greta to gather them up in his arms.

“I thought you were lost forever. I thought I’d never see you again.”

“Daddy!” Zac cried, throwing his arms around his father’s neck.

Dunsany, Illiun, Shalim and Bestion were also with the dwarves; all looked on the verge of exhaustion and all were covered head to toe in rock dust.

Behind Silus, the arguing stopped as Greta and Orlok became aware of the emotional reunion.

“Yes, human,” Orlok said. “We have liberated your kind. And now the streets above us will run with the blood of the elves.”

Silus tried to hide his smile as, behind Orlok, Greta rolled her eyes.

“If it’s elves you’re looking to kill,” he said, “there’s one not very far from here. Above us are another two humans requiring liberation from the tyranny of an elf mage.”

“We’ll chop him into offal!” shouted someone from further down the tunnel.

“Our axes will drink his blood!”

Weapons were struck against shields in a quickening tempo as the lust for battle overtook the dwarves. The noise was deafening, and it took Orlok some time to calm his troops.

“You’ll show us the way?” he said, once order had been restored.

Silus held out his hand. “If you can supply me with a weapon, I’ll lead you to him myself.”

“Silus, are you sure about this?” Katya said.

“You may want to arm yourself, too. Zac, stay well back, do you understand?”

The little boy nodded solemnly.

“Above us, you say?” Orlok said.

The dwarf secured his axe and put his hands to the wall of the tunnel. He looked back at Greta and smiled before closing his eyes. Beneath Orlok’s hands the stone began to trickle and flow, yet even as it began to pool around his feet, the dwarf was imposing his will on the rock. It rose from the floor like a fat grey snake, seeking the lip of the hole above them. Finding it, it flowed across the cell, until a smooth ramp rose from the tunnel floor. The stone groaned as it solidified and Orlok stepped back, surveying his handiwork.

“Not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all. Silus, after you.”

Now armed with a shortsword, Silus found the door of the cell to be little impediment to their progress. The wood splintered after two powerful blows and the lock fell to the floor. Looking behind him, he saw that the whole contingent of Orlok’s troops were at his heels.

“Orlok, don’t you think that with so many people we may lose the element of surprise?”

“You’re right of course, human. The first ten, with me. The rest of you stay back.”

“Thank you, Orlok. And, please, don’t refer to me as ‘human.’ My name is Silus.”

Silus edged into the corridor. The passage was short and contained only three doors; the one through which they had come, one leading to the room with the ruined water tank, and a door at the far end that he presumed led to Keldren’s quarters.

Silus pointed to this last door and signalled for Orlok and his team to follow.

“Can you get us past this?” he said, looking at the sturdy door.

“Not a problem,” Orlok said, “though you may want to catch it when it falls, otherwise it’s going to make a hell of a racket.”

With a gesture from the dwarf, the stone surround liquefied, the hinges fell off the door and Silus braced himself.

As solid as the door looked, he hadn’t expected it to be quite so heavy. Silus took its weight against his outstretched hands, only to find his arms being shoved painfully back against his chest and his boots skidding across the flagstones.

“Someone?” he said, from beneath the iron-banded wood. “A little help?”

Katya and Orlok came to his assistance, and they managed to lean the door against the wall.

“You know,” Orlok said, stepping back and looking at the empty doorframe, “this place may have been built by the elves, but I know a good lintel when I see one. That’s a nice lintel. Look at that, that’s flush, that is. Nicely carved, nicely placed.”

“Orlok?” Greta said.

“Yes, my love?”

“Are you done?”

“Yes, my love.”

Although the corridor beyond contained many more doors, Silus knew the one to pick right away, by dint of it being the only one with light coming from beneath it, and by the stench of incense wafting from the room beyond. This time, Silus didn’t ask for Orlok’s help. Instead, he aimed a swift kick just below the handle. This door appeared to have been less well crafted than the last, as it fell off its hinges after just one blow.

In the book-lined study, Keldren and Kelos looked up from the map they had been perusing.

When he saw the elf, Orlok thrust himself into the room with a growl. He drew his axe and slammed the handle of the weapon hard against the floor. They all staggered as the room leaped beneath their feet. Arms of stone thrust themselves through the floor and wrapped themselves about Keldren’s torso.

His hands trapped his hands against his sides, the mage was still able to cast a spell, thin ochre tendrils snaking from his mouth with each word he spoke.

Orlok shielded himself behind the double blade of his axe. The runics inscribed in the metal deflected the sorcery, only for the tendrils to snake around the dwarf and alight on two of his men. They burst into flame, quickly filling the room with an acrid, choking smoke.

Keldren spoke again and, with a rush of cool wind, the smoke dissipated.

Silus was pushed aside by Greta as she launched herself at the wizard, screaming at the top of her lungs and wielding twin blades. With a gesture, Kelos summoned a wall of flickering green energy between Greta and the elf and she slammed into it with a sickening crunch before falling at Silus’s feet, unconscious.

“This will not end in more bloodshed!” Kelos shouted.

“That man is not your friend, Kelos,” Silus said. “For what he has done, for what the elves have done to us all, they deserve to die!”

“Not this one, Silus.”

“Oh, yeah?” Orlok growled, “and why’s that?”

“He has renounced the empire and has promised to help us return home.”

“Not good enough. Now, you can’t hold up that barrier forever, human, and my men and I can be very patient when we want to be.”

“What if I gave you a map of the palace?” Keldren said. “I can tell you the likely locations of all the senior ministers, and even show you the secret passages to the throne room. Behind me are hundreds of maps, detailing every level of the city, both public and hidden. If you let me go, I can give you all the intelligence you’ll need to take this city down before my people know what hit them.”

“Silus,” Kelos said. “You trust me, don’t you? Keldren is our only hope of getting home. And we must get home, my friend, for something truly terrible is coming to Twilight. And I’m coming to believe that, with the power within you, you may be one of the few people who have a chance of stopping it. The Final Faith is wrong about Kerberos; He isn’t the one true god. There’s one other — Hel’ss — and it means to decimate our world. We have to get back and warn Makennon.”

After studying the mage’s face for a moment, Silus nodded and turned to Orlok.

“I say trust them. Let Keldren go.”

“He is an elf!”

“And you are a thick-headed dwarf. Listen to me, you can kill as many elves as you like, but not this one.”

Greta got groggily to her feet and was about to launch herself once more at Keldren when Orlok gripped her shoulder.

“Change of plan, Greta.”

“Please tell me I’m going to like this.”

“Keldren here is turning rat on his own people. Aren’t you?”

For a moment the arrogance and hatred remained on Keldren’s face and he looked about to speak the words of another spell, but Kelos silenced him with a gesture.

“Remember what I have promised to show you, Keldren? Do you want to toil down here with no recognition from your peers for the rest of your life? Or do you want to know the truth of your legacy?”

Keldren closed his mouth.

“Thank you,” Kelos said. “Gentlemen, I believe we have an accord. Now, how about you shake on it?”

Keldren looked down at the stone manacles that still enclosed his wrists.

“Ah, yes, good point.”

They stood awhile on the headland and watched the city burn. The elves, realising that Da’Rea was lost, had begun to bombard it from the coast, using the cannons of their song ships. The dwarves had all but taken the elven stronghold, but they would not keep it. Those that survived would be rewarded only with the corpse-strewn rubble of a once beautiful metropolis. Silus wondered whether Orlok would think the battle worthwhile once the dust had settled.

He tried to spot Illiun amongst the skirmishers below, but couldn’t see him. The man who had been utterly broken by his experiences had now found a channel for his rage, agreeing to help the dwarves in their assault. Silus was saddened to have said goodbye; he had been determined to save Illiun and his people, but he had failed them, stranding the few survivors of the colony even further from home, now entangled in a war not of their own making.

The only one of his comrades who had seemed at home in this brave new world was Ignacio. He had said a rather formal goodbye to them all before leading his newly-formed church east; the twenty or so men and women that made up the congregation, including Bestion, just about keeping up with the bellowed hymn that led them on their march. That this was the beginnings of the Final Faith, Silus could well believe. He had seen the fanatical fire burning deep in Ignacio’s eyes as he shook hands with him for the final time, all trace of the man he had once been subsumed by his faith and determination. Silus supposed he could have stopped the Final Faith in its tracks there and then, just by slipping a knife between Ignacio’s ribs. But there had been enough killing, and no matter what he had become, Silus still thought of Ignacio as his friend. He only hoped that he would find something like peace in the fellowship of his disciples.

Beside himself and the wizard Keldren, all that remained of their party were Katya, Zac, Kelos, Dunsany and Emuel. Just seven people to venture to the World’s Ridge Mountains and there face a dragon, along with whatever else lurked amongst those forbidding peaks. As a child, Silus had been told many tales of the horrors that lurked at the edge of the world, and he hoped that none of them were true. But no matter the risk, they must try and get back home. Kelos had told him all that Keldren had revealed about Hel’ss and, remembering Illiun’s stories of the entity — the terrible god that had ravaged their world — he knew that they must return to their own time and warn the Final Faith about what was coming. Perhaps, Silus considered, he could use his ability to commune with Kerberos in the fight against this last remnant of the pantheon. Twilight might not be much, just a small peninsula surrounded by impassable seas, but he would fight to his last breath to save it. If that meant communing with Kerberos again, after all that he had learned concerning the true nature of the deity, then so be it.

Keldren took out a large sheet of blank paper from a pocket in his robes and placed it on the ground, weighting it with stones to prevent it from blowing away. Next he extracted a small bottle of ink and a pen, and inscribed all of their names upon the parchment, surrounding the writing in strange, arcane symbols.

“The ink is that of the chasm squid,” Kelos confided in Silus. “It has unique properties that will make the translocation that much smoother. Really, you’ve no idea how fascinating it is for me to see a practitioner such as Keldren at work.”

Silus would have shared in his friend’s enthusiasm, were it not for the memories of the pain the elf wizard had inflicted upon him in the course of his experiments. But Kelos trusted him, and that was what mattered.

Emuel didn’t appear quite so convinced by the wizard’s performance. The eunuch stood slightly apart from the group, his arms wrapped tightly about himself, his face closed. Out of all of them, Silus felt that Emuel had suffered the most. He was still barely in his teens and already he looked like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.

“Gather close,” said Keldren, “and link hands.”

The last time that Silus had been involved in a ritual circle, most of the participants had been immolated, so it was with some trepidation that he took Katya’s and Dunsany’s hands. Keldren stood in the middle of the circle, the paper in his hands.

“If you close your eyes, you may find this less disorientating.”

Even so, Silus kept his open. And when reality began to fold around him in a fractured and nightmarish origami, he wished he hadn’t.

CHAPTER TWENTY- TWO

Khula had seen it come down several days ago. Its impact shook the mountain and set off a landslide that would have buried their village, had it not been for the intervention of one of their shamans. Early one morning, part of the sky had simply disappeared, with a sound like a great sheet tearing, revealing a ragged black patch of… nothing. Khula had looked into the void, wondering whether the whole of the heavens was going to tear away, when a light had blazed out of the darkness, burning with such intensity that she had to shield her eyes against the glare. Through the gaps between her fingers, Khula made out the suggestion of wings and a horned snout, and she thought she knew what was falling to earth. When the mountain had finished groaning and the dust had settled, Khula sent a party of scouts to report on what had just landed in their territory.

Several hours later, only one of them made it back. Yana staggered into the settlement, holding her guts in with one hand and waving desperately to get the attention of the matriarch with the other. Black blood streaked her torso and her dark-green skin was swiftly turning a pale apple. Despite her obvious pain, she still managed to drop to one knee before Khula.

“Matriarch, as the prophecies have foretold, the beast has returned to our world. It slew eight of my comrades and dined on their flesh, yet even this did not sate its monstrous hunger. Though I am a dead woman walking, I find the strength to tell you that the day of the dragon is upon us. Look kindly upon your servant.”

Having finished, Yana dropped her hands and allowed her innards to spill onto the ground at her leader’s feet. Khula examined the steaming loops of intestine and scattering of dark organs, as though searching for confirmation of the prophecy, but she knew that Yana had spoken the truth.

All in Khula’s tribe knew the story of Scaroth the Inept; the legendary orc king who had fed his people on the flesh of his wives when food was scarce, and even when food wasn’t. The cruel patriarchal society under his reign had almost been brought to its knees when Scaroth’s wives finally turned on their tormentors and a mighty battle ensued. Though the rage that drove on the women was pure and awesome to behold — and though a great many men were slain that day — many of the wives themselves were killed, the remainder forced to flee into the hills, or follow their sisters into death. Yet even separated from their people, the wives remained nearby, to observe the tribe from which they had been forced. They were delighted when that which they had awaited for so long — the destruction of Scaroth and his men — came to pass.

That Scaroth led his people’s death directly into their midst spoke volumes of his ineptitude, and the women in the hills made sure to record every detail of the massacre that ensued.

The dragons immolated Scaroth’s men, breathing flames that clung to those they touched, reducing them to ash in seconds. The orc wives breathed a thankful sigh as the black dragon opened its mouth, exhaled, and consumed Scaroth with its cleansing fire. From that day on, they swore that if they ever had to face a dragon themselves, they would fight and defeat it, thus proving themselves Scaroth’s betters.

The wives of Scaroth, now finally free of the shackles of their tribe, formed their own community. Aware that they would not prosper as women alone, they sought out other orc tribes and took their men by force, before fleeing back into the hills. Their prisoners were well treated — they did not want to repeat Scaroth’s mistakes — and after the men could breed no more, they were allowed to go their own way or remain with the tribe. Each female orc born was greeted with great celebration and feasting, and each daughter — once she was of a certain age — was inducted into the secrets of the matriarchy. They were told of Scaroth the Inept, the scouring of the wives and the dragon that had come to kill a king. They were told that — as the shamans had read in the stars — a dragon would come again, and when that day came the Great Matriarch would do what Scaroth had so spectacularly failed to achieve, and slay the beast.

Despite the prophecy, those first mothers never encountered a dragon. Still the story was handed down until it became a vital part of the tribe’s beliefs: images of dragons decorated every home, trinkets depicting the great lizards were worn as good luck charms and wards again evil, and ballads were sung in the honour of each successive matriarch, detailing how the leader would slay such a beast.

Khula almost couldn’t believe that it was she who had been chosen for the task. The prophecy and the stories of those first wives and Scaroth the Inept had become such an ingrained part of her culture that she almost didn’t notice them any more — they were children’s stories. It was only when the first of the shamans knelt at her feet and burned the sacred lichens that the realities of the task hit home, and Khula realised that she was afraid. Not that she would let her people see this; she strode amongst her tribe, proudly holding aloft the enchanted sword that had been crafted many generations ago from midnight steel, mined from the deepest seams in the World’s Ridge Mountains. She allowed each of the women of the tribe to kiss the blade and — as a gesture of goodwill — she allowed the men a reprieve from their nightly couplings.

That night, the shamans joined together to perform the story of Scaroth and the dragon for the last time. The children screamed with delight when the beast of sticks and dyed skins lumbered from one of the caves, manipulated by the shamans hidden within its belly. They giggled as it stomped into the crowd, sniffling this way and that for naughty children to devour, and cheered as it closed in on the cowering Scaroth, with his goofy wooden teeth and bulbous nose carved from a turnip. When the dragon opened its mouth and the shaman in its belly roared for all she was worth, the faux dragon’s call was answered by another; this one far more real, chilling the blood of all who heard it and sending many running for their homes. After that, nobody felt much like continuing with the charade of costumes and make-believe, and as the thing in the mountain roared again, all eyes turned to Khula.

Looking at the women before her, she made her decision.

This task should not be hers alone, but the duty of all the women of the tribe; for within each of them burned the spirits of Scaroth’s wives. It was they who had kept alive the contempt for that long-dead idiot king, they who had raised up a new society founded on the principle of avoiding his mistakes. The killing of the dragon was as much their right and destiny as it was Khula’s.

When she explained this to the women, there was a moment of silence in which she thought she had lost them, but then Yana’s sister — Lynca — came and knelt at her feet. Khula stared blankly at her until Lynca nudged the blade of the enchanted sword and held out her right hand, palm up. She marked Lynca’s hand with the tip of the weapon and as the black blood dripped onto the rocks, each female member of the tribe came forward in turn to be similarly marked.

The women hissed and howled as a strange, dark passion overtook them; they beat their chests and tore their clothes — some even mounted the men not swift enough to flee the mania that gripped the tribe, leaping on them and rutting with savage desire in the dirt. Next, the dragon costume from the play was pulled apart and burned, and the ashes from the pyre used to mark the women’s flesh. Finally one of the men of the tribe was dressed as Scaroth, the women circling and taunting him, clawing at his face and arms — hissing and growling, panting and shrieking — until, with one decisive blow, Khula removed his head from his shoulders.

The women bowed their heads in silence as a warm rain fell.

From somewhere in the mountains the creature roared again.

Looking at those gathered before her — bloodied and marked for battle — Khula raised the obsidian sword and answered the dragon’s roar with one of her own.

“Did you hear that?” Silus said, bringing their party to a halt.

They looked up at the high walls enclosing them, but all they could hear was the sound of their own breathing echoing through the narrow canyon.

Keldren’s translocation spell had brought them to deep within the World’s Ridge Mountains. So high and forbidding were the peaks here that even at its zenith the sun barely rose above them, leaving them to scrabble and stumble their way along in an almost perpetual darkness.

“Hear what?” Dunsany said.

“It doesn’t matter. I thought I heard a cry.”

“Couldn’t you have located us somewhere closer to our target?” Kelos said, turning to Keldren.

“I can assure you that the dragon is somewhere within these very peaks,” he said. “I have it on very good authority. Alymere the Amazing wouldn’t lead me astray.”

“Sorry… hang on,” Dunsany said. “You took advice from someone calling themselves Alymere the Amazing? What is he, a children’s entertainer?”

“Yes. But he used to be one of the most respected sorcerers in Miramas’s Red Cadre, until a certain unfortunate event. After his expulsion he remade himself as an entertainer. Even so, he knows these peaks like the back of his hand, and often comes into the mountains to conduct his arcane research.”

Dunsany shook his head and continued along the canyon.

After they had gone not much more than twenty yards, Silus raised his right hand sharply, bringing them to a halt again. This time, however, there was no question that something lay ahead of them; all could hear the inhuman wails and growls from beyond the next turn.

Certain childhood tales came back to Silus then — stories of goblins and ogur, things from the mountains that occasionally ventured into the human realm to snatch babies and mutilate livestock. He had never given such tales much credence, even as a small boy, believing them to be nothing more than the cider-fuelled folk fears of a simplistic people. Now he wasn’t so sure. After all, nobody he knew had ever been into the World’s Ridge Mountains. The peaks that defiantly bordered the far east of the peninsula were so hostile, and seemingly endless, that not even the hardiest of adventurers dared approach their foothills. There could be far worse than goblins and ogur here.

Dunsany and Kelos joined Silus, all drawing their swords as quietly as possible before, as one, cautiously peering around the corner.

Ahead of them the canyon opened out onto a boulder strewn plane. Swarming across this barren landscape were creatures straight out of the horror stories of Silus’s childhood.

“Orcs,” Kelos whispered. “Or, to be more precise, orc women. Strange, I’ve never seen so many gathered together in a group like this. Usually they’re to be found in their settlements, tending to the needs of their menfolk, or kept as broodmares. What we have here would appear to be an-”

“Army,” Keldren finished, pushing past them to get a closer look.

“Careful!” Kelos hissed. “We don’t want to be seen.”

But it was too late; a fearsome creature wearing only a tattered cloth shift about her loins and wielding a battered sword turned as the wizard edged out of the shadows of the canyon. She hissed, revealing needle-like teeth in a mouth as dark as night. The twenty or so women behind her showed their own teeth in warning, yet they made no move to attack.

“How curious,” Keldren said, as though he were doing nothing more than examining a particularly interesting work of art or an ancient text. “I have never heard of orc women banding together in this manner.”

Despite her ferocious appearance, the leader of the orcs made no move towards the wizard. Instead, she looked at him with an inquisitive expression, her head cocked to one side.

“I should like to examine one of these things.” Keldren held out his hand and muttered something under his breath, and a malnourished-looking orc came stumbling towards him, bone knife dropping from suddenly limp fingers. “But transporting a live specimen would be problematic.” He snapped his fingers and the orc dropped to the ground, blood-specked mucus frothing from her lips. “There. We’ll come back for this one later.”

Keldren looked round at his companions, only to be greeting by a host of shocked expressions.

“Oh, the rest of these creatures you can kill. I have no use for them.” He gestured, dropping another orc with a quickly worded spell.

The creatures attacked, their cries resounding from the surrounding peaks, making it seem like there were more of them than there actually were. They fought fiercely and with determination, and when the leader clashed swords with Silus he had to defend himself against a furious rain of blows. But he knew something of the monstrous himself and, staring into the demented eyes of the orc, he found the well of savagery deep within and drew on it, fighting back with animalistic glee.

Katya had hurried Zac away at the first sign of trouble. Alongside Silus, Dunsany, Kelos and Emuel now held the line, using the narrow mouth of the canyon to their advantage, preventing the orcs from flanking them. Even outnumbered, the humans were a match for the orcs, though much of this may have been down to the magical support supplied by Keldren. Any creature not killed by a sword was slain by sorcery. Only the leader of this tribe seemed unaffected by the magic, each spell seemingly absorbed by the black sword she wielded.

Silus’s opponent was tiring, but so was he. The pause between each exchange grew longer as they circled each other. Any openings were quickly closed by a feint or a parry and it was becoming clear to Silus that his opponent was his equal in every way. As they moved out onto the plain, he became aware that the rest of the orcs were dead, their black blood slick on the pale rock. This fact only dawned on the leader when a wide swing of her weapon brought her around and she could finally see what had happened to her army. A look of such human sorrow crossed the creature’s face that Silus arrested his next blow.

He scrambled to raise his guard, realising that he had left himself wide open, but the orc didn’t take advantage of the opportunity. She was making a strange mewling in the back of her throat, her sword dropping from limp fingers, as she knelt and examined one of the corpses.

Silus knew grief when he saw it, and he remembered that it had not been the orcs that had started the fight, but Keldren’s indiscriminate killing.

He stepped back and left the orc to her grief, sheathing his blade.

“What are you waiting for?” Keldren shouted. “Kill it!”

Katya and Zac had emerged from the canyon now. For a moment it seemed as if Katya would shield her son’s eyes from the slaughter, but she dropped her hand, realising the futility of the gesture; the boy had seen so much already.

“For the love of Kerberos, man, stick it before it sticks you!” Keldren said, striding towards Silus, an ochre glow wreathing his right hand.

This creature didn’t deserve the pain of the death the mage would give her. As the orc leader leaned over her comrade in grief, Silus drew his dagger and cut her throat. The tide of blood splashed over the body beneath her and washed up against Keldren’s boots as he came to a halt. The wizard looked down with contempt.

“For a moment, I thought you were going to show pity for this mongrel.”

Silus looked down at the dagger, then up at Keldren. With a self-control that everything within him fought against, he sheathed his weapon.

Khula hoped that when they found her body she would be honoured with the rites granted to her predecessors — her bones boiled clean, dried and bleached in the sun, pounded into dust and smoked by the shamans of the tribe. Somehow, however, she doubted it. For wasn’t she as much a failure as that long-dead orc king? Hadn’t she led her tribe into death, rather than glory?

As the drumbeat of her heart slowed, and the flood pouring from her throat became a trickle, Khula wondered by what moniker she would be remembered.

The dragon roared, its cry echoing from the peaks and reminding her shamefully of that name she had desperately wished for, but would now never attain.

Khula the Dragon Slayer.

CHAPTER TWENTY- THREE

“I can’t help but notice that you suddenly seem a bit reticent,” Kelos said.

The dragon’s roar came again and Keldren took another step back.

“Surely you’ve fought dragons before?”

“Actually, no,” Keldren said. “And as such, my magic isn’t going to be of any use. But I’ve led you to the beast, so now — once you have acquired what you need — it will be down to you to uphold your end of the bargain.”

As they walked deeper into the shadow of the range, the azure disk of Kerberos was beginning to rise over the mountains behind them. Blue light washed over the peaks, falling into crevasses and filling hollows, moving down the mountain in a brilliant waterfall of light. This time, when the dragon called, there was music in its voice, as though it were greeting the dawn with song. Besides Silus, Emuel gasped as the tattoos that covered his body began to move.

“Dragons are not just a source of magic,” Kelos said, seeing the change in the eunuch. “They are magic.”

“I wish I understood what you just said,” Katya said. “But if it’s going to help us return home faster, I say we kill the thing and get out of here.”

“Silus, you should probably hang back,” Dunsany said. “We don’t want any of the creature’s blood touching you. Not after what happened last time.”

“So, it’s just down to you and I?” Kelos said. “No offence, my friend, but, somehow, that doesn’t fill me with confidence.”

“We’ll be fine. We already know where a dragon is most vulnerable. Just go for the throat sacks.”

“There’s something you don’t hear every day,” Katya said.

The light from Kerberos touched almost every part of the mountain, now, and as it flowed towards the foot of the slope, the shale shifted overhead, a small avalanche clattering towards them.

“As soon as it comes into view,” Kelos said, “we’ll try to flank it. I can shield us for a time but, Keldren, I’d appreciate it if you could also help out where you can; supply some magical protection, at least.”

“I’ll do what I can, but I’ve already used much of my power getting us here.” Keldren looked ready to run, and Silus made a promise to himself that he’d cut the mage down if he attempted it.

Emuel began to sing. Moving ahead of them, he started to climb.

“Emuel!” Kelos hissed. “Emuel! What in the seven hells do you think you are doing?”

The eunuch wasn’t listening, and his tattoos seemed to writhe with a greater urgency as he made his way up the slope. Dunsany was just about to rush forward and grab him when the dragon roared again, this time sounding as though it were just beyond the crest of the rise.

More scree shifted and Emuel fell onto his back. He lay spreadeagled on the ground, helpless as the dragon hove into view.

“Emuel, run!” Katya shouted.

“Run, Emuel!” Zac echoed, his little hands clapping together in anxiety.

But the eunuch did not appear to be afraid. Instead, as a great clawed foot came down next to his head, he opened his arms and smiled.

It was Calabash. His desert saviour; the creature who had led him to water when he had been on the verge of dying of thirst, who had protected him against the savage orcs and who had refused to join in with the slaughter of his companions, when its brothers and sisters had turned on them.

The black snout came in close, the jaws opening slightly as the creature inhaled the scent of him, but despite the sight of those scimitar teeth, he knew that he was perfectly safe.

Emuel got to his knees and, holding the dragon’s snout and gazing into its eyes, he sang the song that had called to him all that time ago amongst the shifting dunes. For a moment, the creature stared blankly at him, and a small part of Emuel feared that he had got it horribly wrong; that the dragon would open its mouth and roast them all, just as it had done with the orcs. But then, starting low and deep within its throat, Calabash joined in with the song, its voice harmonising with Emuel’s as the tattoos on his arms twined around each other in sympathy.

Emuel half expected their song to be joined by others — Calabash’s brethren emerging from the mountains, drawn by the music. But there was only Calabash, the last of them. This was the creature his companions would kill?

When he heard the sounds of swords being drawn, Emuel turned to see Kelos and Dunsany moving slowly out to either side, attempting to flank the dragon. So far, the creature was unaware, its attention focused solely on the eunuch.

“That’s it, Emuel,” Dunsany said in a low voice as he slowly approached. “That’s perfect. Just hold it for a few more moments.”

“Please, don’t do this,” he said. “You don’t need to kill Calabash.”

“Cala- what? You’ve named it, now?” Kelos said.

“Calabash saved me when I was dying. When the other dragons attacked, Calabash refused to join in. This creature has done nothing to deserve this.”

When it saw the two men moving towards it, Calabash hissed, sounding more like a huge predatory cat than a lizard.

In response, Kelos gestured and a blue-green aura shimmered into existence around himself and Dunsany.

“Just move slowly towards me,” Kelos said. “If you startle it, it may attack, and I don’t have the resources for another shield spell.”

“No,” Emuel said, stepping in front of Calabash and spreading his arms wide. “I refuse.”

“What? Emuel, you can’t be serious. You’ve seen what these things are capable of.”

“Not Calabash.”

“Don’t you understand? That thing is our only way home. If we don’t have the blood of the dragon, I cannot empower the spell and we’ll have to spend the rest of our lives here, thousands of years from our own time, powerless to prevent an apocalypse that will consume everything we love and care for.”

“Then that’s the way it ends. Is this world really worth saving, Kelos? Our Twilight is a cruel place, ruled over by tyrants, divided by war and populated by a people who meekly do as they’re told. Well, I’m done with that. I won’t be told what to do anymore. I never asked to accompany you on your stupid little crusade, mage! Did you ever consider that, even for a moment?”

“Emuel, now is really not the time,” Dunsany said. “Isn’t it a bit late for a teenage rebellion?”

“And that’s what you all think of me, isn’t it?” Emuel’s voice was broken, high with hysteria, his chest hitching as the words finally poured out of him. “A child. Nothing more than a little boy. But I’m not even that. The Final Faith took that away from me. They destroyed my love of the Lord of All and then they wrote this foul, heathen scripture on my flesh for all to see!

“Why do you keep me around? Without the Llothriall, what use am I?”

“Emuel, you’re being silly,” Katya said. “Of course we need you, you’re our friend.”

“Really?”

Calabash grunted and they all froze, thinking the dragon was about to make its move. Emuel turned and stroked its snout, making soothing sounds as Calabash shifted, sending more shale tumbling down the slope.

“This creature,” Emuel said, turning back to his companions, “is my friend.”

“How can a dragon be your friend?” Kelos said. “Seriously, think for a moment how ridiculous that sounds.”

“Because Calabash saved me when I was dying, because Calabash protected me from the orcs, and because Calabash is the only one who understand and accepts me for who I am.”

Emuel could see the indecision in Dunsany and Kelos’s eyes, could see their reluctance to come any closer. Perhaps, he considered, he was being too harsh. But he couldn’t let them kill Calabash, even if it meant stranding them all here.

There was the sound of a struggle further down the slope and Emuel saw Silus push Katya aside, before shooting a glance at his son that told the boy to stay back.

“No,” Silus said. “This is not where it ends.”

Silus had failed Illiun and his band of refugees, had all but sent them to their dooms, and he was damned if he was now going to fail those closest to him, and the people of his own time. If they didn’t return home, then Silus knew, for certain, that the battle against Hel’ss would be lost. After all, he was the only human with the ability to directly commune with a deity — Kelos had told him as much — and so Silus would have to play his part in holding back the coming apocalypse. Now, however, Emuel seemed determined to throw that away. He understood the eunuch’s arguments — he, too, had seen Calabash refuse to join in with the slaughter of Illiun’s people — but there was far more at stake here than a relationship with an alien creature.

“No, Emuel,” Silus said, climbing towards the eunuch and the dragon. “I’m not going to let you put our entire existence in jeopardy, just because you have fallen for some giant lizard. Now step aside and let us do what we came here to do.”

“Silus, I told you to keep back,” Kelos said. “We don’t want you changing again.”

“And now you’re going to use Calabash just as you have used me, is that it?” Emuel said. “Don’t you understand that this is where I want to be?”

“Emuel, listen to yourself, you’re being ridiculous,” Katya said.

Now that Silus was closer, he could see just how truly angry Emuel was. His flesh, where it wasn’t inked, was red, and his breathing laboured. It was clear that there was to be no reasoning with the boy. To either side, Silus could just see Dunsany and Kelos drawing close, their swords in their hands as they advanced on the dragon. For now, the eunuch was holding the beast in check, but how long would the dragon remain calm as Emuel’s anger rose?

The shadow of the dragon fell over them all as it unfurled its wings. Silus could feel the heat, and smell the foetid stench, of its breath. Even so, he kept his attention focused on Emuel.

“This is not an argument you can win,” he said.

“Out of all of us,” Emuel said, “I would have expected you to understand.”

The eunuch took a step towards him. Behind the boy, the dragon shifted, sending more shale skittering down the slope.

“Silus, I’m telling you, you have to get away from there!” Kelos shouted.

“I can’t do that, my friend. I’m the only one who can deal with this.”

“And why is that, may I ask?”

Silus stared at Emuel as his hand went slowly to his side.

“Because,” he said. “I’m the only one of us who would even contemplate doing this.”

And before Emuel could respond, Silus had drawn his dagger and plunged it into the eunuch’s side.

Silus was surprised at just how little the eunuch weighed. He felt no more substantial than a bundle of cloth-wrapped twigs and jolted about just as loosely as he stumbled back down the slope with the boy in his arms. Behind them, the dragon squealed in pain as Dunsany and Kelos finally attacked. Despite its massive size, Silus had no doubt that they would fell the beast. But right now, that was not his main concern. Emuel had only moments before he would be beyond them.

Ignoring the sounds of battle, and the shocked faces of Katya and Zac as he hurried past them, he gently laid Emuel at Keldren’s feet.

“Quickly, heal him!” Silus said, looking up at the wizard.

“What?”

“I said heal him, now. ”

“I… I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t? You once told me that you’re one of the most powerful sorcerers on the peninsula.”

“And I am, but I have no more magic to draw on. It took virtually everything I have to bring us all here. And then there were the orcs.”

“But… but can’t you do something? Gods, please tell me there’s something you can do!”

Emuel’s eyes were open and rolling wildly as he tried to focus on his surroundings. Seeing Silus, he tried to lift himself on his elbows, but the effort and the pain it caused proved too much for him. The scream rising from his throat came out as a gurgle. Blood flecked his lips.

“I’m so sorry, Emuel,” Silus said. He had not expected it to come to this; he had made a gamble and this wizard had failed him.

“Silus, what have you done?” Emuel whispered.

“Keldren, do something!” Silus grabbed the wizard and pulled him to his knees. “For the sake of Kerberos, please do something!”

But the elf looked at him blankly and, with a sound of disgust, Silus pushed him away.

“I can fix this… I can fix this,” he said, tearing a strip of cloth from his shirt. But the bandage was too short to wrap around Emuel’s torso and even if it hadn’t been, the thin muslin did little to staunch the flow of blood.

“Katya!” Silus shouted. “Come here and keep pressure on that wound. Don’t let go.”

As Katya held her palm firmly against Emuel’s side, Silus blew air into his lungs, pumping his chest with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.

Even when Keldren’s shadow fell over them and the elf said, “He’s gone. There’s nothing you can do now,” Silus carried on. Even when Katya got to her feet and backed away, looking down in horror at her husband, he continued to try and force life back into the boy. But with each palpitation of Silus’s palms against his chest, Emuel flopped like a rag doll, and soon his flesh was too cold for life to ever return.

Silus got to his feet and saw Kelos looking at him. The wizard was covered from head to toe in the dragon’s blood; the sword in his right hand was broken at the tip.

“I thought that Keldren would heal him,” Silus said. “Can’t you help him, Kelos? Can’t you bring him back?”

“I’m sorry, Silus. But there’s nothing that I can do.”

Silus looked down at Emuel. The boy swam in his vision.

“You killed him! You killed Emuel. What were you thinking?” From the look on Katya’s face, she clearly wanted to strike him.

“I thought that Keldren would save him,” Silus said. “We have to get home, Katya. What would you have done? When was the last time you had to make a tough decision?”

Katya simply stared at Silus for a moment, and then shook her head, grabbing Zac’s hand and walking away. The boy looked over his shoulder at his father, tears pouring down his face.

Silus was done with this; done with everything. He looked up at Kerberos.

“Do something,” he whispered, but the god remained impassive, and Emuel didn’t stir.

Silus wiped the back of his hand across his face. “Kelos?”

“Yes, Silus?”

“Did you get what we need?”

“Yes.”

“Then can we go home?”

“Yes, Silus. Let’s go home.”

CHAPTER TWENTY- FOUR

The palace at Da’Rea sat listing to one side, like a ship taking on water. Almost half of it had fallen into the tunnels beneath the city; the remaining portion was a blackened skeleton, its grounds littered with the corpses of dwarves and elves alike. Silus could see no sign of Orlok and his comrades, and he wondered whether the dwarf was amongst the dead or whether he had abandoned the city after the destruction of the palace. The bay was crowded with the wreckage of ships, some still ablaze. In a few places he could see survivors clinging to the flotsam, calling out to compatriots or giving voice to their grief or pain. Very few vessels had survived the assault, but Silus was relieved to see that one unharmed song ship remained, still anchored at the quay.

Keldren looked at the ruins of his former home and Silus saw the beginnings of tears in the wizard’s eyes.

“Did we have to return?” he said. “There is… nothing left. If you’re trying to make some sort of a point…”

“I take no delight in your suffering, Keldren,” Silus said. “We have returned because we need that song ship.”

“I don’t understand. Are we going to sail through time?”

“In a sense, yes.”

In the world’s Ridge Mountains they had made a pyre for Emuel’s body, laying him beside the corpse of the dragon. Katya had enfolded the boy in one of the creature’s wings; Silus had been about to ask her why, but the look she gave him halted the question before it could be formed. It had taken them many hours to collect enough wood for the blaze — little grew this high above the world — yet Silus had endured the search in silence, a penance that was not nearly enough to pay for what he had done. When the wood was ignited and smoke began to shroud Emuel’s body, he had wished that Bestion was still with them. The priest would have known what to say, would have sent Emuel’s spirit into the hereafter with a few suitable words. As it was, no one came forward to say a eulogy for the boy. All stood in silence as he burned. At one point the wood beneath Emuel shifted, sending a sheet of lilac flame high above the pyre, and, for a moment, the hiss of escaping gas sounded like a voice raised in song.

Later, as they gathered around the heat of the embers — wrapped in their cloaks, breaths misting before them — Silus told them of his plan.

“When we return, we’re going to want to ensure that we’re found by the Final Faith as quickly as possible.”

“ The Final Faith! Are you out of your mind?” Katya said.

“Hear me out,” Silus said, as more voices rose in protest. “The peninsula must be united against Hel’ss, and who holds the balance of power on Twilight, who has the largest army on the peninsula? The sooner we can make Katherine Makennon aware of the true nature of Kerberos and the threat Hel’ss poses, the sooner we will be entrusted to aid in the battle.”

“Okay, but how are we going to attract the attention of the Faith?” Kelos said.

“We make sure we return in style. We steal a ship. More specifically, we steal a song ship. We know that Makennon has been trying to recover the Llothriall, so we give it to her. Or, at least, something that looks like it. If we return in a song ship and skirt the western coast of the peninsula, the Faith will be on us in seconds.”

And so they had returned to Da’Rea and there boarded the last intact song ship in the bay.

The wind took the sails and the ship began to move out of the harbour and, despite the smoke rising over the city behind them and the detritus that cluttered the surface of the water, Silus felt his spirits rise. The sea had always been a balm for his suffering, the salt spray and the pitch and yaw of the waves provided him with something very like comfort. When this was all over, he and Katya would find a quiet little coastal village and there they would take up the life they had been so brutally torn from. They would have more children, and he and Zac would teach them the fisherman’s trade. Silus could almost smell the sharp odour of a fresh catch and hear the rapid tattoo of fish tails flapping on boards.

When he turned to see Katya and Zac, sitting on a thick coil of rope by the mainmast, the smile on his face died. His son was huddled into his wife’s arms, looking at Silus as though he didn’t recognise his father. No, there would be no going back to their old life. They had all travelled too far from each other for that to ever be a possibility. When this was all over, they would part ways and the best that Silus could hope for was that his son would not grow up to hate him.

Silus heard a snatch of Keldren’s song, as the hatch to below opened and Dunsany and Kelos climbed onto deck. Kelos had discarded his robe, it having become all but shredded in the battle with the dragon. His bare arms were criss-crossed with many scars, some of them still weeping, and his face was a patchwork of bruises. In his hands he held a crystal decanter filled with a thick amber fluid.

“Used to contain brandy,” the mage said, gesturing with the vessel. “Rather good brandy as it turns out. Don’t worry, I’m sure any residue won’t have diminished the potency of the dragon’s blood.”

“And you’re sure the spell will work this time?” Silus said. “I don’t want us to be stranded millions of years from now.”

“This time, without a doubt, the spell will work. Keldren has helped me prepare and we have gone through the nuances of the spell several times just to be sure. No casting on the fly this time. I’ll get us all home, don’t you worry.”

“Okay, Kelos. Let’s get this over with.”

Silus went to stand at the prow. Even with the strong wind gusting over the ship’s rail, he could smell the heavy incense of magic — cinnamon and burned stone — as Kelos unstoppered the decanter. The mage first poured the dragon’s blood over his hands, and used the remaining contents of the vessel to paint various symbols onto the deck. He muttered to himself as he inscribed each character, a look of intense concentration on his face. Dunsany knelt beside him, holding a book open before his friend, which Kelos consulted from time to time as he laid down the arcane script of the spell. When the last drop of blood had been used, he got back to his feet.

“Technically, you know, this is necromancy,” Kelos said to no one in particular. “Not my field at all. But Keldren has briefed me on the ins-and-outs of it, and it really isn’t that much more complicated than the practise of elemental magic. Of course, one thing that any act of necromancy requires, to be effective, is a death.” Kelos glanced at his feet, beside which sat a wicker cage that occasionally shook and emitted a cluck. “Necromancers generally prefer to work with human death, or deaths. But, really, the nature of the death isn’t important. Necromancers are just naturally attracted to melodrama, preferring a human death — or twenty — to empower their spells. Fortunately, I am not as enamoured of such ostentatious gestures.” Kelos paused. “Dunsany, I know exactly what look you are giving me, and I will ask you to stop it now. Thank you.

“Anyway, for this act of sorcery, the death in question will be given by nothing more significant than this chicken.” Kelos produced the bird from the wicker basket and held it against his chest. “And we need to do nothing more dramatic than this.” With a twist of his right hand, he broke the chicken’s neck. Kelos then produced a dagger and slit the creature’s throat, sprinkling its blood liberally over the symbols on the deck.

“No, my friends. The death is not the dramatic part of this spell at all. This, however, you will find far more impressive.” Dunsany handed Kelos the book he had been holding. “I just hope my pronunciation is accurate. Otherwise, this could go horribly wrong.”

The mage licked his index finger, turned a page and then cleared his throat and began to read.

As he announced each incomprehensible word, the symbols painted onto the deck began to burn with an intense light. Silus closed his eyes against the glare, only to find the afterimage of one of the characters floating in the darkness behind his eyelids. He turned away and opened his eyes, and saw the symbol hanging in the air just beyond the prow of the ship. For a moment, he was afraid that it had been permanently seared into his retinas, but when it began to grow and dark tendrils flowed from it to caress the ship, he realised that it was all part of Kelos’s spell.

“And so the door is written onto the very fabric of the universe,” Kelos said, closing the book and handing it back to Dunsany. “Now, all we have to do is open it.”

Kelos gestured and the sky beyond the prow of the ship shattered, falling like a cascade of stained glass. Before them now was darkness, unrelieved by any light. A warm wind breathed from the void, rippling the sails and sending the ship into a gentle roll. Already the figurehead had been swallowed by this unmitigated night and Silus was afraid that they were all about to be plunged into oblivion when a gust of freezing cold wind threw his hair into his eyes and the deck pitched violently beneath his feet. This was a feeling he knew well. These waves that now towered about them were like old friends; indeed, just beyond them, to the north-west, Silus could see the tumult of the Storm Wall — the perpetual maelstrom that raged a handful of miles from the peninsula’s coast — and he knew then that they were finally home.

He ran across the deck to Dunsany. “Hand me your glass,” he said, before taking the telescope and training it on the horizon.

Just visible to the east was the dense huddle of Malmkrug, clinging to the cliffs that surrounded it. But something was wrong: whole sections of the city had been demolished or razed by fire; the ancient breakwaters that stood guard before the harbour had been broken and now protruded from the sea like the shattered tusks of a beached leviathan. As Silus watched, a vast plume of emerald smoke rose from the centre of the city, followed, moments later, by a thunderclap.

“That was sorcery,” Kelos said, coming to stand beside him. “What in the name of all the gods is going on?”

Silus increased the magnification on the telescope and he could now see the people crowding the city’s streets. Most were fleeing the destruction taking place all around them, hurrying inland now that a maelstrom of fire had begun to consume the harbour, but others were fighting. However, although the conflict was confined to the narrow alleys and thoroughfares of Malmkrug, this was no guerrilla assault. Silus recognised the livery of the Pontaine military and the distinctive red and blue stripes of the Vos National Army. And the battle was not confined to this one coastal settlement, for as Silus scanned along the peninsula, wherever he looked he could see flames and the clash of armies. It would seem that, just as had happened so many times in the past, the peninsula had gone to war, Vos and Pontaine once more fighting for dominance of Twilight.

“Silus,” Kelos said. “Look.”

Silus took the telescope away from his right eye, to see Kelos pointing to the sky, his own eyes raised. He looked up.

A new scarlet moon hung beside the vast sphere of Kerberos. It was about one-fifth the size of the azure deity and its surface was pitted and scarred, crowded with craters that resembled nothing so much as vast pools of blood. A hazy corona partly shrouded the sphere and from this, reaching towards Kerberos, snaked a host of thin red pseudopods. Where they touched the upper atmosphere of the god, bolts of lightning lanced down into the gas giant. Silus felt each strike as a pain, deep in his guts.

“That would be Hel’ss?” he said to Kelos.

The mage nodded, his face pale.

“Are we already too late?”

To this Kelos had no answer. Something seemed to have caught his attention to the east.

A galleon was heading towards them, its sails bearing the crossed circle of the Final Faith.

“Well, at least something is going as planned,” Silus said. “Katya and Zac, get below. There may be violence, and I don’t want you on deck if that happens. Dunsany, tell Keldren to bring the ship to a halt.”

Moments after Dunsany went below, the song came to an end and the sails fell limp, although a strong wind still howled in from the west.

“I must admit, I didn’t think to see the Faith quite so soon,” Silus said.

“They’ll have had mages scrying this area of the coast round the clock,” Kelos said, “ready to give the order to launch at the first sight of the Llothriall.”

“I just hope that Makennon is so delighted to have her ship back that she forgoes the torture,” Dunsany said, climbing back on deck, sword in hand.

When the galleon pulled in alongside, it was not the soldiers of the Final Faith that greeted them, but a ragtag crew of men and women, some dressed in leather cuirasses and wielding shields and swords, others appearing to be nothing more than civilians along for the ride.

A heavily bearded man, wearing a mismatched uniform — the helm of a commander in the Swords of Dawn and a tabard clearly filched from a soldier of the Pontaine army — leapt between the ships and thudded onto the deck in front of Silus.

“No civilian vessels are to be sailed in these waters. We’re commandeering this ship.”

“Hang on a moment,” Silus said, “you’re not Final Faith.”

The men on the deck of the Faith ship laughed at this.

The bearded man grunted and spat at Silus’s feet. “We are now.”

“But what’s happened to the soldiers of the Faith? Why are a bunch of mercenaries crewing one of their vessels?”

“There’s been something of a change of management, sunshine. The Red Chapter is now in charge. So, are you going to do the decent thing, climb over the side and attempt the swim back to shore, or are we going to take this ship by force?”

In reply, Silus unsheathed his sword and drove the point into the mercenary’s right eye and through into his brain. There was a stunned silence from the Faith ship as the bearded man slid from Silus’s blade and fell to the deck, before the hiss of unsheathed weapons filled the air and bodies hurled themselves across the gap between vessels.

The odds were hardly stacked in their favour — there were at least twenty mercenaries and only three of them — but Silus and Dunsany were skilled swordsmen and Kelos was a master of elemental magic, and the element he was most adept with was the one which currently surrounded them.

As Dunsany and Silus stood back to back, blades dancing amongst the mercenaries, occasionally lunging out to strike one of them dead, Kelos withdrew to a quiet part of the deck, closed his eyes and began to mutter to himself, weaving complex patterns with his hands.

When he opened his eyes, five mercenaries dropped their weapons and clutched at their throats, their faces turning purple as a flood of brackish seawater issued from their mouths. Another gesture from the mage brought four columns of water bursting up from the sea to either side of the ship. They stood for a moment, swaying like a snake caught by the music of a charmer’s flute, before they lunged at the deck, snatching up men and women and throwing them far from the ship. Kelos was still raising water elementals when he realised that the remaining mercenaries had all been accounted for, their blood soaking the deck around the feet of Dunsany and Silus.

“Well, that was unexpected,” Dunsany said. “Something must have gone seriously wrong at Scholten if mercenaries are now in charge of the Final Faith.”

“And, thus, getting to see Katherine Makennon is going to be rather trickier than we had imagined,” Kelos said. “What are we going to do?”

“If we take their ship, we’re less likely to be stopped again. Flying the colours of the Final Faith, we should be able to follow the river Anclas all the way to Scholten,” Silus said. “There… well, we’ll just have to think of something, won’t we?”

Keldren climbed onto the deck, his face paling when he saw the dead mercenaries.

“What about the song ship?” Kelos said. “We can’t just leave it here.”

“ This is the brave new world that you would have me inherit?” Keldren said, taking in the chaos that had gripped the peninsula. “Gods, where have you brought me?”

“Keldren, I’m sorry, but we don’t have much time. We have to board the mercenaries’ ship.” Silus said, attempting to guide him by the elbow.

“No, I don’t think so. I would die out there. I will stay with the ship. Perhaps find some quiet bay to anchor her in and wait for this conflict to blow over. This is not the world I was expecting.”

“I’m sorry,” Kelos said, though Silus didn’t entirely believe the regret in the mage’s voice. After all, the elf mage had held him against his will, conducted vile experiments on his friends. Now they no longer had any use for him, it was fitting that they should leave Keldren to fend for himself. They said their goodbyes and watched from the Final Faith ship as the song ship skirted the shore, Keldren’s song fading as it rode away on its tide of magic.

Silus took charge of the Final Faith ship, but it was horribly unresponsive. The boom came round arthritically slowly, and the ropes and masts screamed in protest as the wind pushed against them. The ship’s wheel was badly in need of oiling and as he turned it, Silus could have sworn that he heard something break deep within the vessel. He only hoped that the craft would hold together long enough for them to get to Scholten.

Soon the jagged banks of the river Anclas rose to either side, playing host to a vast colony of gulls, whose stench and clamour rolled over them in a heady tide. When the sails fell lifeless for no apparent reason and the ship keeled to port, Silus only just managed to prevent it running aground.

“Gods, you can tell why the people of Malmkrug never used this as a trade route,” Dunsany said, as he came to stand by Silus’s side. “The currents are lethal.”

Silus could only nod in agreement as he struggled with the wheel.

To the east, the sky took on a vermillion glow and he was just beginning to think that it was far too early for sunrise when, with a deafening screech, a blazing ball of scarlet energy arched overhead and impacted with the cliffs towering over their port side, sending fractures racing through the rock face. Silus pulled hard on the wheel, but whatever had broken earlier now caused the mechanism to jam, and they found themselves heading straight towards the cliffs, slowly breaking apart as they did.

“Kelos!” Silus shouted. “A little help?”

The mage raised his arms and cried out, and silence fell. A pearlescent light surrounded the ship. Silus watched in terror as an avalanche of boulders tumbled towards them, only to be deflected by Kelos’s magic.

“Thank you,” Silus said, “Kelos — can you go below and see to whatever is broken? If I can’t turn the wheel we’re not going to get very far.”

Thankfully, whatever was broken was easily repaired. Within a matter of moments, the wheel was turning again.

Though the distance between Malmkrug and Scholten was not a considerable one, their progress was slow. Every mile was a constant battle against the fierce current and the detritus of war that crowded the river’s surface. The bodies were the easiest to deal with, as they either knocked harmlessly against the ship’s side or broke apart on the prow; the collapsed sections of riverbank, however, were another matter entirely. Several times they had to stop and sound the depths with the anchor before they could progress through a narrowed channel, and by the time they neared Scholten — its peaks just visible over the high walls of the river bank — Silus was beginning to flag, his eyes growing heavier with each passing moment.

“Here, let me,” said Dunsany, carefully removing his friend’s hands from the wheel. “Go and get some rest.”

Silus nodded and went below.

As tired as he felt, however, he didn’t think he could have looked as wretched as Katya. She sat on a bunk in one of the cabins, watching Zac as he slept beside her. When Silus went to her, she shrank away, and the look he gave her chilled him more than any of the sights they had seen that day in Twilight.

“When we get to Scholten…” she began, until sobs took her words away.

Silus watched, utterly helpless, as she struggled to regain her composure.

Katya swallowed, blinked and then started again.

“I have an aunt in Scholten, I believe you met her once. When we get to the city, Zac and I will go to her.”

“Okay, then tell me where I’ll find you.”

“No.”

“But, Katya, Twilight has gone to war. You may not be safe-”

“Oh, and you think we’ll be safer with you? You think you’ll be able to defend us from what is happening; that you’ll be able to protect us from yourself?”

“But Zac; Katya… he’s my son!”

“And if you love him, you’ll understand that what I’m proposing is the best for him. He doesn’t know who his daddy is anymore, Silus. This thing within you… it could come back at any time. Kelos told you that you have a destiny and you do, but not with us.”

“Katya, please don’t do this. I love you both so much. Remember how long we tried for Zac? Remember how blessed we felt the first time you held him in your arms?”

“Please, this isn’t easy.”

“What about me? I don’t think you realise how much this hurts.”

“That’s the problem. It is all about you, and there’s no room for us in your life now that you know what you truly are.”

Silus felt like tearing the room apart then, felt the burn of anger and waited for it to overtake him. But he couldn’t. Katya was right. He was a completely different person from the one she had married. He could no longer justify the danger they would be in if they stayed together. He wanted only what was best for Katya and Zac, and so he had to let them go.

“Just give me one thing,” he said.

“And what is that?”

“Five minutes alone with my son. I want to say goodbye properly.”

Katya looked reluctant at first, but finally she nodded and left the cabin.

Silus stroked his son’s head and said his name. Zac opened his eyes and blinked.

“Hey there, looks like you slept through all the excitement.”

“Mummy?”

“She’s just in the next room. There’s no need to be afraid. Listen, you know that Daddy would never hurt you, right?”

“You hurt Emuel.”

“And that was a mistake, Zac. Daddy thought that Keldren would make him all better. Daddy…” Silus realised that if he was going to talk seriously to his son, he shouldn’t talk down to him. “I made a mistake. I’ve made a lot of mistakes. But you must understand that I would never, ever hurt you.”

The strength of feeling behind his last statement made Zac flinch and Silus reached out to him. His son looked at the outstretched palm as though it were a weapon.

“And that’s why you and Mummy are going on your own journey,” he said, after swallowing the hard knot of grief threatening to choke his words. “You’re going to stay with Aunty Kearney. You’ll be safe there, away from all of… this.”

“Are you coming with us, Daddy?”

“No, I’m not. And that’s why you have to be a brave boy, because you may not see Daddy again for a long time.”

Zac began to cry then, great sobs that shook his little body. Silus gathered him close and for a moment he didn’t say anything. Instead, he buried his face in his son’s hair, inhaling the rich, sweet smell of him, feeling his small warm body against him and not wanting the moment to end, ever. Because, here, he was in the only safe and good place on all of Twilight.

“I promise you, Zac, I will find you again. One day, a long time from now, you’ll meet a man you don’t at first recognise. That man will tell you a story, of a stolen ship and a little boy raised in chaos, and of how hard the man fought for that boy to have a safe, normal life and a place he could call home. And when the story is done you will maybe find the strength to forgive the man, because you’ll understand that everything he did — even the things that seemed cruel and wrong — was all for you.

“I love you, Zac Morlader. I love you more than I think you’ll ever know.”

Silus desperately wanted to hear his love returned, but he just held onto his son as the boy sobbed into his shirt, and when Katya came back into the room, he nodded that he was ready.

Silus had never heard Scholten so quiet. Usually the capital city of Vos was awash with the cries of traders, merchantmen and the preachers who harangued the unholy at every streetcorner chapel. Not a minute would pass that was not marked by the ringing of a bell in some Final Faith church or the screams of a heretic being ‘cleansed’ in the central square. Now there were only the sounds of the gulls hovering over the city, occasionally diving among the streets and buildings to retrieve scraps of meat, the provenance of which Silus dreaded to contemplate. Despite all of this, Katya still stood on the quay with a bag of supplies slung over her shoulder and Zac’s hand held tightly in hers.

“If there’s anywhere that will be safe in this city, it will be Aunt Kearney’s,” she said. “Sorry Silus, but this really is goodbye.”

“Then take care. Both of you. And don’t forget me.”

“Silus Morlader? As if!”

When he held her for the last time, Silus was relieved to find warmth in Katya’s embrace. That small hope would make everything to come much easier to bear.

“I love you,” he said.

“I know you do.”

Silus watched as his wife and son walked away and then he watched the place where they had last stood, and only Dunsany clearing his throat broke him out of his reverie.

“Are you ready?” he said.

Silus nodded.

“Then let’s go and find Katherine Makennon.”

As they headed away from the river, they climbed streets that were eerily empty, and Silus hoped that Katya’s faith that her aunt still remained within the city wouldn’t prove to be misplaced. Houses stood open, shops had been abandoned, the produce lining the streets of the market quarter sat spoiling in the sun. Occasionally they came across a corpse, a citizen that had been caught in the stampede to evacuate the capital, but they didn’t see any soldiers. They would already be at the front lines, Silus presumed, struggling to prevent the Pontaine army from overrunning Vos. None of that would matter, in the end, if they didn’t do something about Hel’ss.

He looked up at the two deities in time to see an arc of blinding energy erupting from Hel’ss and lancing deep into Kerberos. Silus suddenly found himself on his knees, as though he had been struck.

“Are you alright?” Dunsany said, hurrying over and helping him to his feet.

“I… I’m fine. Whatever is happening to Kerberos also seems to be affecting me.”

“Your link with the deity must be growing stronger,” Kelos said.

Silus didn’t know if he wanted that, not after everything they had learned about the true nature of Kerberos, but what he wanted didn’t really matter any more — as Kelos had said, he had been chosen.

They reached the top of the market district to find the monstrous edifice of Scholten Cathedral looming over them, and here, finally, were signs of life. Patrolling the walkways connecting the many spires and towers of the vast church were a motley crew of men and women, all haphazardly armed and armoured. Of the soldiers of the Order of the Swords of Dawn and the priests and acolytes of the Final Faith, there was no sign.

Crouched in the shadow of the tattered awning of a grocer’s shop, they waited for a pike-wielding mercenary to round the corner of the west tower before sprinting across the square and towards the main entrance. There, Dunsany put his head against the ornate portal, listening for any signs of movement from within.

“Now that is very disturbing indeed,” he whispered.

“What is?”

“The Eternal Choir has fallen silent.”

From the moment the church had first opened its doors to the faithful, the Eternal Choir had sung praises to the Lord of All, morning, noon and night. The perpetual hymn had never faltered; members of the choir worked in shifts, to rest and eat and to preserve their voices. For the Eternal Choir to be silenced was unthinkable, and though Silus was no friend of the Final Faith, he found the silence chilling.

“The Red Chapter have really done a number on Makennon,” Kelos said. “How on earth did they manage to wrest control of the Cathedral from the Final Faith?”

Silus had been wondering very much the same thing, for neither the facade of the building, nor the stones of the central square abutting it, bore the scars of battle. However this infiltration had been achieved, it had happened quickly and decisively.

His left hand on the handle of the postern door and his right gripping his sword, Silus nodded to his two companions to follow before entering the cathedral.

As soon as they crossed the threshold they found themselves walking through the debris of broken pews and shattered stained glass. The nave had been utterly desecrated: the fine tapestries gracing every pillar were shredded, the intricate mosaics decorating the floor cracked and tarnished, the central altar broken in half and strewn with the remnants of the great glass dome that had once looked down upon it. Silus’s faith had long since been diminished by everything he had witnessed, yet he still felt a sense of horror at the destruction that had been visited upon this place of worship. Standing under the shattered central dome, he looked up to see a host of pigeons roosting on the broken spars; the murals that decorated the wall around the dome’s base had been scrawled over with crude depictions of sex or blasphemies against the Faith.

“Classy bunch, this Red Chapter, aren’t they?” Dunsany said. “And that is never how you spell faggot.”

“Is that supposed to be Makennon herself, do you think?” Kelos said. “It’s hard to tell. In fact, looking it at, it could be a dog.”

Silus shook his head and proceeded towards the choir stalls. Here, there were signs of slaughter. Underfoot, the floor was tacky with drying blood, and on the High Altar sat a human head; the bishop’s hat that crowned it sat askew, its empty eye-sockets were stuffed with votive candles and its tongue was skewered with the symbol of the Final Faith.

The smell of death suddenly rose up like cloying incense, and Silus stepped back, taking deep breaths through his mouth and willing himself not to be sick. As his nausea subsided, he heard a voice raised in song and thought, for a moment, that one of the choristers had survived the cull. He only realised his mistake when he looked up and saw Kerberos framed by the remnants of a broken stained glass window. This was no human voice, but the call of his god. It had been so long since he had heard it that he had forgotten its sound, forgotten its ability to get right to the heart of him and there find every pain, every worry and fear and doubt, and soothe them away with the balm of its voice. Silus was so tired, so done with fighting against what he had become, that every defence crumbled. He closed his eyes and distantly heard the sound of his sword falling to the floor. Something moved behind him, but he paid it no heed. Instead, he gave himself up entirely to the music pouring from the azure sphere hanging low and heavy in the sky.

When his soul left his body, he felt no loss because he knew that he was coming home.

They both saw Silus falter, but it was Kelos who reached him first. He slung an arm around his friend and helped him over to a pew, where he loosened the top button of his shirt and fanned his face with a shredded hymnal.

“Listen, are you sure you’re up to this?” he said. “Perhaps we should just hole up somewhere for a while, forget the whole thing. What do you say?”

Silus turned at the sound of Kelos’s voice, but did not open his eyes.

“This is how they treat my house?” he said.

“I… I don’t understand.”

“This is how they repay me for all that I have given to this world?”

The voice that came from Silus’s mouth was not his own.

“Who are you?”

“You know me well, Kelos. You too, Dunsany. I am your Lord and Master, and you shall kneel before me.”

When Silus stood and opened his eyes they had no choice, for the azure glare that poured from his pupils possessed them with a fear unlike any they had known.

“What have you done to Silus?” Dunsany said.

“He has become one with me. I — ”

Silus staggered, knocking over an ornate candlestick. An unearthly scream came from his mouth and when he looked up at the two men before him, for a brief moment, a red glare filled his eyes.

“Hel’ss,” Kerberos gasped. “I… I need help. I need… Makennon.”

He shook his head and the scarlet taint was gone, replaced once more by the pure light of the azure god. Barely giving Dunsany and Kelos a second glace, Kerberos made His way to the north transept. There, He stood looking at a mural depicting the great sphere of the deity, with a host of human souls streaming towards it, each with the features of a former head of the Final Faith. Looming over them, looking down on them all, was the face of Katherine Makennon, portrayed with a benevolent — even loving — smile.

Kerberos shook His head, smiling ruefully.

“And just who is the god of this world, do you think?”

Neither Kelos or Dunsany answered, still too stunned by the possession of their friend to even understand what Kerberos was saying.

The god’s gaze snapped to the arches of the gallery above.

“Even now, knowing who strides through the ruins of this church, you would resist me?”

He gestured and the wall before Him melted, collapsing the upper levels and spilling a host of Red Chapter mercenaries into the transept. Those not killed by the fall were trapped in the solidifying rock, screaming as their lungs were crushed and their bones pulverised. A few survived intact, and they turned on Kerberos with their swords drawn before an understanding of what truly stood before them dawned on their faces.

Some knelt before their god then, while others took their own lives, their minds broken. Kerberos looked upon His remaining disciples kindly. They bowed their heads to receive His sacrament, and soon the pain and fear in their eyes was replaced by His pure, azure light.

As one, Kerberos and the three men and four women now possessed of His grace turned to Kelos and Dunsany.

“This is our world,” they said in unison. “This is our creation. This is our-”

One of the men suddenly clutched at his face and wailed. From between his fingers came shards of a brilliant crimson light. The cathedral was now open to the sky through the rent in the collapsed wall, and there Dunsany could see red tendrils reaching out from the sphere of Hel’ss and wrapping themselves around the great disc of Kerberos. The possessed Silus reached out to the man, there was a flash of azure light, and a corpse hit the floor, smoke rising from its flesh. Above them, the two deities were still once more.

“There is little time,” Kerberos and His disciples said.

For a terrifying moment, Dunsany and Kelos feared that they too were about to be possessed, corralled into the service of the Lord of All. Instead, Kerberos opened a door in the north wall and descended the steps beyond, trailed by His followers. Dunsany and Kelos could have run then, but they had come too far not to see this through to the end.

The tunnels below the cathedral led to a vast complex of rooms; some simple storage areas or administrative offices, others housing vast libraries and laboratories. In one high-vaulted chamber Dunsany caught a glimpse of a huge statue of a dwarf, inscribed with glowing runes and holding a steel axe that looked capable of felling entire armies. He was about to walk past when something about the dwarf’s features made him do a double take.

“Kelos, is that…?”

“My gods, you’re right! It’s the exact likeness of Orlok.”

Such wonders, however, held no interest for Kerberos and His disciples, who continued on their relentless march through the many levels of the cathedral. Kelos and Dunsany brought up the rear, keeping their distance lest they attract the attention of the god. Passing through a large set of heavily fortified double doors they came to what must have once been the barracks of the soldiers of the Order of the Swords of Dawn. Now, however, there was no sign of the holy warriors, although the blood-stained floor spoke clearly of what had happened to them. Instead, lounging on cots or sparring in the centre of the room with purloined weapons, there were a host of Red Chapter mercenaries. At first, they did not notice the presence of the god, but when Kerberos sent forth His disciples, the sight of their comrades, possessed by the light of the deity, brought many of them to their knees. Everything that had been human had been stripped away. Now they were merely the vessels of their god. Looking at Silus, Kelos wondered whether he’d ever see his friend behind those eyes again, and where — at that moment — his spirit resided. He was glad that Katya and Zac were not here to see this; the sight of Silus as he was now may well have destroyed them.

With His ever-growing army of followers, Kerberos descended through the last and deepest levels of the cathedral. Any Red Chapter mercenaries they met were either added to the legion or, if their minds were not robust enough, dispatched. And the further they descended, the more Hel’ss made its presence known. Many disciples were lost as the crimson glare of the deity poured from their eyes, with Kerberos forced to end their suffering as quickly as possible before the other god could spread its taint. Kelos and Dunsany followed this trail of the dead, all the while wondering why a god would have need of a mortal woman. Just what would Kerberos say to Katherine Makennon? Would she too become a vessel for the Lord of All?

When they finally stood before the ornate door leading to Makennon’s quarters, Dunsany reached for Kelos’s hand.

“Are you ready?” he said.

“Do we have a choice? Have we ever had a choice? I feel like we’ve been nothing more than pawns in a game played between gods.”

“It’s been a hell of an adventure, though, hasn’t it?”

“Oh, yes. Though it’s a pity we never got a chance to put that retirement plan of mine into effect. No desert island for us, just a ruined land at war once again.”

“That’s the Twilight we love.”

Kelos laughed. “And that’s the Dunsany I love. Now, let’s see what a god has to say for itself.”

K ATHERINE M AKENNON HAD heard the trail of destruction coming her way and had been about to call for her guards, when she remembered that those who remained were no longer hers to command. All authority had been stripped from her by the Red Chapter and she had been confined to her quarters, able to do little more than pray for her liberation.

This she did now, falling to her knees as she heard screams coming from beyond her chamber door.

“Lord of All, deliver me from this torment; free me to serve you once more.”

The prayer was no sooner spoken than the door opened and there, stood before her, was Silus Morlader.

Except it was not Silus Morlader, for from his eyes poured an azure light that she knew all too well.

Katherine Makennon looked into the eyes of her god and her heart filled with hope.

She was about to bow her head when Kerberos sank to His knees before her. He seemed to be in pain, and for a moment a cruel grin crossed His face as His eyes shone with an unholy light.

“No! This world is… not yours! This… this is my creation!” He screamed, and to hear such pain and despair in the voice of her god chilled Katherine Makennon to the very core.

“My Lord?” she said, reaching out and touching the man’s shoulder.

Kerberos looked up at Makennon — her god, her life, her reason for choosing the path that had seen her rise through the ranks of the Final Faith to become the most powerful woman on the peninsula — and there was fear in His eyes.

“Katherine Makennon. You have to help me, or all of Twilight will fall.”

There was a peal of thunder then, so loud that she heard it even here, far beneath the ground, and as her god bowed before her Katherine Makennon began to sob.

Content

Jonathan Oliver
Wrath of Kerberos

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

PART TWO

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

PART THREE

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

C HAPTER T WENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY- ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY- TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY- THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY- FOUR