Ah, you've had a thought.

'I have. Very well, Ganoes Paran, bargain.'

'Abyss take us – there's no time for that!'

'Think quickly, then.'

'What do you want? More than anything else, Hood. What do you want?'

And so Hood told him. And, among the corpses, limbs and staring faces in the gate, one face in particular suddenly grew animate, its eyes opening very wide – a detail neither noticed.

Paran stared at the god, disbelieving. 'You can't be serious.'

'Death is always serious.'

'Oh, enough with the portentous crap! Are you certain?'

'Can you achieve what I ask, Ganoes Paran?'

'I will. Somehow.'

'Do you so vow?'

'I do.'

'Very well. Leave here. I must open this gate.'

'What? It is open!'

But the god had turned away, and Paran barely heard Hood's reply: 'Not from this side.'

Chaur squealed as a hail of firestones struck the roiling waters barely a ship's-breadth away. Explosions of steam, a terrible shrieking sound tearing through the air. Cutter pushed hard on the steering oar, trying to scull the wallowing craft – but he didn't have the strength for that. The Grief wasn't going anywhere. Except, I fear, to the bottom.

Something struck the deck; a thud, splintering, reverberations trembling the entire hull, then steam was billowing from the fistsized hole. The Grief seemed to sag beneath them.

Cursing, Barathol scrambled to the breach, dragging a bundle of spare sailcloth. Even as he sought to push it down into the hole, two more stones struck the craft, one up front tearing away the prow, another – a flash of heat against Cutter's left thigh and he looked down to see steam then water gushing up.

The air seethed like the breath from a forge. The entire sky overhead seemed to be on fire.

The sail above them was burning, ripped through.

Another concussion, and more than half of the port rail was simply gone, pulverized wood a mist drifting away, flaring with motes of flame.

'We're sinking!' Scillara shouted, grasping hold of the opposite rail as the Grief's deck tilted alarmingly.

Cargo shifted – too many supplies – we got greedy – making the dying craft lean further.

The wrapped corpse of Heboric rolled towards the choppy waves.

Crying out, Cutter sought to make his way towards it, but he was too far away – the cloth-wrapped form slid down into the waterAnd, wailing, Chaur followed it.

'No!' Barathol yelled. 'Chaur – no!'

The mute giant's huge arms closed about the corpse, a moment before both simply slipped from sight.

Sea. Bara called it sea. Warm now, wet. Was so nice. Now, sky bad, and sea bad – up there – but nice now. Here. Dark, night, night is coming, ears hurt. Ears hurt. Hurt. Bara said never breathe in sea. Need to breathe now. Oh, hurt! Breathe!

He filled his lungs, and fire burst through his chest, then… cool, calm, the spasms slowing. Darkness closed in round him, but Chaur was no longer frightened by that. The cold was gone, the heat was gone, and numbness filled his head.

He had so loved the sea.

The wrapped body in his arms pulled ever down, and the limbs that had been severed and that he had collected when Bara told him to, seemed to move about within as the canvas stretched, lost shape.

Darkness, now, inside and out. Something hot and savage tore past him, racing downward like a spear of light, and Chaur flinched. And he closed his eyes to make those things go away. The ache was finally gone from his lungs.

I sleep now.

Geysers of steam shooting skyward, thunderous concussions racking the air and visibly battering the sea so that it shook, trembled, and Cutter saw Barathol dive into the churning water, into Chaur's wake.

The body. Heboric – Chaur, oh gods…

He reached Scillara's side and pulled her close, into his arms. She clutched his sodden shirt. 'I'm so glad,' she whispered, as the Grief groaned and canted further onto its side.

'About what?'

'That I left her. Back there. I left her.'

Cutter hugged her all the tighter.

I'm sorry, Apsalar. For everythingSudden buffeting winds, a sweeping shadow. He looked up and his eyes widened at the monstrous shape occluding the sky, descendingA dragon. What now?

And then he heard shouts – and at that moment, the Grief seemed to explode.

Cutter found himself in the water, thrashing, panic awakened within him, like a fist closing round his heart.

… Reaching… reaching…

What is this sound? Where am I?

A million voices – screaming, plunging into terrible death – oh, they had travelled the dark span for so long, weightless, seeing before them that vast… emptiness. Unmindful of their arguing, their discussions, their fierce debates, it swallowed them. Utterly. Then, out, through to the other side… a net of power spreading out, something eager for mass, something that grew ever stronger, and the journey was suddenly in crazed, violent motion – a world beneath – so many lost then – and beyond it, another, this one larger'Oh, hear us, so many… annihilated. Mountains struck to dust, rock spinning away into dark, blinding clouds that scintillated in harsh sunlight – and now, this beast world that fills our vision – is this home? 'Have we come home?'

Reaching… hands of jade, dusty, raw, not yet polished into lurid brightness. I remember… you had to die, Treach, didn't you? Before ascendancy, before true godhood. You had to die first.

Was I ever your Destriant?

Did that title ever belong to me?

Did I need to be killed?

Reaching – these hands, these unknown, unknowable hands – how can I answer these screams? These millions in their shattered prisons – I touched, once, fingertip to fingertip, I touched, oh… the voices'This is not salvation. We simply die. Destruction-'

'No, no, you fool. Home. We have come home-'

'Annihilation is not salvation. Where is he? Where is our god?'

'I tell you, the search ends!'

'No argument there.'

Listen to me.

'Who is that?'

'He returns! The one outside – the brother!'

Listen to me, please. I – I'm not your brother. I'm no-one. I thought… Destriant… did I know it for certain? Have I been lied to? Destriant… well, maybe, maybe not. Maybe we all got it wrong, every one of us. Maybe even Treach got it wrong.

'He has lost his mind.'

'Forget him – look, death, terrible death, it comes-'

'Mad? So what. I'd rather listen to him than any of you. He said listen, he said that, and so I shall.'

'We will all listen, idiot – we have no choice, have we?'

Destriant. We got it all wrong. Don't you see? All I have done… cannot be forgiven. Can never be forgiven – he's sent me back. Even Hood – he's rejected me, flung me back. But… it's slipping away, so tenuous, I am failing'Failing, falling, what's the difference?'

Reaching.

'What?'

My hands – do you see them? Cut loose, that's what happened. The hands… cut loose. Freed. I can't do this… but I think they can.

Don't you see? 'Senseless words.'

'No, wait-'

Not Destriant.

Shield Anvil.

Reaching… look upon me – all of you! Reach! See my hands! See them!

They're reaching – reaching out for you!

They… are… reaching…

Barathol swam down into darkness. He could see… nothing. No-one.

Chaur, oh gods, what have I done? He continued clawing his way downward. Better he drowned as well – he could not live with this, not with that poor man-child's death on his hands – he could notHis own breath was failing, the pressure closing in, pounding in his skull. He was blindA flash of emerald green below, blooming, incandescent, billowing out – and at its core – Oh gods, wait – wait for meLimp, snagged in unravelled folds of canvas, Chaur was sinking, arms out to the sides, his eyes closed, his mouth… open.