Hedge saw that neck collapse in a welter of blood.

More blood poured from the stricken dragon’s gaping mouth, a damned fountain of the stuff-

Quick Ben was walking back up the slope, seemingly indifferent to the carnage behind him.

The third dragon, the one driven far out on the basin, at the end of a torn-up track that stretched across the grass like a wound, now lifted itself into the air, streaming blood, and, climbing still higher, banked south and then eastward.

The warring dragons at the base of the slope slashed and tore at each other, yet the attacker would not release its death-grip on the other’s neck, and those huge fangs were sawing right through. Then the spine crunched, snapped, and suddenly the severed head and its arm-length’s worth of throat fell to the churned ground with a heavy thud. The body kicked, gouging into its slayer’s underbelly for a moment longer, then sagged down as a spraying exhalation burst from the severed neck.

Quick Ben staggered onto the summit.

Hedge dragged his eyes from the scene below and stared at the wizard. ‘You look like Hood’s own arse-wipe, Quick.’

‘Feel like it too, Hedge.’ He pivoted round, the motion like an old man’s. ‘Sheltatha-what a nasty creature-turned on Menandore just like that!’

‘When she realized they weren’t getting past you, aye,’ Hedge said. ‘The other one’s going for the Imass, I’d wager.’

‘Won’t get past Rud Ellalle.’

‘No surprise, since you turned her into one giant bruise.’

Below, Sheltatha Lore, her belly ripped open, was dragging herself away.

Hedge eyed the treacherous beast.

‘Aye, sapper,’ Quick Ben said in a hollow voice. ‘Now you get to play.’

Hedge grunted. ‘Damn short playtime, Quick.’

‘And then you nap.’

‘Funny.’

Hedge raised the crossbow, paused to gauge the angle. Then he settled his right index finger against the release. And grinned. ‘Here, suck on this, you fat winged cow.’

A solid thunk as the cusser shot out, then down.

Landing within the gaping cavity of Sheltatha Lore’s belly.

The explosion sent chunks of dragon flesh in all directions. The thick, red, foul rain showered down on Hedge and Quick Ben. And what might have been a vertebra hammered Hedge right between the eyes, knocking him out cold.

Flung onto his hands and knees by the concussion, Quick Ben stared across at his unconscious friend, then began laughing. Higher-pitched than usual.

As they strode into the cave of paintings, Onrack reached out a hand to stay Ulshun Pral. ‘Remain here,’ he said.

‘That is never easy,’ Ulshun Pral replied, yet he halted nonetheless.

Nodding, Onrack looked at the images on the walls. ‘You see again and again the flaws.’

‘The failing of my hand, yes. The language of the eyes is ever perfect. Rendering it upon stone is where weakness is found.’

‘These, Ulshun Pral, show few weaknesses.’

‘Even so…’

‘Remain, please,’ Onrack said, slowly drawing his sword. ‘The Gate… there will be intruders.’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it you they seek?’

Yes, Onrack the Broken. It is me.’

‘Why?’

‘Because a Jaghut gave me something, once, long ago.’

‘A Jaghut?’

Ulshun Pral smiled at the astonishment on Onrack’s face. ‘Here, in this world,’ he said, ‘we long ago ended our war. Here, we chose peace.’

‘Yet that which the Jaghut gave you now endangers you, Ulshun Pral. And your clans.’

Deep thundering concussions suddenly shook the walls around them.

Onrack bared his teeth. ‘1 must go.’

A moment later Ulshun Pral was alone, in the cave with all the paintings he had fashioned, and there was no light now that Onrack and the torch he had been carrying were gone. As the drums of grim magic reverberated through the rock surrounding him, he remained where he was, motionless, for a dozen heartbeats. Then he set out, after Onrack. On the path to the Gate.

There was, in truth, no choice.

Rud Elalle had led the Imass deeper into the rugged hills, then down the length of a narrow, crooked defile where some past earthquake had broken in half an entire mass of limestone, forming high, angled walls flanking a crack through its heart. At the mouth of this channel, as Rud Elalle urged the last few Imass into the narrow passage, Hostille Rator, Til’aras Benok and Gr’istanas Ish’ilm halted.

‘Quickly!’ cried Rud Elalle.

But the clan chief was drawing out his cutlass-length obsidian sword with his right hand and a bone-hafted, groundstone maul with his left. ‘An enemy approaches,’ Hostille Rator said. ‘Go on, Rud Elalle. We three will guard the mouth of this passage.’

They could hear terrible thunder from just south of the old camp.

Rud Elalle seemed at a loss.

Hostille Rator said, ‘We did not come to this realm… expecting what we have found. We are now flesh, and so too are those Imass you call your own. Death, Rud Elalle, has arrived.’ He pointed southward with his sword. ‘A lone dragon has escaped the High Mage. To hunt down you and the Bentract. Rud Elalle, even as a dragon, she must land here. She must then semble into her other form. So that she can walk this passageway. We will meet her here, the three of us… strangers.’

‘I can-’

‘No, Rud Elalle. This dragon may not prove the only danger to you and the clans. You must go, you must prepare to stand as their final protector.’

‘Why-why do you do this?’

‘Because it pleases us.’ Because you please us, Rud Elalle. So too Ulshun Pral. And the lmass…

And we came here with chaos in our hearts.

‘Go, Rud Elalle.’

Sukul Ankhadu knew her sisters were dead, and for all the shock this realization engendered-the shattering of their plan to destroy Silchas Ruin, to enslave the Finnest of Scabandari and subject that torn, vulnerable soul to endless cruelty-a part of her was filled with glee. Menandore-whom she and Sheltatha Lore had intended to betray in any case-would never again befoul Sukul’s desires and ambitions. Sheltatha-well, she had done what was needed, turning upon Menandore at the moment of her greatest weakness. And had she survived that, Sukul would have had to kill the bitch herself.

Extraordinary, that a lone mortal human could unleash such venomous power. No, not a mere mortal human. There were other things hiding inside that scrawny body, she was certain of that. If she never encountered him again, she would know a life of peace, a life without fear.

Her wounds were, all things considered, relatively minor. One wing was shattered, forcing her to rely almost entirely on sorcery to keep her in the air. An assortment of scrapes and gouges, but already the bleeding had ebbed, the wounds were closing.

She could smell the stench of the lmass, could follow their trail with ease as it wound through the broken hills below.

Rud Elalle was a true child of Menandore. A Soletaken. But so very young, so very naive. If brute force could not defeat him, then treachery would. Her final act of vengeance-and betrayal-against Menandore.

The trail led into a high-walled, narrow channel, one that seemed to lead downward, perhaps to caves. Before its mouth was a small, level clearing, bounded on both sides by boulders.

She dropped down, slowed her flight.

And saw, standing before the defile’s entrance, an Imass warrior.

Good. I can kill. 1 can feed.

Settling down into the clearing-a tight fit, her one working wing needing tp draw in close-and then sembling, drawing her power inward. Until she stood, not twenty paces from the Imass.

Mortal. Nothing more than what he appeared.

Sukul Ankhadu laughed. She would walk up to him, wrest his stone weapons away, then sink her teeth into his throat.

Still laughing, she approached.

He readied himself, dropping into a crouch.

At ten paces, he surprised her. The maul, swung in a loop underhand, shot out from his extended arm.