‘Yes?’ said Itkovian.

Seerdomin shot the god a quick glance. ‘You did not know…’

‘Is knowing necessary, Segda Travos?’

‘I no longer use that name. Segda Travos is dead. I am Seerdomin.’

‘Warrior Priest of the Pannion Seer. I see the warrior within you, but not the priest.’

‘It seems I am not much of a warrior any more,’ Seerdomin observed. ‘I was coming to save her.’

‘And now, my friend, you must fight her.’

‘What?’

Itkovian pointed.

Seerdomin twisted round where he knelt. A storm was building, seeping up into the dome of offerings, and he saw how the blackness engulfed those blazing stars, drowning them one by one. Beneath the savage churning clouds there was a figure. Dancing, and with each wild swing of an arm more midnight power spun outward, up into the growing storm cloud. She seemed to be a thousand or more paces away, yet grew larger by the moment.

He could see her mouth, gaping like a pit, from which vile liquid gushed out, splashing down, spraying as she twirled.

Salind, Gods, what has happened to you?

‘She wants me,’ Itkovian said. ‘It is her need, you see.’

‘Her need?’

‘Yes. For answers. What more can a god fear, but a mortal demanding an-swers?’

‘Send her away!’

‘I cannot. So, warrior, will you defend me?’

‘I cannot fight that!’

‘Then, my friend, I am lost.’

Salind came closer, and as she did so she seemed to lose focus in Seerdomin’s eyes, her limbs smearing the air, her body blurring from one position to the next. Her arms seemed to multiply, and in each one, he now saw, she held a weapon. Brown-stained iron, knotted wood trailing snags of hair, daggers of obsidian, scythes of crimson bronze.

Above her stained, weeping mouth, her eyes blazed with insane fire.

‘Redeemer,’ whispered Seerdomin.

‘Yes?’

‘Answer me one question. I beg you.’

‘Ask.’

And he faced the god. ‘Are you worth it?’

‘Am I worth the sacrifice you must make? No, I do not think so.’

‘You will not beg to be saved?’ Itkovian smiled. ‘Will you?’

No. I never have. He rose to his feet, found that the tulwar remained in his hand. He hefted the weapon and eyed Salind. Can I defy her need! Can I truly stand against that! ‘If not for your humility, Redeemer, I would walk away. If not for your… uncertainty, your doubts, your humanity.’

And, awaiting no reply from the god, he set out into her path.

The sudden hush within the Scour Tavern finally penetrated Spinnock Durav’s drunken haze. Blinking, he tilted his head, and found himself looking up at his Lord.

Who said, ‘It is time, my friend.’

‘You now send me away?’ Spinnock asked.

‘Yes. I now send you away.’

Spinnock Dura? reeled upright. His face was numb. The world seemed a sickly place, and it wanted in. He drew a deep breath. ‘My request pains you-why?’

He could have told him then. He could have spoken of this extraordinary blessing of love. For a human woman. He could have told Anomander Rake of his failure, and in so doing he would have awakened the Son of Darkness to his sordid plight.

Had he done all of this, Anomander Rake would have reached a hand to rest light on his shoulder, and he would have said, Then you must stay, my friend. For love, you must stay-go to her, now. Now, Spinnock Durav. It is the last gift within our reach. The last-did you truly believe I would stand in the way of that! That I would decide that my need was greater?

Did you think I could do such a thing, when I come to you here and now be-cause of my own love? For you? For our people?

Go to her, Spinnock Durav. Go.

But Spinnock Durav said nothing. Instead, he bowed before his Lord. ‘I shall do as you ask.’

And Anomander Rake said, ‘It is all right to fail, friend. I do not demand the impossible of you. Do not weep at that moment. For me, Spinnock Durav, find a smile to announce the end. Fare well.’

The killing seemed without end. Skintick’s sword arm ached, the muscles lifeless and heavy, and still they kept coming on-faces twisted eager and desperate, ex-pressions folding round mortal wounds as if sharp iron was a blessing touch, an exquisite gift. He stood between Kedeviss and Nenanda, and the three had been driven back to the second set of doors. Bodies were piled in heaps, filling every space of the chamber’s floor, where blood and fluids formed thick pools. The walls on all sides were splashed high.

He could see daylight through the outer doors-the morning was dragging on. Yet from the passage at their backs there had been… nothing. Were they all dead in there? Bleeding out on the altar stone? Or had they found themselves somehow trapped, or lost with no answers-was Clip now dead, or had he been delivered into the Dying God’s hands?

The attackers were running out of space-too many corpses-and most now crawled or even slithered into weapon range.

‘Something’s wrong,’ gasped Kedeviss. ‘Skintick-go-we can hold them off now. Go-find out if…’

If we’re wasting our time. I understand. He pulled back, one shoulder cracking into the frame of the entranceway. Whirling, he set off along the corridor. When horror stalked the world, it seemed that every grisly truth was laid bare. Life’s struggle ever ended in failure. No victory was pure, or clean. Triumph was a com-forting lie and always revealed itself to be ephemeral, hollow and short-lived. This is what assailed the spirit when coming face to face with horror.

And so few understood that. So few…

He clawed through foul smoke, heard his own heartbeat slowing, dragging even as his breaths faded. What-what is happening! Blindness. Silence, an end to all motion. Skintick sought to push forward, only to find that desire was empty when without will, and when there was no strength, will itself was a conceit. Glyphs flowed down like black rain, on his face, his neck and his hands, stream-ing hot as blood.

Somehow, he fought onward, his entire body dragging behind him as if half dead, an impediment, a thing worth forgetting. He wanted to pull free of it, even as he understood that his flesh was all that kept him alive yet he yearned for dis-solution, and that yearning was growing desperate.

Wait, This is not how I see the world. This is not the game I choose to play-1 will not believe in this abject… surrender.

It is what kelyk offers. The blood of the Dying God delivers escape-from everything that matters. The invitation is so alluring, the promise so entrancing.

Dance! All around you the world rots. Dance! Poison into your mouths and poison out from your mouths. Dance, damn you, in the dust of your dreams. I have looked into your eyes and I have seen that you are nothing. Empty.

Gods, such seductive invitation!

The recognition sobered him, abrupt as a punch in the face. He found himself lying on the tiles of the corridor, the inner doors almost within reach. In the chamber beyond darkness swirled like thick smoke, like a storm trapped beneath the domed ceiling. He heard singing, soft, the voice of a child.

He could not see Nimander, or Desra or Aranatha. The body of Clip was sprawled not five paces in, face upturned, eyes opened, fixed and seemingly sight-less.

Trembling with weakness, Skintick pulled himself forward.

The moment he had bulled his way into the altar chamber, Nimander had felt something tear, as if he had plunged through gauze-thin cloth. From the seething storm he had plunged into, he emerged to sudden calm, to soft light and gentle currents of warm air. His first step landed on something lumpy that twisted be-neath his weight. Looking down, he saw a small doll of woven grasses and twigs. And, scattered on the floor all round, there were more such figures. Some of strips of cloth, others of twine, polished wood and fired clay. Most were broken-missing limbs, or headless. Others hung down from the plain, low ceiling, twisted beneath nooses of leather string, knotted heads tilted over, dark liquid dripping.