Draconus staggered up. ‘Pearl, my friend, I have come to say goodbye. And to tell you I am sorry.’

‘What saddens you?’ the demon asked.

‘1 am sorry, Pearl, for all of this. For Dragnipur. For the horror forged by my own hands. It was fitting, was it not, that the weapon claimed its maker? I think, yes, it was. It was.’ He paused, and then brought both hands up to his face. For a moment it seemed he would begin clawing his beard from the skin beneath it. In-stead, the shackled hands fell away, down, dragged by the weight of the chains.

‘I too am sorry,’ said Pearl. ‘To see the end of this.’

‘What!’

‘So many enemies, all here and not one by choice. Enemies, and yet working together for so long. It was a wondrous thing, was it not, Draconus? When neces-sity forced each hand to clasp, to work as one. A wondrous thing.’

The warrior stared at the demon. He seemed unable to speak.

Apsal’ara worked her way along the top of the beam. It was hard to hold on, the wagon pitching and rocking so with one last, useless surge forward, and the beam itself thick with the slime of sweat, blood and runny mucus. But something was happening at the portal, that black, icy stain beneath the very centre of the wagon.

A strange stream was flowing into the Gate, an intricate pattern ebbing down through the fetid air from the underside of the wagon’s bed. Each tendril was inky black, the space around it ignited by a sickly glow that pulsed slower than any mortal heart.

Was it Kadaspala’s pathetic god? Seeking to use the tattooist’s insane master-piece as if it was a latticework, a mass of rungs, down which it could clamber and so plunge through the Gate? Seeking to escape.

If so, then she intended to make use of it first.

Let the cold burn her flesh. Let pieces of her simply fall away. It was a better end than some snarling manifestation of chaos ripping out her throat.

She struggled ever closer, her breath sleeting out in crackling plumes that sank down in sparkling ice crystals. It reminded her of her youth, the nights out on the tundra, when the first snows came, when clouds shivered and shed their diamond skins and the world grew so still, so breathless and perfect, that she felt that time itself was but moments from freezing solid-to hold her for ever in that place, hold her youth, hold tight her dreams and ambitions, her memories of the faces she loved-her mother, her father, her kin, her lovers. No one would grow old, no one would die and fall away from the path, and the path itself, why, it would never end.

Leave me in mid-step. My foot never to settle, never to edge me forward that much closer to the end of things. Yes, leave me here. At the very heart of possi-hilitics, not one of which will crash down. No failures to come, no losses, no regrets to kiss upon the lips-I will not feel the cold.

I will not feel the cold-

She cried out in the frigid, deathly air. Such pain-how could she ever get close enough?

Aspal’ara drew herself up, knees beneath her. And eyed that pattern, just there, a body’s length away and still streaming down. If she launched herself from this place, simply threw herself forward, would that flowing net catch her?

Would it simply shatter? Or flow aside, opening up to permit the downward plunge of a body frozen solid, lifeless, eyes open but seeing nothing?

She had a sudden thought, shivering up through her doubts, her fears. And, with aching limbs, she began dragging up the length of her chains, piling the links on the beam in front of her.

Was the Gate’s cold of such power that it could snap these links? If she heaved the heap into that Gate, as much as she could, would the chains break?

And then?

She snarled. Yes, and then what? Run like a hare, leave the wagon far behind, flee the legions of chaos?

And when the Gate itself is destroyed, where will I run then? Will this world even exist?

She realized then that such questions did not matter. To be free, even if only for a moment, would be enough.

Apsal’ara, the Mistress of Thieves. How good was she? Why, she slipped the chains of Dragnipur!

She continued piling up links of the chains, her breaths coming in agonized, lung-numbing gasps.

Draconus stumbled away from Pearl’s side. He could not bear the emotions the demon stirred to life within him. He could not understand such a power to forgive, never mind the sheer madness of finding something worthwhile in this cursed realm. And to see Pearl standing there, almost crushed beneath the twitching, dripping bodies of fallen comrades, no, that too was too much.

Kadaspala had failed. The pattern was flawed; it had no power to resist what was about to assail them. It had been a desperate gambit, the only kind Draconus had left, and he could not even rail at the blind, legless Tiste Andii. None of us were up to this.

The moment Rake ceased killing things, we were doomed.

And yet, he found he had no rage left in him when he thought of Anomander Rake. In fact, he had begun to understand, even sympathize, with that exhausted desire to end things. To end everything. The delusion was calling it a game in the first place. That very founding principle had assured ultimate failure. Bored gods and children with appalling power, these were the worst sorts of arbiters in this scheme of existence. They fought change even as they forced it upon others; they sought to hold all they churned even as they struggled to steal all they could from rivals. They proclaimed love only to kill it in betrayal and spite.

Yes, Draconus understood Rake. Any game that played with grief was a foul thing, an abomination. Destroy it. Bring it all down, Rake. Rake, my heir, my son in spirit, my unknown and unknowable inheritor. Do as you must.

I stand aside.

Oh, bold words.

When the truth is, I have no choice.

The force that suddenly descended upon the realm of Dragnipur was of such magnitude that, for an instant, Draconus believed the chaos had finally reached them, and he was driven to his knees, stunned, half blinded. The immense pressure bore down, excruciating, and Draconus ducked his head, covered it with his arms, and felt his spine bowing beneath a crushing presence.

If there was sound, he heard nothing. If there was life, he saw only darkness. If there was air, he could not draw it into his lungs. He felt his bones groaning-

The torture eased with the settling of a skeletal, long-fingered hand on his right shoulder.

Sounds rose once more, strangely muted. A renewed storm of wailing terror and dismay. In front of Draconus the world found its familiar details, although they seemed ghostly, ephemeral. He was able, at last, to breathe deep-and he tasted death.

Someone spoke above him. ‘He is indeed a man of his word.’

And Draconus twisted round, lifted his gaze-the hand on his shoulder rasping away with a rustle of links-and stared up at the one who had spoken. At Hood, the Lord and High King of the Dead.

‘No!’ Draconus bellowed, rising only to stagger back, almost tripping on his chains. ‘No! What has he done? By the Abyss, what has Rake done?’

Hood half raised his arms and seemed to be staring down at the manacles enclosing his gaunt wrists.

Disbelief collapsed into shock, and then raw horror. This made no sense. Draconus did not understand. He could not-gods-he could not believe-

He spun round, then, and stared at the legions of chaos-oh, they had been pushed back, a league or more, by the arrival of this singular creature, by the power of Hood. The actinic stormclouds had tumbled in retreat, building anew and seeming to thrash in frustration-yes, an interlude had been purchased. But-‘Wasted. All wasted! Why? This has achieved nothing! Hood-you were betrayed. Can you not see that? No-’ Draconus clutched at his head. ‘Rake, oh Rake, what did you want of this? How could think it would achieve anything?’