‘No!’ Gariath roared at them. ‘You can’t leave now! Not when I’m so close!’

They continued to wink out, ceasing to exist as their flames did, giving no sign that they heard him, or cared what he had to say. He continued to shriek at them, as though they might provide an answer, any answer, before they vanished completely.

‘How do you know the Rhega?’ he howled at them. ‘Where are they? How do you speak the language? Where are they? What happened to them?’ His voice became a whining, wailing plea. ‘ WHY WON’T YOU ANSWER ME?’

They continued to say nothing, continued to disappear until all that remained was a single, flickering flame, illuminating a single yellow eye. Yaike stared, expressionless, the ruin of what had once been his eye seeming to stare far deeper, speak far louder, than his whole eye or his rasping voice.

‘Jaga, Rhega,’ he spoke. ‘Home. All that we do, we do for it.’

‘And what does a Rhegado? Tell me.’

And the last light sizzled out, cloaking the lizardman in darkness, leaving nothing but a voice on lingering wisps of smoke.

‘I am Shen.’

Gariath stared at the darkness, listening for the sound of oars dipping into water through the distant carnage of the deck and the flesh-deep groan of the Akaneed. And through it all, he could hear the voice of the grandfather, speaking with such closeness as to suggest the spirit was right next to him.

‘What does a Rhegado, Wisest?’

His answer came slowly, his eyes and voice cast into the darkness.

‘Life is precious,’ Gariath whispered. ‘A Rhegalives.’

‘Is it, Wisest?’

Gariath became distinctly aware of the two creatures alone on the ship behind him, so weak, so helpless. He had fought to defend them moments ago. He had chosen them, moments ago. He had been one of them moments ago.

Now, he was Rhega.

‘Life is precious, Wisest,’ the grandfather reminded him.

Without looking back, Gariath muttered, ‘To those who earn it.’

And then hurled himself into the water, pursuing the darkness.

Dreadaeleon couldn’t think.

Ordinarily, he would chastise himself for such a thing. He was, theoretically, the smart one and took an immense amount of pride in living up to that expectation.

Still, between the lingering crackle of electricity and the deep-throated groan of the wounded Akaneed, the stench of brimstone caked with the coppery odour of blood and the vast, vastnumber of corpses on the deck, he found himself hard-pressed to assign himself any blame.

His senses were overwhelmed, not merely blinded and deafened by the chaos of the deck, but struck dull in the mind. The continuous clash of magical energies of lightning, fire, frost and the occasional exploding paper crane had bathed his brain in a bright crimson light that he sought to force a thought through.

Moments ago, he had felt something else: a surge of something that he had never felt before, a bright inky black stain on the endless sheet of red. It was new, carrying a stinging, clean pain that always came attached to unknown agonies.

And yet … had he neverfelt this before? he wondered.

He recalled vague hints of it, here and there: errant black patches in his vision that came, agonised, and left instantly. He recalled it in Irontide before, on the beach with Asper …

Asper, he thought. I should be saving Asper, shouldn’t I? That’s what we came here to do … Where is she? What was the plan? Damn it, why can’t Ithink straight?

He cursed himself, despite the fact that he knew only an insane person could think straight in these conditions and Gariath had already leapt overboard. Lenk, however …

Where was he, anyway? There was something wrong with him, surely, but what had it been?

Clearly, if anything was to be done, it was going to have to be done by someone with a rational mind, keen intellect and preferably enough power to level a small ship.

Bralston, however, seemed a tad preoccupied, if the sudden shape of his cloak-clad body hurtling towards Dreadaeleon was any indication.

He darted to the side as Bralston struck the mast bodily, his form, singed and smoking, sinking to the deck. The fire in his eyes waned and flickered as he struggled to keep them and the power within them conscious.

Dreadaeleon nearly jumped when the Librarian turned them upon him.

‘Your thoughts?’ Bralston asked.

‘Run,’ Dreadaeleon said.

‘Venarium law permits no retreat.’

‘He … uh … he’s not getting tired.’

‘Confirming my hypothesis. The stones feed him.’

‘Their power can’t be limitless.’

‘They seem to be.’

‘No,’ Dreadaeleon said, shaking his head. ‘That can’t be right, I’ve seen them-’

‘Seen them what, concomitant?’

It was too late to lie, Dreadaeleon knew the instant he saw the subtle, scrutinising narrowing of the Librarian’s eye. It would have seemed a good time to tell everything about the red stone, how it drained him of his power, how it had tainted his body, how he, too, had broken the Laws by using it.

That might have been a matter to discuss when there were decidedly less flaming-eyed wizards approaching, however.

Truly, aside from an added slowness to his step, Sheraptus looked no worse for wear as he strode toward them. Of course, Dreadaeleon thought, that’s probably just how he always moves, all slow and confident, the asshole.

‘I find myself running out of things to learn about your breed,’ the longface said calmly.

Whether Bralston saw an opportunity in the longface’s easy stride, or was merely desperate and stubborn, he acted regardless. His hand whipped out, sending a paper crane fluttering from his grasp.

Even if Sheraptus hadn’t seen the movement, someone else had. A longface previously motionless upon the deck rose suddenly with a wordless cry of warning for her master. The paper crane found her, latched upon her throat and began to glow bright red, a tick gorging itself with blood. In one moment, it sizzled upon her flesh. In one more, she whimpered another meaningless phrase to Sheraptus.

And in less than a moment, she came undone.

Sinew unthreaded, bones disconnected, flesh segmented itself in a spray. With only a sound that resembled the pop of a bottle, the longface erupted into pieces.

They flew into the air, and stayed there.

Sheraptus, unblinking, simply waved a hand, causing the air to ripple and suspend the remains of his warrior in an eerily gentle float. Slowly, the dead stirred under his feet. Bodies trembled, weapons clattered, all rising up to float around him like bleeding flowers upon a pond.

‘Your denial of the obvious is charming,’ he whispered sharply, ‘but only to a point. To know why you do this, futile as it is, requires a certain kind of patience.’ He narrowed his stare to thin, fiery slips. ‘I dearly wish I possessed such a thing.’

At another word, an incomprehensible alien bellow, the dead came to horrific, swirling life. The bodies flailed limply, heedless of swords rending their dead flesh, as flesh, sinew and iron enveloped him in a whirlwind of purple and grey.

A hurricane of the dead, with him the merciless and unblinking eye, he began to approach the wizards.

‘Suggestions?’ Bralston asked in a way Dreadaeleon felt far too calm for the situation.

Perhaps such a calm was infectious enough to keep Dreadaeleon from hurling himself screaming overboard. Perhaps it was infectious enough to allow him to see the careful slowness to the longface’s step, his face screwed up in concentration as he strove to keep the whirlwind under control. He may be able to perform such a feat forever, but he couldn’t do it quickly.

His power isn’t limitless, then.

And that realisation made Dreadaeleon look with a clear mind to the wounded Akaneed, swaying and only now recovering from its bloodied stupor. Its agony turned to fury as it turned an angry single eye upon the deck.