Failed-
In a cleared circle in an old Tarthenal burial ground, a decrepit shaman seated cross-legged in its centre stirred awake, eyes blinking open. He glanced up to see Ublala Pung standing just beyond the edge.
‘Now, lad,’ he said.
Weeping, the young Tarthenal rushed forward, a knife in his hands-one of Arbat’s own, the iron black with age, the glyphs on the blade so worn down as to be almost invisible.
Arbat nodded as Ublala Pung reached him and drove the weapon deep into the shaman’s chest. Not on the heart side-Old Hunch needed to take a while to die, to bleed out his power, to feed the multitude of ghosts now rising from the burial grounds.
‘Get away from here!’ Arbat shouted, even as he fell onto his side, blood frothing at his mouth. ‘Get out!’
Loosing a childlike bawl, Ublala Pung ran.
The ghosts gathered, pure-blooded and mixed-bloods, spanning centuries upon centuries and awake after so long.
And Old Hunch Arbat showed them their new god. And then showed them, with the power of his blood, the way through.
Kuru Qan felt himself lifted on a tide, shoved forward as if by an enormous wave, and all at once there were spirits, an army of them.
Thelomen Tartheno Toblakai.
Tarthenal-
Surging forward, the chaos thrust back, recoiling, then attacking once more.
Hundreds vanishing.
Thousands voicing wailing cries of agony.
Kuru Qan found himself close to the Toblakai warrior, directly in front of the flailing figure, and he reached back, as if to grab the Toblakai’s throat. Closed his hand, and pulled.
Water, a crashing surf, coral sand shifting wild underfoot. Blinding heat from a raging sun.
Staggering, onto the shore-and yes, this was as far as Kuru Qan could go.
Upon the shore.
He released the warrior, saw him stumble onto the island’s beach, dragging that sword-impaled leg-
Behind the old Ceda, the sea reached out, snatched Kuru Qan back with a rolling, tumbling inhalation.
Water everywhere, swirling, pulling him ever deeper, ever darker.
They were done.
We are done.
And the sea, my friends, does not dream of you.
On the arena floor, Emperor Rhulad Sengar lay dead. Bled out, his flesh where visible pale as river clay, and as cold. Sand dusted the sweaty coins and all the blood that had poured from him was turning black.
And the onlookers waited.
For the Emperor of a Thousand Deaths to rise again.
The sun rose higher, the sounds of fighting in the city drew closer.
And, had anyone been looking, they would have seen a speck above the horizon to the north. Growing ever larger.
One street away from the Eternal Domicile, Fiddler led his squad onto the rooftop of some gutted public building. Flecks of ash swirled in the hot morning air and all the city that they could see was veiled behind dust and smoke.
They’d lost Gesler and his squad, ever since the garrison ambush, but Fiddler was not overly concerned. All opposition was a shambles. He ran in a crouch to the edge facing the Eternal Domicile, looked across, and then down to the street below.
There was a gate, closed, but no guards in sight. Damned strange. Where is everyone?
He returned to where his soldiers waited, catching their breaths in the centre of the flat rooftop. ‘All right,’ he said, setting down his crossbow and opening his satchel, ‘there’s a gate that I can take out with a cusser from here. Then down we go and straight across and straight in, fast and mean. Kill everyone in sight, understood?’ He drew out his cusser quarrel and carefully loaded the crossbow. Then resumed his instructions. ‘Tarr takes up the rear crossing the street. Bottle, keep everything you got right at hand-’
‘Sergeant-’
‘Not now, Corabb. Listen! We’re heading for the throne room. I want Cuttle out front-’
‘Sergeant-’
‘-with sharpers in hand. Koryk, you’re next-’
‘Sergeant-’
‘What in Hood’s name is it, Corabb?’
The man was pointing. Northward.
Fiddler and the others all turned.
To see an enormous white dragon bearing down on them.
An infrequent scattering of cut-down Letherii soldiers and small fires left behind by munitions had provided enough of a trail for Quick Ben and Hedge, and they were now crouched at the foot of a door to a burnt-out building.
‘Listen,’ Hedge was insisting, ‘the roof here’s right opposite the gate. I know Fid and I’m telling you, he’s on that Hood-damned roof!’
‘Fine, fine, lead on, sapper.’ Quick Ben shook his head. Something… I don’t know…
They plunged inside. The stench of smoke was acrid, biting. Charred wreckage lay all about, the detritus of a ruined empire.
‘There,’ Hedge said, then headed on into a corridor, down to a set of stairs leading upward.
Something…oh, gods!
‘Move it!’ Quick Ben snarled, shoving the sapper forward.
‘What-’
‘Hurry!’
The huge dragon angled down, straight for them.
Fiddler stared for a moment longer, seeing the beast opening its mouth, knowing what was coming, then he raised his crossbow and fired.
The bolt shot upward.
A hind limb of the dragon snapped out to bat the quarrel aside.
And the cusser detonated.
The explosion flattened the marines on the rooftop, sent Fiddler tumbling backward.
The roof itself sagged beneath them with grinding, crunching sounds.
Fiddler caught a glimpse of the dragon, streaming blood, its chest torn open, sliding off to one side, heading towards the street below, shredded wings flailing like sails in a storm.
A second bolt flew out to intercept it.
Another explosion, sending the dragon lurching back, down, into a building, which suddenly folded inward on that side, then collapsed with a deafening roar.
Fiddler twisted round-
– and saw Hedge.
– and Quick Ben, who was running towards the roof’s edge, his hands raised and sorcery building round him as if he was the prow of a ship cutting through water.
Fiddler leapt to his feet and followed the wizard.
From the wreckage of the building beside the Eternal Domicile, the dragon was pulling itself free. Lacerated, bones jutting and blood leaking from terrible wounds. And then, impossibly, it rose skyward once more, rent wings flapping-but Fiddler knew that it was sorcery that was lifting the creature back into the air.
As it cleared the collapsed building, Quick Ben unleashed his magic. A wave of crackling fire crashed into the dragon, sent it reeling back.
Another.
And then another-the dragon was now two streets away, writhing under the burgeoning assault.
Then, with a piercing cry, it wheeled, climbed higher, and flew away, in full retreat.
Quick Ben lowered his arms, then fell to his knees.
Staring after the fast-diminishing dragon, Fiddler leaned his crossbow onto his shoulder.
‘This ain’t your fight,’ he said to the distant creature. ‘Fucking dragon.’
Then he turned and stared at Hedge.
Who, grinning, stared back.
‘No ghost?’
‘No ghost. Aye, Fid, I’m back.’
Fiddler scowled, then shook his head. ‘Hood help us all.’ Then he turned to Quick Ben. ‘And where in the Abyss have you been?’
Picking himself up from the buckled rooftop, Bottle stared across at those three soldiers. Didn’t know one of them except that he was a sapper. And a damned Bridgeburner.
Beside him, Koryk groaned, then spat. ‘Look at ‘em,’ he said.
Bottle nodded.
And, oddly enough, for all the soldiers in the squad, nothing more about it needed saying.