when they came together there was no impact, no snapping of jaws and tearing of flesh; the grey beast simply winked out of existence and with an exultant roar the white dragon turned and arrowed down towards the army again, careless of the bolts that burst on its scaled hide and tore thin streams of blood from its tail. It flamed at the illusionist below with terrible accuracy and the dragon rose again, armour-clad figures tumbling from claws as sudden detonations of magic and light burst from the ranks below it.
‘Piss and daemons,’ King Emin moaned, ‘that was Camba Firnin.’
‘Pretending to fight fire with fire,’ Isak said, a brief, black spark of grief in his belly as he recalled her smiling, scarred face. She was one of those who’d brought a much-needed touch of compassion to the Brotherhood, for all that her strength of will matched the rest of them. ‘But dragons aren’t so easily fooled.’
He hesitated, then grabbed Endine by the shoulder. ‘Keep them occupied, watching and wary,’ he shouted, then pushed out through King Emin’s bodyguard and hurried towards the thin corridor between the Kingsguard and the regular legions. The space had been left for messengers and mages; it was wide enough for a single white-eye, even with Doranei trailing wordlessly in his wake.
He emerged the other side to the cold smell of fear and blood. The faces behind the helms were frightened, and the sight of a scar-covered white-eye carrying a long sword that hurt to look at didn’t help. Inside him Isak let the magic slowly build, a wellspring bubbling up through his heart, and the ache grew inside him and sank deep into his belly. Isak stumbled as the scars on his stomach flared with pain and memory, black stars burst before his eyes and an overwhelming loneliness washed over him, images of the dead appearing before his eyes: Camba Firnin joining Mihn and Tila, ahead of a host of other faces. The wind whipped around him, gathering in a spiral of snowflakes in response to the building magic. Whether the dragons noticed, he couldn’t say, nor did he care; he simply walked on, getting clear of the army’s lines while filling his tired bones with rage and fire.
‘After all this,’ he said aloud, ‘you think I’m frightened? All this loss and you think I’ve got anything more to fear?’ His voice became breathy and constrained as the anger inside him was fanned by magic.
‘All I’ve done — all those I’ve killed? Nothing’s going to stop me; nothing’s going to slow me. I’m coming for you, Azaer, and when I catch you, I will chain you like a dog.’
He looked up at the sky and saw the dragons high above, circling and watching, not sure whether to attack or flee. He smelled their animal nature, the blind and unthinking obedience filling their minds. But these were not true dragons: they had no will or sense of their own. They would not be driven off; they would kill or be killed, they could not comprehend anything more. On the plain ahead of him he saw the crowd of Ruhen’s worshippers closing alongside the Devoted cavalry. He ignored them. They were too far to stop him, and too close to run now.
‘Is this what you wanted?’ he cried to the eastern horizon. ‘To have your followers see the darkness inside me? To reaffirm their faith? To have the Land bear witness to your pathetic claims of purpose?’
He lowered his head and looked at Termin Mystt, the black sword reversed in his hand.
‘So be it,’ he said, and stabbed the sword into the ground at his feet. A great crack of thunder split the air and the dragons rocked as though struck by lightning. ‘I don’t fear the darkness any more. Fear can’t stop me now.’
The ground trembled, deep, distant rumbles welling up through the earth. Anchored by the sword, Isak dropped to one knee and stayed steady, as though about to fulfil some ancient prophecy. All around him the Land shook and the magic pervading it rushed up to meet Termin Mystt. The sound built, booming underground, growing loudly and more violent the closer it came, as the plain shuddered beneath them.
Distantly he sensed the charging enemy falter, and in their hundreds men fell and were trampled, horses screamed and reared, turning desperately, looking for some avenue of escape, but the whole plain reverberated with the building power of Termin Mystt and they could see no way out. Isak closed his eyes and let his senses sink into the ground, carried deep below by the raging force of magic emanating from Death’s black sword.
His ears rang with the jangling clamour of rampant forces — the numbing, pounding, shifting earth, the blistering energies that tore the ground and seared the sky. Down he went, unaware of his own body beyond the frantic hammer of his heart. The magic ripped a jagged path and dragged his mind with it. He knew what it would seek; he had done nothing more than send it down. To try and command such power would rip his soul away. No mortal would survive such an attempt, even to try would mean being torn from the Land and the Gods that ruled it, to be destroyed beyond even Death’s compassion or judgment. The magic plunged onwards, guided by something more basic than a mage’s skill. Isak felt the heat on his cheek and though he felt no fear, something deeper and more primal gripped him.
He opened his eyes, rocked back by the buffeting winds, but still held steady by the sword. His shoulder screaming, his clothes billowing, Isak added his own voice, howling his pain up to an unhearing sky. The clouds roiled and the sun was driven off as even the air was ripped open by the deadlight of Termin Mystt.
Isak forced his head down and tried to make out the plain through the swirling magic surrounding him. Great rifts appeared in the ground, and as he watched, half-blinded by pain, the rents were savagely pulled open. The wild magic shook the ground and worried its wounds with a frantic fury. Ear-splitting crashes detonated as the plain opened up and three, then four enormous cracks in the ground started racing towards the enemy, a hundred yards long, then two hundred, swallowing the nearest of the cavalry, covering others in dust before the fissures finally stopped.
The cliff-edges of each rift shuddered all the while, the ground crumbling further with every passing moment. Isak watched them fall, while from below clouds of stinking smoke were expelled by the force of their collapse, and faint trails of red light tinted the sheer earth walls on either side.
Soon a huge wedge of ground ahead had fallen away completely, spreading out from where Isak knelt. The entire centre was broken up: a barrier to both forces if they still intended to fight.
For a time only red-lit clouds of dust were visible, but then he heard a sound, one he knew only too well: the heave of pained breath, the scrape and rasp of a body dragged over rock, the clank of huge chains.
Something moved below him and forced its way up the jagged slope he had created. He could see little, but he turned his head up to the sky and watched the distant dragons peer down from their far positions. The magic spent, they came closer once more. He could see their necks craned forward, their wings outstretched to steady themselves as they stared down.
‘I’ll see your dragons,’ Isak croaked, his throat dry and aching, ‘and I’ll raise you.’
The white dragons swooped closer, scenting power within the wedge-shaped crater, but unsure what they faced. They flew with the staggered creep of hunting animals, their growing hunger driving each other forward. It wasn’t the scent of prey on the air; even these mindless creations would know that, but they had been created to kill and now the scent of death hung thick around him.
They obeyed their compulsion, ignoring Isak as they came to the edge of the crater, hissing with savage desire. In the dimmed light they looked ghostly, but their claws and teeth were obsidian-black and more terrible than ever. The larger dropped to all fours, wings held high above its back, ready to take flight once more as it quested and snapped at the air.
A roar greeted it, an ear-splitting challenge that had purple stars bursting before Isak’s eyes even as he cringed from the sound. Through the smoke he watched the white dragon tense and crouch, ready to move, either in attack or escape — while from the darkness another winged shape slowly emerged. It roared again, wings also raised, but forever held crooked and stiff above its back. It was soot-black and massive, with a brutal horned snout and mad red eyes. The ragged, smoky wings cast an unnatural shadow over its awkward body. It was hampered both by the great chains that tethered it and the savage, unhealed wounds gouged from its rotting flesh, but still the Jailer of the Dark advanced on its smaller cousin, roaring.
Now Isak could see the terrible slashes oozing black-red ichor that Xeliath had inflicted as she fought it on the slopes of Ghain; only its unnatural strength allowed it to move with such injuries. Once again he felt the hot ache of loss for the fearless woman who’d died at this dragon’s claws.
The white dragon wove its head left and right, still hesitant, but its companion had no such uncertainties: it screamed an answer to the challenge and leaped forward, throwing itself down from the edge of the crater to strike across the newcomer’s back. Its claws tore into the larger dragon’s wings, tearing ribbons from the membrane as bones snapped under the weight. The Jailer rode the assault and lashed forward with its blade-tipped tail, punching a hole in the smaller dragon’s wing before stabbing its side and causing shocking scarlet blood to fly.
The other hurled itself forward, claws extended, and the Jailer wrenched itself around, half-dodging to one side despite the weight on its back, and its teeth caught the dragon’s left foot, snagged it and dragged it off- balance. The white dragon’s claws were scrabbling for purchase on the rocks while its wings slapped at the smoke-
