‘Then I’m to rejoin the living?’
‘Alas, no, Toc the Younger. You are dead and dead you will remain. But this shall mark your final task as my Herald. Another god claims you.’
Toc prepared to dismount but the Lord of Death lifted a hand. ‘Ride in the car-riage’s wake, close in its wake. For a time. Now, Herald, listen well to my last message. The blood is needed. The blood is needed…’
Gruntle had stopped listening. Even the vague disquiet he’d felt when that one-eyed rider had accosted him was fast vanishing beneath a flood of battle lust. He stared out at the enemy, watched the defenders wither away.
A war that could not be won by such sorry souls-a war that begged for a champion, one who would stand until the very end.
Another growl rumbled from him, and he stepped away from the carriage, reaching for his cutlasses.
‘Whoa there, y’damned manx!’
The bark startled him and he glared up at Glanno Tarp, who smiled a hard smile. ‘Shareholders can’t just walk away-we’d have to plug ya fulla arrows. Get back aboard, stripy, we’re leaving all over again!’
There could be but one outcome, and Draconus had known that all along. He had sensed nothing of the Trygalle’s arrival, nor even its departure, with Toc riding in its wake. Whatever occurred behind him could not reach through to awaken his senses.
One outcome.
After all, Dragnipur had never offered salvation. Iron forged to bind, a hundred thousand chains hammered into the blade, layers upon layers entwined, folded, wrapped like rope. Draconus, surrounded in the molten fires of Burn’s heart, drawing forth chains of every metal that existed, drawing them out link by glowing link. Twisted ropes of metal on the anvil, and down came the hammer. The one hammer, the only tool that could forge such a weapon-and he remembered its vast weight, the scalding grip that lacerated his alien hand.
Even in her dreaming, Burn had been most displeased.
Chains upon chains. Chains to bind. Bind Darkness itself, transforming the an-cient forest through which it had wandered, twisting that blackwood into a wagon, into huge, tottering wheels, into a bed that formed a horizontal door-like the entrance to a barrow-above the portal. Blackwood, to hold and contain the soul of Kurald Galain.
He remembered. Sparks in countless hues skipping away like shattered rain-bows. The deafening ringing of the hammer and the way the anvil trembled to every blow. The waves of heat flashing against his face. The bitter taste of raw ore, the stench of sulphur. Chains! Chains and chains, pounded down into glowing impressions upon the blade, quenched and honed and into Burn’s white heart and then-it begins again. And again.