Burn's white heart and then – it begins again. And again.
Chains! Chains to bind!
Bind the Fallen!
And now, unbelievably, impossibly, Draconus had felt that first splintering. Chains had broken.
So it ends. I did not think, I did not imagine—
He had witnessed his Bound companions falling away, failing. He had seen the chaos descend upon each one, eating through flesh with actinic zeal, until shackles fell to the ground – until the iron bands held nothing. Nothing left.
I never meant – I never wanted such an end – to any of you, of us.
No, I was far too cruel to ever imagine an end. An escape.
Yet now, witness these thoughts of mine. Now, I would see you all live on, yes, in these chains, but not out of cruelty. Ah, no, not that. Abyss take me, I would see you live out of mercy.
Perhaps he wept now. Or these scalding tears announced the crushing end of hysterical laughter. No matter. They were all being eaten alive. We are all being eaten alive.
And Dragnipur had begun to come apart.
When the chaos disintegrated the wagon, destroyed the door, and took hold of the Gate, the sword would shatter and chaos would be freed of this oh-so-clever trap, and Draconus's brilliant lure – his eternal snare eternally leading chaos on and away from everything else – would have failed. He could not contemplate what would happen then, to the countless succession of realms and worlds, and of course he would not be there to witness the aftermath in any case. But he knew that, in his last thoughts, he would feel nothing but unbearable guilt.
So, chaos, at least unto one victim, what you deliver is indeed mercy.
He had begun walking forward, to join the other Bound, to stand, perhaps, at Pearl's side, until the end came.
The echo of that snapping chain haunted him. Someone's broken loose. How? Even the Hounds of Shadow could only slip free by plunging into Kurald Galain's black heart. Their chains did not break. Dragnipur's essential integrity had not been damaged.
But now . . . someone's broken loose.
How?
Chains and chains and chains to bind—
A bony hand closed on his shoulder and dragged him back.
Snarling, Draconus half turned. 'Let go, damn you! I will stand with them, Hood – I must, can't you see that?'
The Lord of Death's hand tightened, the nails biting, and Hood slowly pulled him closer. 'The fray,' the god said in a rasp, 'is not for you.'
'You are not my master—'
'Stand with me, Draconus. It's not yet time.'
'For what?' He struggled to tear free, but a Jaghut's strength could be immense, and barring the bloody removal of his entire shoulder, Draconus could do nothing. He and the Lord of Death stood alone, not twenty paces from the motionless wagon.
'Consider this,' said Hood, 'a request for forgiveness.'
Draconus stared. 'What? Who asks my forgiveness?'
Hood, Lord of the Dead, should have been the last to fall to Dragnipur. Whatever the Son of Darkness intended, its final play was found in the slaying of this ancient god. Such was the conviction of Draconus. A mad, pointless gamble, the empty purchase of time already consumed, the wasting of countless souls, an entire realm of the dead.
As it turned out, Draconus was wrong.
There was one more. One more.
Arriving with the power of a mountain torn apart in a long, deafening, crushing detonation. Argent clouds were shredded, whipped away in dark winds. The legions pressing on all sides recoiled, and the thousand closing paces so viciously won were lost in an instant. Dragons screamed. Voices erupted as if dragged out from throats – the pressure, the pain, the stunning power—
Chaos flinched, and then, slowly, began to gather itself once more.
No single force could defeat this enemy. Destruction was its own law, and even as it devoured itself it would devour everything else. Chaos, riding the road of Darkness, ever to arrive unseen, from sources unexpected, from places where one never thought to look, much less guard against.
The sword and all within it was dying, now, at last; dying.
Hood's hand had left his shoulder, and Draconus sagged down on to his knees.
One more.
And, yes, he knew who was now among them.
Should he laugh? Should he seek him out, mock him? Should he close hands about his throat so that they could lock one to the other until the descent of oblivion?
No, he would do none of this.
Who asks for my forgiveness?
Had he the strength, he would have cried out.
Anomander Rake, you need not ask. That begging,