The power was undead. The will that gripped him was a dragon’s. Tinged with irritation, reluctant to act, it nevertheless grasped the illogic of Kulp’s sorcerous effort ... and gave it all the force it needed. Then more.

He screamed, pain lancing through him with glacial fire.

Undead cared nothing for the limits of mortal flesh, a lesson now burning in his bones.

The distant rent closed. All at once other powers were channelling through the mage. Ascendants, grasping Kulp’s outrageous intent, swept in to join the game with dark glee. Always a game. Damn you bastards one and all! I take back my prayers! Hear me? Hood take you all!

He realized the pain was gone, the Soletaken dragon withdrawing its attention as soon as other forces arrived to take its place. He remained hovering a few feet above the deck, however, his limbs twitching as the powers using him playfully plucked at his mortality. Not the indifference of an undead, but malice. Kulp began to yearn for the former.

He fell suddenly, cracking both knees on the dirt-smeared deck. Too! done with, now discarded . . .

Stormy was at his side, waving a wineskin before the mage’s face. Kulp grasped it and poured until his mouth was full of the tart liquid.

‘We ride the dragon’s wake,’ the soldier said. ‘Though not on water any more. That gush has closed up tight as a sapper’s arse. Whatever you did, Mage, it worked.’

‘Not over yet,’ Kulp muttered, trying to still his trembling limbs. He swallowed more wine.

‘Watch yourself with that, then,’ Stormy said with a grin. ‘It packs a punch, right to the back of the head—’

‘I won’t notice the difference – my skull’s already full of pulp.’

‘You lit up with blue fire, Mage. Never seen anything like it. Make a damned good tavern tale.’

‘Ah, I’ve achieved immortality at last. Take that, Hood!’

‘Well enough to stand?’

Kulp was not too proud to accept the soldier’s arm as he tottered to his feet. ‘Give me a few moments,’ he said, ‘then I’ll try to slip us from the warren ... back to our realm.’

‘Will the ride be as rough, Mage?’

‘I hope not.’

Felisin stood on the forecastle deck, watching the mage and Stormy passing the wineskin between them. She had felt the presence of the Ascendants, the cold, bloodless attention plucking and prodding at the ship and all who were upon it. The dragon was the worst of them all, gelid and remote. Like fleas on its hide, that’s all we were to it.

She swung about. Baudin was studying the massive winged apparition cleaving the path ahead, his bandaged hand resting lightly on the carved rail. Whatever they rode rolled beneath them in a whispering surge. The oars still plied with remorseless patience, though it was clear that Silanda was moving more swiftly than anything muscle and bone could achieve – even when those muscles and bones were undead.