‘There!’ he pointed and changed direction, not waiting to see if any were following. His prey was close.

Hirad skidded to a stop before the door and wrenched it open, stepping back to look before dashing in. It was a small antechamber, set with massive arched double doors opposite. They carried a crest, half on each side. The walls were covered in runic language; braziers lit the scene. Hirad ignored it all: one of the big doors was just ajar and a glittering light came from inside. The barbarian smiled.

‘Come to Daddy,’ he breathed as he ran through the gap and into the chamber beyond.

‘Hirad, wait!’ shouted Sirendor as he, Ilkar and The Unknown raced into the larger chamber.

‘Get after that idiot, Sirendor,’ ordered The Unknown. ‘Time to take stock, I think.’

Above the fire hung a round metal plate, fully three feet across. On it was embossed the head and talons of a dragon. The mouth was wide, dripping fire, and the claws open and grasping. Otherwise, the room was bare of ornament. The Unknown moved towards it, half an eye on Sirendor as the warrior hurried towards the door through which Hirad had chased. He stopped suddenly, glanced behind him and frowned.

‘What is it?’ asked Ilkar.

‘This isn’t right,’ said The Unknown. ‘Unless I’ve gone badly wrong, this ought to be the kitchens and that end of this room—’ he pointed right to the two doors flanking the unlit fire - ‘should be in the courtyard.’

‘Well, we must be under it,’ said Ilkar.

‘We haven’t gone down,’ said The Unknown. ‘What do you think?’ But Ilkar wasn’t paying attention to him any more. He was staring at the crest over the fire, his face paling.

‘That symbol. I know it.’ Ilkar walked over to the fire, The Unknown trailing him.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s the Dragonene crest. Heard of it?’

‘A few rumours.’ The Unknown shrugged. ‘So what?’

‘And you say we should be standing in the courtyard?’

‘Well, yes, I think so but . . . ?’

Ilkar swallowed hard. ‘Gods, we’d better not have done what I think we’ve done.’

It was the size of the hall he entered that first slowed Hirad’s advance, and the heat that assailed him the moment he was inside. Next it was the odour, very strong, of wood and oil. Pervasive and with a sharp quality. And finally, the huge pair of eyes regarding him from the opposite side of the room that brought him to a complete standstill.

‘Gods, Hirad, calm down!’ Sirendor yanked open the door to the right of the fireplace and ran inside, seeing the crested double doors in front of him. He pulled up sharply, the dark-cloaked mage appearing suddenly before him. He raised his sword reflexively and took a pace backwards, realising the mage’s abrupt appearance was caused by the dispersal of a CloakedWalk spell. Probably in his late thirties, the mage would normally have been handsome beneath his tousled black hair and unkempt short beard, but now he looked pale and frightened. He held out his hands, palms outwards.

‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘I couldn’t stop him, but I can stop you.’

‘You’re responsible for the death of one of The Raven—’

‘And I don’t want another one to die, believe me. The barbarian—’

‘Where is he?’ demanded Sirendor.

‘Don’t raise your voice. Look, he’s in trouble,’ said the mage. There was movement in his cloak. A cat’s head appeared briefly at its neck then disappeared once more. ‘You’re Sirendor, aren’t you? Sirendor Larn.’ Sirendor, standing still once again, nodded. The mage continued. ‘And I am Denser. Look, I know what you’re feeling but we can help each other right now and, believe me, your friend needs help.’

‘What kind of trouble is he in?’ Sirendor’s voice was low too. He didn’t know why, but something about the mage’s attitude worried him. He should kill the man where he stood but he was obviously scared by something other than the prospect of death at a Raven warrior’s hand.

‘Bad. Very bad. See for yourself.’ He put a finger to his lips and beckoned Sirendor to him. The warrior moved forwards, never taking his eyes from the mage nor the slightly shifting bulge on one side of his cloak. Denser motioned Sirendor to look through the doors.

‘Great Gods above!’ He made a move to go in but the mage restrained him with a hand on the shoulder. Sirendor turned sharply.

‘Take your hand off me. Right now.’ The mage did.

‘You can’t help him by rushing in.’

‘Well, what can we do?’ hissed Sirendor.

‘I’m not sure.’ Denser shrugged. ‘I might be able to do something. You might as well get your friends. They won’t find anything out there and they could prove useful in here.’

Sirendor paused in the act of heading for the door. ‘Nothing stupid, you understand? If he dies because of you . . .’

Denser nodded. ‘I’ll wait.’

‘See that you do.’ Sirendor left the antechamber at a sprint, not realising he was about to confirm all of Ilkar’s fears.

Hirad would have run, only he’d come too far into the room, and anyway, he didn’t think his legs would support him, they were shaking that badly. He just stood and stared.

The Dragon’s head was resting on its front claws and the first coherent thought that entered Hirad’s mind was that from the bottom of its lower jaw to the top of its head, it was getting on for as tall as he was. The mouth itself must have been more than three feet across, the whole muzzle probably five in depth. Those eyes sat atop, and at the base of, the muzzle. They were close set, rimmed with thick horn, and the pupils were narrow black slits, ringed in a startling blue. A pronounced ridge of bone ran away over the Dragon’s head towards its spine, and Hirad could see the mound of its body behind it, huge and shining.

As he watched, it carefully unfurled its wings and the reason for the size of the room became all too obvious. With their roots at the top of the torso, above the front limbs, the wings stretched to what must have been forty feet on either side, and flapped lazily. With the balance afforded by them, the Dragon picked its head from the floor and stood upright.

Even with its slender, bone-edged neck arched so its eyes never left Hirad, it towered sixty feet into the hall. Its tail curled away to the left and was thicker than a man’s body even at its tip. Stretched out, the Dragon would surely have been well in excess of one hundred and twenty feet in length, but now it rested on two massive rear limbs, each foot carrying a quartet of claws bigger than the barbarian’s head. And it was gold, all over - skin glistening in the firelight and sparkling on the walls.

Hirad could hear its breathing, slow and deep. It opened its mouth wide, revealing long rows of fangs, and saliva dripped to the floor to evaporate on contact.

It raised a forelimb, single hooked claw extended. Hirad took an involuntary pace backwards. He swallowed hard, sweat suddenly covering his body. He was quaking from head to foot.

‘Fuck me,’ he breathed.

Hirad had always believed that he’d die with his sword in his hand but, in the moments before the huge claw dismembered him, it seemed such a futile gesture. A calmness replaced the instant’s fury that had itself so quickly followed his fear, and he sheathed his blade and looked straight into the creature’s eyes.

The blow never came. Instead, the Dragon retracted its claw, unarched its neck and moved its head down and forwards, coming to a stop no more than three paces from Hirad, hot, sour breath firing into his face.

‘Interesting,’ it said in a voice that echoed through Hirad’s entire being. The barbarian’s legs finally gave way and he sat heavily on the tiled floor. His mouth was wide, his jaws were moving but no sound came.