Carth’s only farewell was to touch j’ark’s shoulder, like a big brother would touch his sibling.

“At least say my name,” said Tirielle through her tears, which were falling freely. “Don’t call me lady, not anymore.”

Cenphalph was next, not turning to see j’ark. Perhaps their goodbyes had already been said. Perhaps they spoke with more than words. Typraille ducked his head. “We’ll meet again, brother,” he said, and leapt through the portal, his blade held high.

Carth was next to go.

“Farewell, old friend. Until you join us again,” said Disper, who roared and ran at the space between worlds.

Tirielle was left alone with the man she had grown to love, her saviour in all things.

“There is no more time to waste,” he said, shuddering as the force behind the door rammed it again and again with their shoulders, and hammered it with swords.

“No, no more time,” she said as she drew her daggers. She stepped into his chest and kissed him chastely on the lips. He kissed her back.

“I love you, j’ark.”

“Goodbye…Tirielle,” he said, and she turned from him. Without a backward glance, she stepped through the portal.

“Tirielle,” he said for the last time, tasting her name on his lips. Then, at last, he allowed himself to say out loud the only words that frightened him to the very core.

“I love you,” he said, and his voice was stronger now. It was not so bad. Nothing to be afraid of. His god did not smite him, and he did not feel unclean, or ashamed, but free.

He clenched and unclenched his hand. All weakness was gone, although he was sure the stitches in his shoulder would open soon.

He just had to hold on for long enough. He didn’t know how long it would take for them to travel, or what would happen when he closed the portal. He had to give them time…

The door was being battered at his back, and his feet were slipping on the stones. It opened a crack, and he was pushed inward…

He waited, and in that moment, that moment of perfect clarity when he knew death was coming, he felt at peace at last. He felt whole for loving, not sullied, not impure, but cleansed by Tirielle’s love. His heart felt light, and he knew now, too late, that his gods loved love, they wanted it, wished it on their children.

He cleared his mind, and with little effort put away his regrets. He let himself understand them for a moment, rolled them around in his mind — it was sad that he would not die embraced in the loving arms of Tirielle, or in the warmth of his gods’ golden glow, but he knew that both loved him equally, and would do so even after his death. He regretted only that he had denied himself for so long. Then, like the afterglow of a sudden flash of light burnt into a retina, his mind was clear, filled with purity and purpose.

He stepped back from the door and it exploded inward, soldiers tumbling through. His sword leapt in his hand. He beheaded the first warrior to step through, and with a thrust ripped open the neck of the second. He danced back and gave himself room, the chamber’s breadth more than ample to swing a blade. He would not fight in a corner. While he could not fight in the glory of the sun, its light filled his mind, with love, and finally, its approval.

He twirled and slashed, his blade twinkling in the eerie radiance of the portal, and Tenthers fell as they entered the room. One threw himself forward, skewering himself on j’ark’s blade, and in the moment he freed it two more soldiers entered. Their armour turned aside a glancing blow, dark armour forged with blood, a filthy grey. Beside them, j’ark was a shining light. His cloak whirled around him as he span on his heel, his sword slicing cleanly through two necks — but in the time it took to dispatch the two warriors more had entered. He was dimly aware of his shoulder wound opening again, and blood flowing within his glittering armour.

He embraced the pain, for with it he knew he was still alive.

He saw a blade swinging toward his head but could do little to avoid it. It clanged against his helm, knocking it from his head. His eyes blazed with power he did know he had, and he felt Unthor’s spirit welling inside him, giving him strength. He shook his head and his sword arm was suddenly full of renewed vigour. He thrust through the warrior’s armour, disembowelling him, drew his dagger with his failing left arm and drove it between the eye slit in the helm of yet another soldier.

Then time seemed endless. Each moment drawn fully, vision unimpaired by thought, nothing but the dance of the blade, the flowing and pumping of blood. The flagstones were slick with it, the air filled with cries of agony. None of it affected j’ark.Peace held him tight. He saw his death to come. He was tiring fast, his blood flowing freely from his shoulder. He did not realise it, but he slowed. Imperceptibly, but enough.

A sword sliced across the back of his dagger hand, and the blade clattered to the flagstones. Two more soldiers entered the chamber. Surrounded now, Unthor’s spirit urged him on… just a little longer, brother, I can see them, they are near the end…just a little longer…and he whirled, blocking a thrust at his back. A sword pierced his hamstring and he felt sudden blood drenching his greaves.

Limping, he killed yet another soldier. A sword glanced against his scalp. Blood blinded him in one eye.

A moment longer, brother, I am with you…your left!

He parried, clumsy now, for such an accomplished swordsman, but still faster than most mortals. A warrior fell, his breastplate sliced through.

NOW!

The power of Unthor’s voice rang through his head. He shouldered a soldier out of the way. The soldier tumbled to the floor.

The gems hummed, but j’ark could no longer hear them. All he could hear was the strange singing of the spirits within the portal, Unthor’s voice among them, and yet still strong within his head.

He swung with all his might.

The crystal shattered, and the world imploded.

Shards flew into the portal, the power pulling at his soul. The afterworld’s darkness surrounded him, but it was held back by a strange, rising golden glow.

At the last, pain was forgotten. All was peace.

In death, j’ark finally shone.

Shockwaves tore at the rock and ice. The day had darkened preternaturally, a thick grey cloud seeming to grow from the peak of the highest mountain. The pristine white of the plateau had grown grey with what, to Shorn’s eyes, looked like ash. It could not be, though. There were no fires…the only time Shorn had seen the sky rain ash was in Cabran, and that was only because the city had been torched following the dreadful battle.

Shorn stumbled into a roll as a blade whistled past his head. He lashed out with his sword and a red-robed warrior fell. He gained his feet, lurching as the ground bucked and warped under foot, parrying a vicious blow and using his brace as a shield to turn aside a long dagger, then running the man through. Their breastplates were of inferior quality — Drayman armour had given his blade more pause for thought than the dark armour these warriors wore.

But their blades were true. He bled from a scalp wound already, and had only narrowly avoided becoming a full head shorter because one soldier had put too much faith in the shifting land.

He ran, stumbling and falling, slashing wildly. It was the best he could manage.

Before he knew it, he was free of attackers. He crested as small rise, where the ground rock was uncovered. He scanned the battle with a jaded warrior’s eye.

These soldiers were something different. And this was a new kind of battle. Even the ground fought against them. Ice and snow flowed down the rock face, the ground tore itself apart, and the insane crackling of magic flew overhead. Battle lines were forgotten. It was pure chaos, unlike any battle he had ever fought. At the start the Teryithyrian casters had taken their place around the Protocrat ranks, and the battle had begun in a haphazard fashion, soldiers falling to invisible hands. Drun’s magic joined the white beasts, and power burned the frigid air. Flames shot through the air, snowflakes battled them and lighting cracked. The beasts fought with the powers of nature, wielding natural forces like a hammer on the Protocrats. The tenthers — if that’s what they were — fought with fire and darkness, with waves of despair and crushing hatred.