In the blink of an eye, Roth saw how beautiful they were, how pure, to hold back the simmering waves of hate and burning fire coming from the Protocrat before them. His power was immense — unbelievable. The rock around them was melting, and Roth could see molten rock pouring down the long tunnel behind him, but the Protocrat wizard’s fire outshone even than liquid, incandescent river.

A wall of flame held against the sunshine of the Sard, flowing, merging, pushing against each other. Roth’s fur crackled, the heat unbearable, and yet still it could not move.

Fear held its legs against the stone, fire raged all around it, but it was held fast in the grip of terror. Even now, it could feel its flesh sizzling. In its terror, it could do nothing. It watched the Sard battle, agony in its leathery hide, the smell of its own burning flesh strong in its nostrils…why could it not move? Why did it feel fear? It knew what it must do, yet it stood here dying a coward’s bright and burning death.

It watched, immobile, as the Sard moved forward as one. A wall of light against burning hatred, blood and fire and pain and anguish pouring forth in a torrent from the Protocrat. They did not waver. Take strength in that.

The Sard approached, and the first to strike out at the wizard was flung against a wall, armour clanging with the force of the blow, as though the wizard himself was made of steel. His fists were like hammers, smashing into the Sard, turning their blades aside with ease.

Then, as the contest began in earnest, the Sard pushed to the limit of their strength by the hideous apparition shrouded in flame, Roth heard a voice from the past, and echo in its mind.

‘You are the Sacrifice, my child. It is the wizard’s geas, the price we pay for our freedom, for our lives. You must do what you are born to do, but in the end, it will be hard on you. Remember all that you are, when the time comes and your fear turns you to lead. Remember your strength, and your heart…remember the love that others have felt for you. Do not let Tirielle die, Roth. In the end, I think you will understand.’

And it did. Its mother had known. It had listened to the words. This was the price it must pay. To die in fear. But it would not be a coward. Not at the last. It would not let Tirielle take the place that was rightfully its own.

Roth saw what it must do. This was not its battle. It did not matter if the Sard won or lost here. There was only one thing it could do. Finally, burning and in an agony it had never before known, it was time to face its fate. Time to face death.

It could still do what it must. Nothing could escape fate, not the mighty, not the weak. All must make sacrifices.

It took the only chance it could, toward the only end that it was ever destined to meet. Roth dived through the blackness, trailing flames, into the chamber beyond.

Shorn quailed at the sight of it. The behemoth was chained to the walls of a massive cavern, in chains of some silvery metal untouched by the passage of time. The chains themselves were immense — each link fully as thick as a man’s chest, stretching across the cavern, looped and fixed into holes in the cavern wall.

The heat was fierce. It scorched the skin.

Tirielle stood proudly before it, shouting to be heard above the din. Her face was fearless.

“Are you Caeus?” to her credit, Shorn thought, her voice did not waver.

Shorn could barely make out the rumbling words, the beasts language was so mauled by its massive jaw.

“NO. I ATE CAEUS. I AM ALL THAT IS LEFT.”

Shorn saw her hang her head in despair. He felt sorry for her. Perhaps she was not as accustomed to disappointment as he was.

It could have been laughing, but Shorn did not believe such a creature felt humour, or understood anything but slaughter. It was not built for peace, or love, or any of the light that made a human whole. It was alien and terrible, a monstrosity from out of time, a creature of nightmare and darkness.

The beast’s head reached the roof of the massive cavern. Dull green eyes stared myopically at the intruders. It howled, the whole cavern shaking, and renewed its struggle against its bonds. Shorn was knocked to his knees by the sound of the beast’s torment, dropping his sword and placing his hands over his ears, but his whole body shook, his bones ached from the rage of it, the plaintive cry of a millennium of anguish. Drun was on his knees, too, his light temporarily dulled.

They needed no other light, though. Around the monstrosity was a lake of fire, bubbling lava, with but one path forward — a path too narrow for the creature to take.

To defeat it, they would have to travel that one narrow path, know bravery beyond any other mortal. They would have to walk to their own slaughter. It would not come to them.

He walked forward, heart pounding a thousand times faster than the revenant’s, the creatures heartbeat that of the mountains, next to Shorn’s, stuttering along like a helting mir’s upon waking. If the woman could face it, though, he thought he could, too.

He took up his place beside her on the pathway and laid a hand upon her shoulder. Her head hung in despair, but his was proud. He saw the battle ahead. It was what he lived for.

But what terror could life hold for a man of war? He watched in amazement as the creature snapped free of one bond with a cry like thunder. It knocked both of them to their knees. He struggled against the wave of sound, and gained his feet, pulling Tirielle up along side him.

With a huge effort the revenant pulled with both clawed hands, straining against the last chain. With a terrible groan of breaking rock it came free. Trailing the chains, hanging in the lake of fire, it turned its baleful gaze on the interlopers.

The revenant finally free after aeons in tormenting chains, stamped a foot and issued its challenge. It lumbered forward as far as it could go, and with a snarl that shook the mountain clawed at the two of them.

They tumbled underneath the blow. Shorn took his sword in both hands and was instantly upon it. It towered over him. It did not see him roll between its feet, but felt the sting of his blade slicing into its ankle. It kicked out, one giant foot smashing Shorn to the ground.

The mercenary rolled from his fall and rose again. He winced at the pain in his ribs — it hurt worse than a kick from a horse. A rib was broken, for sure, but he did not have the luxury of licking his wounds.

The revenant howled in anguish, but what was a mere nick with a blade compared to an age of torment, a life in chains? It turned ponderously in the space it could, forcing Shorn to back away toward the edge of the lake. Flames lapped at his cloak. He was drenched in sweat from the heat — perhaps that was what stopped him from bursting into flames.

A massive, leathery fist came crashing down, as though the creature intended to squash him like an insect, but Shorn was rolling to one side and swiping as hard as he could at the inside of the creature’s wrist. His sword dug deep, and steaming ichor ran from the wound, splashing the ground where Shorn had been…Never stop moving. Shorn did not need to remind himself to move, to run and leap and strike where he could. He could not reach the creatures bones, but he could strike at tendons — he knew enough of the body to know where tendons hid beneath the skin, and what damage the severance of one could do to a man. This creature was no different. Its structure was the same, even though its skin was as tough as hide, thick and hard. It had claws instead of nails, two massive curving eye teeth and drooled fire, but what was it, if not an animal?

Even Shorn, attacking with all his fury against the beast, could feel its anguish. It knew nothing else but to fight. It spoke no more garbled words, but roared in incoherent rage at each stinging cut he made on its thick skin, smashed and stamped and bled fiery blood. The platform on which Shorn danced and whirled, on which the revenant bled, was sticky and dangerous with blood. One slip, one wrong move, and he would be squashed. There would be nothing left of him but bone and gristle.