‘Civilization after civilization, it is the same. The world falls to tyranny with a whisper. The frightened are ever keen to bow to a perceived necessity, in the belief that necessity forces conformity, and conformity a certain stability. In a world shaped into conformity, dissidents stand out, are easily branded and dealt with. There is no multitude of perspectives, no dialogue. The victim assumes the face of the tyrant, self-righteous and intransigent, and wars breed like vermin. And people die.’

Brys studied the firestorm engulfing what was once a city of great beauty. He did not know its name, nor the civilization that had birthed it, and, it now struck him, it did not matter.

‘In your world,’ the figure said, ‘the prophecy approaches its azimuth. An emperor shall arise. You are from a civilization that sees war as an extension of economics. Stacked bones become the foundation for your roads of commerce, and you see nothing untoward in that-’

‘Some of us do.’

‘Irrelevant. Your legacy of crushed cultures speaks its own truth. You intend to conquer the Tiste Edur. You claim that each circumstance is different, unique, but it is neither different nor unique. It is all the same. Your military might proves the virtue of your cause. But I tell you this, Brys Beddict, there is no such thing as destiny. Victory is not inevitable. Your enemy lies in waiting, in your midst Your enemy hides without need for disguise, when belligerence and implied threat are sufficient to cause your gaze to shy away. It speaks your language, takes your words and uses them against you. It mocks your belief in truths, for it has made itself the arbiter of those truths.’

‘Lether is not a tyranny-’

‘You assume the spirit of your civilization is personified in your benign king. It is not. Your king exists because it is deemed permissible that he exist. You are ruled by greed, a monstrous tyrant lit gold with glory. It cannot be defeated, only annihilated.’ Another gesture towards the fiery chaos below. ‘That is your only hope of salvation, Brys Beddict. For greed kills itself, when there is nothing left to hoard, when the countless legions of labourers are naught but bones, when the grisly face of starvation is revealed in the mirror.

‘The god is fallen. He crouches now, seeding devastation. Rise and fall, rise and fall, and with each renewal the guiding spirit is less, weaker, more tightly chained to a vision bereft of hope.’

‘Why does this god do this to us?’

‘Because he knows naught but pain, and yearns only to share it, to visit it upon all that lives, all that exists.’

‘Why have you shown me this?’

‘I make you witness, Brys Beddict, to the symbol of your demise.’

‘Why?’

The figure was silent for a moment, then said, ‘I advised you to not look for hope from your leaders, for they shall feed you naught but lies. Yet hope exists. Seek for it, Brys Beddict, in the one who stands at your side, from the stranger upon the other side of the street. Be brave enough to endeavour to cross that street. Look neither skyward nor upon the ground. Hope persists, and its voice is compassion, and honest doubt.’

The scene began to fade.

The figure at his side spoke one last time. ‘That is all I would tell you. All I can tell you.’

He opened his eyes, and found himself once more standing before the barrow, the day dying around him. Kettle still held his hand in her cold clasp

‘You will help me now?’ she asked.

‘The dweller within the tomb spoke nothing of that.’

‘He never does.’

‘He showed me virtually nothing of himself. I don’t even know who, or what, he is.’

‘Yes.’

‘He made no effort to convince me… of anything. Yet I saw…’

Brys shook his head.

‘He needs help escaping his tomb. Other things are trying to get out. And they will. Not long now, I think. They want to hurt me, and everyone else.’

‘And the one we’re to help will stop them?’

‘Yes.’

‘What can I do?’

‘He needs two swords. The best iron there is. Straight blades, two-edged, pointed. Thin but strong. Narrow hilts, heavy pommels.’

Brys considered. ‘I should be able to find something in the armoury. He wants me to bring them here?’

Kettle nodded.

He needed help. But he did not ask for it . ‘Very well. I will do this. But I will speak to the Ceda regarding this.“

‘Do you trust him? He wants to know, do you trust this Ceda?’

Brys opened his mouth to reply, to say yes , then he stopped. The dweller within the barrow was a powerful creature, probably too powerful to be controlled. There was nothing here that would please Kuru Qan. Yet did Brys have a choice? The Ceda had sent him here to discover what had befallen the Azath… He looked over at the tower. ‘The Azath, it is dead?’