The hand-cannon in Albron’s hand was known on Nilldoran as a Basilisk. Its kind had been forbidden after the Nyctothian Wars, where its potency had reduced millions of god-born to honourless slag. Warriors who had trained centuries in the art of swordsmanship died beneath its beams in seconds, their skill irrelevant. The council of the gods, composed of the Six Great Ones, had deemed that such warfare was uncivilised. To cross blades in a contest of strength was one thing; but this made strength, speed, skill, and honour irrelevant.

  Telos was faster than any human being alive. But he was not fast enough to dodge the beam that erupted from the muzzle of the Basilisk. Or, he would not have been fast enough, were it not for another.

  Xheng was no great fighter, but he had the instincts of a cobra. He had been at sea many decades, seen many horrors and wonders, survived many fights. He had sailed on both sides of the law, and always come out on top. He was a master of sleight of hand, who could read a man’s eyes and know what he was about to do before he did it.

  Telos was too angry to see what was coming. He was thinking Albron would close for some kind of fist-fight.

  But Xheng knew what the cannon was capable of. He had never seen such god-forged technology, but he had seen the smiths of Wen’zaza working on a human iteration, a weapon held in the hand that spat fire and death like a cannon.

  He was moving before Albron was, diving for Telos.

  “Down!” he roared.

  A moment later the beam came. Bright blue, it cut across the gap between them with speed that seemed less movement and more the deletion of space. Urgal howled. Telos hit the glassy sand and the beam missed him by mere inches. The air sizzled and hissed, as though it could be burnt. The beam emitted a horrific noise as it travelled, somewhere between a gong reverberating and tinnitus of the ear, a kind of noisome throbbing that suggested matter was being distorted around it.

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  There was no pain, at first. Merely shock. Xheng turned and saw that the arm he had used to push Telos out of the way was missing. Where there had once been a limb, there was only a shoulder. The opening was cauterised, burning blackly. He smelled his own charred flesh, like meat on a skewer. He could still feel his fingers, brushing the alien scales of Telos’s armour. He could still feel the muscles in his biceps and elbow working. He could still feel the desert air on his exposed skin.

  But there was no skin. No arm for his tunic. The smoke of seared meat was all that arose. He blinked.

  Something was falling from the sky. Little white things. Feathers?

  No, they were cards. Tarod cards. His cards.

  The Idiot smiled at him from every face, winking as he span and fluttered down to the ground. He always kept at least twenty on him for emergency cheating. He smiled, remembering the look on Gorm’s face when he had bested him. The sweetness lasted only a moment, of course. All was soon bitter afterwards.

  But was that not the nature of the sea?

  Take the sweetness while you can.

  Enjoy the draft of ale while it is still cool.

  Warm your feet while the fire burns.

  For the sea is coming, and she takes no prisoners.

  Then the pain came.