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"
Yes
.
"
There
it
was
again
,
a
subtle
wrongness
about
things
that
you
couldn
’
t
quite
put
your
finger
on
because
your
finger
was
too
scared
.
But
Brother
Watchtower
’
s
troublesome
thoughts
were
interrupted
by
a
scrabbling
sound
on
the
roof
.
A
few
nubs
of
plaster
dropped
into
the
circle
.
"
Brothers
?
"
repeated
Brother
Watchtower
nervously
.
Now
there
was
one
of
those
silent
sounds
,
a
long
,
buzzing
silence
of
extreme
concentration
and
just
possibly
the
indrawing
of
breath
into
lungs
the
size
of
haystacks
.
The
last
rats
of
Brother
Watchtower
’
s
self
-
confidence
fled
the
sinking
ship
of
courage
.
"
Brother
Doorkeeper
,
if
you
could
just
unbolt
the
dread
portal
-
"
he
quavered
.
And
then
there
was
light
.
There
was
no
pain
.
There
was
no
time
.
Death
strips
away
many
things
,
especially
when
it
arrives
at
a
temperature
hot
enough
to
vaporise
iron
,
and
among
them
are
your
illusions
.
The
immortal
remains
of
Brother
Watchtower
watched
the
dragon
flap
away
into
the
fog
,
and
then
looked
down
at
the
congealing
puddle
of
stone
,
metal
and
miscellaneous
trace
elements
that
was
all
that
remained
of
the
secret
headquarters
.
And
of
its
occupants
,
he
realised
in
the
dispassionate
way
that
is
part
of
being
dead
.
You
go
through
your
whole
life
and
end
up
a
smear
swirling
around
like
cream
in
a
coffee
cup
.
Whatever
the
gods
’
games
were
,
they
played
them
in
a
damn
mysterious
way
.
He
looked
up
at
the
hooded
figure
beside
him
.
