Free The Lazarus Gate by Mark Latham Page B

and tortured mind. I believe I sobbed at that point, and must have looked a pathetic sight to my tormentor, but all I could think about in those moments was how plausible the theory was. Why would I have been released without warning? Why would I have ever been invited to join the Apollonian? Then my attacker, whom I firmly believed was the bastard Maung, half-laughing at my plight, said to me: ‘Are you ready to die, Captain?’ And I was. I realised that the Burmese must have gleaned whatever information they required of me in my broken state, or perhaps had simply tired of me, and my time was come. I was half-mad in that moment, I am certain—concussed and unable to think straight, and sure that I was locked in a dungeon with an evil torturer who wished me dead.
    My waking nightmare was cut short, not by the fatal slash of a wicked blade, but by the commanding shout of a familiar voice.
    ‘You there! Leave him be, or by God I shall run you through!’
    The laughing and taunting of my snarling tormentors stopped, and through blurred vision I saw them turn to face the threat. I heard some indistinct voices, warning the newcomer to back away. I also heard the unmistakeable scrape of a sword being pulled from a scabbard. I tried to lift my head to see what was happening, but all I could make out was a struggle between shadows.
    Then one of my would-be killers lurched backwards, clutching his stomach, and staggered past me down the alleyway. Cries of alarm and profanity rose from the other two, and they retreated. The Chinaman fled the fastest, overtaking his wounded companion and leaving him to his fate. The scrawny man was next, and paused long enough to tug at the big man’s sleeve, encouraging him to flee, which eventually he managed. It was the big man who had been wounded, run through, I presumed, though by whom? My head was spinning. I slumped back on the damp flagstones, and felt sharp pains shoot through my body. I had no idea how badly I was wounded. Then, another face loomed before mine, but this time it was not one of my assailants, nor was it the face of a Burmese prison guard. It was Ambrose Hanlocke.
    ‘A fine mess, old chap. A fine mess indeed. Still, soon have you fixed up,’ he said. I felt a tug at my shirt, and though I tried to move my limbs so that Ambrose would not have to shoulder the burden, I could remain conscious no longer.

THREE

    ‘ W e are one.’
    I said the words without thinking, as I had said them so many times before. Before me stood my father, outside the old thatched-roof farmhouse that we had lived in when I was a boy. He held his arms open as if to offer me an embrace, but I stood firm. I felt nothing in my heart for him then.
    He mouthed some words, pleading with me, but no words came forth, only silence. I watched him dispassionately. I was cold, reptilian and calculating. As the old man stepped towards me, a great gout of flame seemed to envelop him, trapping him in a circle of fire. The sky darkened. Where once it had been calm and blue, roiling grey-purple clouds gathered to block out the sun, and my father’s pained expression was lit only by the yellow fire that danced around him, throwing its light off the limewashed walls of the house.
    Why do you not save him?
    The voice came from no discernible source, but seemed to form in my mind. A deep, booming voice. Then I remembered, and I turned to face the dragon.
    It was a gargantuan beast, rising up before me like a fiery monument. The dragon’s scales flickered green, purple and orange in the light of the flames that danced around its body. Its vast, membranous wings spread out to envelop everything in my vision. Its red eyes glowed like dying embers, and as it lowered its magnificent scaled head to behold me, a plume of black smoke belched forth from its nose and maw, swirling upwards until they became one with the storm clouds.
    ‘I cannot save him,’ I shouted above the roar of the fires that blazed everywhere. ‘You