Harry turns back to the Black Knight. He doesn’t understand any of this: the knight’s strange stillness; his choice of targets— Harry’s eyes widen and his skin prickles with goosebumps. His choice of targets. Sharp and Howland. Two more of the Galloway Dozen. But not him. The knight has not lifted a hand in battle to Harry, and neither have the rest of the raiders. ‘Who are you?’ Harry says. His voice shakes. And in front of him Harry doesn’t see a knight, but a starving little ball of Scottish fury in a cage, hissing that his name is Lord Death. Threatening to kill every one of his captors,
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Iconic
