He leapt close and drove the jagged stub into the warrior’s throat. Blood poured on to his hand.
The other was coming round the brazier.
Bakal back-stepped from the warrior drowning in his own blood. He had nothing with which to defend himself.
Wife, it seems you win—
A shape loomed behind the Barahn who was readying his tulwar for a decapitating cut. Hookblades licked both sides of his throat. The brazier hissed and crackled as spatters struck it. Reeling, the Barahn stumbled to one side, fell over the armour chest, leaving one twitching foot visible from where stood Bakal.
Gasping, his arm in agony, he swung his gaze to the newcomer.
‘Cafal.’
‘I dreamed it,’ the priest said, face twisting. ‘Your hand, your knife—into his heart—’
‘Did you dream as well, Cafal, who delivered that blow?’
The burly warrior sagged, stepped clumsily away from the entrance, his eyes dropping to the weapons in his hands. ‘I’ve come for her.’
‘Not tonight.’
The hookblades snapped back into fighting position and Cafal made to advance on him, but Bakal raised his hand.
‘I will help you, but not tonight—she fell unconscious—two dozen men, maybe more, had used her. Any more and she would die and they won’t let that happen. The women have her, Cafal. They will tend to her, cackling like starlings—you know of what I speak. Until her flesh is healed—you cannot get into that hut. Those women will tear you to pieces. My—my wife went there first, before her other … tasks. To see, to join in—she, she laughed at me. At my horror. Cafal, she laughed.’
The priest’s visage was furrowed in cuts—he had been clawing at his own face, Bakal realized. ‘Your dreams,’ he whispered, eyes widening. ‘You saw.’
‘I saw.’
‘Cafal …’
‘But it’s not over. They don’t know that—none of them know that. Our gods are howling. In terror.’ He fixed wild eyes on Bakal. ‘Did they think they could get away with that? Did they forget what he was? Where he came from? He will take them into his hands and he will crush them!’ He bared his teeth. ‘And I will stand back—do you hear me? I will stand back, Bakal, and do nothing.’
‘Your sister—’
He started, as if Bakal had slapped him. ‘Yes. I will wait—’
‘You can’t hide here, Cafal. More of Maral Eb’s assassins will come for me—’
‘This night is almost spent,’ the priest said. ‘The madness is already blowing itself out. Find your allies, Bakal, gather them close.’
‘Come back in three days,’ Bakal said. ‘I will help you. We’ll get her out—away. But … Cafal, you must know—’
The man flinched. ‘It will be too late,’ he said in a wretched tone. ‘Yes, I know. I know.’
‘Go with the last of the night,’ Bakal said. He went to find one of his older weapons, and then paused, stared down at the two corpses crumpled on the floor. ‘I must do something now. One last thing.’ He lifted bleak eyes to the priest. ‘It seems the madness is not quite blown out.’
The rider emerged from the night with a child before him on the saddle. Two young girls flanked the horse, staggering with exhaustion.
As the storm’s ragged tail scudded south, taking the rain with it, Setoc watched the strangers approach. The man, she knew, was a revenant, an undead soldier of the Reaper. But, seated as she was in the centre of this ring of stones, she knew she had nothing to fear. This ancient power defied the hunger for blood—it was, she knew now, made for that very purpose. Against Elder Gods and their ceaseless thirst, it was a sanctuary, and was and would ever remain so.
He drew rein just outside the ring, as she knew he must.
Setoc rose to her feet, eyeing the girls. Dressed as Barghast, but neither was purely of that blood. Twins. Eyes dull with fading shock, and a kind of fearless calm rising in its place. The small boy, she saw, was smiling at her.
The revenant lifted the child with one hand, to which the boy clung like a Bolkando ape, and carefully set him down on the ground.
‘Take them,’ the revenant said to Setoc, and the undead eyes he fixed upon her blazed—one human and wrinkled in death, the other bright and amber—the eye of a wolf.
Setoc gasped. ‘You are not the Reaper’s servant!’
‘It’s my flaw,’ he replied.
‘What is?’
‘Cursed by … indecision. Take them, camp within the circle. Wait.’
‘For what?’
The rider collected the reins and drew the beast round. ‘For his war to end, Destriant.’ He hesitated, and then said, ‘We leave when I return.’
She watched him ride away, westward, as if fleeing the rising sun. The two girls closed on the boy and each took one of his hands. They edged warily closer.
Setoc sighed. ‘You are Hetan’s get?’
Nods.
‘I am a friend of your uncle. Cafal. No,’ she added wearily, ‘I do not know where he has gone. Perhaps,’ she added, thinking of the revenant’s last words, ‘he will return. For now, come closer, I will make a fire. You can eat, and then rest.’
Once inside the circle, the boy pulled loose from his sisters’ hands and walked to the southwestern edge of the ring, where he stared at seemingly nothing on the dark horizon, and then he began a strange, rhythmic babbling. Almost a song.
At the sound, Setoc shivered. When she turned to the twins, she saw that they had found her bedroll and were now wrapped together in its folds. Fast asleep.
Must have been a long walk.
The carrion eaters had picked away the last strip of meat. Jackals had chewed on the bones but found even their powerful jaws could not crush them sufficiently to swallow the splinters down, nor could they grind the ends as was their habit. In the end, they left the fragments scattered in the trampled grasses. Besides, there was more to be found, not only in this place, but in numerous others across the plain. It was proving a season for fly-swarmed muzzles and full bellies.
After a few days all the scavengers had left, abandoning the scene to the sun, wind and stars. The blades of grasses prickled free of dried-up blood, the roots thickened on enriched soil, and insects crawled like the teeth of the earth, devouring all they could.
On a night with a storm raging to the east and south, a night when foreign gods howled and ghost wolves raced like a tidal flood across an unseen landscape, when the campfires of armies whipped and stuttered, and the jackals ran first one way and then another, as the stench of spilled blood brushed them on all sides, the buried valley with its sprawl of boulders and bones and its ash heap of burnt remains began to move, here and there. Fragments drawing together. Forming into ribs, phalanges, leg bones, vertebrae—as if imbued with iron seeking a lodestone, they slid and rolled in fits and starts.
The wind that had begun in the southeast now rushed over the land, a gale like a hundred thousand voices rising, ever rising. Grasses whipped into frenzied motion. Dust swirled up and round and spun, filling the air with grit.
In the still cloudless sky overhead, the Slashes seemed to pulse and waver, as if seen through waves of heat.
Bones clattered together. From beneath the mass of boulders and crumpled armour in the valley, pieces of rotting flesh pulled free, tendons writhing like serpents, ligaments wriggling like worms, climbing free and crawling closer to the heap of bones—which were edging into a pattern, re-forming a recognizable shape—a skeleton, loosely assembled, but the bones were neither Akrynnai nor Barghast. These were thicker, with high ridges where heavy muscles once gripped tight. The skull that had been crushed was now complete once more, battered and scorched. It sat motionless, upper teeth on the ground, until the mandible clicked up against it, and then pushed beneath it, tilting the skull back, until the jaw’s hinges slipped into their joints.
Flesh and desiccated skin, random clumps of filthy hair. Ligaments gripped long bones, ends fusing to join them into limbs. Twisted coils of muscle
found tendons and were pulled flat as the tendons grew taut. An arm was knitted together, scores of finger bones clumping at the end of the wrist.
Rotting meat bound the vertebrae into a serpentine curl. Ribs sank into indentations on the sides of the sternum and lifted it clear of the ground.
When the Slashes were gouging the horizon to the southeast, and the wind was dying in fitful gusts, a body lay on the grasses. Fragments of skin joined to enclose it, each seam knitting like a scar. Strands of hair found root on the pate of the skull.
As the wind fell away, there was the distant sound of singing. An old woman’s rough, enfeebled voice, and in the music of that song there were fists closed into tight knots, there was muscle building to terrible violence, and faces immune to the sun’s heat and life’s pity. The voice ensorcelled, drawing power from the land’s deepest memories.
Dawn crept to the horizon, bled colour into the sky.
And a T’lan Imass rose from the ground. Walked, with slow, unsteady strides, to the fire-annealed flint sword left lying close to the Barghast pyre. A withered but oversized hand reached down and closed about the grip, lifting the weapon clear.
Onos T’oolan faced southeast. And then set out.
He had a people to kill.
Chapter Sixteen
Sower of words out from the hungry shade
The seeds in your wake drink the sun
And the roots burst from their shells—
This is a wilderness of your own making,
Green chaos too real to countenance
Your words unravel the paths and blind the trail
With crowding boles and the future is lost
To the world of possibilities you so nurtured
In that hungry shade—sower of words
Heed the truth they will make, for all they
Need is a rain of tears and the light of day
THE EASE OF SHADOWS (SIMPLE WORDS)
BEVELA DELIK
D
esecration’s gift was silence. the once-blessed boulder, massive as a wagon, was shattered. Nearby was a sinkhole at the base of which a spring struggled to feed a small pool of black water. The bones of gazelle and rodents studded the grasses and the stones of the old stream bed that stretched down from the sinkhole’s edge, testament to the water’s poison.
This silence was crowded with truths, most of them so horrid in nature as to leave Sechul Lath trembling. Shoulders hunched, arms wrapped about his torso, he stared at the rising sun. Kilmandaros was picking through the broken rock, as if pleased to examine her own handiwork of millennia past. Errastas had collected a handful of pebbles and was tossing them into the pool one by one—each stone vanished without a sound, leaving no ripples. These details seemed to amuse the Errant, if the half-smile on his face was any indication.
Sechul Lath knew enough to not trust appearances when it came to an Elder God infamous for misdirection. He might be contemplating his satisfaction at the undeniable imperative of his summons, or he might be anticipating crushing the throat of an upstart god. Or someone less deserving. He was the Errant, after all. His temple was betrayal, his altar mocking mischance, and in that temple and upon that altar he sacrificed mortal souls, motivated solely by whim. And, perhaps, boredom. It was the luxury of his power that he so cherished, that he so wanted back.
But it’s done. Can’t you see that? Our time is over with. We cannot play that game again. The children have inherited this world, and all the others we once terrorized. We squandered all we had—we believed in our own omnipotence. This world—Errastas, you cannot get back what no longer exists.
‘I will have my throne,’ you said. And the thousand faces laying claim to it, each one momentarily bright and then fading, they all just blur together. Entire lives lost in an instant’s blink. If you win, you will have your throne, Errastas, and you will stand behind it, as you once did, and your presence will give the lie to mortal ambitions and dreams, to every aspiration of just rule, of equity. Of peace and prosperity.
You will turn it all into dust—every dream, nothing but dust, sifting down through their hands.
But, Elder God, these humans—they have left you behind. They don’t need you to turn to dust all their dreams. They don’t need anyone else to do that. ‘This,’ he said, facing Errastas, ‘is what we should intend.’
The Errant’s brows rose, his solitary eye bright. ‘What, pray tell?’
‘To stand before our children—the young gods—and tell them the truth.’
‘Which is?’
‘Everything they claim as their own can be found in the mortal soul. Those gods, Errastas, are not needed. Like us, they have no purpose. None at all. Like us, they are a waste of space. Irrelevant.’
The Errant’s hands twitched. He flung away the pebbles. ‘Is misery all we get from you, Knuckles? We have not yet launched our war and you’ve already surrendered.’
‘I have,’ agreed Sechul Lath, ‘but that is a notion you do not fully understand. There is more than one kind of surrender—’
‘Indeed,’ snapped the Errant, ‘yet the face of each one is the same—a coward’s face!’
Knuckles eyed him, amused.
Errastas made a fist. ‘What,’ he said in a low rasp, ‘is so funny?’
‘The one who surrenders to his own delusions is, by your terms, no less a coward than any other.’
Kilmandaros straightened. She had taken upon herself the body of a Tel Akai, still towering above them but not quite as massively as before. She smiled without humour at the Errant. ‘Play no games with this one, Errastas. Not bones, not words. He will tie your brain in knots and make your head ache.’
Errastas glared at her. ‘Do you think me a simpleton?’
The smile vanished. ‘Clearly, you think that of me.’
‘When you think with your fists, don’t complain when you appear to others as witless.’
‘But I complain with my fists as well,’ she replied. ‘And when I do, even you have no choice but to listen, Errastas. Now, best be careful, for I feel in the mood for complaining. We have stood here all night, whilst the ether beyond this place has stirred something to life—my nerves are on fire, even here, where all lies in lifeless ruin. You say you have summoned the others. Where are they?’
‘Coming,’ the Errant replied.
‘How many?’
‘Enough.’
Knuckles started. ‘Who defies you?’
‘It is not defiance! Rather—must I explain myself?’
‘It might help,’ said Sechul Lath.
‘I am not defied by choice. Draconus—within Dragnipur it’s not likely he hears anything. Grizzin Farl is, I think, dead. His corporeal flesh is no more.’ He hesitated, and then added with a scowl, ‘Ardata alone has managed to evade me, but she was never of much use anyway, was she?’
‘Then where—’
‘I see one,’ Kilmandaros said, pointing to the north. ‘Taste of the blood, she was wise to take that shape! But oh, I can smell the stench of Eleint upon her!’
‘Restrain yourself,’ Errastas said. ‘She’s been dead too long for you to smell anything.’
‘I said—’
‘You imagine, nothing more. Tiam’s daughter did not outlive her mother—this thing has embraced the Ritual of Tellann—she is less than she once was.’
‘Less,’ said Knuckles, ‘and more, I think.’
Errastas snorted, unaware of Sechul Lath’s deliberate mockery.
Kilmandaros was visibly shaking with her fury. ‘It was her,’ she hissed. ‘Last night. That singing—she awakened the ancient power! Olar Ethil!’
Sechul Lath could see sudden worry on the Errant’s face. Already, things were spiralling out of his control.
A voice spoke behind them. ‘I too felt as much.’
They turned to see Mael standing beside the sinkhole. He had an old man’s body and an old man’s face and the watery eyes he fixed on the Errant were cold. ‘This is already unravelling, Erra
nt. War is like that—all the players lose control. “Chaos takes the sword.’ ”
Errastas snorted a second time. ‘Quoting Anomander Rake? Really, Mael. Besides he spoke that in prophecy. The other resonances came later.’
‘Yes,’ muttered Mael, ‘about that prophecy …’
Sechul Lath waited for him to continue but Mael fell silent, squinting now at Olar Ethil. She had long ago chosen the body of an Imass woman, wide-hipped, heavy-breasted. When Knuckles had last seen her, he recalled, she was still mortal. He remembered the strange headgear she had worn, for all the world like a woven corded basket. With no holes for her eyes, or her mouth. Matron of all the bonecasters, mother to an entire race. But even mothers have secrets.
She no longer wore the mask. Nor much in the way of flesh. Desiccated, little more than sinews and bone. A T’lan Imass. Snakeskin webbing hung from her shoulders, to which various mysterious objects had been tied—holed pebbles, nuggets of uncut gems, bone tubes that might be whistles or curse-traps, soul-catchers of hollowed antler, a knotted bundle of tiny dead birds. A roughly made obsidian knife was tucked in her cord belt.
Her smile was an inadvertent thing, the teeth oversized and stained deep amber. Nothing glittered from the sockets of her eyes.
‘How did it go again?’ Sechul asked her. ‘Your mother’s lover and child both? Just how did you beget yourself, Olar Ethil?’
‘Eleint!’ growled Kilmandaros.
Olar Ethil spoke: ‘I have travelled in the realm of birth-fires. I have sailed the dead sky of Kallor’s Curse. I have seen all I needed to see.’ Her neck creaked and made grinding noises as she turned her head until she faced the Errant. ‘You were nowhere to be found. You hid behind your pathetic throne, ever proving the illusion of power—the world has long ago grasped your message, though by nature it will not ever heed it. You, Errastas, are wasting your time.’
Sechul Lath was startled that her words so closely matched his own thoughts. Save it, Olar Ethil. He does not listen.
She then turned to Mael. ‘Your daughters run wild.’
Dust of Dreams Page 71
