Dust of Dreams

by Erikson, Steven

  I shall become a ghost again. Lost. Where are my children? You have abandoned me—there are too many of them, they close like wolves—my children—help me—

  ‘You must close the gate.’

  Breath?

  ‘Yes. Feather Witch. The Errant drowned me. I took his eye, he took my life. Never bargain with gods. His eye—I give it to you, Lifestealer. The gate—do you see it? You are drawing nearer—Lifestealer, do not stop—’

  Another voice spoke. ‘They killed a dragon for this power, Icarium.’

  Taxilian?

  ‘Its blood burned this hole—if you fail, the sky shall fill with the enemy machines—and the Nah’ruk will triumph this day. See the K’Chain Che’Malle, Icarium? They can win this—if you stop the Gath’ran Citadels, if you stop them from entering this realm. Seal the gate!’

  He could see it now. He held in his hand the eye of an Elder God. Slick, soft, smeared with blood.

  The wound between the realms was vast—even Kalse Uprooted could not—

  ‘You must build a wall—’

  ‘A prison!’

  Feather Witch hissed, ‘Root and Blueiron, Lifestealer! Ice Haunt is not enough! You must awaken the warrens within you! Root to the rock and earth. Blueiron to hold life in your machines. Command the breach!’

  ‘I cannot hold. I am dying.’

  ‘There are children in the world, Icarium.’

  ‘Asane? You do not understand. You are not enough—’

  ‘There are children in the world. The warrens you have made from your own blood—’

  Feather Witch snarled. ‘Our blood!’

  ‘And ours, yes. The warrens, Icarium—did you imagine they belonged to you and none other? It is too late for that. This day is the day of fire, Icarium. The children wait. The children hear.’

  In his mind, even as it crumbled on all sides, he could hear a new voice, a sweet voice, one he had never heard before.

  ‘I dream we are three

  Rutt who is not Rutt and Held

  Who cannot be held—

  The girl knows silence

  Is a game

  The boy knows the kiss

  Of the Eres’al

  The mother of wheeling stars

  Who seeds all time

  Through me they hear your need

  I am the voice of the unborn

  In crystal I see fire and I see smoke

  I see lizards and Fathers

  In crystal I see the boy and the girl.

  Heal the wound, God,

  Your children are close—’

  Rautos whispered—the last words Icarium would remember. ‘Icarium, in the name of a blessed wife … have faith.’

  Faith. He took hold of that word.

  His hand closed about the eye and he heard the shriek of an Elder God, as he transformed the eye into what he needed. For Root.

  A seed.

  A Finnest.

  Kalyth saw Kalse Uprooted plunge into the maw, and then halt as a storm of lightning tore into it. The very sky seemed to tremble, and then the ground began to shake, and as she stared, she saw stone burst upward from the plain, directly beneath Kalse. The bedrock lifted like gnarled arms, as if an enormous upended tree was flinging roots into the air.

  Those roots rose yet higher, touched the base of Kalse Uprooted, and then spread in a frenzy outward. Branches of rock twisted, crowded against the edges of the gate, where fires flared only to vanish. The Wastelands seemed to grow ashen on all sides, as if the very last drops of its lifeblood were being drawn into this savage growth.

  The four surviving Nah’ruk sky keeps on this side of the portal unleashed a frenzied assault upon Kalse. Stone exploded. Massive fissures ripped through, spewing molten rock—the entire city was moments from bursting apart.

  The stranger fails—but, such glory! To see this! To witness such courage!

  The stone tree—if that was what it was—did not cease its mad growth, and she saw roots curl into the wounds in the city’s flanks. Where the lightning struck the writhing stone, the sound of the impacts boomed deeper than any thunder, but everywhere that wounds broke open stone swarmed in to heal the damage.

  All at once the attacks ceased. Sudden heat washed down upon Kalyth and she cried out in pain.

  The four Nah’ruk sky keeps were engulfed in flames, reeling away from the gate. The fires brightened, and then, in a flash, burst incandescent white at their cores. As she watched, in horror, in wonder, the keeps seemed to be vaporizing before her eyes. Churning, the towering pillars of fire pitched eastward, beneath them the ground blackening with scorching heat.

  Gunth Mach spoke in her mind. ‘Destriant. See through my eyes. Do you see?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  Two figures stood upon a torn, ruined ridge to the northwest. Sorcery poured from them in terrible waves.

  A boy.

  A girl.

  He didn’t care. The world could be moments from being swallowed by the Abyss itself, Stormy was finally in the midst of war’s sharpest truths and nothing else—nothing—mattered. Laughing, he slashed and hacked at the Nah’ruk as they pressed in, as the dead-eyed lizards sought to clamber over the Ve’Gath, sought by numbers alone to overwhelm this savage wall of denial.

  Gesler’s charge down the pocket had pierced the bastards like a boar-sticker, forcing them into the narrow spaces between the frenzied K’ell and the shield-locked Ve’Gath. They fought with appalling ferocity, and died in chilling silence.

  His mount was wounded. His mount was probably dying—who could tell? All these lizards fought until their last breath. But its defences had slowed, weakened. There was blood everywhere and he could feel its chest heaving with shuddering cadence.

  A short-snouted maw lunged at his face.

  Cursing, he pitched back to avoid the snapping dagger teeth, struggled to draw close his short-handled axe—but the damned Nah’ruk surged still closer, clawing its way up the Ve’Gath’s shoulder. His mount staggered—

  He chopped with his axe, but the range was too tight, and though the edge bit into the side of the lizard’s head the wound it delivered was not enough to sway the creature. The jaws opened wide. The head snapped forward—

  Something snarling struck the Nah’ruk, a knotted mass of mottled, scar-seamed hide and muscle, savage canines sinking deep into the lizard’s neck.

  Disbelieving, Stormy kicked his boots free of the stirrups to roll further back—

  A fucking dog?

  Bent?

  That you?

  Oh, but it surely was.

  Greenish blood spilled from the Nah’ruk’s mouth. The eyes dulled, and a heartbeat later dog and lizard pitched down from the Ve’Gath.

  At that moment, Stormy saw the burning sky keeps.

  And the storm was gone, the thunder vanished, the world filling with sounds of iron, flesh and bone. The song of ten thousand battles, made eerily surreal by there being not a single scream, not a single cry of agony or shriek begging mercy.

  The Nah’ruk were falling.

  Battle halted. Slaughter commenced.

  No song lives upon a single note.

  But to a soldier, who had faced death for an eternity since the dawn, this grisly music was the sweetest music of all.

  Slaughter! For my brave Ve’Gath! Slaughter! For Gesler and his K’ell! Slaughter, for the Bonehunters—my friends—SLAUGHTER!

  As if some fulcrum had been irrevocably destroyed, Ampelas Uprooted slowly rolled upside down. The entire edifice was burning now, spilling sheets of flaming oil that splashed bright upon rubble, corpses and wounded drones directly below.

  Gesler knew it was now dead, a lifeless hulk slowly tumbling in the sky.

  Two sky keeps still raged in death-throes behind it, leaning like drunks, moments from colliding with one another. The smoke column from a third was shredding apart to high winds, but of the keep itself there was no sign. The rest were but ashes on the black wind.

  Before them rose a
mountain of gnarled rock, enclosing the wreckage that had once been Kalse Uprooted, holding it up as if it was a gem, or a giant shattered eye. Something about the stone was familiar, but for the moment, he could not place it. The manifestation reached stunningly high, piercing through the dust and smoke.

  Stormy’s hunt for the last fleeing Nah’ruk had taken him and a thousand or so Ve’Gath beyond the hills to the southeast.

  Exhausted, numbed beyond all reason, Gesler leaned back in the strange saddle. Some damned dog was yapping at his mount’s ankles.

  He saw Kalyth, Sag’Churok, Gunth Mach and the J’an Sentinel, and beyond them, approaching at a careless walk, two children.

  Grub. Sinn.

  Gesler leaned forward and glared down at the yapping dog. ‘Gods below, Roach,’ he said in a hoarse voice, ‘you returning the favour?’ He drew a shuddering breath. ‘Listen, rat, cos I’m only going to say this once—I guarantee it. But right now, your voice is the prettiest sound I’ve ever heard.’

  The miserable thing snarled up at him.

  It had never learned how to smile.

  Slipping down from the Ve’Gath, Gesler sagged on aching legs. Kalyth was kneeling, facing the direction from which Sinn and Grub were approaching. ‘Get up, Destriant,’ he said, finding himself leaning against the Ve’Gath’s hip. ‘Those two got heads so swelled it’s a wonder a mortal woman pushed ’em out.’

  She looked over and he saw the muddy streaks of tears on her cheeks. ‘She had … faith. In us humans.’ The woman shook her head. ‘I did not.’

  The two children walked up.

  Gesler scowled. ‘Stop looking so smug, Sinn. You two are in a lot of trouble.’

  ‘Bent and Roach found us,’ said Grub, scratching in the wild thatch of hair on his head. It looked as though neither of them had bathed in months. ‘We were safe, Sergeant Gesler.’

  ‘Happy for you,’ he said in a growl. ‘But they needed you—both of you. The Bonehunters were in the Nah’ruk’s path—what do you think happened to them?’

  Grub’s eyes widened.

  Sinn walked up to the Ve’Gath and set a hand on its flank. ‘I want one for myself,’ she said.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me, Sinn? Your brother—’

  ‘Is probably dead. We were in the warrens—the new warrens. We were on the path, we could taste the blood—so fresh, so strong.’ She looked up at Gesler with bleak eyes. ‘The Azath has sealed the wound.’

  ‘The Azath?’

  She shrugged, facing the tree of rock, its lone knot gripping Kalse Uprooted. She bared her teeth in something that might have been a smile.

  ‘Who is in there, Sinn?’

  ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘Dead stone can’t seal a gate—not for long—even an Azath needs a life force, a living soul—’

  She shot him a quick look. ‘That’s true.’

  ‘So what seals it—if he’s gone—’

  ‘An eye.’

  ‘A what?’

  Kalyth spoke in the trader tongue. ‘Mortal Sword, the One Daughter is now the Matron of Mach Nest. Bre’nigan stands as her J’an Sentinel. Sag’Churok is the bearer of the seed. She will speak to you now.’

  He turned to face the K’Chain Che’Malle.

  ‘Mortal Sword. The Shield Anvil returns. Shall we await him?’

  Don’t bother, Matron, it’s not like he’s smart or anything.

  ‘I can, even from this distance, breach the defences he has raised.’

  Do that. He deserves the headache.

  ‘Mortal Sword. Shield Anvil. Destriant. You three stand, you three are the mortal truths of my mother’s faith. New beliefs are born. What is an eternity spent in sleep? What is this morning of our first awakening? We honour the blood of our kin spilled this day. We honour too the fallen Nah’ruk and pray that one day they will know the gift of forgiveness.’

  You must have seen it for yourself, Matron, Gesler said, that those Nah’ruk are bred down, past any hope of independent thought. Those sky keeps were old. They can repair, but they cannot make anything new. They are the walking dead, Matron. You can see it in their eyes.

  Kalyth said, ‘I believed I saw the same in your eyes, Mortal Sword.’

  He grunted and then sighed. Too tired for this. I have grieving to do. ‘You might have been right, Destriant. But we shed things like that like snake skin. You wear what you need to get through, that’s all.’

  ‘Then perhaps we can hope for the Nah’ruk.’

  ‘Hope all you like. Sinn—can they burn another gate through?’

  ‘Not for a long time,’ she replied, reaching down to collect up Roach. She cradled the foul thing in her arms, scratching it behind the ears.

  The ugly rat’s pink tongue slid in and out as it panted. Its eyes were demonic with witless malice.

  Gesler shivered.

  The Matron spoke: ‘We are without a Nest. But the need must wait. Wounds must heal, flesh must be harvested. Mortal Sword, we now pledge ourselves to you. We now serve. Among your friends, there will be survivors. We shall find them.’

  Gesler shook his head. ‘We led your army, Matron. We had our battle, but it’s over now. You don’t owe us anything. And whatever your mother believed, she never asked us, did she? Me and Stormy, we’re not priests. We’re soldiers and nothing more. Those titles you gave us—well, we’re shedding that skin too.’

  Stormy’s voice rumbled through his mind, ‘Same for me, Matron. We can find our friends on our own—you need a city to build, or maybe some other Rooted you can find. Besides, we got Grub and Sinn, and Bent here—gods, he’s almost wagging that stub of a tail and I ain’t never seen that before. Must be all the gore on his face.’

  Kalyth laughed, even as tears streamed down her lined cheeks. ‘You two—you cannot shed your titles. They are branded upon your souls—will you just leave me here?’

  ‘You’re welcome to come with us,’ said Gesler.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘East, I think.’

  The woman flinched.

  ‘You’re from there, aren’t you? Kalyth?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Elan. But the Elan are no more. I am the last. Mortal Sword, you must not choose that direction. You will die—all of you.’ She pointed at Grub and Sinn. ‘Even them.’

  The Matron said, ‘Then we see the path before us. We shall guard you all. Ve’Gath. K’ell. J’an. Gu’Rull who still lives, still serves. We shall be your guardians. It is the new way our mother foresaw. The path of our rebirth.

  ‘Humans, welcome us. The K’Chain Che’Malle have returned to the world.’

  Sulkit heard her words and something stirred within her. She had been a J’an Sentinel in the time of her master’s need, but her master was gone, and now she was a Matron in her own right.

  The time had not yet come when she would make herself known. Old seeds grew within her: the first born would be weak, but that could not be helped. In time, vigour would return.

  Her master was gone. The throne was empty, barring a lone eye, embedded in the headrest. She was alone within Kalse.

  Life was bleeding into the Rooted’s stone. Strange, alien life. Its flesh and bone was rock. Its mind and soul was the singular imposition of belief. But then, what else are any of us? She would think on this matter.

  He was gone. She was alone. But all was well.

  ‘I have lost him. Again. We were so close, but now … gone.’

  With these words the trek staggered to a halt, as if in Mappo’s private loss all other desires had withered, blown away.

  The twins had closed on the undead wolf. Faint had a fear that death had somehow addicted them to its hoary promise. They spoke of Toc. They closed small fingers tight in the ratty fur of Baaljagg. The boy slept in Gruntle’s arms—now who could have predicted that bond? No matter, there was something in that huge man that made her think he should have been a father a hundred times by now—to the world’s regret, since he was not anything of the sort.

  No, Grun
tle had broken loves behind him. Hardly unique, of course, but in that man the loss belonged to everyone.

  Ah, I think I just yearn for his shadow. Me and half the lasses here. Oh well. Silly Faint.

  Setoc, who had been conversing with Cartographer, now walked over.

  ‘The storm to the south’s not getting any closer—we have that, at least.’

  Faint rubbed the back of her neck and winced at the pressure. ‘Could have done with the rain.’

  ‘If there was rain.’

  She glanced at the girl. ‘Saw you meet Gruntle’s eyes a while back. A look passed between you when we were talking about that storm. So, out with it.’

  ‘It was a battle, not a storm. Sorcery, and worse. But now it’s over.’

  ‘Who was fighting, Setoc?’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s far away. We don’t have to go there.’

  ‘Seems like we’re not going anywhere right now.’

  ‘We will. For now, let’s leave him be,’ she said, eyes on Mappo, who stood a short distance away, motionless as a statue—as he had been for some time.

  Amby had been walking alongside the horse-drawn travois carrying his brother—Jula was still close to death. Precious Thimble’s healing was a paltry thing. The Wastelands could not feed her magic, she said. There was still the chance that Jula would die. Amby knelt, shading his brother’s face with one hand. He suddenly looked very young.

  Setoc walked back to the horse.

  Sighing, Faint looked around.

  And saw a rider approaching. ‘Company,’ she said, loud enough to catch everyone’s attention. All but Mappo reacted, turning or rising and following her gaze.

  From Setoc: ‘I know him! That’s Torrent!’

  More lost souls to this pathetic party. Welcome.

  A single flickering fire marked the camp, and occasionally a figure passed in front of it. The wind carried no sound from those gathered there. Among the travellers, sorrow and joy, grief and the soft warmth of newborn love. So few mortals, and yet all of life was there, ringing the fire.

  Faint jade light limned the broken ground, as if darkness itself could be painted into a mockery of life. The rider who sat upon a motionless, unbreathing horse, was silent, feeling like a creature too vast to approach any shore—he could look on with one dead eye or the other dead eye. He could remember what it was like to be a living thing among other living things.