Mercenaries running past shook him from his reverie. They were headed pell-mell for the front. Burastan came jogging to his side. ‘A problem?’ he demanded.
She jerked a hand to the rear. ‘Our guest the sorceress says we’ve entered Jakal Viharn already.’
He scowled his puzzlement. ‘What? That can’t be right.’ He waved to the surrounding jungle. ‘There’s nothing here.’
‘All the same, Captain’s ordered a halt. Call your partner.’
Murk nodded. He reached out to give his Warren the barest touch – just enough to send a message to Sour: recall. He motioned for Dee and Ostler to rest. The two big swordsmen eyed one another then shrugged and set down the litter.
Murk returned with Burastan to the rear. Here he found Yusen with the sorceress and her bodyguard. They were eyeing some sort of much weathered stone marker, or stela. Murk studied the flat, worn standing stone. The carving on its face had been reduced to nothing more than suggestions of lines and depressions. He turned to Rissan. ‘You can read that?’
‘I do not need to read it,’ she answered. ‘Its message is impregnated into it in many different ways.’
Murk gave it a one-eyed squint through his Warren. There was something there … but so faint, so damnably ancient. ‘And what does it say?’
‘It marks the boundary of Jakal Viharn.’
Murk snorted. ‘There ain’t nothing here. There’s supposed to be a huge city. Temple towers, streets paved in gold. You know … fabled Jakal Viharn and such.’
The sorceress was unmoved. ‘There was such a place here, once. Long ago. A large ceremonial centre servicing millions. But to call it a city … well …’ She tilted her head. ‘Those who saw it could only interpret it through their own experience … if you see what I mean.’
Yusen nodded, though Burastan was frowning, uncertain.
‘We know cities,’ Murk said, explaining, ‘so that’s what we called it.’
‘Indeed.’
Sour and the scouts arrived. Yusen motioned them to him. ‘We sit tight for the meantime. I want a careful look round first.’
Sour cocked one goggling bug-eye to Murk. ‘You’re up, partner.’
Murk scowled. Great. Guess what? You get to go spy on the Witch-Queen Ardata. He squinted up at the bright blue sky. ‘Not in full on daylight. I want to wait for dusk.’
Yusen was rubbing a thumb over his chin. He nodded. ‘Accepted.’
When dusk gathered under the trees and a deep purple took the eastern sky, Murk entered Jakal Viharn. He kept to the shadows, naturally enough. He’d been warned not to have Meanas raised fully as Ardata would take it as a challenge; mild disguising of his presence, well, that was apparently acceptable.
He remembered his briefing – that was the only word he could think of for it – when their guest sorceress Rissan took him aside for ‘a few words’.
‘Do not go in with your Warren blazing,’ she’d told him, rather imperiously.
‘Hey,’ he objected, ‘I follow the spirit of Meanas.’
‘Not entirely, I should hope,’ she remarked coolly. She crossed her arms and regarded him critically. ‘Now … if you should meet her or see her watching you, don’t overtly respond. Don’t run off, or duck away. Just lower your gaze and bow. Then go on your way. She’s been treated like a goddess for ages here and she’s become, how shall I put it … accustomed to it.’
‘Any wards or protections I should know about?’
‘I do not believe so.’
‘Guards?’
‘None that should accost you.’
He shrugged. ‘Fine then. No problem. I’ll just have a quick look round then report back.’
‘I doubt you will see anything,’ she answered. ‘Jakal Viharn covers many square leagues.’ She waved him on his way.
The woman’s haughtiness had quite annoyed him at the time. Must be some high muckety-muck back home. Now, however, walking the treed grounds, he wondered how she came to such intimate knowledge of Ardata and her ways. Well, perhaps it was her particular area of expertise.
Even though he cloaked himself in the shifting shadows of Meanas, he kept to the verges and the gloom of trees. The sky was unusually clear this night; perhaps the rainy season was on the wane. The Visitor blazed like a literal vengeful eye of some falling god. It cast shadows as dense as spilled ink. Next to it the moon was a pale weak smear.
He walked and walked, and then he found he had to walk even more. Jakal Viharn, he realized, was just as their guest sorceress had asserted: an immense sprawling complex of countless temples, shrines, monasteries and plain enigmatic ruins. He even caught sight of the curve of a river where it glimmered in the dusk like a crimson snake. He realized he could wander for days without discovering anything. He might as well turn back now.
What to do. He idled within a grove of bamboo. The grove crowded round a diminutive altar of ancient brick. Placed on the altar and before it lay countless carved stone heads – doubtless taken from the many statues he’d passed lying about half buried. It was a grisly collection of decapitated staring trophies. And he would have been most disturbed if he’d been the least bit superstitious and taken it as an omen.
Rissan, he reflected, had warned against any overt use of his Warren. And if it could ever be said that Shadow was not something, that would most certainly be overt. Therefore, he decided, a little oblique probing shouldn’t go amiss. He eased his sensitivity outwards, passively, receiving impressions of movement among the infinite shadows flitting and dancing about Jakal Viharn. Scanning in an ever-broadening circle, he at last came to a concentration of moving shadows. Ambulatory. Could be anything: a group of night-foraging animals, a herd of restless water buffalo, who knew? But it was a lead, and so he started that way, jogging, his senses raised and now actively probing.
It was a good thing he had his Warren up for otherwise he would’ve walked right into the trap. It was masterfully laid; an ambush he never would’ve expected. His sensitivity warned him of it in good time and so he halted and began edging round, shadow-wrapped, disguised in the lineaments of night itself.
From the deep shade of a tree, he watched them. Three foreign soldiers keeping an eye on this obvious approach through the woods – the one he’d naturally almost taken. Two men and one woman. They still had their armour, albeit leathers. In all, they appeared to have weathered the entrance into Himatan better than his troop. He couldn’t be certain where they hailed from, though they had the look of Quon types, tall and broad, with curly black hair on one. None had spoken yet, which troubled Murk: very professional. Too professional for out here in the middle of Himatan. What were they doing here? Who were they?
A cascade of liquid silver wavered down then over the scene, the moon breaching a cloud, and the fittings of their armour and weapons gleamed in the light. The woman shifted and the light caught her full on: her bunched thick mane piled high and pinned, her long coat of dark stained scaled leather armour, heavy longsword at her side, and he knew her, had heard of her often enough. If it were daylight that hair would be flame red and that armour the deep crimson of dried blood.
Jacinth, Skinner’s lieutenant.
Murk slowly edged backwards. They’d come to negotiate with Ardata to escape these renegades.
But Skinner had got here first.
* * *
Shimmer lay in her hut unable to sleep. This night the ghosts of all the dead Avowed, the Brethren, were calling to her with an insistence that simply could not be ignored. She rose, pulled on her gambeson, belted her sword, and headed out to walk the camp.
She found almost everyone up already: Cole, Amatt and Turgal guarded the perimeter while K’azz stood at the near-dead smouldering fire. He was peering down, hands clasped behind his back, seemingly pensive, or perhaps studying the smoke for visions of the future, as some seers do. Lor emerged from the night accompanied by Gwynn; the two had fallen in together. Lor never was one to go very long between lovers.
K’azz ra
ised his head and signed to the two mages that they should watch the perimeter. They nodded and separated. Shimmer moved to head off as well, but he motioned her to him. ‘Stay with me, Shimmer,’ he said, his voice tight.
‘What is it?’
‘What do you sense?’
She peered into the dense night, uneasy. ‘The Brethren are … troubled.’
‘Indeed. For many reasons.’
She studied his shadowed face, so stark and sharp in the contrast of light and dark. ‘Why hasn’t Ardata come to you?’ she asked. ‘She hired you, didn’t she?’
‘She requested that I come.’
‘She demanded.’
‘For her, Shimmer, that was as close to a request as is possible.’
‘Nagal as much as blamed you for Rutana’s death.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘And now he won’t even speak to us.’
‘Yes.’
‘Were they … related? Lovers?’
K’azz squinted at the smoke as if divining some message. ‘You could say they are, were, two of a kind.’
‘I see. So, what is the trouble? Is he close?’
K’azz nodded. ‘Yes. As is … another. One stirring the Brethren by his presence.’
Shimmer frowned, considering. She couldn’t think of anyone. ‘Who?’
By way of answer K’azz dipped his head to direct her attention aside; she turned, hand on the long grip of her whipsword, to face that direction. Shortly, a wavering appeared over the grounds. Like heat waves dancing in the air. Though this was night. A shape took form, slim and dark, whip-lean in fact, in tattered dark silks. A pale hatchet-like face ghosted into vision beneath mussed black hair and Shimmer hissed out an appalled breath. She drew her sword.
‘Cowl!’
The gangly scarecrow shape offered Shimmer a mocking bow. The others came running up, weapons ready. K’azz waved them down. ‘Cowl,’ he greeted the ex-Master Assassin and High Mage of the Crimson Guard.
The man executed a deep courtier’s bow, his arms extended out from his sides. ‘My lord.’
‘This is impossible!’ Shimmer burst out. ‘We heard you were taken by an Azath!’
‘You heard correctly,’ he answered, his gaze fixed upon K’azz. The mage’s eyes appeared almost to hunger so eagerly did they drink up the sight.
‘None can escape the Azath.’
‘You are wrong, obviously.’
‘He was taken, Shimmer,’ K’azz said. ‘But he alone possessed one pre-existing means of escape. Is that not so, Cowl?’
The ex-High Mage nodded solemnly. His avid gaze edged to Shimmer. ‘A prior commitment,’ he said, and smiled.
Shimmer winced at the madness betrayed by that twisted ghastly smile. Entombed by the Azath! Could anyone emerge sane from such a trial? And the man was hardly what anyone would call sane to begin with.
The burning gaze slid back to K’azz. ‘Skinner is near, Commander. What will you do? He has with him all his Disavowed. You are outnumbered ten to one.’
Shimmer spun to scan the surroundings. Skinner here? She looked to Cole and Amatt: both remained on guard, glancing back to them at the centre occasionally.
‘I did not come to fight him,’ K’azz said.
‘No? Of course not.’
‘You have a message from him?’ K’azz asked.
Cowl shook an exaggerated negative. ‘Oh, no. Not him. I am done with him now … now that I have glimpsed the truth.’
‘The truth?’
‘Oh yes. I came to bring it to you, K’azz …’ the assassin raised a finger to him, chidingly, ‘but I see now that you already know it. You have known it for some time but have kept it to yourself.’ He snorted his scorn. ‘You think that a mercy? Well, time will tell.’
‘What is he going on about?’ Shimmer demanded.
‘Another time, Shimmer,’ K’azz said.
‘Yes, Lieutenant,’ Cowl echoed. ‘Another time.’ And he bowed to K’azz again, withdrawing. ‘Commander …’
Shimmer stared after him. Cowl, for as long as she had known him, had never bowed to anyone. Yet now he had to K’azz. Twice. The man he’d always been so open in his contempt for. What had changed? His imprisonment had shown him something. K’azz, he claimed, knew. And she would ask, though she already knew she would get no answer.
‘Now what?’ she asked K’azz.
‘Now we wait.’
‘For what?’
‘For whoever will visit us next.’
‘I do not like this passivity.’
A wintry smile climbed K’azz’s skull-like features. ‘This is Himatan, Shimmer. Visions and messages come to one of their own accord. One cannot demand inspiration.’
* * *
In retrospect, Osserc could not identify the precise moment when it happened. All he knew was that at one instant he was inwardly fuming against Gothos, and at the next he was suddenly fuming in impatience at himself. All his life he had steadfastly pursued what he saw as his duties and obligations – yet these he suddenly saw as nothing more than rag-thin substitutions, delusions and diversions. He had chased them with utter single-mindedness, yet how far had all this got him? What progress had he made? Towards anything? What had he to show for all this time? Precious little progress towards … what? What was it he really desired? Reconciliation or forgiveness? No, too wretched and backward-looking, that.
And always it had been the fault of others: of Anomander’s interference, of the Azathanai’s machinations. T’riss, Envy, all the scheming Elders. The Jaghut. Whoever. Anyone, perhaps, other than himself. Yet was that really the truth? Could he really be as pathetic as all those he had sneered at all these ages? In a way, of course – for was he not of them?
What then did he lack? He decided that, oddly enough, it was the one thing he had thought he in no way lacked: courage. Not the physical courage to face challenges. That he had in abundance. No, what he lacked, it seemed, was emotional courage. The courage to face the hard interior truths and make the hard choices.
There. He had finally reached it.
And it was something that could never have been imposed from without, of course.
The answer lies within you. Ah. And of course self-evident … with the luxury of looking back.
He tipped his head ever so slightly to Gothos across the table. ‘Thank you, prick.’
The Jaghut raised a grizzled brow. ‘I? I did nothing.’
‘I know. As was required. And anticipated.’ He stood. ‘I will go now. If I ever see you again it will be too soon.’
‘Who knows what the future holds – Tiste Liosan.’
Osserc again fractionally inclined his head in farewell. He walked up the hall. Here, curled up asleep before the door, he found the Nacht creature. He gently nudged it aside with a sandalled foot. Farewell, Azath. Perhaps I shall never encounter you again either. And I hope not. Your lessons are far too … demanding. He lifted the latch and pushed open the rough, adzed plank door, and stepped outside.
In the grounds, halfway up the short flagged walk to the front gate, he paused. A troubled frown crossed his brow and he turned his face to the southwest.
The Visitor looms as ever. Yet that is not my concern. Others address that. No, there is something else going on. Power is being gathered. All to a purpose. And that purpose … somehow it touches upon … Thyrllan.
He staggered as if from a blow to the chest. He raised his fists to the south. ‘No!’ came the groan, torn from his throat.
They must not!
CHAPTER XV
Over the years it became obvious that our annexation of the jungle region bordering the Gangrek Mounts would never be complete until we could rid ourselves of these bothersome wild forest people. Therefore, a great line of soldiers was organized of many thousands of men and through the banging of arms and the setting of fires, these families were driven to the edges of the mounts and all there were put to the sword. In this fashion the land was reclaimed for proper settlement and th
e opening up to agriculture and development.
Author unnamed
Papers of the Thaumaturg Archives
FOR PON-LOR, SAENG’S probing and tentative struggle to gain control of the Thaumaturgs’ ritual took place in an enlightening double vision. Through one eye he beheld the chamber: the ray-burst sigil of poured hammered gold, the coursing sizzling pillar of energy, and Saeng herself enmeshed within, arms raised, eyes closed in profound concentration. Through his other orb he beheld a bizarre manifestation he could only interpret as a glimpse of those foreign magical disciplines named Warrens, or, long ago, Holds. Beneath Saeng’s feet the gold appeared to be a molten poured pool: it shook with the lashings of power. The surface jumped and dimpled. At times it appeared so brilliant it could not possibly consist of any physical substance he knew but only of liquid light itself, flashing into existence, rippling and glaring, as if struggling to burst through.
Almost immediately the first of the masters arrived within the chamber. Pon-lor was not surprised to see Shu-jen, the Ninth. He grasped the man’s mind before he could study Saeng’s efforts and communicate with his brothers. The master responded superbly. He would have overcome Pon-lor had the latter not possessed his unique advantage. He succeeded in interrupting the man’s heart, then released him to stagger, gasping and staring sightlessly, and fall.
Three appeared next. Pon-lor engaged them all at once, keeping them occupied so that they could not direct their attention to Saeng. They turned to the attack immediately, hoping to rid themselves of him. Pon-lor allowed their terrifyingly strong efforts to slide through into the broken landscape of his mind where two became irretrievably lost and confused. The third managed to escape the trap, pulling his consciousness back just in time. Pon-lor pursued. He pushed his own jagged mismatched awareness into the master’s mind, where it broke the fellow’s identity in the manner of a thrown stone shattering a mirror.
He pulled back then in a panic as he sensed he was not alone. The remaining five of the Circle of Masters now stood about the circumference of the chamber. Their glittering narrowed gazes were all fixed on Saeng where she stood just visible within the roaring puissance.
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