He fought his way closer, was now less than ten paces from the dancing witch, whom he could barely see as she slipped past his field of vision, her arms seeming to spin.
No one should die like that—
An eruption took his mind, swept away every thought. Amidst the chaos, he felt a revelation, opening like a poisonous flower. He stared into its core and, inexorably, felt his sanity torn apart by what he saw.
* * *
Whatever gifts the Bonecasters had bestowed upon Listar sustained him through the ordeal of the ritual. On his knees at the edge of the clearing, he witnessed the collapse of everyone. The weapons and armour fell silent, as if struck mute by their uselessness in the face of this foreign sorcery. He saw officers fall. He saw the Bonecaster Hataras lift something small and bloody from Rance, quickly wrapping its still form in a hide. He saw Vastala cease her dance, shedding her trembling like a skin, whereupon she fell to her knees and vomited on to the frozen ground.
Listar staggered to his feet. He made his way towards them, his eyes on the body of Rance. There had been blood, but now there was none. She was unmarked, her eyes shut, and as he came closer he saw the steady rise and fall of her chest.
‘Punished Man,’ said Hataras, her voice raw and her eyes red. ‘She had a twin, dead in her mother’s womb. A short life starved and wanting, struggling and failing.’ She waved a hand. ‘But it had power that not even death could still.’
Not quite understanding, Listar reached Rance. He studied the woman. ‘She will live?’
‘The other wanted a child. She found one. Gave it death to be with her. A night of drowning, to begin many other nights. Death and blood on the hands. Blood on the sorcery itself.’
Vastala stumbled closer, wiping at her face. ‘A tormented sea,’ she said, ‘yet I drank deep. I drank it dry, leaving bones and rocks and shells. Leaving all that drowns in light and air. What remains in them is a gift of dust.’
Listar knelt beside Rance.
Hataras moved closer, settled a hand upon his shoulder and leaned close. ‘Punished Man. You need to understand.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t.’
‘No soul is truly alone. It only seems so, when it is the last left standing in a field of war. And that war is waged within each of us. Her twin – that shrunken, blackened corpse in the womb – it fed on every thought murdered upon awakening, or snuffed out in its sleep, where hopes unfold into dreams and dreams become nightmares. It devoured the rendered remains of stillborn ideas, sudden wants, of avarice and betrayal. Imagination, Punished Man, can be a most wicked realm.’
Vastala spoke. ‘I took from them everything. I have left them nowhere to hide.’ She paused, looked around. ‘I have made this army into a terrible thing. These soldiers. They will not hesitate. They will march into Mother’s fire if it is asked of them. They will fight all who face them. And they will die, one by one, no different from any other soldier. No different, and yet, utterly different.’ She pulled Hataras to her feet. ‘My love, we must flee. They will rise soon, in silence. They will blink. They will not meet the eyes of friend or rival. The cursed iron flinches from their touch. These soldiers, beloved, are an abomination.’
‘This is what you gave us?’ Listar demanded. ‘This is not what was asked of you! We sought a blessing!’
Vastala bared her teeth. ‘Oh, they are blessed, Punished Man. But think on this, what comes to a mortal soul, when it finds that truth is unwelcome?’ She faced Hataras again. ‘What fate the witch within the orphaned twin?’
Hataras shrugged. ‘Her possessor lies dead, its flesh gone, but the husk of its soul remains. This one,’ and she nodded at Rance, ‘must learn to reach into it, to find the sorcery residing there.’
‘Ugly magic,’ said Vastala.
‘Yes,’ Hataras agreed. ‘Ugly magic.’
Listar remained beside Rance. Looking around, he saw the army fallen, as if slain where they stood. It must have been like this when Hunn Raal poisoned them all.
The Bonecasters had already departed the clearing. He felt the absence of their touch as a sharp ache somewhere deep inside. So easy their abandonment of me. No, I do not understand Dog-Runner ways.
Then his gaze caught movement, and he turned to see a woman stepping out from the command tent. She stood, swaying slightly, looking out upon the thousands of motionless soldiers, lying in poses no different from death, and the weapons remained silent. The only sound Listar could hear was the soft wind, carrying with it the last of the afternoon’s warmth.
Abyss take me, that must be Toras Redone.
Listar climbed to his feet. He made his way towards her. When she saw him she flinched and took a step back. ‘No more ghosts,’ she said.
‘They are alive,’ Listar replied, slowing his steps. ‘All of them. It is not what it seems.’
Her lips curled in a wretched smile. ‘Nor am I.’
‘There were Bonecasters among us,’ Listar said. ‘A ritual.’
She studied him with red-rimmed eyes, from a face bleak and desolate. ‘And what did this ritual achieve, beyond the collapse of my soldiers?’
He hesitated, and then said, ‘Sir, forgive me. I do not know.’
BOOK FOUR
The Most Honourable Man
TWENTY-TWO
THE SEA FADED INTO MISTS BEHIND THEM, AND BELOW A VAST rolling plain appeared. Skillen Droe tilted the cant of his wings and began descending. The landing was rougher than K’rul had expected and he tumbled from his companion’s clutches, coming to a stop against the edge of a ring of stones mostly hidden by yellow grasses.
‘There is the dust of a settlement ahead,’ Skillen Droe said, folding his wings. ‘I am of no mind to invite arrows and curses, and besides, I weary of flight.’
Groaning, K’rul sat up. ‘We return to our world,’ he said, looking around. ‘We are in the lands of the Jheleck.’ He paused and eyed Skillen Droe. ‘I suppose they don’t like you either. I can’t recall if you’ve mentioned them already.’
‘It is not in my nature to offend people. Endeavouring to do well invariably yields unexpected consequences.’
‘And the Jheleck?’
Skillen Droe shrugged his sharp-angled shoulders. ‘Taking offence is all too often the retreat of a petty mind.’
‘Passive aggression, is what you mean,’ said K’rul, pushing himself to his feet. ‘The act of taking offence becomes a weapon, and its wielder feels empowered by the false indignation. That said, I doubt this is what afflicted the Jhelarkan.’ He tottered for a moment before recovering his balance. ‘My legs are half asleep and my skull is empty of blood. I am in need of a meal, I think, but the walk will do some good. An encampment, you say?’
‘A gathering, and some excitement. K’rul, we have met too many fellow Azathanai. Such encounters leave me despondent.’
They set out, at K’rul’s slow, halting pace. ‘We are afflicted with the stature of gods without the incumbent sense of responsibility. Our endless wandering is in fact an eternal flight from worshippers, no different from a father fleeing his wife and children.’
‘And between the man’s legs, the opportunity to repeat the whole mess. With another woman, in another place. K’rul, you impugn my good deeds.’
‘It’s all down to actually acknowledging the need to grow up, something so many men have trouble with. A weathered visage and a loose child behind it. A door slammed in the face of every potential lesson, the rapid thump of footsteps off into the night.’
‘An entire people can succumb to this same crime,’ observed Skillen Droe. ‘Irresponsible flight redefined as progress.’
‘Yes, the delusion of godhood belongs to us all, mortal and immortal alike. Can we say, with any certainty, whether some other god exists, a being beyond all of us, and we to it as children to a parent?’
‘Orphaned, then, for no hand clasps our own, no mother or father guides us. In our abandonment, K’rul, we but flail, lost and unknowing.’
They had been
spotted. A dozen or so veered Jhelarkan now paced them on the plain, black and shaggy and loping as if moments from closing in for the kill.
‘I dare say,’ ventured K’rul, ‘we would twist from that hand’s grip at the first opportunity, even unto denying its very existence. You see, Skillen Droe, the dilemma of our wilfulness?’
‘I see that children will delude themselves into the guise of grown adults, aping adult concerns, whilst their child selves crouch amidst the basest of emotions, the jealousies and spites, the blind wants and desperate needs, few of which can ever be appeased without the shedding of blood, or the rendering of pain. Children ever delight in the suffering of others, particularly when delivered by their own hand. Does it not fall to ones such as us, K’rul, to set a moral standard?’
‘And how did that fare among these K’Chain Che’Malle of yours?’ K’rul asked. ‘Your moral guidance yields you the form of a winged assassin.’
‘Yes, well. Sometimes the notion of right and wrong is best delivered in a welter of furious slaughter.’
‘As the child within you lashes out.’
‘K’rul, I recall, at last, how often conversation with you becomes infuriating.’
‘I speak only to encourage humility, something we Azathanai woefully lack. For this reason, Skillen Droe, did I open my veins and let the blood of power flow into the world.’
‘A child encouraging other children. I see chaos in the offing.’
K’rul grunted. ‘It’s always in the offing, old friend.’
Four of the giant wolves pulled away from the pack and approached, tails lowered and ears flattened.
‘We are not welcome,’ said Skillen Droe, unfolding his wings once more.
‘Patience,’ K’rul replied, holding up his bloodless hands.
The wolves halted a few paces away, and the lead one sembled, rising on its hind legs as blurring took its form. The wolf fur rolled back to become a heavy cloak, and from the confused uncertainty of the creature’s transformation a woman’s face appeared, followed by the rest of her mostly naked body. She was whipcord lean, her belly flat and her breasts small. Startling blue eyes looked out from a heart-shaped face, framed in a mane of black hair.
‘More strangers,’ she said. ‘Despoiling sacred ground.’
‘Our apologies,’ K’rul said. ‘We saw no cairns.’
‘Because you don’t know what to look for. We are done with cairns, as the Tiste looters destroyed all that they found. Now, we sanctify the earth with blood and piss. With splintered bones. All who despoil holy ground are slain.’
K’rul sighed and turned to Skillen Droe. ‘It seems we will have to fly after all.’
‘No. As I said, I am weary. Though I do not desire it, I will kill these rude creatures if necessary. Ask this woman what afflicts the camp beyond? There is an Azathanai there. I can feel it. I believe the Jhelarkan celebrate the return of their ancient benefactor.’
‘Only you would call celebration an affliction.’ K’rul turned back to the woman. ‘My companion and I regret our trespass. We are but travelling through, seeking the shores of the Vitr. Even so, if Farander Tarag is in the camp beyond, we would pay our respects to our Azathanai kin.’
The woman scowled. ‘Farander Tarag has severed all ties to the Azathanai. Divided in perpetuity, they now embrace the wild, and join us in the ancient glory of the beasts. They will not greet you as kin. Begone, both of you.’
K’rul grunted in surprise. ‘A D’ivers ritual? Farander has reached back far indeed.’
Skillen Droe clacked his serrated jaws to signal something, perhaps contempt. ‘Farander Tarag always was something of a narcissist. This does not surprise me and nor should it surprise you, K’rul. Who else could suffer Farander’s company but Farander? Oh, and these blunt-browed creatures. The wild yields little of value to the mind capable of imagining beyond the horizon. The Jheleck are now benighted, sealing their fate.’
K’rul sighed. To the woman, he said, ‘Very well. Alas, my companion is too weary to fly, and so we can do nothing but walk. You cannot kill us, so enough of that nonsense. But be assured we will give wide berth to your encampment.’
The woman snarled, and then veered into her wolf form. Re-joining her kin, she wheeled with them and loped off to return to the pack.
K’rul glared at Skillen Droe. ‘Were your words only for me, Skillen?’
‘Of course not. What value a threat unheard?’
‘I see now how your poor manners invite discord.’
‘Your observation baffles me. I was nothing but polite, insofar as such a thing is possible when contemplating murder. Was my regret not palpable?’
‘No, not really.’ Shaking his head, K’rul set off again, this time angling westward to take them clear of the encampment. Skillen Droe strode at his side, wings folded once more.
‘The Tiste will know trouble should they attempt to invade Jheleck lands again. Of course, the ferocity of the wild knows little cunning, beyond what nature provides. In the hunt there is necessity. In defence of the defenceless, or of oneself harried into a corner, there is desperation. Neither feeds the vagaries of war.’ He clacked his jaws again. ‘Their retreat shall be endless, I predict, across every realm, age upon age. The wild can do nothing but die.’
‘Nonsense. Civilization is ephemeral. Domestication of beasts removes their ability to survive without constant attention. Enslavement and breeding of plants weakens them against pest and blight. Imprisoning water invites disease, and, at the last, the breaking of the soil exhausts its capacity to renew itself. Gothos might well be the Lord of Hate, but nothing of what he said was wrong.’
‘And so your argument is that, eventually, the wild will return.’
‘Yes.’
‘Yet, in unleashing sorcery upon all the realms, K’rul, you offer a weapon to defy the wild, in ways not yet imagined.’
K’rul glanced to the right, squinting at the dust-laden encampment and its swarming figures. ‘It may seem that way, yes, at first. But in the absence of magic, what else might civilization beat into weapons against the wild?’
Skillen Droe was silent for a long moment, and then he said, ‘The K’Chain Che’Malle enslaved natural laws. They transformed their world with the tools of technology.’
‘Indeed, and how have they fared?’
‘Their war against nature is complete. Now they twist the very blood in their children, to make forms new and deadly.’
‘And sent you packing.’
‘A crude and displeasing description of my leaving them to their own devices. In creating birds, they bent to the task of constructing cages for them. I chose to not linger, and if my departure proved somewhat tumultuous and discombobulating, it was no fault of mine. Indeed, had I not lost my sky-keep, I would have retired within its inviting confines, there to contemplate the peace of solitude.’
‘For most,’ said K’rul, ‘solitude invites angst.’
The pack still paced them to the east. The day’s modest warmth was fast fading and here and there, in hollows, patches of wind-sculpted, dirty snow were visible. The season’s turn this far north was still months away.
‘Angst. I have never understood that,’ Skillen Droe said.
‘For many, contemplation is like small, sharp teeth chewing from the inside out. We’re in the habit of swallowing down our demons, and then deceiving ourselves by believing they die in dissolution. Instead, they delight in their hidden refuge, and feed day and night.’
‘I know nothing of such demons.’
‘Give us distractions to craze the eye, deafen the ear, and dull the mind, and we can survive a lifetime of despair. For all your efforts, among one people after another, Skillen Droe, I fear that you have failed in listening to any of them. In future, focus on the artists, to best discern the honest cry of the lost.’
‘It is well known that a civilization intent on self-destruction will disempower its artists,’ said Skillen Droe. ‘I witness this again and again. You m
isunderstand my purpose, K’rul. I am not a saviour.’
‘Then why do you find yourself hiding in civilizations of the mortals?’
‘I get bored, K’rul.’
‘Bored with yourself?’
‘Bored with everything, and everyone. I search for something I cannot name. A beacon, perhaps, in the darkness of perpetual ignorance. A spark of defiance among the wilfully obtuse. This endless drone irritates me, the frenzied flurry of busyness for little purpose beyond perpetuating a dissatisfying life. The constructs of the intellect are delusional, and so I become the fist of unreason. The gods, I say, care nothing for machines. Care nothing for the lies of habit, nothing for the tyranny of how things were always done and therefore must always be. The gods are deaf to excuses, rationalizations, justifications. Instead, they listen in the silence beyond the machines for the whispered opening of a single heart.’
K’rul had halted during this speech. He studied his companion, this towering, reptilian assassin, slayer of dragons, who had uprooted mountains and lifted them into the sky. ‘You speak of love,’ he said. ‘This is your beacon, your spark of defiance.’
‘The K’Chain Che’Malle look into the night sky and build for it laws and principles, as if the act of definition suffices, serving as justification prior to invasion, conquest and exploitation. Should they ever succeed, they will infect the heavens with the same wars, the same venal desires and hungers, the same witless adherence to those laws and principles by which they shackle all they see, and all they claim to know. Tell me, K’rul, when you look up into this coming night, what do you see?’
‘What I see matters less than what I feel.’
‘And what do you feel?’
‘I feel … wonder.’
Skillen Droe nodded. ‘Just so. And wonder, my friend, is the intellect’s most feared foe. Its path is love, and love is the language of humility. The rational mind would stand over it with a bloodstained sword, and in the empty bleakness of its eyes you will see its triumph.’ The assassin shook his head and fanned wide his wings. ‘This I have learned, among the K’Chain Che’Malle. This, K’rul, is why I stand at your side. The magic you offer – oh, they will seek to cage it, in laws and principles, in rules and squalid structure. But we both know that they will fail, for their minds are trapped in cages of their own making, and all that lies beyond will remain forever unknown, and unknowable, to them. And this they cannot abide.’
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