'Shadowthrone will be informed,' Cotillion said. 'He will come. He will heal your wounded—'
'When?'
The word was nearly a snarl.
'When I leave here,' he replied, 'I am returning directly to Shadowkeep. Minala, I would speak with the others.'
'Who? Why?'
Cotillion frowned, then said, The renegade. Your Tiste Edur. I have... questions.'
'I have never seen such skill with the spear. Trull Sengar kills, and kills, and then, when it is done and he kneels in the blood of the kin he has slain, he weeps.'
'Do they know him?' Cotillion asked. 'Do they call him by name?'
'No. He says they are Den-Ratha, and young. Newly blooded. But he then says, it is only a matter of time. Those Edur that succeed in withdrawing, they must be reporting the presence of an Edur among the defenders of the First Throne. Trull says that one of his own tribe will be among the attackers, and he will be recognized — and it is then, he says, that they will come in force, with warlocks. He says, Cotillion, that he will bring ruin upon us all.'
'Does he contemplate leaving?' Cotillion asked.
She scowled. 'To that he gives no answer. If he did, I would not blame him. And,' she added, 'if he chooses to stay, I may well die with his name the last curse I voice in this world. Or, more likely, the second last name.'
He nodded, understanding. 'Trull Sengar remains, then, out of honour.'
'And that honour spells our doom.'
Cotillion ran a hand through his hair, mildly surprised to discover how long it had grown. I need to find a hair hacker. One trustworthy enough with a blade at my neck. He considered that. Well, is it any wonder gods must do such mundane tasks for themselves? Listen to yourself, Cotillion — your mind would flee from this moment. Meet this woman's courage with your own. 'The arrival of warlocks among the Tiste Edur will prove a difficult force to counter—'
'We have the bonecaster,' she said. 'As yet he has remained hidden. Inactive. For, like Trull Sengar, he is a lodestone.'
Cotillion nodded. 'Will you lead me in, Minala?'
In answer she turned about and gestured that he follow.
The cavern beyond was a nightmare vision. The air was fetid, thick as that of a slaughterhouse. Dried blood covered the stone floor like a crumbling, pasty carpet. Pale faces — too young by far — turned to look upon Cotillion with ancient eyes drained of all hope. The god saw Apt, the demon's black hide ribboned with grey, barely healed scars, and crouched at her lone forefoot, Panek, his huge, faceted eye glittering. The forehead above that ridged eye displayed a poorly stitched slice, result of a blow that had peeled back his scalp from just above one side of the eye's orbital, across to the temple opposite.
Three figures rose, emerging from gloom as they walked towards Cotillion. The Patron God of Assassins halted. Monok Ochem, the clanless T'lan Imass known as Onrack the Broken, and the renegade Tiste Edur, Trull Sengar. I wonder, would these three, along with Ibra Gholan, have been enough? Did we need to fling Minala and her young charges into this horror?
Then, as they drew closer, Cotillion saw Onrack and Trull more clearly. Beaten down, slashed, cut. Half of Onrack's skeletal head was shorn away. Ribs had caved in from some savage blow, and the upper ridge of his hip, on the left side, had been chopped away, revealing the porous interior of the bone. Trull was without armour, and had clearly entered battle lacking such protection. The majority of his wounds — deep gashes, puncture holes — were on his thighs, beneath the hips and to the outside — signs of a spear-wielder's style of parrying with the middle-haft of the weapon. The Edur could barely walk, leaning heavily on the battered spear in his hands.
Cotillion found it difficult to meet the Edur's exhausted, despair-filled eyes. 'When the time comes,' he said to the grey-skinned warrior, 'help shall arrive.'
Onrack the Broken spoke. 'When they win the First Throne, they will realize the truth. That it is not for them. They can hold it, but they cannot use it. Why, then, Cotillion of Shadow, do these brave mortals surrender their lives here?'
'Perhaps we but provide a feint,' Monok Ochem said, the bonecaster's tone as inflectionless as Onrack's had been. 'No,' Cotillion said. 'More than that. It is what they would do upon making that discovery. They will unleash the warren of Chaos in this place — in the chamber where resides the First Throne. Monok Ochem, they shall destroy it, and so destroy its power.'
'Is such a deed cause for regret?' Onrack asked. Shaken, Cotillion had no reply.
Monok Ochem pivoted to regard Onrack the Broken. 'This one speaks the words of the Unbound. He fights not to defend the First Throne. He fights only to defend Trull Sengar. He alone is the reason the Tiste Edur still lives.'
'This is true,' Onrack replied. 'I accept no authority other than my own will, the desires I choose to act upon, and the judgements I make for myself. This, Monok Ochem, is the meaning of freedom.'
'Don't—' Trull Sengar said, turning away.
'Trull Sengar?'
'No, Onrack. Do you not see? You invite your own annihilation, and all because I do not know what to do, all because I cannot decide — anything. And so here I remain, as chained as I was when you first found me in the Nascent.'
'Trull Sengar,' Onrack said after a moment, 'you fight to save lives. The lives of these youths here. You stand in their stead, again and again. This is a noble choice. Through you, I discover the gift of fighting in defence of honour, the gift of a cause that is worthy. I am not as I once was. I am not as Monok Ochem and Ibra Gholan. Expedience is no longer enough. Expedience is the murderer's lie.'
'For Hood's sake,' Cotillion said to Monok Ochem, feeling exasperated, brittle with frustration, 'can you not call upon kin? A few hundred T'lan Imass — there must be some lying around somewhere, doing nothing as is their wont?'
The empty eyes remained... empty. 'Cotillion of Shadow. Your companion claimed the First Throne—
'Then he need only command the T'lan Imass to attend—'
'No. The others journey to a war. A war of self-preservation—'
'To Hood with Assail!' Cotillion shouted, his voice echoing wildly in the cavern. 'This is nothing but damned pride! You cannot win there! You send clan after clan, all into the same destructive maw! You damned fools — disengage! There is nothing worth fighting for on that miserable nightmare of a continent! Don't you see? Among the Tyrants there, it is nothing but a game!'
'It is the nature of my people,' Onrack said — and Cotillion could detect a certain tone in the words, something like vicious irony — 'to believe in their own supreme efficacy. They mean to win that game, Cotillion of Shadow, or greet oblivion. They accept no alternatives. Pride? It is not pride. It is the very reason to exist.'
'We face greater threats—'
'And they do not care,' Onrack cut in. 'This you must understand, Cotillion of Shadow. Once, long ago by mortal standards, now, your companion found the First Throne. He occupied it and so gained command over the T'lan Imass. Even then, it was a tenuous grasp, for the power of the First Throne is ancient. Indeed, its power wanes. Shadowthrone was able to awaken Logros T'lan Imass — a lone army, finding itself still bound to the First Throne's remnant power due to little more than mere proximity. He could not command Kron T'lan Imass, nor Bentract, nor Ifayle, nor the others that remained, for they were too distant. When Shadowthrone last sat upon the First Throne, he was mortal, he was bound to no other aspect. He had not ascended. But now, he is impure, and this impurity ever weakens his command. Cotillion, as your companion loses ever more substance, so too does he lose... veracity.'
Cotillion stared at the broken warrior, then looked over at Monok Ochem and Ibra Gholan. 'And these, then,' he said in a low voice, 'represent... token obedience.' The bonecaster said, 'We must seek to preserve our own kind, Cotillion of Shadow.'
'And if the First Throne is lost?' A clattering shrug.
Gods below. Now, at last, I understand why we lost Logros's undead army in the middle of the Seven Citi
es campaign. Why they just... left. He shifted his gaze back to Onrack the Broken. 'Is it possible,' he asked, 'to restore the power of the First Throne?'
'Say nothing,' Monok Ochem commanded.
Onrack's half-shattered head slowly turned to regard the bonecaster. 'You do not compel me. I am unbound.'
At some silent order, Ibra Gholan lifted his stone weapon and faced Onrack.
Cotillion raised his hands. 'Wait! Onrack, do not answer my question. Let's forget I ever asked it. There's no need for this — haven't we enough enemies as it is?'
'You,' said Monok Ochem to the god, 'are dangerous. You think what must not be thought, you speak aloud what must not be said. You are as a hunter who walks a path no-one else can see. We must consider the implications.' The bonecaster turned away, bony feet scraping as he walked towards the chamber of the First Throne. After a moment, Ibra Gholan lowered his blade and thumped off in Monok Ochem's wake.
Cotillion reached up to run his hand through his hair once again, and found his brow slick with sweat.
'And so,' Trull Sengar said, with a hint of a smile, 'you have taken our measure, Cotillion. And from this visit, we in turn receive equally bitter gifts. Namely, the suggestion that all we do here, in defence of this First Throne, is without meaning. So, do you now elect to withdraw us from this place?' His eyes narrowed on the god, and the ironic half-smile gave way to... something else. 'I thought not.'
Perhaps indeed I walk an unseen path — one even I am blind to — but now the necessity of following it could not be greater. 'We will not abandon you,' he said.
'So you claim,' muttered Minala behind him.
Cotillion stepped to one side. 'I have summoned Shadowthrone,' he said to her.
A wry expression. 'Summoned?'
'We grant each other leave to do such things, Minala, as demands dictate.'
'Companions in truth, then. I thought that you were subservient to Shadowthrone, Cotillion. Do you now claim otherwise?'
He managed a smile. 'We are fully aware of each other's complementary talents,' he replied, and left it at that.
'There wasn't enough time,' she said.
'For what?'
'For training. For the years needed... for them. To grow up. To live.'
He said nothing, for she was right.
'Take them with you,' Minala said. 'Now. I will remain, as will Apt and Panek. Cotillion, please, take them with you.'
'I cannot.'
'Why?'
He glanced over at Onrack. 'Because, Minala, I am not returning to the Realm of Shadow—'
'Wherever you are going,' she said in a suddenly harsh voice, 'it must be better than this!'
'Alas, would that I could make such a promise.'
'He cannot,' said Onrack. 'Minala, he now in truth sets out on an unseen path. It is my belief that we shall not see him again.'
'Thank you for the vote of confidence,' Cotillion said.
'My friend has seen better days,' Trull Sengar said, reaching out to slap Onrack on the back. The thump the blow made was hollow, raising dust, and something clattered down within the warrior's chest. 'Oh,' said the Tiste Edur, 'did that do something bad?'
'No,' Onrack replied. 'The broken point of a spear. It had been lodged in bone.'
'Was it irritating you?'
'Only the modest sound it made when I walked. Thank you, Trull Sengar.'
Cotillion eyed the two. What mortal would call a T'lan Imass friend? And, they fight side by side. I would know more of this Trull Sengar. But, as with so many things lately, there was no time for that. Sighing, he turned, and saw that the youth Panek now guarded the choke-point, in Ibra Gholan's absence.
The god headed that way.
Panek swung to face him. 'I miss him,' he said.
'Who?'
'Edgewalker.'
'Why? I doubt that sack of bones could fight his way out of a birch-bark coffin.'
'Not to fight at our sides, Uncle. We will hold here. Mother worries too much.'
'Which mother?'
A hideous, sharp-toothed smile. 'Both.'
'Why do you miss Edgewalker, then?'
'For his stories.'
'Oh, those.'
'The dragons. The foolish ones, the wise ones, the living ones and the dead ones. If every world were but a place on the board, they would be the game pieces. Yet no single hand directs them. Each is wild, a will unto itself. And then there are the shadows — Edgewalker explained about those — the ones you can't see.'
'He explained, did he? Well, clearly the hoary bastard likes you more than he does me.'
'They all cast shadows, Uncle,' Panek said. 'Into your realm. Every one of them. That's why there's so many prisoners.'
Cotillion frowned, then, slowly, inexorably as comprehension dawned, the god's eyes widened.
****
Trull Sengar watched the god move past Panek, one hand tracking along the stone wall, as if Cotillion were suddenly drunk. 'I wonder what that was all about? You'd think Panek just kneed him between the legs.'
'He'd earn a kiss from me if he did that,' Minala said.
'You're too harsh,' Trull said. 'I feel sorry for Cotillion.'
'Then you're an idiot, but of course I've known the truth of that for months.'
He smiled across at her, said nothing.
Minala now eyed the uneven entrance to the chamber of the First Throne. 'What are they doing in there? They never go in there.'
'Considering implications, I suppose,' Trull said.
'And where's Shadowthrone? He's supposed to be here by now. If we get attacked right now...'
We're dead. Trull leaned more heavily on the spear, to ease the weight on his left leg, which was hurting more — marginally — than his right. Or at least I am. But that's likely whether or not I get healed, once my kin decide to take this seriously. He did not understand their half-hearted skirmishing, the tentative probing by the Den-Ratha. And why were they bothering at all? If they hungered for a throne, it would be that of Shadow, not this petrified bone monstrosity they call the First Throne. But, thinking on it, maybe this does indeed make sense. They have allied themselves with the Crippled God, and with the Unbound T'lan Imass who now serve the Chained One. But my Tiste Edur place little weight on alliances with non-Edur. Maybe that's why all they've done thus far is token blood-letting. A single warlock and veteran warriors and this little fête would be over.
And they would come — they will come, once I am recognized. Yet he could not hide himself from their eyes; he could not stand back whilst they slaughtered these young humans who knew nothing of life, who were soldiers in name only. These lessons of cruelty and brutality did not belong in what a child needed to learn, in what a child should learn. And a world in which children were subjected to such things was a world in which compassion was a hollow word, its echoes a chorus of mockery and cold contempt.
Four skirmishes. Four, and Minala was now mother to seven hundred destroyed lives, almost half of them facing the mercy of death... until Shadowthrone appears, with his edged gift, in itself cold and heartless.
'Your face betrays you, Trull Sengar. You are driven to weeping yet again.'
The Edur looked across at Onrack, then over to where Minala now stood with Panek. 'Her rage is her armour, friend. And that is my greatest weakness, that I cannot conjure the same within myself. Instead, I stand here, waiting. For the next attack, for the return of the terrible music — the screams, the pain and the dying, the deafening roar of the futility our battle-lust creates... with every clash of sword and spear.'
'Yet, you do not surrender,' the T'lan Imass said.
'I cannot.'
'The music you hear in battle is incomplete, Trull Sengar.'
'What do you mean?'
'Even as I stand at your side, I can hear Minala's prayers, whether she is near us or not. Even when she drags wounded and dying children back, away from danger, I hear her. She prays, Trull Sengar, that you do not fall. That you fight on
, that the miracle that is you and the spear you wield shall never fail her. Never fail her and her children.'
Trull Sengar turned away.
'Ah,' Onrack said, 'with your tears suddenly loosed, I friend, I see my error. Where I sought by my words to instil pride in you, I defeat your own armour and wound you deeply. With despair. I am sorry. There remains so much of what it is to live that I have forgotten.' The battered warrior regarded Trull in silence for a moment, then added, 'Perhaps I can give you something else, something more... hopeful.'
'Please try,' Trull said in a whisper.
'At times, down in this chasm, I smell something, a presence. It is faint, animal. It... comforts me, although I do not know why, for I cannot comprehend its source. In those times, Trull Sengar, I feel as if we are being observed. We are being watched by unseen eyes, and in those eyes there is vast compassion.'
'Do you say this only to ease my pain, Onrack?'
'No, I would not so deceive you.'
'What — who does it come from?'
'I do not know — but I have seen that it affects Monok Ochem. Even Ibra Gholan. I sense their disquiet, and this, too, comforts me.'
'Well,' rasped a voice beside them, 'it isn't me.' Shadows coalescing, creating a hunched, hooded shape, wavering indistinct, as if reluctant to commit itself to any particular existence, any single reality.
'Shadowthrone.'
'Healing, yes? Very well. But I have little time. We must hurry, do you understand? Hurry!'
Renewed, once again, to face what will come. Would that I had my own prayers. Comforting words in my mind... to drown out the screams all around me. To drown out my own.
****
Somewhere down below, Karsa Orlong struggled to calm Havok, and the sudden hammer of hoofs against wood, sending trembles through the deck beneath Samar Dev's feet, indicated that it would be some time before the animal quieted. She did not blame the Jhag horse. The air below was foul, reeking with the sick and the dying, with the sour stench that came from hopelessness.
The Bonehunters Page 80
