It is not unusual to see the warrens of Meanas and Rashan as the closest of kin. Yet are not the games of illusion and shadow games of light? At some point, therefore, the notion of distinctions between these warrens ceases to have meaning. Meanas, Rashan and Thyr. Only the most fanatic of practitioners among these warrens would object to this. The aspect all three share is ambivalence; their games the games of ambiguity. All is deceit, all is deception. Among them, nothing-nothing at all-is as it seems.
A Preliminary Analysis of the Warrens
FIFTEEN HUNDRED DESERT WARRIORS HAD ASSEMBLED AT THE southern edge of the ruined city, their white horses ghostly through the clouds of amber dust, the glint of chain vests and scaled hauberks flashing dully every now and then from beneath golden telabas. Five hundred spare mounts accompanied the raiders.
Korbolo Dom stood near Sha’ik and Ghost Hands atop a weathered platform that had once been the foundation of a temple or public building of some sort, allowing them a clear view of the assembling warriors.
The Napan renegade watched, expressionless, as Leoman of the Flails rode up for a last word with the Chosen One. He himself would not bother with any false blessings, for he would much prefer that Leoman never return. And if he must, then not in triumph in any case. And though his scarred face revealed nothing, he well knew that Leoman entertained no delusions about Korbolo’s feelings for him.
They were allies only in so far as they both served Sha’ik. And even that was far less certain than it might have outwardly seemed. Nor did the Malazan believe that the Chosen One was deluded as to the spite and enmity that existed between her generals. Her ignorance existed solely in the plans that were slowly, incrementally settling into place to achieve her own demise. Of that Korbolo was certain.
Else she would have acted long before now.
Leoman reined in before the platform. ‘Chosen One! We set out now, and when we return we shall bring you word of the Malazan army. Their disposition. Their rate of march-’
‘But not,’ Sha’ik cut in sternly, ‘their mettle. No engagements, Leoman. The first blooding of her army will be here. By my hand.’
Mouth pressing into a thin line, Leoman nodded, then he said, ‘Tribes will have conducted raids on them, Chosen One. Likely beginning a league beyond the walls of Aren. They will have already been blooded-’
‘I cannot see such minor exchanges as making a difference either way,’ Sha’ik replied. ‘Those tribes are sending their warriors here-they arrive daily. Your forces would be the largest she would have to face-and I will not have that. Do not argue this point again, Leoman, else I forbid you to leave Raraku!’
‘As you say, Chosen One,’ Leoman grated. His startling blue eyes fixed on Ghost Hands. ‘If you require anything, old man, seek out Mathok.’
Korbolo’s brows rose.
‘An odd thing to say,’ Sha’ik commented. ‘Ghost Hands is under my protection, after all.’
‘Minor requirements only, of course,’ Leoman said, ‘such as might prove distracting, Chosen One. You have an army to ready, after all-’
‘A task,’ Korbolo cut in, ‘which the Chosen One has entrusted in me, Leoman.’
The desert warrior simply smiled. Then he collected his reins. ‘May the Whirlwind guard you, Chosen One.’
‘And you, Leoman.’
The man rode back to his waiting horse warriors.
May your bones grow white and light as feathers, Leoman of the Flails. Korbolo swung to Sha’ik. ‘He will disobey you, Chosen One.’
‘Of course he will.’
The Napan blinked, then his gaze narrowed. ‘Then it would be madness to yield the wall of sand to him.’
She faced him, her eyes questioning. ‘Do you fear the Adjunct’s army, then? Have you not said to me again and again how superior you have made our forces? In discipline, in ferocity? This is not Onearm’s Host you will be facing. It is a shaky mass of recruits, and even should they have known hardening in a minor engagment or two, what chance have they against your Dogslayers? As for the Adjunct… leave her to me. Thus, what Leoman does with his fifteen hundred desert wolves is, in truth, without relevance. Or are you now revising all your opinions, Korbolo Dom?’
‘Of course not, Chosen One. But a wolf like Leoman should remain leashed.’
‘Leashed? The word you’d rather have used is killed. Not a wolf, but a mad dog. Well, he shall not be killed, and if indeed he is a mad dog then where better to send him than against the Adjunct?’
‘You are wiser in these ways than I, Chosen One.’
Ghost Hands snorted at that, and even Sha’ik smiled. The blood was suddenly hot in Korbolo’s face.
‘Febryl awaits you in your tent,’ Sha’ik said. ‘He grows impatient with your lateness, Korbolo Dom. You need not remain here any longer.’
From heat to ice. The Malazan did not trust himself to speak, and at the Chosen One’s dismissive wave he almost flinched. After a moment, he managed to find his voice, ‘I had best find out what he wants, then,’ he said.
‘No doubt he views it as important,’ Sha’ik murmured. ‘It is a flaw among ageing men, I think, that brittle self-importance. I advise you to calm him, Korbolo Dom, and so slow his pounding heart.’
‘Sound advice, Chosen One.’ With a final salute, Korbolo strode to the platform’s steps.
Heboric sighed as the Napan’s bootsteps faded behind them. ‘The poor bastard’s been left reeling. Would you panic them into acting, then? With Leoman now gone? And Toblakai as well? Who is there left to trust, lass?’
‘Trust? Do you imagine I trust anyone but myself, Heboric? Oh, perhaps Sha’ik Elder knew trust… in Leoman and Toblakai. But when they look upon me, they see an impostor-I can see that well enough, so do not attempt to argue otherwise.’
‘And what about me?’ Heboric asked.
‘Ah, Ghost Hands, now we come to it, don’t we? Very well, I shall speak plain. Do not leave. Do not leave me, Heboric. Not now. That which haunts you can await the conclusion of the battle to come. When that is done, I shall extend the power of the Whirlwind-back to the very edge of the Otataral Isle. Within that warren, your journey will be virtually effortless. Otherwise, wilful as you are, I fear you will not survive the long, long walk.’
He looked at her, though the effort earned him little more than a blur where she stood, enfolded in her white telaba. ‘Is there anything you do not know about, lass?’
‘Alas, far too much, I suspect. L’oric, for example. A true mystery, there. He seems able to fend off even the Whirlwind’s Elder magic, evading my every effort to discern his soul. And yet he has revealed much to you, I think.’
‘In confidence, Chosen One. I am sorry. All I can offer you is this: L’oric is not your enemy.’
‘Well, that means more to me than you perhaps realize. Not my enemy. Does that make him my ally, then?’
Heboric said nothing.
After a moment, Sha’ik sighed. ‘Very well. He remains a mystery, then, in the most important of details. What can you tell me of Bidithal’s explorations of his old warren? Rashan.’
He cocked his head. ‘Well, the answer to that, Chosen One, depends in part on your own knowledge. Of the goddess’s warren-your Elder warren fragment that is the Whirlwind.’
‘Kurald Emurlahn.’
He nodded. ‘Indeed. And what do you know of the events that saw it torn apart?’
‘Little, except that its true rulers had ceased to exist, thus leaving it vulnerable. The relevant fact is this, however: the Whirlwind is the largest fragment in this realm. And its power is growing. Bidithal would see himself as its first-and its penultimate-High Priest. What he does not understand is that there is no such role to be taken. I am the High Priestess. I am the Chosen One. I am the single mortal manifestation of the Whirlwind Goddess. Bidithal would enfold Rashan into the Whirlwind, or, conversely, use the Whirlwind to cleanse the Shadow Realm of its false rulers.’ She paused, and Heboric sensed her shrug. ‘Those false rulers once commanded the Malazan Empire. Thus. We are all here, preparing for a singular confrontation. Yet what each of us seeks from that battle is at odds. The challenge, then, is to cajole all those disparate motives into one, mutually triumphant effect.’
‘That,’ Heboric breathed, ‘is quite a challenge, lass.’
‘And so I need you, Ghost Hands. I need the secret you possess-’
‘Of L’oric I can say nothing-’
‘Not that secret, old man. No, the secret I seek lies in your hands.’
He started. ‘My hands?’
‘That giant of jade you touched-it is defeating the otataral. Destroying it. I need to discover how. I need an answer to otataral, Heboric.’
‘But Kurald Emurlahn is Elder, Sha’ik-the Adjunct’s sword-’
‘Will annihilate the advantage I possess in my High Mages. Think! She knows she can’t negate the Whirlwind with her sword… so she will not even try! No, instead she will challenge my High Mages. Remove them from the field. She will seek to isolate me-’
‘But if she cannot defeat the Whirlwind, what does that matter?’
‘Because the Whirlwind, in turn, cannot defeat her!’ Heboric was silent. He had not heard this before, but after a moment’s thought, it began to make sense. Kurald Emurlahn might be Elder, but it was also in pieces. Weakened, riven through with Rashan-a warren that was indeed vulnerable to the effects of otataral. The power of the Adjunct’s sword and that of Sha’ik’s Whirlwind Goddess would effectively cancel each other out.
Leaving the outcome in the hands of the armies themselves. And there, the otataral would cut through the sorcery of the High Mages. In turn leaving it all to Korbolo Dom. And Korbolo knows it, and he has his own ambitions. Gods, lass, what a mess. ‘Alas, Chosen One,’ he muttered, ‘I cannot help you, for I do not know why the otataral in me is failing. I have, however, a warning. The power of the jade giant is not one to be manipulated. Not by me, nor by you. If the Whirlwind Goddess seeks to usurp it, she will do more than suffer in the attempt-she will likely get obliterated.’
‘Then we must win knowledge without yielding an opportunity.’
‘And how in Hood’s name do you propose achieving that?’
‘I would you give me the answer to that, Heboric.’
Me? ‘Then we are lost. I have no control over that alien power. I have no understanding of it at all!’
‘Perhaps not yet,’ she replied, with a chilling confidence in her voice. ‘But you grow ever closer, Heboric. Every time you partake of hen’bara tea.’
The tea? That which you gave me so that I might escape my nightmares? Calling upon Sha’ik Elder’s knowledge of the desert, you said. A gift of compassion, I thought. A gift… He felt something crumbling inside him. A fortress in the desert of my heart, I should have known it would be a fortress of sand.
He swung away, made insensate by layer upon layer of blindness. Numbed to the outside world, to whatever Sha’ik was now saying, to the brutal heat of the sun overhead.
Stay?
He felt no longer able to leave.
Chains. She has made for me a house of chains…
Felisin Younger came to the edge of the pit and looked down. The sun had left the floor, leaving naught but darkness below. There was no glimmer of hearthlight, confirming that no-one had come to take up residence in Leoman’s abode.
A scraping sound nearby made her turn. Toblakai’s once-slavemaster had crawled into view around a wall foundation. His sun-blistered skin was caked in dust and excrement, the stumps at the ends of his arms and legs weeping a yellow, opaque liquid. The first signs of leprosy marred his joints at elbow and knee. Red-rimmed eyes fixed on Felisin and the man offered a blackened smile. ‘Ah, child. See me your humble servant. Mathok’s warrior-’
‘What do you know of that?’ she demanded.
The smile broadened. ‘I bring word. See me your humble servant. Everyone’s humble servant. I have lost my name, did you know that? I knew it once, but it has fled me. My mind. But I do what I am told. I bring word. Mathok’s warrior. He cannot meet you here. He would not be seen. You understand? There, across the plaza, in the sunken ruin. He awaits.’
Well, she considered, the secrecy made sense. Their escape from the camp demanded it, although Heboric Ghost Hands was by far the one most likely to be under surveillance. And he had gone into his tent days ago and refused all visitors. Even so, she appreciated Mathok’s caution.
Though she had not known that Toblakai’s slavemaster was a part of their conspiracy. ‘The sunken temple?’
‘Yes, there. See me your humble servant. Go. He awaits.’ She set out across the flagstoned plaza. Hundreds of the camp’s destitute had settled here, beneath palm-frond shelters, making no efforts at organization-the expanse reeked of piss and faeces, streams of the foul mess flowing across the stones. Hacking coughs, mumbled entreaties and blessings followed her as she made her way towards the ruin.
The temple’s foundation walls were hip high; within, a steep set of stone stairs led down to the subterranean floor. The sun’s angle had dipped sufficiently to render the area below in darkness.
Felisin halted at the top of the stairs and peered down, seeking to penetrate the gloom. ‘Are you there?’ she called.
A faint sound from the far end. The hint of movement.
She descended.
The sandy floor was still warm. Groping, she edged forward.
Less than ten paces from the back wall and she could finally make him out. He was seated with his back to the stone. The gleam of a helm, scale armour on his chest.
‘We should wait for night,’ Felisin said, approaching. ‘Then make our way to Ghost Hands’ tent. The time has come-he can hide no longer. What is your name?’
There was no reply.
Something black and smothering rose up to clamp over her mouth and she was lifted from the ground. The blackness flowed like serpents around her, pinning her arms and binding her thrashing legs. A moment later she hung motionless, suspended slightly above the sandy floor.
A gnarled fingertip brushed her cheek and her eyes widened as a voice whispered in her ear. ‘Sweetest child. Mathok’s fierce warrior felt Rashan’s caress a short while ago, alas. Now, there is only me. Only humble Bidithal, here to welcome you. Here to drink all pleasure from your precious body, leaving naught but bitterness, naught but dead places within. It is necessary, you understand.’ His wrinkled hands were stroking, plucking, pinching, pawing her. ‘I take no unsavoury pleasure in what I must do. The children of the Whirlwind must be riven barren, child, to make of them perfect reflections of the goddess herself-oh, you did not know that, did you? The goddess cannot create. Only destroy. The source of her fury, no doubt. So it must be with her children. My duty. My task. There is naught for you to do now but surrender.’
Surrender. It had been a long time since she had last been made to surrender, to give away all that was within her. A long time since she’d let darkness devour all that she was. Years ago, she had not known the magnitude of the loss, for there had been nothing to offer a contrast to misery, hunger and abuse.
But all that had changed. She had discovered, under Sha’ik’s protective wing, the notion of inviolacy.
And it was that notion that Bidithal now proceeded to destroy.
Lying on the landing at the top of the stairs, the creature that had once been a slavemaster on Genabackis smiled at Bidithal’s words, then the smile grew wider at her muffled cries.
Karsa Orlong’s favoured child was in the hands of that sick old man. And all that would be done to her could not be undone.
The sick old man had been kindly with his offers of gifts. Not just the impending return of his hands and feet, but the promise of vengeance against the Teblor. He would find his name once more. He knew he would. And with it, the confusion would go away, the hours of blind terror would no longer plague him, and the beatings at the hands of the others in this plaza would cease. It would have to, for he would be their master.
They would pay for what they did. Everyone would pay. As soon as he found his name.
There was weeping now. Despair’s own laughter, those racking heaves.
That lass would no longer look upon him with disgust. How could she? She was now like him. It was a good lesson. Viciously delivered-even the slavemaster could see that, could imagine it at least, and wince at the images he conjured in his head. But still, a good lesson.
Time to leave-footsteps approached from below. He slithered back into the daylight, and the sound he made over the gravel, potsherds and sand was strangely reminiscent of chains. Chains dragging in his wake.
Though there had been none to witness it, a strange glow had suffused L’oric’s tent shortly after noon. Momentary, then all was normal once more.
Now, as dusk finally approached, a second flare of light burgeoned briefly then died away, again unnoticed.
The High Mage staggered through the warren’s impromptu, momentary gate. He was drenched in blood. He stumbled with his burden across the hide-covered floor, then sank to his knees, dragging the misshapen beast into his arms, a single red hand pulling free to stroke its thick, matted hair.
Its whimpers of pain had ceased. Mercifully, for each soft cry had broken anew L’oric’s heart.
The High Mage slowly lowered his head, finally stricken with the grief he had been forced to hold back during his desperate, ineffectual efforts to save the ancient demon. He was filled with self-loathing, and he cursed his own complacency. Too long separated, too long proceeding as if the other realms held no danger to them.
And now his familiar was dead, and the mirrored deadness inside him seemed vast. And growing, devouring his soul as sickness does healthy flesh. He was without strength, for the rage had abated.
He stroked the beast’s blood-caked face, wondering anew at how its ugliness-now so still and free of pain-could nevertheless trigger depthless wellsprings of love from him. ‘Ah, my friend, we were more of a kind than either of us knew. No… you knew, didn’t you? Thus the eternal sorrow in your eyes, which I saw but chose to ignore, each time I visited. I was so certain of the deceit, you see. So confident that we could go on, undetected, maintaining the illusion that our father was still with us. I was…’ He crumpled then and could speak no further for a time.
The failure had been his, and his alone. He was here, ensnaring himself in these paltry games, when he should have been guarding his familiar’s back-as it had done for him for century upon century.
Oh, it had been close in any case-one less T’lan Imass, and the outcome might have proved different-no, now you lie to yourself, L’oric. That first axe-blow had done the damage, had delivered the fatal wound. All that transpired thereafter was born of dying rage. Oh, my beloved was no weakling, and the wielder of that stone axe paid for his ambush. And know this, my friend, I left the second one scattered through the fires. Only the clan leader escaped me. But I will hunt him down. This I swear.
But not yet. He forced clarity into his thoughts, as the weight of the familiar where it lay against his thighs slowly diminished, its very substance ebbing away. Kurald Thyrllan was undefended, now. How the T’lan Imass had managed to penetrate the warren remained a mystery, but they had done so, completing the task they had set out to do with their legendary brutality.
Would the Liosan have sensed the death? Perhaps only the seneschals, at first. Would they speak of it to the others? Not if they pause, for even a moment, and think about it. Of course, they had been the victims of the deceit all along. Osric had vanished-their god was gone-and Kurald Thyrllan was ripe for usurpation. And, eventually, those seneschals would realize that, had it truly been Osric behind the power that answered their prayers, then three T’lan Imass warriors would not have been enough-not nearly enough. My father is many things, but weak does not count among them.
The withered, bird-sized thing that had been his familiar slipped down to the tent floor. L’oric stared at it, then slowly wrapped himself in his own arms. I need… I need help. Father’s companions. Which one? Anomander Rake? No. A companion, yes, on occasion, but never Osric’s friend. Lady Envy? Gods, no! Caladan Brood… but he carries his own burdens, these days. Thus, but one left…
L’oric closed his eyes, and called upon the Queen of Dreams. ‘By your true name, T’riss, I would speak with you. In Osric my father’s name, hear my prayer…’
A scene slowly formed in his mind, a place unfamiliar to him. A formal garden, high-walled, with a circular pool in the centre. Marble benches waited beneath the shadows of the surrounding growth. The flagstones around the pool were rippled with fine, white sand.
He found himself approaching the pool, staring down into the mirrored surface.
Where swam stars in inky blackness.
‘The resemblance is there.’
He turned at the liquid voice, to see a woman now seated on the pool’s edge. She looked to be no more than twenty, her hair copper-gold and long. A heart-shaped face, pale, the eyes a light grey. She was not looking at him, her languid gaze on the pool’s unmarred surface instead. ‘Although,’ she added, with a faint smile, ‘you have done well to hide your Liosan traits.’
‘We are skilled in such things, Queen of Dreams.’
She nodded, still not meeting his eyes. ‘As are all the Tiste. Anomander once spent almost two centuries in the guise of a royal bodyguard… human, in the manner you have achieved.’
‘Mistress,’ L’oric said, ‘my father-’
‘Sleeps. We all long ago made our choices, L’oric. Behind us, our paths stretch, long and worn deep. There is bitter pathos in the prospect of retracing them. Yet, for those of us who remain… awake, it seems we do nothing but just that. An endless retracing of paths, yet each step we take is forward, for the path has proved itself to be a circle. Yet-and here is the true pathos-the knowledge never slows our steps.’
‘ “Wide-eyed stupid”, the Malazans say.’
‘Somewhat rough-edged, but accurate enough,’ she replied. She reached a long-fingered hand down to the water.
L’oric watched it vanish beneath the surface, but it was the scene around them that seemed to waken, a faint turbulence, the hint of ripples. ‘Queen of Dreams, Kurald Thyrllan has lost its protector.’
‘Yes. Tellann and Thyr were ever close, and now more than ever.’
A strange statement… that he would have to think on later. ‘I cannot do it alone-’
‘No, you cannot. Your own path is about to become fraught, L’oric. And so you have come to me, in the hopes that I will find a suitable… protector.’
‘Yes.’
‘Your desperation urges you to trust… where no trust has been earned-’
‘You were my father’s friend!’
‘Friend? L’oric, we were too powerful to know friendship. Our endeavours far too fierce. Our war was with chaos itself, and, at times, with each other. We battled to shape all that would follow. And some of us lost that battle. Do not misapprehend, I held no deep enmity for your father. Rather, he was as unfathomable as the rest of us-a bemusement we all shared, perhaps the only thing we shared.’
‘You will not help?’
‘I did not say that.’
He waited.
She continued holding her hand beneath the pool’s placid surface, had yet to lift her head and meet his eyes. ‘This will take some time,’ she murmured. ‘The present… vulnerability… will exist in the interval. I have someone in mind, but the shaping towards the opportunity remains distant. Nor do I think my choice will please you. In the meantime…’
‘Yes?’
She shrugged. ‘We had best hope that potentially interested entities remain suitably distracted.’
He saw her expression suddenly change, and when she spoke again the tone was urgent. ‘Return to your realm, L’oric! Another circle has been closed-terribly closed.’ She drew her hand from the pool.
L’oric gasped.
It was covered in blood.
His eyes snapped open, and he was kneeling in his tent once more. Night had arrived, and the sounds outside were muted, peaceful, a city settling down to its evening meal. Yet, he knew, something horrible had happened. He went still, questing outward. His powers-so weakened, so tremulous-‘Gods below!’ A swirl of violence, knotted upon itself, radiating waves of agony-a figure, small, twisted inward, in shredded clothes soaked through with blood, crawling through darkness.
L’oric lurched to his feet, head spinning with anguish.
Then he was outside, and suddenly running.
He found her trail, a smeared track through sand and dust, out beyond the ruins, into the petrified forest. Towards, he knew instinctively, the sacred glade that had been fashioned by Toblakai.
But there would be no succour for her there. Another abode of false gods. And Toblakai was gone, off to cross blades with his own fate.
But she was without clear thought. She was only pain, lancing out to fire instincts of flight. She crawled as would any dying creature.
He saw her at the edge of the glade, small, bedraggled, pulling herself forward in torturous increments.
L’oric reached her side, a hand reaching to settle at the back of her head, onto sweat-snarled hair. She flinched away with a squeal, fingers clawing against his arm. ‘Felisin! He’s gone! It is L’oric. You are safe with me. Safe, now-’
But still she sought to escape.
‘I shall call upon Sha’ik-’
‘No,’ she shrieked, curling tight on the sand. ‘No! She needs him! She needs him still!’ Her words were blunted by broken lips but understandable none the less.
L’oric sank back, struck mute by the horror. Not simply a wounded creature, then. A mind clear enough to weigh, to calculate, to put itself aside… ‘She will know, lass-she can’t help but know.’
‘No! Not if you help me. Help me, L’oric. Just you-not even Heboric! He would seek to kill Bidithal, and that cannot be.’
‘Heboric? I want to kill Bidithal!’
‘You mustn’t. You can’t. He has power-’
He saw the shudder run through her at that.
L’oric hesitated, then said, ‘I have healing salves, elixirs… but you will need to stay hidden for a time.’
‘Here, in Toblakai’s temple. Here, L’oric.’
‘I will bring water. A tent.’
‘Yes!’
The rage that burned in him had contracted down to a white-hot core. He struggled to control it, his resolve sporadically weakened by doubts that he was doing the right thing. This was… monstrous. There would be an answer to it. There would have to be an answer to it.
Even more monstrous, he realized with a chill, they had all known the risk. We knew he wanted her. Yet we did nothing.
Heboric lay motionless in the darkness. He had a faint sense of being hungry, thirsty, but it remained remote. Hen’bara tea, in sufficient amounts, pushed the needs of the outer world away. Or so he had discovered.
His mind was floating on a swirling sea, and it seemed eternal. He was waiting, still waiting. Sha’ik wanted truths. She would get them. And then he was done, done with her.
And probably done with life, as well.
So be it. He had grown older than he had ever expected to, and these extra weeks and months had proved anything but worth the effort. He had sentenced his own god to death, and now Fener would not be there to greet him when he finally stepped free of his flesh and bones. Nor would Hood, come to that.
It did not seem he would awaken from this-he had drunk far more of the tea than he ever had before, and he had drunk it scalding hot, when it was most potent. And now he floated on a dark sea, an invisible liquid warm on his skin, barely holding him up, flowing over his limbs and chest, around his face.
The giant of jade was welcome to him. To his soul, and to whatever was left of his days as a mortal man. The old gifts of preternatural vision had long vanished, the visions of secrets hidden from most eyes-secrets of antiquity, of history-were long gone. He was old. He was blind.
The waters slipped over his face.
And he felt himself sliding down-amidst a sea of stars that swirled in the blackness yet were sharp with sudden clarity. In what seemed a vast distance, duller spheres swam, clustering about the fiery stars, and realization struck him a hammer blow. The stars, they are as the sun. Each star. Every star. And those spheres-they are worlds, realms, each one different yet the same.
The Abyss was not as empty as he’d believed it to be. But… where dwell the gods? These worlds-are they warrens? Or are the warrens simply passageways connecting them?
A new object, growing in his vision as it drifted nearer. A glimmer of murky green, stiff-limbed, yet strangely contorted, torso twisted as if caught in the act of turning. Naked, spinning end over end, starlight playing across its jade surface like beads of rain.
And behind it, another, this one broken-a leg and an arm snapped clean off yet accompanying the rest in its silent, almost peaceful sailing through the void.
Then another.
The first giant cartwheeled past Heboric, and he felt he could simply extend a hand to brush its supple surface as it passed, but he knew it was in truth far too distant for that. Its face came into view. Too perfect for human, the eyes open, an expression too ambiguous to read, though Heboric thought he detected resignation within it.
There were scores now, all emerging from what seemed a single point in the inky depths. Each one displaying a unique posture; some so battered as to be little more than a host of fragments and shards, others entirely unmarred. Sailing out of the blackness. An army.
Yet unarmed. Naked, seemingly sexless. There was a perfection to them-their proportions, their flawless surfaces-that suggested to the ex-priest that the giants could never have been alive. They were constructs, statues in truth, though no two were alike in posture or expression.
Bemused, he watched them spin past. It occurred to him that he could turn, to see if they simply dwindled down to another point far behind him, as if he but lay alongside an eternal river of green stone.
His own motion was effortless.
As he swung round, he saw-
– and cried out.
A cry that made no sound.
A vast-impossibly vast-red-limned wound cut across the blackness, suppurating flames along its ragged edges. Grey storms of chaos spiralled out in lancing tendrils.
And the giants descended into its maw. One after another. To vanish. Revelation filled his mind.
Thus, the Crippled God was brought down to our world. Through this… this terrible puncture. And these giants… follow. Like an army behind its commander.
Or an army in pursuit.
Were all of the jade giants appearing somewhere in his own realm? That seemed impossible. They would be present in countless locations, if that was the case. Present, and inescapably visible. No, the wound was enormous, the giants diminishing into specks before reaching its waiting oblivion. A wound such as that could swallow thousands of worlds. Tens, hundreds of thousands.
Perhaps all he witnessed here was but hallucination, the creation of a hen’bara-induced fever.
Yet the clarity was almost painful, the vision so brutally… strange… that he believed it to be true, or at the very least the product of what his mind could comprehend, could give shape to-statues and wounds, storms and bleeding, an eternal sea of stars and worlds…
A moment’s concentration and he was turning about once more. To face that endless progression.
And then he was moving towards the nearest giant.
It was naught but torso and head, its limbs shorn off and spinning in its wake.
The mass burgeoned swiftly before him, too fast, too huge. Sudden panic gripped Heboric. He could see into that body, as if the world within the jade was scaled to his own. The evidence of that was terrible-and horrifying.
Figures. Bodies like his own. Humans, thousands upon thousands, all trapped within the statue. Trapped… and screaming, their faces twisted in terror.
A multitude of those faces suddenly swung to him. Mouths opened in silent cries-of warning, or hunger, or fear-there was no way to tell. If they screamed, no sound reached him.
Heboric added his own silent shriek and desperately willed himself to one side, out of the statue’s path. For he thought he understood, now-they were prisoners, ensnared within the stone flesh, trapped in some unknown torment.
Then he was past, flung about in the turbulent wake of the broken body’s passage. Spinning end over end, he caught a flash of more jade, directly in front of him.
A hand.
A finger, plunging down as if to crush him.
He screamed as it struck.
He felt no contact, but the blackness simply vanished, and the sea was emerald green, cold as death.
And Heboric found himself amidst a crowd of writhing, howling figures.
The sound was deafening. There was no room to move-his limbs were trapped against him. He could not breathe.
A prisoner.
There were voices roaring through his skull. Too many, in languages he could not recognize, much less comprehend. Like storm-waves crashing on a shore, the sound hammered through him, surging and falling, the rhythm quickening as a faint reddish gleam began to stain the green. He could not turn, but did not need to, to know that the wound was moments from swallowing them all.
Then a string of words reached through the tumult, close as if whispered in his ear, and he understood them.
‘You came from there. What shall we find, Handless One? What lies beyond the gash?’
Then another voice spoke, louder, more imperious: ‘What god now owns your hands, old man? Tell me! Even their ghosts are not here-who is holding on to you? Tell me!’
‘There are no gods,’ a third voice cut in, this one female.
‘So you say!’ came yet another, filled with spite. ‘In your empty, barren, miserable world!’
‘Gods are born of belief, and belief is dead. We murdered it, with our vast intelligence. You were too primitive-’
‘Killing gods is not hard. The easiest murder of all. Nor is it a measure of intelligence. Not even of civilization. Indeed, the indifference with which such death-blows are delivered is its own form of ignorance.’
‘More like forgetfulness. After all, it’s not the gods that are important, it is the stepping outside of oneself that gifts a mortal with virtue-’
‘Kneel before Order? You blind fool-’
‘Order? I was speaking of compassion-’
‘Fine, then go ahead! Step outside yourself, Leandris! No, better yet. Step outside.’
‘Only the new one can do that, Cassa. And he’d better be quick about it.’
Twisting, Heboric managed to look down, to catch a glimpse of his left forearm, the wrist, the hand-that was not there. A god. A god has taken them. I was blind to that-the jade’s ghost hands made me blind to that-
He tilted his head back, as the screams and shrieks suddenly rose higher, deafening, mind-numbing. The world turned red, the red of blood-
Something tugged on his arms. Hard. Once. Twice.
Darkness.
Heboric opened his eyes. Saw above him the colourless canvas of his tent. The air was cold.
A barely human sound escaped him, and he rolled onto his side beneath the blankets, curling tight into a ball. Shivers thrummed through him.
A god. A god has found me. But which god?
It was night, perhaps only a bell from dawn. The camp outside was silent, barring the distant, sorrow-filled howls of desert wolves.
After a while, Heboric stirred once more. The dung fire was out. No lanterns had been lit. He drew aside the blankets and slowly sat up. Then stared down at his hands, disbelieving.
They remained ghostly, but the otataral was gone. The power of the jade remained, pulsing dully. Yet now there were slashes of black through it. Lurid-almost liquid-barbs banded the backs of his hands, then tracked upward, shifting angle as they continued up his forearms.
His tattoos had been transformed.
And, in this deepest darkness, he could see. Unhumanly sharp, every detail crisp as if it was day outside.
His head snapped round at a sound and a motion-but it was simply a rhizan, alighting light as a leaf on the tent roof. A rhizan? On the tent roof? Heboric’s stomach rumbled in sudden hunger.
He looked down at his tattoos once more. I have found a new god. Not that I was seeking one. And I know who. What.
Bitterness filled him. ‘In need of a Destriant, Treach? So you simply… took one. Stole from him his own life. Granted, not much of a life, but still, I owned it. Is this how you recruit followers? Servants? By the Abyss, Treach, you have a lot to learn about mortals.’
The anger faded. There had been gifts, after all. An exchange of sorts. He was no longer blind. Even more extraordinary, he could actually hear the sounds of neighbours sleeping in their tents and yurts.
And there, faint on the near-motionless air… the smell of… violence. But it was distant. The blood had been spilled some time earlier in the night. Some domestic dispute, probably. He would have to teach himself to filter out much of what his newly enlivened senses told him.
Heboric grunted under his breath, then scowled. ‘All right, Treach. It seems we both have some learning to do. But first… something to eat. And drink.’
When he rose from his sleeping mat, the motion was startlingly fluid, though it was some time before Heboric finally noted the absence of aches, twinges, and the dull throb of his joints.
He was far too busy filling his belly.
Forgotten, the mysteries of the jade giants, the innumerable imprisoned souls within them, the ragged wound in the Abyss.
Forgotten, as well, that faint blood-scented tremor of distant violence…
The burgeoning of some senses perforce took away from others. Leaving him blissfully unaware of his newfound singlemindedness. Two truths he had long known did not, for some time, emerge to trouble him.
No gifts were truly clean in the giving.
And nature ever strives for balance. But balance was not a simple notion. Redress was not simply found in the physical world. A far grimmer equilibrium had occurred… between the past and the present.
Felisin Younger’s eyes fluttered open. She had slept, but upon awakening discovered that the pain had not gone away, and the horror of what he had done to her remained as well, though it had grown strangely cold in her mind.
Into her limited range of vision, close to the sand, a serpent slipped into view directly in front of her face. Then she realized what had awoken her-there were more snakes, slithering over her body. Scores of them.
Toblakai’s glade. She remembered now. She had crawled here. And L’oric had found her, only to set off once again. To bring medicine, water, bedding, a tent. He had not yet returned.
Apart from the whispering slither of the snakes, the glade was silent. In this forest, the branches did not move. There were no leaves to flutter in the cool, faint wind. Dried blood in folds of skin stung as she slowly sat up. Sharp pains flared beneath her belly, and the raw wound where he had cut flesh away-there, between her legs-burned fiercely.
‘I shall bring this ritual to our people, child, when I am the Whirlwind’s High Priest. All girls shall know this, in my newly shaped world. The pain shall pass. All sensation shall pass. You are to feel nothing, for pleasure does not belong in the mortal realm. Pleasure is the darkest path, for it leads to the loss of control. And we mustn’t have that. Not among our women. Now, you shall join the rest, those I have already corrected… ’
Two such girls had arrived, then, bearing the cutting instruments. They had murmured encouragement to her, and words of welcome. Again and again, in pious tones, they had spoken of the virtues that came of the wounding. Propriety. Loyalty. A leavening of appetites, the withering of desire. All good things, they said to her. Passions were the curse of the world. Indeed, had it not been passions that had enticed her own mother away, that were responsible for her own abandonment? The lure of pleasure had stolen Felisin’s mother… away from the duties of motherhood…
Felisin leaned over and spat into the sand. But the taste of their words would not go away. It was not surprising that men could think such things, could do such things. But that women could as well… that was indeed a bitter thing to countenance.
But they were wrong. Walking the wrong trail. Oh, my mother abandoned me, but not for the embrace of some lover. No, it was Hood who embraced her.
Bidithal would be High Priest, would he? The fool. Sha’ik would find a place for him in her temple-or at least a place for his skull. A cup of bone to piss in, perhaps. And that time was not long in coming.
Still… too long. Bidithal takes girls into his arms every night. He makes an army, a legion of the wounded, the bereft. And they will be eager to share out their loss of pleasure. They are human, after all, and it is human nature to transform loss into a virtue. So that it might be lived with, so that it might be justified.
A glimmer of dull light distracted her, and she looked up. The carved faces in the trees around her were glowing. Bleeding grey, sorcerous light. Behind each there was… a presence. Toblakai’s gods. ‘Welcome, broken one.’ The voice was the sound of limestone boulders grinding together. ‘I am named Ber’ok. Vengeance swarms about you, with such power as to awaken us. We are not displeased with the summons, child.’
‘You are Toblakai’s god,’ she muttered. ‘You have nothing to do with me. Nor do I want you. Go away, Ber’ok. You and the rest-go away.’
‘We would ease your pain. I shall make of you my special… responsibility. You seek vengeance? Then you shall have it. The one who has damaged you would take the power of the desert goddess for himself. He would usurp the entire fragment of warren, and twist it into his own nightmare. Oh, child, though you might believe otherwise-now-the wounding is of no matter. The danger lies in Bidithal’s ambition. A knife must be driven into his heart. Would it please you to be that knife?’
She said nothing. There was no way to tell which of the carved faces belonged to Ber’ok, so she could only look from one to the next. A glance to the two fully rendered Toblakai warriors revealed that they possessed no emanation, were grey and lifeless in the pre-dawn darkness.
‘Serve us,’ Ber’ok murmured, ‘and we in turn shall serve you. Give us your answer quickly-someone comes.’
She noted the wavering lantern light on the trail. L’oric. ‘How?’ she asked the gods. ‘How will you serve me?’
‘We shall ensure that Bidithal’s death is in a manner to match his crimes, and that it shall be… timely.’
‘And how am I to be the knife?’
‘Child,’ the god calmly replied, ‘you already are.’