There are hints, if one scans the ground with a clear and sharp eye, that this ancient Jaghut war, which for the Kron T’lan Imass was either their seventeenth or eighteenth, went terribly awry. The Adept who accompanied our expedition evinced no doubt whatsoever that a Jaghut remained alive within the Laederon glacier. Terribly wounded, yet possessing formidable sorcery still. Well beyond the ice river’s reach (a reach which has been diminishing over time), there are shattered remains of T’lan Imass, the bones strangely malformed, and on them the flavour of fierce and deadly Omtose Phellack lingering to this day.
Of the ensorcelled stone weapons of the Kron, only those that were broken in the conflict remained, leading one to assume that either looters have been this way, or the T’lan Imass survivors (assuming there were any) took them with them…
The Nathii Expedition of 1012
‘I BELIEVE,’ DELUM SAID AS THEY LED THEIR HORSES DOWN FROM THE walkway, ‘that the last group of the hunt has turned back.’
‘The plague of cowardice ever spreads,’ Karsa growled. ‘They surmised at the very first,’ Bairoth rumbled, ‘that we were crossing their lands. That our first attack was not simply a raid. So, they will await our return, and will likely call upon the warriors of other villages.’
‘That does not concern me, Bairoth Gild.’
‘I know that, Karsa Orlong, for what part of this journey have you not already anticipated? Even so, two more Rathyd valleys lie before us. I would know. There will be villages-do we ride around them or do we collect still more trophies?’
‘We shall be burdened with too many trophies when we reach the lands of the lowlanders at Silver Lake,’ Delum commented.
Karsa laughed, then considered. ‘Bairoth Gild, we shall slip through these valleys like snakes in the night, until the very last village. I would still draw hunters after us, into the lands of the Sunyd.’ Delum had found a trail leading up the valley side. Karsa checked on the dog limping in their wake. Gnaw walked alongside it, and it occurred to Karsa that the three-legged beast might well keep its mate. He was pleased with his decision to not slay the wounded creature.
There was a chill in the air that confirmed their gradual climb to higher elevations. The Sunyd territory was higher still, leading to the eastern edge of the escarpment. Pahlk had told Karsa that but a single nass cut through the escarpment, marked by a torrential waterfall that fed into Silver Lake. The climb down was treacherous. Pahlk had named it Bone Pass.
The trail began to wind sinuously among winter-cracked boulders and treefalls. They could now see the summit, six hundred steep paces upward.
The warriors dismounted. Karsa strode back and lifted the three-legged dog into his arms. He set it down across Havok’s broad back and strapped it in place. The animal voiced no protest. Gnaw moved up to flank the destrier.
They resumed their journey.
The sun was bathing the slope in brilliant gold light by the time they had closed to within a hundred paces of the summit, reaching a broad ledge that seemed-through a sparse forest of straggly, wind-twisted oaks-to run the length of the valley side. Scanning the terrace’s sweep to his right, Delum voiced a grunt, then said, ‘I see a cave. There,’ he pointed, ‘behind those fallen trees, where the shelf bulges.’
Bairoth nodded and said, ‘It looks big enough to hold our horses. Karsa Orlong, if we are to begin riding at night…’
‘Agreed,’ Karsa said.
Delum led the way along the terrace. Gnaw scrambled past him, slowing upon nearing the cave mouth, then crouching down and edging forward.
The Uryd warriors paused, waiting to see if the dog’s hackles rose, thus signalling the presence of a grey bear or some other denizen. After a long moment, with Gnaw motionless and lying almost flat before the cave entrance, the beast finally rose and glanced back at the party, then trotted into the cave.
The fallen trees had provided a natural screen, hiding the cave from the valley below. There had been an overhang, but it had collapsed, perhaps beneath the weight of the trees, leaving a rough pile of rubble partially blocking the entrance.
Bairoth began clearing a path to lead the horses through. Delum and Karsa took Gnaw’s route into the cave.
Beyond the mound of tumbled stones and sand, the floor levelled out beneath a scatter of dried leaves. The setting sun’s light painted the back wall in patches of yellow, revealing an almost solid mass of carved glyphs. A small cairn of piled stones sat in the domed chamber’s centre. Gnaw was nowhere to be seen, but the dog’s tracks crossed the floor and vanished into an area of gloom near the back.
Delum stepped forward, his eyes on a single, oversized glyph directly opposite the entrance. ‘That Bloodsign is neither Rathyd nor Sunyd,’ he said.
‘But the words beneath it are Teblor,’ Karsa asserted. ‘The style is very…’ Delum frowned, ‘ornate.’ Karsa began reading aloud, ‘ “I led the families that survived. Down from the high lands. Through the broken veins that bled beneath the sun…” Broken veins?’
‘Ice,’ Delum said.
‘Bleeding beneath the sun, aye. “We were so few. Our blood was cloudy and would grow cloudier still. I saw the need to shatter what remained. For the T’lan Imass were still close and much agitated and inclined to continue their indiscriminate slaughter.’ ” Karsa scowled. ‘T’lan Imass? I do not know those two words.’
‘Nor I,’ Delum replied. ‘A rival tribe, perhaps. Read on, Karsa Orlong. Your eye is quicker than mine.’
‘ “And so I sundered husband from wife. Child from parent. Brother from sister. I fashioned new families and then sent them away. Each to a different place. I proclaimed the Laws of Isolation, as given us by Icarium whom we had once sheltered and whose heart grew vast with grief upon seeing what had become of us. The Laws of Isolation would be our salvation, clearing the blood and strengthening our children. To all who follow and to all who shall read these words, this is my justification-” ’
‘These words trouble me, Karsa Orlong.’
Karsa glanced back at Delum. ‘Why? They signify nothing of us. They are an elder’s ravings. Too many words-to have carved all these letters would have taken years, and only a madman would do such a thing. A madman, who was buried here, alone, driven out by his people-’
Delum’s gaze sharpened on Karsa. ‘Driven out? Yes, I believe you are correct, Warleader. Read more-let us hear his justification, and so judge for ourselves.’
Shrugging, Karsa returned his attention to the stone wall. ‘ “To survive, we must forget. So Icarium told us. Those things that we had come to, those things that softened us. We must abandon them. We must dismantle our…” I know not that word, “and shatter each and every stone, leaving no evidence of what we had been. We must burn our…” another word I do not know, “and leave naught but ash. We must forget our history and seek only our most ancient of legends. Legends that told of a time when we lived simply. In the forests. Hunting, culling fish from the rivers, raising horses. When our laws were those of the raider, the slayer, when all was measured by the sweep of a sword. Legends that spoke of feuds, of murders and rapes. We must return to those terrible times. To isolate our streams of blood, to weave new, smaller nets of kinship. New threads must be born of rape, for only with violence would they remain rare occurrences, and random. To cleanse our blood, we must forget all that we were, yet find what we had once been-” ’
‘Down here,’ Delum said, squatting. ‘Lower down. I recognize words. Read here, Karsa Orlong.’
‘It’s dark, Delum Thord, but I shall try. Ah, yes. These are… names. “I have given these new tribes names, the names given by my father for his sons.” And then a list. “Baryd, Sanyd, Phalyd, Urad, Gelad, Manyd, Rathyd and Lanyd. These, then, shall be the new tribes…” It grows too dark to read on, Delum Thord, nor,’ he added, fighting a sudden chill, ‘do I desire to. These thoughts are spider-bitten. Fever-twisted into lies.’
‘Phalyd and Lanyd are-’
Karsa straightened. ‘No more, Delum Thord.’
‘The name of Icarium has lived on in our-’
‘Enough!’ Karsa growled. ‘There is nothing of meaning here in these words!’
‘As you say, Karsa Orlong.’
Gnaw emerged from the gloom, where a darker fissure was now evident to the two Teblor warriors.
Delum nodded towards it. ‘The carver’s body lies within.’
‘Where he no doubt crawled to die,’ Karsa sneered. ‘Let us return to Bairoth. The horses can be sheltered here. We shall sleep outside.’
Both warriors turned and strode back to the cave mouth. Behind them, Gnaw stood beside the cairn a moment longer. The sun had left the wall, filling the cave with shadows. In the darkness, the dog’s eyes flickered.
Two nights later, they sat on their horses and looked down into the valley of the Sunyd. The plan to draw Rathyd pursuers after them had failed, for the last two villages they had come across had been long abandoned. The surrounding trails had been overgrown and rains had taken the charcoal from the firepits, leaving only red-rimmed black stains in the earth.
And now, across the entire breadth and length of the Sunyd valley, they could see no fires.
‘They have fled,’ Bairoth muttered.
‘But not from us,’ Delum replied, ‘if the Sunyd villages prove to be the same as those Rathyd ones. This is a flight long past.’ Bairoth grunted. ‘Where, then, have they gone?’ Shrugging, Karsa said, ‘There are Sunyd valleys north of this one. A dozen or more. And some to the south as well. Perhaps there has been a schism. It matters little to us, except that we shall gather no more trophies until we reach Silver Lake.’
Bairoth rolled his shoulders. ‘Warleader, when we reach Silver Lake, will our raid be beneath the wheel or the sun? With the valley before us empty, we could camp at night. These trails are unfamiliar, forcing us to go slowly in the dark.’
‘You speak the truth, Bairoth Gild. Our raid will be in daylight. Let us make our way down to the valley floor, then, and find us a place to camp.’
The wheel of stars had travelled a fourth of its journey by the time the Uryd warriors reached level ground and found a suitable campsite. Delum had, with the aid of the dogs, killed a half-dozen rock hares during the descent, which he now skinned and spit while Bairoth built a small fire.
Karsa saw to the horses, then joined his two companions at the hearth. They sat, waiting in silence for the meat to cook, the sweet smell and sizzle strangely unfamiliar after so many meals of raw food. Karsa felt a lassitude settle into his muscles, and only now realized how weary he had become.
The hares were ready. The three warriors ate in silence. ‘Delum has spoken,’ Bairoth said when they were done, ‘of the words written in the cave.’
Karsa shot Delum a glare. ‘Delum Thord spoke when he should not have. Within the cave, a madman’s ravings, nothing more.’
‘I have considered them,’ Bairoth persisted, ‘and I believe there is truth hidden within those ravings, Karsa Orlong.’
‘Pointless belief, Bairoth Gild.’
‘I think not, Warleader. The names of the tribes-I agree with Delum when he says there are, among them, the names of our tribes. “Urad” is far too close to Uryd to be accidental, especially when three of the other names are unchanged. Granted, one of those tribes has since vanished, but even our own legends whisper of a time when there were more tribes than there are now. And those two words that you did not know, Karsa Orlong. “Great villages” and “yellow bark”-’
‘Those were not the words!’
‘True enough, but that is the closest Delum could come to. Karsa Orlong, the hand that inscribed those words was from a place and time of sophistication, a place and a time where the Teblor language was, if anything, more complex than it is now.’
Karsa spat into the fire. ‘Bairoth Gild, if these be truths as you and Delum say, I still must ask: what value do they hold for us now? Are we a fallen people? That is not a revelation. Our legends all speak of an age of glory, long past, when a hundred heroes strode among the Teblor, heroes that would make even my own grandfather, Pahlk, seem but a child among men-’
Delum’s face in the firelight was deeply frowning as he cut in, ‘And this is what troubles me, Karsa Orlong. Those legends and their tales of glory-they describe an age little different from our own. Aye, more heroes, greater deeds, but essentially the same, in the manner of how we lived. Indeed, it often seems that the very point of those tales is one of instruction, a code of behaviour, the proper way of being a Teblor.’
Bairoth nodded. ‘And there, in those carved words in the cave, we are offered the explanation.’
‘A description of how we would be,’ Delum added. ‘No, of how we are.’
‘None of it matters,’ Karsa growled.
‘We were a defeated people,’ Delum continued, as if he hadn’t heard. ‘Reduced to a broken handful.’ He looked up, met Karsa’s eyes across the fire. ‘How many of our brothers and sisters who are given to the Faces in the Rock-how many of them were born flawed in some way? Too many fingers and toes, mouths with no palates, faces with no eyes. We’ve seen the same among our dogs and horses, Warleader. Defects come of inbreeding. That is a truth. The elder in the cave, he knew what threatened our people, so he fashioned a means of separating us, of slowly clearing our cloudy blood-and he was cast out as a betrayer of the Teblor. We were witness, in that cave, to an ancient crime-’
‘We are fallen,’ Bairoth said, then laughed.
Delum’s gaze snapped to him. ‘And what is it that you find so funny, Bairoth Gild?’
‘If I must needs explain, Delum Thord, then there is no point.’
Bairoth’s laughter had chilled Karsa. ‘You have both failed to grasp the true meaning of all this-’
Bairoth grunted, ‘The meaning you said did not exist, Karsa Orlong?’
‘The fallen know but one challenge,’ Karsa resumed. ‘And that is to rise once more. The Teblor were once few, once defeated. So be it. We are no longer few. Nor have we known defeat since that time. Who from the lowlands dares venture into our territories? The time has come, I now say, to face that challenge. The Teblor must rise once more.’
Bairoth sneered, ‘And who will lead us? Who will unite the tribes? I wonder.’
‘Hold,’ Delum rumbled, eyes glittering. ‘Bairoth Gild, from you I now hear unseemly envy. With what we three have done, with what our warleader has already achieved-tell me, Bairoth Gild, do the shadows of the ancient heroes still devour us whole? I say they do not. Karsa Orlong now walks among those heroes, and we walk with him.’
Bairoth slowly leaned back, stretching his legs out beside the hearth. ‘As you say, Delum Thord.’ The flickering light revealed a broad smile that seemed directed into the flames. ‘ “Who from the lowlands dares venture into our territories?” Karsa Orlong, we travel an empty valley. Empty of Teblor, aye. But what has driven them away? It may be that defeat stalks the formidable Teblor once more.’
There was a long moment when none of the three spoke, then Delum added another stick to the fire. ‘It may be,’ he said in a low voice, ‘that there are no heroes among the Sunyd.’
Bairoth laughed. ‘True. Among all the Teblor, there are but three heroes. Will that be enough, do you think?’
‘Three is better than two,’ Karsa snapped, ‘but if need be, two will suffice.’
‘I pray to the Seven, Karsa Orlong, that your mind ever remain free of doubt.’
Karsa realized that his hands had closed on the grip of his sword. ‘Ah, that’s your thought, then. The son of the father. Am I being accused of Synyg’s weakness?’
Bairoth studied Karsa, then slowly shook his head. ‘Your father is not weak, Karsa Orlong. If there are doubts to speak of here and now, they concern Pahlk and his heroic raid to Silver Lake.’
Karsa was on his feet, the bloodwood sword in his hands.
Bairoth made no move. ‘You do not see what I see,’ he said quietly. ‘There is the potential within you, Karsa Orlong, to be your father’s son. I lied earlier when I said I prayed that you would remain free of doubt. I pray for the very opposite, Warleader. I pray that doubt comes to you, that it tempers you with its wisdom. Those heroes in our legends, Karsa Orlong, they were terrible, they were monsters, for they were strangers to uncertainty.’
‘Stand before me, Bairoth Gild, for I will not kill you whilst your sword remains at your side.’
‘I will not, Karsa Orlong. The straw is on my back, and you are not my enemy.’
Delum moved forward with his hands full of earth, which he dropped onto the fire between the two other men. ‘It is late,’ he muttered, ‘and it may be as Bairoth suggests, that we are not as alone in this valley as we believe ourselves to be. At the very least, there may be watchers on the other side. Warleader, there have been only words this night. Let us leave the spilling of blood for our true enemies.’
Karsa remained standing, glaring down at Bairoth Gild. ‘Words,’ he growled. ‘Yes, and for the words he has spoken, Bairoth Gild must apologize.’
‘I, Bairoth Gild, beg forgiveness for my words. Now, Karsa Orlong, will you put away your sword?’
‘You are warned,’ Karsa said, ‘I will not be so easily appeased next time.’
‘I am warned.’
Grasses and saplings had reclaimed the Sunyd village. The trails leading to and from it had almost vanished beneath brambles, but here and there, among the stone foundations of the circular houses, the signs of fire and violence could be seen.
Delum dismounted and began poking about the ruins. It was only a few moments before he found the first bones.
Bairoth grunted. ‘A raiding party. One that left no survivors.’
Delum straightened with a splintered arrow shaft in his hands. ‘Lowlanders. The Sunyd keep few dogs, else they would not have been so unprepared.’
‘We now take upon ourselves,’ Karsa said, ‘not a raid, but a war. We journey to Silver Lake not as Uryd, but as Teblor. And we shall deliver vengeance.’ He dismounted and removed from the saddle pack four hard leather sheaths, which he began strapping onto Havok’s legs to protect the horse from the brambles. The other two warriors followed suit.
‘Lead us, Warleader,’ Delum said when he was done, swinging himself onto his destrier’s back.
Karsa collected the three-legged dog and laid it down once more behind Havok’s withers. He regained his seat and looked to Bairoth.
The burly warrior also remounted. His eyes were hooded as he met Karsa’s gaze. ‘Lead us, Warleader.’
‘We shall ride as fast as the land allows,’ Karsa said, drawing the three-legged dog onto his thighs. ‘Once beyond this valley, we head northward, then east once more. By tomorrow night we shall be close to Bone Pass, the southward wend that will take us to Silver Lake.’
‘And if we come across lowlanders on the way?’
‘Then, Bairoth Gild, we shall begin gathering trophies. But none must be allowed to escape, for our attack on the farm must come as a complete surprise, lest the children flee.’
They skirted the village until they came to a trail that led them into the forest. Beneath the trees there was less undergrowth, allowing them to ride at a slow canter. Before long, the trail began climbing the valley side. By dusk, they reached the summit. Horses steaming beneath them, the three warriors reined in.
They had come to the edge of the escarpment. To the north and east and still bathed in golden sunlight, the horizon was a jagged line of mountains, their peaks capped in snow with rivers of white stretching down their flanks. Directly before them, after a sheer drop of three hundred or more paces, lay a vast, forested basin.
‘I see no fires,’ Delum said, scanning the shadow-draped valley.
‘We must now skirt this edge, northward,’ Karsa said. ‘There are no trails breaking the cliffside here.’
‘The horses need rest,’ Delum said. ‘But we are highly visible here, Warleader.’
‘We shall walk them on, then,’ Karsa said, dismounting. When he set the three-legged dog onto the ground, Gnaw moved up alongside her. Karsa collected Havok’s single rein. A game trail followed the ridgeline along the top for another thirty paces before dropping slightly, sufficient to remove the silhouette they made against the sky.
They continued on until the wheel of stars had completed a fifth of its passage, whereupon they found a high-walled cul de sac just off the trail in which to make camp. Delum began preparing the meal while Bairoth rubbed down the horses.
Taking Gnaw and his mate with him, Karsa scouted the path ahead. Thus far, the only tracks they had seen were those from mountain goats and wild sheep. The ridge had begun a slow, broken descent, and he knew that, somewhere ahead, there would be a river carrying the run-off from the north range of mountains, and a waterfall cutting a notch into the escarpment’s cliffside.
Both dogs shied suddenly in the gloom, bumping into Karsa’s legs as they backed away from another dead-end to the left. Laying a hand down to calm Gnaw, he found the beast trembling. Karsa drew his sword. He sniffed the air, but could smell nothing awry, nor was there any sound from the dark-shrouded dead-end and Karsa was close enough to hear breathing had there been anyone hiding in it.
He edged forward.
A massive flat slab dominated the stone floor, leaving only a forearm’s space on the three sides where rose the rock walls. The surface of the slab was unadorned, but a faint grey light seemed to emanate from the stone itself. Karsa moved closer, then slowly crouched down before the lone, motionless hand jutting from the slab’s nearmost edge. It was gaunt, yet whole, the skin a milky blue-green, the nails chipped and ragged, the fingers patched in white dust.
Every space within reach of that hand was etched in grooves, cut deep into the stone floor-as deep as the fingers could reach-in a chaotic, cross-hatched pattern.
The hand, Karsa could see, was neither Teblor nor lowlander, but in size somewhere in between, the bones prominent, the fingers narrow and overlong and seeming to bear far too many joints.
Something of Karsa’s presence-his breath perhaps as he leaned close in his study-was sensed, for the hand spasmed suddenly, jerking down to lie flat, fingers spread, on the rock. And Karsa now saw the unmistakable signs that animals had attacked that hand in the past-mountain wolves and creatures yet fiercer. It had been chewed, clawed and gnawed at, though, it seemed, never broken. Motionless once more, it lay pressed against the ground.
Hearing footsteps behind him, Karsa rose and turned. Delum and Bairoth, weapons out, made their way up the trail. Karsa strode to meet them.
Bairoth rumbled, ‘Your two dogs came skulking back to us.’
‘What have you found, Warleader?’ Delum asked in a whisper.
‘A demon,’ he replied. ‘Pinned for eternity beneath that stone. It lives, still.’
‘The Forkassal.’
‘Even so. There is much truth in our legends, it seems.’
Bairoth moved past and approached the slab. He crouched down before the hand and studied it long in the gloom, then he straightened and strode back. ‘The Forkassal. The demon of the mountains, the One Who Sought Peace.’
‘In the time of the Spirit Wars, when our old gods were young,’ Delum said. ‘What, Karsa Orlong, do you recall of that tale? It was so brief, nothing more than torn pieces. The elders themselves admitted that most of it had been lost long ago, before the Seven awoke.’
‘Pieces,’ Karsa agreed. ‘The Spirit Wars were two, perhaps three invasions, and had little to do with the Teblor. Foreign gods and demons. Their battles shook the mountains, and then but one force remained-’
‘In those tales,’ Delum interjected, ‘are the only mention of Icarium. Karsa Orlong, it may be that the T’lan Imass-spoken of in that elder’s cave-belonged to the Spirit Wars, and that they were the victors, who then left never to return. It may be that it was the Spirit Wars that shattered our people.’
Bairoth’s gaze remained on the slab. Now he spoke. ‘The demon must be freed.’
Both Karsa and Delum turned to him, struck silent by the pronouncement.
‘Say nothing,’ Bairoth continued, ‘until I have finished. The Forkassal was said to have come to the place of the Spirit Wars, seeking to make peace between the contestants. That is one of the torn pieces of the tale. For the demon’s effort it was destroyed. That is another piece. Icarium too sought to end the war, but he arrived too late, and the victors knew they could not defeat him so they did not even try. A third piece. Delum Thord, the words in the cave also spoke of Icarium, yes?’
‘They did, Bairoth Gild. Icarium gave the Teblor the Laws that ensured our survival.’
‘Yet, were they able, the T’lan Imass would have laid a stone on him as well.’ After these words, Bairoth fell silent.
Karsa swung about and walked to the slab. Its luminescence was fitful in places, hinting of the sorcery’s antiquity, a slow dissolution of the power invested in it. Teblor elders worked magic, but only rarely. Since the awakening of the Faces in the Rock, sorcery arrived as a visitation, locked within the confines of sleep or trance. The old legends spoke of vicious displays of overt magic, of dread weapons tempered with curses, but Karsa suspected these were but elaborate inventions to weave bold colours into the tales. He scowled. ‘I have no understanding of this magic,’ he said.
Bairoth and Delum joined him.
The hand still lay flat, motionless.
‘I wonder if the demon can hear our words,’ Delum said.
Bairoth grunted. ‘Even if it could, why would it understand them? The lowlanders speak a different tongue. Demons must also have their own.’
‘Yet he came to make peace-’
‘He cannot hear us,’ Karsa asserted. ‘He can do no more than sense the presence of someone… of something.’
Shrugging, Bairoth crouched down beside the slab. He reached out, hesitated, then settled his palm against the stone. ‘It is neither hot nor cold. Its magic is not for us.’
‘It is not meant to ward, then, only hold,’ Delum suggested.
‘The three of us should be able to lift it.’
Karsa studied Bairoth. ‘What do you wish to awaken here, Bairoth Gild?’
The huge warrior looked up, eyes narrowing. Then his brows rose and he smiled. ‘A bringer of peace?’
‘There is no value in peace.’
‘There must be peace among the Teblor, or they shall never be united.’
Karsa cocked his head, considering Bairoth’s words.
‘This demon may have gone mad,’ Delum muttered. ‘How long, trapped beneath this rock?’
‘There are three of us,’ Bairoth said.
‘Yet this demon is from a time when we had been defeated, and if it was these T’lan Imass who imprisoned this demon, they did so because they could not kill him. Bairoth Gild, we three would be as nothing to this creature.’
‘We will have earned its gratitude.’
‘The fever of madness knows no friends.’
Both warriors looked to Karsa. ‘We cannot know the mind of a demon,’ he said. ‘But we can see one thing, and that is how it still seeks to protect itself. This lone hand has fended off all sorts of beasts. In that, I see a holding on to purpose.’
‘The patience of an immortal.’ Bairoth nodded. ‘I see the same as you, Karsa Orlong.’
Karsa faced Delum. ‘Delum Thord, do you still possess doubts?’
‘I do, Warleader, yet I will give your effort my strength, for I see the decision in your eyes. So be it.’
Without another word the three Uryd positioned themselves along one side of the stone slab. They squatted, hands reaching down to grip the edge.
‘With the fourth breath,’ Karsa instructed.
The stone lifted with a grinding, grating sound, a sifting of dust. A concerted heave sent it over, to crack against the rock wall.
The figure had been pinned on its side. The immense weight of the slab must have dislocated bones and crushed muscle, but it had not been enough to defeat the demon, for it had, over millennia, gouged out a rough, uneven pit for half the length of its narrow, strangely elongated body. The hand trapped beneath that body had clawed out a space for itself first, then had slowly worked grooves for hip and shoulder. Both feet, which were bare, had managed something similar. Spider webs and the dust of ground stone covered the figure like a dull grey shroud, and the stale air that rose from the space visibly swirled in its languid escape, heavy with a peculiar, insect-like stench.
The three warriors stood looking down on the demon.
It had yet to move, but they could see its strangeness even so. Elongated limbs, extra-jointed, the skin stretched taut and pallid as moonlight. A mass of blue-black hair spread out from the face-down head, like fine roots, forming a latticework across the stone floor. The demon was naked, and female.
The limbs spasmed.
Bairoth edged closer and spoke in a low, soothing tone. ‘You are freed, Demon. We are Teblor, of the Uryd tribe. If you will, we would help you. Tell us what you require.’
The limbs had ceased their spasming, and now but trembled. Slowly, the demon lifted her head. The hand that had known an eternity of darkness slipped free from under her body, probed out over the flat stone floor. The fingertips cut across strands of hair and those strands fell to dust. The hand settled in a way that matched its opposite. Muscles tautened along the arms, neck and shoulders, and the demon rose, in jagged, shaking increments. She shed hair in black sheets of dust until her pate was revealed, smooth and white.
Bairoth moved to take her weight but Karsa snapped a hand out to restrain him. ‘No, Bairoth Gild, she has known enough pressure that was not her own. I do not think she would be touched, not for a long time, perhaps never again.’
Bairoth’s hooded gaze fixed on Karsa for a long moment, then he sighed and said, ‘Karsa Orlong, I hear wisdom in your words. Again and again, you surprise me-no, I did not mean to insult. I am dragged towards admiration-leave me my edged words.’
Karsa shrugged, eyes returning once more to the demon. ‘We can only wait, now. Does a demon know thirst? Hunger? Hers is a throat that has not known water for generations, a stomach that has forgotten its purpose, lungs that have not drawn a full breath since the slab first settled. Fortunate it is night, too, for the sun might be as fire to her eyes-’ He stopped then, for the demon, on hands and knees, had raised her head and they could see her face for the first time.
Skin like polished marble, devoid of flaws, a broad brow over enormous midnight eyes that seemed dry and flat, like onyx beneath a layer of dust. High, flaring cheekbones, a wide mouth withered and crusted with fine crystals.
‘There is no water within her,’ Delum said. ‘None.’ He backed away, then set off for their camp.
The woman slowly sat back onto her haunches, then struggled to stand.
It was difficult to just watch, but both warriors held back, tensed to catch her should she fall.
It seemed she noticed that, and one side of her mouth curled upward a fraction.
That one twitch transformed her face, and, in response, Karsa felt a hammerblow in his chest. She mocks her own sorry condition. This, her first emotion upon being freed. Embarrassment, yet finding the humour within it. Hear me, Urugal the Woven, I will make the ones who imprisoned her regret their deed, should they or their descendants still live. These T’lan Imass-they have made of me an enemy. I, Karsa Orlong, so vow.
Delum returned with a waterskin, his steps slowing upon seeing her standing upright.
She was gaunt, her body a collection of planes and angles. Her breasts were high and far apart, her sternum prominent between them. She seemed to possess far too many ribs. In height, she was as a Teblor child.
She saw the waterskin in Delum’s hands, but made no gesture towards it. Instead, she turned to settle her gaze on the place where she had lain.
Karsa could see the rise and fall of her breath, but she was otherwise motionless.
Bairoth spoke. ‘Are you the Forkassal?’
She looked over at him and half-smiled once more.
‘We are Teblor,’ Bairoth continued, at which her smile broadened slightly in what was to Karsa clear recognition, though strangely flavoured with amusement.
‘She understands you,’ Karsa observed.
Delum approached with the waterskin. She glanced at him and shook her head. He stopped.
Karsa now saw that some of the dustiness was gone from her eyes, and that her lips were now slightly fuller. ‘She recovers,’ he said.
‘Freedom was all she needed,’ Bairoth said.
‘In the manner that sun-hardened lichen softens in the night,’ Karsa said. ‘Her thirst is quenched by the air itself-’
She faced him suddenly, her body stiffening. ‘If I have given cause for offence-’
Before Karsa drew another breath she was upon him. Five concussive blows to his body and he found himself lying on his back, the hard stone floor stinging as if he was lying on a nest of fire-ants. There was no air in his lungs. Agony thundered through him. He could not move. He heard Delum’s warcry-cut off with a strangled grunt-then the sound of another body striking the ground.
Bairoth cried out from one side, ‘Forkassal! Hold! Leave him-’ Karsa blinked up through tear-filled eyes as her face hovered above his. It moved closer, the eyes gleaming now like black pools, the lips full and almost purple in the starlight.
In a rasping voice she whispered to him in the language of the Teblor, ‘They will not leave you, will they? These once enemies of mine. It seems shattering their bones was not enough.’ Something in her eyes softened slightly. ‘Your kind deserve better.’ The face slowly withdrew. ‘I believe I must needs wait. Wait and see what comes of you, before I decide whether I shall deliver unto you, Warrior, my eternal peace.’ Bairoth’s voice from a dozen paces away: ‘Forkassal!’ She straightened and turned with extraordinary fluidity. ‘You have fallen far, to so twist the name of my kind, not to mention your own. I am Forkrul Assail, young warrior-not a demon. I am named Calm, a Bringer of Peace, and I warn you, the desire to deliver it is very strong in me at the moment, so remove your hand from that weapon.’
‘But we have freed you!’ Bairoth cried. ‘Yet you have struck Karsa and Delum down!’
She laughed. ‘And Icarium and those damned T’lan Imass will not be pleased that you undid their work. Then again, it is likely Icarium has no memory of having done so, and the T’lan Imass are far away. Well, I shall not give them a second chance. But I do know gratitude, Warrior, and so I give you this. The one named Karsa has been chosen. If I was to tell you even the little that I sense of his ultimate purpose, you would seek to kill him. But I tell you there would be no value in that, for the ones using him will simply select another. No. Watch this friend of yours. Guard him. There will come a time when he stands poised to change the world. And when that time comes, I shall be there. For I bring peace. When that moment arrives, cease guarding him. Step back, as you have done now.’
Karsa dragged a sobbing breath into his racked lungs. At a wave of nausea he twisted onto his side and vomited onto the gritty stone floor. Between his gasping and coughing, he heard the Forkrul Assail-the woman named Calm-stride away.
A moment later Bairoth knelt beside Karsa. ‘Delum is badly hurt, Warleader,’ he said. ‘There is liquid leaking from a crack in his head. Karsa Orlong, I regret freeing this… this creature. Delum had doubts. Yet he-’
Karsa coughed and spat, then, fighting waves of pain from his battered chest, he climbed to his feet. ‘You could not know, Bairoth Gild,’ he muttered, wiping the tears from his eyes.
‘Warleader, I did not draw my weapon. I did not seek to protect you as did Delum Thord-’
‘Which leaves one of us healthy,’ Karsa growled, staggering over to where Delum lay across the trail. He had been thrown some distance, by what looked to be a single blow. Slanting crossways across his forehead were four deep impressions, the skin split, yellowy liquid oozing from the punched-through bone underneath. Her fingertips. Delum’s eyes were wide, yet cloudy with confusion. Whole sections of his face had gone slack, as if no underlying thought could hold them to an expression.
Bairoth joined him. ‘See, the fluid is clear. It is thought-blood. Delum Thord will not come all the way back with such an injury.’
‘No,’ Karsa murmured, ‘he will not. None who lose thought-blood ever do.’
‘It is my fault.’
‘No, Delum made a mistake, Bairoth Gild. Am I killed? The Forkassal chose not to slay me. Delum should have done as you did-nothing.’
Bairoth winced. ‘She spoke to you, Karsa Orlong. I heard her whispering. What did she say?’
‘Little I could understand, except that the peace she brings is death.’
‘Our legends have twisted with time.’
‘They have, Bairoth Gild. Come, we must wrap Delum’s wounds. The thought-blood will gather in the bandages and dry, and so clot the holes. Perhaps it will not leak so much then and he will come some of the way back to us.’
The two warriors set off for their camp. When they arrived they found the dogs huddled together, racked with shivering. Through the centre of the clearing ran the tracks of Calm’s feet. Heading south.
A crisp, chill wind howled along the edge of the escarpment. Karsa Orlong sat with his back against the rock wall, watching Delum Thord move about on his hands and knees among the dogs. Reaching out and gathering the beasts close, to stroke and nuzzle. Soft, crooning sounds issued from Delum Thord, the smile never leaving the half of his face that still worked.
The dogs were hunters. They suffered the manhandling with miserable expressions that occasionally became fierce, low growls punctuated with warning snaps of their jaws-to which Delum Thord seemed indifferent.
Gnaw, lying at Karsa’s feet, tracked with sleepy eyes Delum’s random crawling about through the pack.
It had taken most of a day for Delum Thord to return to them, a journey that had left much of the warrior behind. Another day had passed whilst Karsa and Bairoth waited to see if more would come, enough to send light into his eyes, enough to gift Delum Thord with the ability to once more look upon his companions. But there had been no change. He did not see them at all. Only the dogs.
Bairoth had left earlier to hunt, but Karsa sensed, as the day stretched on, that Bairoth Gild had chosen to avoid the camp for other reasons. Freeing the demon had taken Delum from them, and it had been Bairoth’s words that had yielded a most bitter reward. Karsa had little understanding of such feelings, this need to self-inflict some sort of punishment. The error had belonged to Delum, drawing his blade against the demon. Karsa’s sore ribs attested to the Forkrul Assail’s martial prowess-she had attacked with impressive speed, faster than anything Karsa had seen before, much less faced. The three Teblor were as children before her. Delum should have seen that, instantly, should have stayed his hand as Bairoth had done.
Instead, the warrior had been foolish, and now he crawled among the dogs. The Faces in the Rock held no pity for foolish warriors, so why should Karsa Orlong? Bairoth Gild was indulging himself, making regret and pity and castigation into sweet nectars, leaving him to wander like a tortured drunk.
Karsa was fast running out of patience. The journey must be resumed. If anything could return Delum Thord to himself, then it would be battle, the blood’s fierce rage searing the soul awake.
Footsteps from uptrail. Gnaw’s head turned, but the distraction was only momentary.
Bairoth Gild strode into view, the carcass of a wild goat draped over one shoulder. He paused to study Delum Thord, then let the goat drop in a crunch and clatter of hoofs. He drew his butchering knife and knelt down beside it.
‘We have lost another day,’ Karsa said.
‘Game is scarce,’ Bairoth replied, slicing open the goat’s belly. The dogs moved into an expectant half-circle, Delum following to take his place among them. Bairoth cut through connecting tissues and began flinging blood-soaked organs to the beasts. None made a move.
Karsa tapped Gnaw on the flank and the beast rose and moved forward, trailed by its three-legged mate. Gnaw sniffed at the offerings, each in turn, and settled on the goat’s liver, while its mate chose the heart. They each trotted away with their prizes. The remaining dogs then closed in on what remained, snapping and bickering. Delum pounced forward to wrest a lung from the jaws of one of the dogs, baring his own teeth in challenge. He scrambled off to one side, hunching down over his prize.
Karsa watched as Gnaw rose and trotted towards Delum Thord, watched as Delum, whimpering, dropped the lung then crouched flat, head down, while Gnaw licked the pooling blood around the organ for a few moments, then padded back to its own meal.
Grunting, Karsa said, ‘Gnaw’s pack has grown by one.’ There was no reply and he glanced over to see Bairoth staring at Delum in horror. ‘See his smile, Bairoth Gild? Delum Thord has found happiness, and this tells us that he will come back no further, for why would he?’
Bairoth stared down at his bloodied hands, at the butchering knife gleaming red in the dying light. ‘Know you no grief, Warleader?’ he asked in a whisper.
‘No. He is not dead.’
‘Better he were!’ Bairoth snapped.
‘Then kill him.’
Raw hatred flared in Bairoth’s eyes. ‘Karsa Orlong, what did she say to you?’
Karsa frowned at the unexpected question, then shrugged. ‘She damned me for my ignorance. Words that could not wound me, for I was indifferent to all that she uttered.’
Bairoth’s eyes narrowed. ‘You make of what has happened a jest? Warleader, you no longer lead me. I shall not guard your flank in this cursed war of yours. We have lost too much-’
‘There is weakness in you, Bairoth Gild. I have known that all along. For years, I have known that. You are no different from what Delum has become, and it is this truth that now haunts you so. Did you truly believe we would all return from this journey without scars? Did you think us immune to our enemies?’
‘So you think-’
Karsa’s laugh was harsh. ‘You are a fool, Bairoth Gild. How did we come this far? Through Rathyd and Sunyd lands? Through the battles we have fought? Our victory was no gift of the Seven. Success was carved by our skill with swords, and by my leadership. Yet all you saw in me was bravado, as would come from a youth fresh to the ways of the warrior. You deluded yourself, and it gave you comfort. You are not my superior, Bairoth Gild, not in anything.’
Bairoth Gild stared, his eyes wide, his crimson hands trembling.
‘And now,’ Karsa growled, ‘if you would survive. Survive this journey. Survive me, then I suggest you teach yourself anew the value of following. Your life is in your leader’s hands. Follow me to victory, Bairoth Gild, or fall to the wayside. Either way, I will tell the tale with true words. Thus, how would you have it?’
Emotions flitted like wildfire across Bairoth’s broad, suddenly pale face. He drew a half-dozen tortured breaths.
‘I lead this pack,’ Karsa said quietly, ‘and none other. Do you challenge me?’
Bairoth slowly settled back on his haunches, shifting the grip on the butchering knife, his gaze settling, level now on Karsa’s own. ‘We have been lovers a long time, Dayliss and I. You knew nothing, even as we laughed at your clumsy efforts to court her. Every day you would strut between us, filled with bold words, always challenging me, always seeking to belittle me in her eyes. But we laughed inside, Dayliss and I, and spent the nights in each other’s arms. Karsa Orlong, it may be that you are the only one who will return to our village-indeed, I believe that you will make certain of it, so my life is as good as ended already, but I do not fear that. And when you return to the village, Warleader, you will make Dayliss your wife. But one truth shall remain with you until the end of your days, and that is: with Dayliss, it was not I who followed, but you. And there is nothing you can do to change that.’
Karsa slowly bared his teeth. ‘Dayliss? My wife? I think not. No, instead I shall denounce her to the tribe. To have lain with a man not her husband. She shall be shorn, and then I shall claim her-as my slave-’
Bairoth launched himself at Karsa, knife flashing through the gloom. His back to the stone wall, Karsa could only manage a sideways roll that gave him no time to find his feet before Bairoth was upon him, one arm wrapping about his neck, arching him back, the hard knife-blade scoring up his chest, point driving for his throat.
Then the dogs were upon them both, thundering, bone-jarring impacts, snarls, the clash of canines, teeth punching through leather.
Bairoth screamed, pulled away, arm releasing Karsa.
Rolling onto his back, Karsa saw the other warrior stumbling, dogs hanging by their jaws from both arms, Gnaw with his teeth sunk into Bairoth’s hip, other beasts flinging themselves forward, seeking yet more holds. Stumbling, then crashing to the ground.
‘Away!’ Karsa bellowed.
The dogs flinched, tore themselves free and backed off, still snarling. Off to one side, Karsa saw as he scrambled upright, crouched Delum, his face twisted into a wild smile, his eyes glittering, hands hanging low to the ground and spasmodically snatching at nothing. Then, his gaze travelling past Delum, Karsa stiffened. He hissed and the dogs fell perfectly silent.
Bairoth rolled onto his hands and knees, head lifting.
Karsa gestured, then pointed.
There was the flicker of torchlight on the trail ahead. Still a hundred or more paces distant, slowly nearing. With the way sound was trapped within the dead-end, it was unlikely the fighting had been heard.
Ignoring Bairoth, Karsa drew his sword and set off towards it. If Sunyd, then the ones who approached were displaying a carelessness that he intended to make fatal. More likely, they were lowlanders. He could see now, as he edged from shadow to shadow on the trail, that there were at least a half-dozen torches-a sizeable party, then. He could now hear voices, the foul tongue of the lowlanders.
Bairoth moved up alongside him. He had drawn his own sword. Blood dripped from puncture wounds on his arms, streamed down his hip. Karsa scowled at him, waved him back.
Grimacing, Bairoth withdrew.
The lowlanders had come to the cul de sac where the demon had been imprisoned. The play of torchlight danced on the high stone walls. The voices rose louder, edged with alarm.
Karsa slipped forward in silence until he was just beyond the pool of light. He saw nine lowlanders, gathered to examine the now-empty pit in the centre of the clearing. Two were well armoured and helmed, cradling heavy crossbows, longswords belted at their hips, positioned at the entrance to the cul de sac and watching the trail. Off to one side were four males dressed in earth-toned robes, their hair braided, pulled forward and knotted over their breastbones; none of these carried weapons.
The remaining three had the look of scouts, wearing tight-fitting leathers, armed with short bows and hunting knives. Clan tattoos spanned their brows. It was one of these who seemed to be in charge, for he spoke in hard tones, as if giving commands. The other two scouts were crouched down beside the pit, eyes studying the stone floor.
Both guards stood within the torchlight, leaving them effectively blind to the darkness beyond. Neither appeared particularly vigilant.
Karsa adjusted his grip on the bloodsword, his gaze fixed on the guard nearest him.
Then he charged.
Head flew from shoulders, blood fountaining. Karsa’s headlong rush carried him to where the other guard had been standing, to find the lowlander no longer there. Cursing, the Teblor pivoted, closed on the three scouts.
Who had already scattered, black-iron blades hissing from their sheaths.
Karsa laughed. There was little room beyond his reach in the high-walled cul de sac, and the only chance of escape would have to be through him.
One of the scouts shouted something then darted forward.
Karsa’s wooden sword chopped down, splitting tendon, then bone. The lowlander shrieked. Stepping past the crumpling figure, Karsa dragged his weapon free.
The remaining two scouts had moved away from each other and now attacked from the sides. Ignoring one-and feeling the broad-bladed hunting knife rip through his leather armour to score along his ribs-Karsa batted aside the other’s attack and, still laughing, crushed the lowlander’s skull with his sword. A back slash connected with the other scout, sent him flying to strike the stone wall.
The four robed figures awaited Karsa, evincing little fear, joined in a low chant.
The air sparkled strangely before them, then coruscating fire suddenly unfolded, swept forward to engulf Karsa.
It raged against him, a thousand clawed hands, tearing, raking, battering his body, his face and his eyes.
Karsa, shoulders hunching, walked through it.
The fire burst apart, flames fleeing into the night air. Shrugging the effects off with a soft growl, Karsa approached the four lowlanders.
Their expressions, calm and serene and confident a moment ago, now revealed disbelief that swiftly shifted to horror as Karsa’s sword ripped into them.
They died as easily as had the others, and moments later the Teblor stood amidst twitching bodies, blood gleaming dark on his sword’s blade. Torches lay on the stone floor here and there, fitfully throwing smoky light to dance against the cul de sac’s walls.
Bairoth Gild strode into view. ‘The second guard escaped up the trail, Warleader,’ he said. ‘The dogs now hunt.’
Karsa grunted.
‘Karsa Orlong, you have slain the first group of children. The trophies are yours.’
Reaching down, Karsa closed the fingers of one hand in the robes of one of the bodies at his feet. He straightened, lifting the corpse into the air, and studied its puny limbs, its small head with its peculiar braids. A face lined, as would be a Teblor’s after centuries upon centuries of life, yet the visage he stared down upon was scaled to that of a Teblor newborn.
‘They squealed like babes,’ Bairoth Gild said. ‘The tales are true, then. These lowlanders are like children indeed.’
‘Yet not,’ Karsa said, studying the aged face now slack in death.
‘They died easily.’
‘Aye, they did.’ Karsa flung the body away. ‘Bairoth Gild, these are our enemies. Do you follow your warleader?’
‘For this war, I shall,’ Bairoth replied. ‘Karsa Orlong, we shall speak no more of our… village. What lies between us must await our eventual return.’
‘Agreed.’
Two of the pack’s dogs did not return, and there was nothing of strutting victory in the gaits of Gnaw and the others as they padded back into the camp at dawn. Surprisingly, the lone guard had somehow escaped. Delum Thord, his arms wrapped about Gnaw’s mate-as they had been throughout the night-whimpered upon the pack’s return.
Bairoth shifted the supplies from his and Karsa’s destriers to Delum’s warhorse, for it was clear that Delum had lost all knowledge of riding. He would run with the dogs.
As they readied to depart, Bairoth said, ‘It may be that the guard came from Silver Lake. That he will bring to them warning words of our approach.’
‘We shall find him,’ Karsa growled from where he crouched, threading the last of his trophies onto the leather cord. ‘He could only have eluded the dogs by climbing, so there will be no swiftness to his flight. We shall seek sign of him. If he has continued on through the night, he will be tired. If not, he will be close.’ Straightening, Karsa held the string of severed ears and tongues out before him, studied the small, mangled objects for a moment longer, then looped his collection of trophies round his neck.
He swung himself onto Havok’s back, collected the lone rein.
Gnaw’s pack moved ahead to scout the trail, Delum among them, the three-legged dog cradled in his arms.
They set off.
Shortly before midday, they came upon signs of the last lowlander, thirty paces beyond the corpses of the two missing dogs-a crossbow quarrel buried in each one. A scattering of iron armour, straps and fittings. The guard had shed weight.
‘This child is a clever one,’ Bairoth Gild observed. ‘He will hear us before we see him, and will prepare an ambush.’ The warrior’s hooded gaze flicked to Delum. ‘More dogs will be slain.’
Karsa shook his head at Bairoth’s words. ‘He will not ambush us, for that will see him killed, and he knows it. Should we catch up with him, he will seek to hide. Evasion is his only hope, up the cliffside, and then we will have passed him, and so he will not succeed in reaching Silver Lake before us.’
‘We do not hunt him down?’ Bairoth asked in surprise.
‘No. We ride for Bone Pass.’
‘Then he shall trail us. Warleader, an enemy loose at our backs-’
‘A child. Those quarrels might well kill a dog, but they are as twigs to us Teblor. Our armour alone will take much of those small barbs-’
‘He has a sharp eye, Karsa Orlong, to slay two dogs in the dark. He will aim for where our armour does not cover us.’
Karsa shrugged. ‘Then we must outpace him beyond the pass.’
They continued on. The trail widened as it climbed, the entire escarpment pushing upward in its northward reach. Riding at a fast trot, they covered league after league until, by late afternoon, they found themselves entering clouds of mist, a deep roaring sound directly ahead.
The path dropped away suddenly.
Reining in amidst the milling dogs, Karsa dismounted.
The edge was sheer. Beyond it and on his left, a river had cut a notch a thousand paces or more deep into the cliffside, down to what must have been a ledge of some sort, over which it then plunged another thousand paces to a mist-shrouded valley floor. A dozen or more thread-thin waterfalls drifted out from both sides of the notch, issuing from fissures in the bedrock. The scene, Karsa realized after a moment, was all wrong. They had reached the highest part of the escarpment’s ridge. A river, cutting a natural route through to the lowlands, did not belong in this place. Stranger still, the flanking waterfalls poured out from riven cracks, not one level with another, as if the mountains on both sides were filled with water.
‘Karsa Orlong,’ Bairoth had to shout to be heard over the roar rising from far below, ‘someone-an ancient god, perhaps-has broken a mountain in half. That notch, it was not carved by water. No, it has the look of having been cut by a giant axe. And the wound… bleeds.’
Not replying to Bairoth’s words, Karsa turned about. Directly on his right, a winding, rocky path descended on their side of the cliff, a steep path of shale and scree, gleaming wet.
‘This is our way down?’ Bairoth stepped past Karsa, then swung an incredulous look upon the warleader. ‘We cannot! It will vanish beneath our feet! Beneath the hoofs of the horses! We shall descend indeed, like stones down a cliff side!’
Karsa crouched and pried a rock loose from the ground. He tossed it down the trail. Where it first struck, the shale shifted, trembled, then slid in a growing wave that quickly followed the bouncing rock, vanishing into the mists.
Revealing rough, broad steps.
Made entirely of bones.
‘It is as Pahlk said, ‘Karsa murmured, before turning to Bairoth. ‘Come, our path awaits.’
Bairoth’s eyes were hooded. ‘It does indeed, Karsa Orlong. Beneath our feet there shall be a truth.’
Karsa scowled. ‘This is our trail down from the mountains. Nothing more, Bairoth Gild.’
The warrior shrugged. ‘As you say, Warleader.’
Karsa in the lead, they began the descent.
The bones were lowlander in scale, yet heavier and thicker, hardened into stone. Here and there, antlers and tusks were visible, as well as artfully carved bone helms from larger beasts. An army had been slain, their bones then laid out, intricately fashioned into these grim steps. The mists had quickly laid down a layer of water, but each step was solid, broad and slightly angled back, the pitch reducing the risk of slipping. The Teblor’s pace was slowed only by the cautious descent of the destriers.
It seemed that the rockslide Karsa had triggered had cleared the way as far down as the massive shelf of stone where the river gathered before plunging over to the valley below. With the roaring tumble of water growing ever closer on their left and jagged, raw rock on their right, the warriors descended more than a thousand paces, and with each step the gloom deepened around them.
Pale, ghostly light broken by shreds of darker, opaque mists commanded the ledge that spread out on this side of the waterfall. The bones formed a level floor of sorts, abutting the rock wall to the right and appearing to continue on beneath the river that now roared, massive and monstrous, less than twenty paces away on their left.
The horses needed to rest. Karsa watched Bairoth make his way towards the river, then glanced over at Delum, who huddled now among Gnaw’s pack, wet and shivering. The faint glow emanating from the bones seemed to carry a breath unnaturally cold. On all sides, the scene was colourless, strangely dead. Even the river’s immense power felt lifeless.
Bairoth approached. ‘Warleader, these bones beneath us, they continue under the river to the other side. They are deep, almost my height where I could see. Tens of thousands have died to make this. Tens of tens. This entire shelf-’
‘Bairoth Gild, we have rested long enough. There are stones coming down from above-either the guard descends, or there will be another slide to bury what we have revealed. There must be many such slides, for the lowlanders used this on the way up, and that could not have been more than a few days ago. Yet we arrived to find it buried once more.’
Sudden unease flickered through Bairoth’s expression, and he glanced over to where small stones of shale pattered down from the trail above. There were more now than there had been a moment ago.
They gathered the horses once more and approached the shelf’s edge. The descent before them was too steep to hold a slide, the steps switch-backing for as far down as the Teblor could see. The horses balked before it.
‘Karsa Orlong, we shall be very vulnerable on that path.’
‘We have been so all along, Bairoth Gild. That lowlander behind us has already missed his greatest opportunity. That is why I believe we have outdistanced him, and that the stones we see falling from above portend another slide and nothing more.’ With that Karsa coaxed Havok forward onto the first step.
Thirty paces down they heard a faint roar from above, a sound deeper in timbre than the river. A hail of stones swept over them, but at some distance out from the cliff wall. Muddy rain followed for a short time thereafter.
They continued on, until weariness settled into their limbs. The mists might have lightened for a time, but perhaps it was nothing more than their eyes growing accustomed to the gloom. The wheels of sun and stars passed unseen and unseeing over them. The only means of measuring time was through hunger and exhaustion. There would be no stopping until the descent was complete. Karsa had lost count of the switchbacks; what he had imagined to be a thousand paces was proving to be far more. Beside them, the river continued its fall, nothing but mists now, a hissing deluge bitter cold, spreading out to blind them to the valley below and the skies above. Their world had narrowed to the endless bones under their moccasins and the sheer wall of the cliff.
They reached another shelf and the bones were gone, buried beneath squelching, sodden mud and snarled bundles of vivid green grasses. Fallen tree branches cloaked in mosses littered the area. Mists hid all else.
The horses tossed their heads as they were led, finally, onto level ground. Delum and the dogs settled down into a clump of wet fur and skin. Bairoth stumbled close to Karsa. ‘Warleader, I am distraught.’
Karsa frowned. His legs were trembling beneath him, and he could not keep the shivering from his muscles. ‘Why, Bairoth Gild? We are done. We have descended Bone Pass.’
‘Aye.’ Bairoth coughed, then said, ‘And before long we will come to this place again-to climb.’
Karsa slowly nodded. ‘I have thought on this, Bairoth Gild. The lowlands sweep around our plateau. There are other passes, directly south of our own Uryd lands-there must be, else lowlanders would never have appeared among us. Our return journey will take us along the edge, westward, and we shall find those hidden passes.’
‘Through lowlander territories the entire way! We are but two, Karsa Orlong! A raid upon the farm at Silver Lake is one thing, but to wage war against an entire tribe is madness! We will be hunted and pursued the entire way-it cannot be done!’
‘Hunted and pursued?’ Karsa laughed. ‘What is new in that? Come, Bairoth Gild, we must find somewhere dry, away from this river. I see treetops, there, to the left. We shall make ourselves a fire, we shall rediscover what it is like to be warm, our bellies full.’
The ledge’s slope led gently down a scree mostly buried beneath mosses, lichens and rich, dark soil, beyond which waited a forest of ancient redwoods and cedars. The sky overhead revealed a patch of blue, and shafts of sunlight were visible here and there. Once within the wood, the mists thinned to a musty dampness, smelling of rotting treefalls. The warriors continued on another fifty paces, until they found a sunlit stretch where a diseased cedar had collapsed some time past. Butterflies danced in the golden air and the soft crunch of pine-borers was a steady cadence on all sides. The huge, upright root-mat of the cedar had left a bare patch of bedrock where the tree had once stood. The rock was dry and in full sunlight.
Karsa began unstrapping supplies while Bairoth set off to collect deadwood from the fallen cedar. Delum found a mossy patch warmed by the sun and curled up to sleep. Karsa considered removing the man’s sodden clothes, then, seeing the rest of the pack gather around Delum, he simply shrugged and resumed unburdening the horses.
A short while later, their clothes hanging from roots close to the fire, the two warriors sat naked on the bedrock, the chill slowly yielding from muscle and bone.
‘At the far end of this valley,’ Karsa said, ‘the river widens, forming a flat before reaching the lake. The side we are now on becomes the south side of the river. There will be a spar of rock near the mouth, blocking our view to the right. Immediately beyond it, on the lake’s southwest shore, stands the lowlander farm. We are very nearly there, Bairoth Gild.’
The warrior on the other side of the hearth rolled his shoulders. ‘Tell me we shall attack in daylight, Warleader. I have found a deep hatred for darkness. Bone Pass has shrivelled my heart.’
‘Daylight it shall be, Bairoth Gild,’ Karsa replied, choosing to ignore Bairoth’s last confession, for its words had trembled something within him, leaving a sour taste in his mouth. ‘The children will be working in the fields, unable to reach the stronghold of the farmhouse in time. They will see us charging down upon them, and know terror and despair.’
‘This pleases me, Warleader.’
The redwood and cedar forest cloaked the entire valley, showing no evidence of clearing or logging. There was little game to be found beneath the thick canopy, and days passed in a diffuse gloom relieved only by the occasional treefall. The Teblor’s supply of food quickly dwindled, the horses growing leaner on a diet of blueleaf, cullan moss and bitter vine, the dogs taking to eating rotten wood, berries and beetles.
Midway through the fourth day, the valley narrowed, forcing them ever closer to the river. Travelling through the deep forest, away from the lone trail running alongside the river, the Teblor had ensured that they would remain undiscovered, but now, finally, they were nearing Silver Lake.
They arrived at the river mouth at dusk, the wheel of stars awakening in the sky above them. The trail flanking the river’s boulder-strewn bank had seen recent passage, leading northwestward, but no sign of anyone’s returning. The air was crisp above the river’s rushing water. A broad fan of sand and gravel formed a driftwood-cluttered island where the river opened out into the lake. Mists hung over the water, making the lake’s far north and east shores hazy. The mountains reached down on those distant shores, kneeling in the breeze-rippled waves.
Karsa and Bairoth dismounted and began preparing their camp, though on this night there would be no cookfire.
‘Those tracks,’ Bairoth said after a time, ‘they belong to the lowlanders you killed. I wonder what they’d intended on doing in the place where the demon was imprisoned.’
Karsa’s shrug was dismissive. ‘Perhaps they’d planned on freeing her.’
‘I think not, Karsa Orlong. The sorcery they used to assail you was god-aspected. I believe they came to worship, or perhaps the demon’s soul could be drawn out from the flesh, in the manner of the Faces in the Rock. Perhaps, for the lowlanders, it was the site of an oracle, or even the home of their god.’
Karsa studied his companion for a long moment, then said, ‘Bairoth Gild, there is poison in your words. That demon was not a god. It was a prisoner of the stone. The Faces in the Rock are true gods. There is no comparison to be made.’
Bairoth’s heavy brows rose. ‘Karsa Orlong, I make no comparison. The lowlanders are foolish creatures, whilst the Teblor are not. The lowlanders are children and are susceptible to self-deception. Why would they not worship that demon? Tell me, did you sense a living presence in that sorcery when it struck you?’
Karsa considered. ‘There was… something. Scratching and hissing and spitting. I flung it away and it then fled. So, it was not the demon’s own power.’
‘No, it wasn’t, for she was gone. Perhaps they worshipped the stone that had pinned her down-there was magic in that as well.’
‘But not living, Bairoth Gild. I do not understand the track of your thoughts, and I grow tired of these pointless words.’
‘I believe,’ Bairoth persisted, ‘that the bones of Bone Pass belong to the people who imprisoned the demon. And this is what troubles me, Karsa Orlong, for those bones are much like the lowlanders’-thicker, yes, but still childlike. Indeed, it may be that the lowlanders are kin to that ancient people.’
‘What of it?’ Karsa rose. ‘I will hear no more of this. Our only task now is to rest, then rise with the dawn and prepare our weapons. Tomorrow, we slay children.’ He strode to where the horses stood beneath the trees. Delum sat nearby amidst the dogs, Gnaw’s three-legged mate cradled in his arms. One hand stroked the beast’s head in mindless repetition. Karsa stared at Delum for a moment longer, then turned away to prepare his bedding.
The river’s passage was the only sound as the wheel of stars slowly crossed the sky. At some point in the night the breeze shifted, carrying with it the smell of woodsmoke and livestock and, once, the faint bark of a dog. Lying awake on his bed of moss, Karsa prayed to Urugal that the wind would not turn with the sun’s rise. There were always dogs on lowlander farms, kept for the same reason as Teblor kept dogs. Sharp ears and sensitive noses, quick to announce strangers. But these would be lowlander breeds-smaller than those of the Teblor. Gnaw and his pack would make short work of them. And there would be no warning… so long as the wind did not shift.
He heard Bairoth rise and make his way over to where the pack slept.
Karsa glanced over to see Bairoth crouched down beside Delum. Dogs had lifted their heads questioningly and were now watching as Bairoth stroked Delum’s upturned face.
It was a moment before Karsa realized what he was witnessing. Bairoth was painting Delum’s face in the battle-mask, black, grey and white, the shades of the Uryd. The battle-mask was reserved for warriors who knowingly rode to their deaths; it was an announcement that the sword would never again be sheathed. But it was a ritual that belonged, traditionally, to ageing warriors who had elected to set forth on a final raid, and thus avoid dying with straw on their backs. Karsa rose.
If Bairoth heard his approach, he gave no sign. There were tears running down the huge warrior’s broad, blunt face, whilst Delum, lying perfectly still, stared up at him with wide, unblinking eyes.
‘He does not comprehend,’ Karsa growled, ‘but I do. Bairoth Gild, you dishonour every Uryd warrior who has worn the battle-mask.’
‘Do I, Karsa Orlong? Those warriors grown old, setting out for a final fight-there is nothing of glory in their deed, nothing of glory in their battle-mask. You are blind if you think otherwise. The paint hides nothing-the desperation remains undisguised in their eyes. They come to the ends of their lives, and have found that those lives were without meaning. It is that knowledge that drives them from the village, drives them out to seek a quick death.’ Bairoth finished with the black paint and now moved on to the white, spreading it with three fingers across Delum’s wide brow. ‘Look into our friend’s eyes, Karsa Orlong. Look closely.’
‘I see nothing,’ Karsa muttered, shaken by Bairoth’s words.
‘Delum sees the same, Warleader. He stares at… nothing. Unlike you, however, he does not turn away from it. Instead, he sees with complete comprehension. Sees, and is terrified.’
‘You speak nonsense, Bairoth Gild.’
‘I do not. You and I, we are Teblor. We are warriors. We can offer Delum no comfort, and so he holds on to that dog, the beast with misery in its eyes. For comfort is what he seeks, now. It is, indeed, all he seeks. Why do I gift him the battle-mask? He will die this day, Karsa Orlong, and perhaps that will be comfort enough for Delum Thord. I pray to Urugal that it be so.’
Karsa glanced skyward. ‘The wheel is nearly done. We must ready ourselves.’
‘I am almost finished, Warleader.’
The horses stirred as Karsa rubbed blood-oil into his sword’s wooden blade. The dogs were on their feet now, pacing restlessly. Bairoth completed his painting of Delum’s face and headed off to attend to his own weapons. The three-legged dog struggled in Delum’s arms, but he simply held the beast all the tighter, until a soft growl from Gnaw made the whimpering warrior release it.
Karsa strapped the boiled leather armour onto Havok’s chest, neck and legs. When he was done, he turned to see Bairoth already astride his own horse. Delum’s destrier had also been armoured, but it stood without a rein. The animals were trembling.
‘Warleader, your grandfather’s descriptions have been unerring thus far. Tell me of the farmstead’s layout.’
‘A log house the size of two Uryd houses, with an upper floor beneath a steep roof. Heavy shutters with arrow-slits, a thick, quickly barred door at the front and at the back. There are three outbuildings; the one nearest the house and sharing one wall holds the livestock. Another is a forge, whilst the last one is of sod and likely was the first home before the log house was built. There is a landing on the lakeshore as well, and mooring poles. There will be a corral for the small lowlander horses.’
Bairoth was frowning. ‘Warleader, how many lowlander generations have passed since Pahlk’s raid?’
Karsa swung himself onto Havok’s back. He shrugged in answer to Bairoth’s question. ‘Enough. Are you ready, Bairoth Gild?’
‘Lead me, Warleader.’
Karsa guided Havok onto the trail beside the river. The mouth was on his left. To the right rose a high, raw mass of rock, treed on top, leaning out towards the lakeshore. A wide strand of round-stoned beach wound between the pinnacle and the lake.
The wind had not changed. The air smelled of smoke and manure. The farm’s dogs were silent.
Karsa drew his sword, angled the glistening blade near Havok’s nostrils. The destrier’s head lifted. Trot to canter, onto the pebbled beach, lake on the left, rock wall sliding past to the right. Behind him, he heard Bairoth’s horse, hoofs crashing down into the stones, and, further back, the dogs, Delum and his horse, the latter lagging to stay alongside its once-master.
Once clear of the pinnacle, they would shift hard right, and in moments be upon the unsuspecting children of the farm.
Canter to gallop.
Rock wall vanishing, flat, planted fields.
Gallop into charge.
The farm-smoke-blackened ruins barely visible through tall corn plants-and, just beyond it, sprawled all along the lake’s shore and back, all the way to the foot of a mountain, a town.
Tall, stone buildings, stone piers and wood-planked docks and boats crowding the lake’s edge. A wall of stones enclosing most of the structures inland, perhaps the height of a full-grown lowlander. A main road, a gate flanked by squat, flat-topped towers. Woodsmoke drifting in a layer above the slate rooftops. Figures on those towers.
More lowlanders-more than could be counted-all scurrying about now, as a bell started clanging. Running towards the gate from the cornfields, farming implements tossed aside.
Bairoth was bellowing something behind Karsa. Not a warcry. A voice pitched with alarm. Karsa ignored it, already closing in on the first of the farmers. He would take a few in passing, but not slacken his pace. Leave these children to the pack. He wanted the ones in the town, cowering behind the now-closing gate, behind the puny walls.
Sword flashed, taking off the back of a farmer’s head. Havok ran down another, trampling the shrieking woman under his hoofs. The gate boomed as it shut.
Karsa angled Havok to the left of it, eyes on the wall as he leaned forward. A crossbow quarrel flitted past, striking the furrowed ground ten paces to his right. Another whistled over his head.
No lowlander horse could clear this wall, but Havok stood at twenty-six hands-almost twice the height and mass of the lowlander breeds-and, muscles bunching, legs gathering, the huge destrier leapt, sailing over the wall effortlessly.
To crash, front hoofs first, onto the sloped roof of a shack. Slate tiles exploded, wood beams snapped. The small structure collapsed beneath them, chickens scattering, as Havok stumbled, legs clawing for purchase, then surged forward onto the muddy cart ruts of the street beyond.
Another building, this one stone-walled, reared up before them. Havok slewed to the right. A figure suddenly appeared at the building’s entrance, a round face, eyes wide. Karsa’s crossover chop split the lowlander’s skull where he stood just beyond the threshold, spinning him in place before his legs folded beneath him.
Hoofs pounding, Havok swept Karsa down the street towards’ the gate. He could hear slaughter in the fields and the road beyond-most of the workers had been trapped outside the town, it seemed. A dozen guards had succeeded in dropping a bar and had begun fanning out to take defensive positions when the warleader burst upon them.
Iron helm crunched, was torn from the dying child’s head as if biting at the blade as it was dragged free. A back-handed slash separated another child’s arm and shoulder from his body. Trampling a third guard, Havok pivoted, flinging his hindquarters around to strike a fourth child, sending him flying to crash up against the gate, sword spinning away.
A longsword-its blade as puny as a long knife’s to Karsa’s eyes-struck his leather-armoured thigh, cutting through two, perhaps three of the hardened layers, before bouncing away. Karsa drove his sword’s pommel into the lowlander’s face, felt bone crack. A kick sent the child reeling. Figures were scattering in panic from his path. Laughing, Karsa drove Havok forward.
He cut down another guard, whilst the others raced down the street.
Something punched the Teblor’s back, then a brief, stinging blossom of pain. Reaching over, Karsa dragged the quarrel free and flung it away. He dropped down from the horse, eyes on the barred gate. Metal latches had been locked over the bar, holding the thick plank in place.
Taking three strides back, Karsa lowered one shoulder, then charged it.
The iron pins holding the hinges between blocks of mortared stone burst free with the impact, sending the entire gate toppling outward. The tower on Karsa’s right groaned and sagged suddenly. Voices cried out inside it. The stone wall began to fold.
Cursing, the Teblor scrambled back towards the street as the entire tower collapsed in an explosion of dust.
Through the swirling white cloud, Bairoth rode, threads of blood and gore whipping from his bloodsword, his mount leaping to clear the rubble. The dogs followed, and with them Delum and his horse. Blood smeared Delum Thord’s mouth, and Karsa realized, with a faint ripple of shock, that the warrior had torn out a farmer’s throat with his own teeth, as would a dog.
Hoofs spraying mud, Bairoth reined in.
Karsa swung himself back onto Havok, twisted the destrier round to face down the street.
A square of pikemen approached at a trot, their long-poled weapons wavering, iron blades glinting in the morning light. They were still thirty paces distant.
A quarrel glanced off the rump of Bairoth’s horse, coming from a nearby upper floor window.
From somewhere outside the wall came the sound of galloping horses.
Bairoth grunted. ‘Our withdrawal shall be contested, Warleader.’
‘Withdrawal?’ Karsa laughed. He jutted his chin towards the advancing pikemen. ‘There can be no more than thirty, and children with long spears are still children, Bairoth Gild. Come, let us scatter them!’
With a curse, Bairoth unlimbered his bear skull bolas. ‘Precede me, then, Karsa Orlong, to hide my preparation.’
Baring his teeth in fierce pleasure, Karsa urged Havok forward. The dogs fanned out to either side, Delum positioning himself on the war-leader’s far right.
Ahead, the pikes slowly lowered, hovering at chest height as the square halted to plant their weapons.
Upper floor windows on the street opened then, and faces appeared, looking down to witness what would come.
‘Urugal!’ Karsa bellowed as he drove Havok into a charge. ‘Witness!’ Behind him he heard Bairoth riding just as hard, and within that clash of sounds rose the whirring flow of the grey bear skull, round and round, and round again.
Ten paces from the readied pikes, and Bairoth roared. Karsa ducked low, pitching Havok to the left even as he slowed the beast’s savage charge.
Something massive and hissing whipped past him, and Karsa twisted to see the huge bolas strike the square of soldiers.
Deadly chaos. Three of the five rows on the ground. Piercing screams.
Then the dogs were among them, followed by Delum’s horse.
Wheeling his destrier once again, Karsa closed on the shattered square, arriving in time to be alongside Bairoth as the two Teblor rode into the press. Batting aside the occasional, floundering pike, they slaughtered the children the dogs had not already taken down, in the passage of twenty heartbeats.
‘Warleader!’
Dragging his bloodsword from the last victim, Karsa turned at Bairoth’s bellow.
Another square of soldiers, this time flanked by crossbowmen. Fifty, perhaps sixty in all, at the street’s far end.
Scowling, Karsa glanced back towards the gate. Twenty mounted children, heavily armoured in plate and chain, were slowly emerging through the dust; more on foot, some armed with short bows, others with double-bladed axes, swords or javelins.
‘Lead me, Warleader!’
Karsa glared at Bairoth. ‘And so I shall, Bairoth Gild!’ He swung Havok about. ‘This side passage, down to the shoreline-we shall ride around our pursuers. Tell me, Bairoth Gild, have we slain enough children for you?’
‘Aye, Karsa Orlong.’
‘Then follow!’
The side passage was a street almost as wide as the main one, and it led straight down to the lake. Dwellings, trader stores and warehouses lined it. Shadowy figures were visible in windows, in doorways and at alley mouths as the Teblor raiders thundered past. The street ended twenty paces before the shoreline. The intervening space, through which a wide, wood-planked loadway ran down to the docks and piers, was filled with heaps of detritus, dominant among them a huge pile of bleached bones, from which poles rose, skulls affixed to their tops.
Teblor skulls.
Amidst this stretch of rubbish, squalid huts and tents filled every clear patch, and scores of children had emerged from them, bristling with weapons, their rough clothing bedecked with Teblor charms and scalps, their hard eyes watching the warriors approach as they began readying long-handled axes, two-handed swords, thick-shafted halberds, whilst yet others strung robust, recurved bows and nocked over-long, barbed arrows-which they began to draw, taking swift aim.
Bairoth’s roar was half horror, half rage as he sent his destrier charging towards these silent, deadly children.
Arrows flashed.
Bairoth’s horse screamed, stumbled, then crashed to the ground. Bairoth tumbled, his sword spinning away through the air as he struck, then broke through, a sapling-walled hut.
More arrows flew.
Karsa shifted Havok sharply, watched an arrow hiss past his thigh, then he was among the first of the lowlanders. Bloodsword clashed against an axe’s bronze-sheathed shaft, the impact tearing the weapon from the man’s hands. Karsa’s left hand shot out to intercept another axe as it swung towards Havok’s head. He plucked it from the man, sent it flying, then lunged forward the same hand to take the lowlander by the neck, lifting him clear as they continued on. A single, bone-crunching squeeze left the head lolling, the body twitching and spilling piss. Karsa flung the corpse away.
Havok’s onward plunge was brought to a sudden halt. The destrier shrieked, slewed to one side, blood gushing from its mouth and nostrils, dragging with it a heavy pike, its iron head buried deep in the horse’s chest.
The beast stumbled, then, with a drunken weave, it began toppling.
Karsa, screaming his fury, launched himself from the dying destrier’s back. A sword point rose to meet him, but Karsa batted it aside. He landed atop at least three tumbling bodies, hearing bones snap beneath him as he rolled his way clear.
Then he was on his feet, bloodsword slashing across the face of a lowlander, ripping black-bearded jaw from skull. An edged weapon scored deep across his back. Spinning, Karsa swung his blade under the attacker’s outstretched arms, chopped deep between ribs, jamming at the breastbone.
He tugged fiercely, tearing his sword free, the dying lowlander’s body cartwheeling past him.
Heavy weapons, many of them bearing knotted Teblor fetishes, surrounded him, each striving to drink Uryd blood. They fouled each other as often as not, yet Karsa was hard-pressed blocking the others as he fought his way clear. He killed two of his attackers in the process.
Now he heard another fight, nearby, from where Bairoth had crashed into the hut, and, here and there, the snap and snarl of the dogs.
His attackers had been silent until a moment ago. Now, all were screaming in their gibbering tongue, their faces filled with alarm, as Karsa wheeled once more and, seeing more than a dozen before him, attacked. They scattered, revealing a half-crescent line of lowlanders with bows and crossbows.
Strings thrummed.
Searing pain along Karsa’s neck, twin punches to his chest, another against his right thigh. Ignoring them all, the warleader charged the half-crescent.
More shouts, sudden pursuit from the ones who had scattered, but it was too late for that. Karsa’s sword was a blur as he cut into the archers. Figures turning to run. Dying, spinning away in floods of blood. Skulls shattering. Karsa carved his way down the line, and left a trail of eight figures, some writhing and others still, behind him, by the time the first set of attackers reached him. He pivoted to meet them, laughing at the alarm in their tiny, wizened, dirt-smeared faces, then he lunged into their midst once more.
They broke. Flinging weapons away, stumbling and scrambling in their panic. Karsa killed one after another, until there were no more within reach of his bloodsword. He straightened, then.
Where Bairoth had been fighting, seven lowlander bodies lay in a rough circle, but of the Teblor warrior there was no sign. The screams of a dog continued from further up the street, and Karsa ran towards the sound.
He passed the quarrel-studded corpses of the rest of the pack, though he did not see Gnaw among them. They had killed a number of lowlanders before they had finally fallen. Looking up, he saw, thirty paces down the street, Delum Thord, near him his fallen horse, and, another fifteen paces beyond, a knot of villagers.
Delum was shrieking. He had taken a dozen or more quarrels and arrows, and a javelin had been thrust right through his torso, just above the left hip. He had left a winding trail of blood behind him, yet still he crawled forward-to where the villagers surrounded the three-legged dog, beating it to death with walking sticks, hoes and shovels.
Wailing, Delum dragged himself on, the javelin scraping alongside him, blood streaming down the shaft.
Even as Karsa began to run forward, a figure raced out from an alley mouth, coming up slightly behind Delum, a long-handled shovel in its hands. Lifting high.
Karsa screamed a warning.
Delum did not so much as turn, his eyes fixed on the now-dead three-legged dog, as the shovel struck the back of his head.
There was a loud crunch. The shovel pulled away, revealing a flat patch of shattered bone and twisted hair.
Delum toppled forward, and did not move.
His slayer spun at Karsa’s charge. An old man, his toothless mouth opening wide in sudden terror.
Karsa’s downward chop cut the man in half down to the hips.
Tearing his bloodsword free, the warleader plunged on, towards the dozen or so villagers still gathered around the pulped corpse of the three-legged dog. They saw him and scattered.
Ten paces beyond lay Gnaw, leaving his own blood-trail as, back legs dragging, he continued towards the body of his mate. He raised his head upon seeing Karsa. Pleading eyes fixed on the warleader’s.
Bellowing, Karsa ran down two of the villagers and left their twitching corpses sprawled in the muddy street. He saw another, armed with a rust-pitted mattock, dart between two houses. The Teblor hesitated, then with a curse he swung about and moments later was crouched beside Gnaw.
A shattered hip.
Karsa glanced up the street to see the pike-wielding soldiers closing at a jog. Three mounted men rode in their wake, shouting out commands. A quick look towards the lakeside revealed more horsemen gathering, heads turned in his direction.
The warleader lifted Gnaw from the ground, tucking the beast under his left arm.
Then he set off in pursuit of the mattock-wielding villager.
Rotting vegetables crowded the narrow aisle between the two houses which, at the far end, opened out into a pair of corralled runs. As he emerged into the track between the two fence lines, he saw the man, still running, twenty paces ahead. Beyond the corrals was a shallow ditch, carrying sewage down to the lake. The child had crossed it and was plunging into a tangle of young alders-there were more buildings beyond it, either barns or warehouses.
Karsa raced after him, leaping across the ditch, the hunting dog still under his arm. The jostling was giving it great pain, the Teblor knew. He contemplated slitting its throat.
The child entered a barn, still carrying his mattock.
Following, Karsa ducked low as he plunged through the side doorway. Sudden gloom. There were no beasts in the stalls; the straw, still piled high, looked old and damp. A large fishing boat commanded the wide centre aisle, flipped over and resting on wooden horses. Double sliding doors to the left, one of them slightly pushed back, the ropes from the handle gently swinging back and forth.
Karsa found the last, darkest stall, where he set Gnaw down on the straw. ‘I shall return to you, my friend,’ he whispered. ‘Failing that, find a way to heal, then journey home. Home, among the Uryd.’ The Teblor cut a thong of leather from his armour strappings. He tore from his belt-bag a handful of bronze sigils bearing the tribal signs, then strung the thong through them. None hung loose, and so would make no sound. He tied the makeshift collar round Gnaw’s thick, muscled neck. Then he laid one hand lightly upon the dog’s shattered hip and closed his eyes. ‘I gift this beast the soul of the Teblor, the heart of the Uryd. Urugal, hear me. Heal this great fighter. Then send him home. For now, bold Urugal, hide him.’
He withdrew his hand and opened his eyes. The beast looked up at him calmly. ‘Make fierce your long life, Gnaw. We will meet again, this I vow upon the blood of all the children I have slain this day.’
Shifting grip on his bloodsword, Karsa turned away and departed the stall without another backward glance.
He padded towards the sliding door, looked out.
A warehouse stood opposite, high-ceilinged with a loading loft beneath its slate-tiled roof. From within the building came the sounds of bolts and bars dropping into place. Smiling, Karsa darted across to where the loading chains dangled from pulleys, his eyes on the doorless loft platform high overhead.
As he prepared to sling his sword back over a shoulder, he saw, with a start, that he was festooned with arrows and quarrels, and realized, for the first time, that much of the blood sheathing his body was his own. Scowling, he pulled the darts out. There was more blood, particularly from his right thigh and the two wounds in his chest. A long arrow in his back had buried its barbed head deep into muscle. He attempted to drag the arrow free, but the pain that resulted came close to making him faint. He settled for snapping the shaft just behind the iron head, and this effort alone left him chilled and sweating.
Distant shouts alerted him to a slowly closing cordon of soldiers and townsfolk, all hunting him. Karsa closed his hands around the chains, then began climbing. Every time he lifted his left arm, his back flashed with agony. But it had been the flat of a mattock’s blade that had felled Gnaw, a two-handed blow from behind-the attack of a coward. And nothing else mattered.
He swung himself onto the platform’s dusty floorboards, padded silently away from the opening as he drew his sword once more.
He could hear breathing, harsh and ragged, below. Low whimpering between gasps, a voice praying to whatever gods the child worshipped.
Karsa made his way towards the gaping hole in the centre of the platform, careful to keep his moccasins from dragging, lest sawdust drift down from between the floorboards. He came to the edge and looked down.
The fool was directly beneath him, crouched down, trembling, the mattock held ready as he faced the barred doors. He had soiled himself in his terror.
Karsa carefully reversed grip on his sword, held it out point downward, then dropped from the ledge.
The sword’s tip entered atop the man’s pate, the blade driving down through bone and brain. As Karsa’s full weight impacted the warehouse floor, there was a massive, splintering sound, and Teblor and victim both plunged through, down into a cellar. Shattered floorboards crashed down around them. The cellar was deep, almost Karsa’s height, stinking of salted fish yet empty.
Stunned by the fall, Karsa feebly groped for his sword, but he could not find it. He managed to raise his head slightly, and saw that something was sticking out of his chest, a red shard of splintered wood. He was, he bemusedly realized, impaled. His hand continued searching for his sword, though he could not otherwise move, but found only wood and fish-scales, the latter greasy with salt and sticking to his fingertips.
He heard the sound of boots from above. Blinking, Karsa stared up as a ring of helmed faces slowly swam into view. Then another child’s face appeared, unhelmed, his brow marked in a tribal tattoo, the expression beneath it strangely sympathetic. There was a lot of conversation, hot with anger, then the tattooed child gestured and everyone fell silent. In the Sunyd dialect of the Teblor, the man said, ‘Should you die down there, warrior, at least you’ll keep for a time.’
Karsa sought to rise once more, but the shaft of wood held him fast. He bared his teeth in a grimace.
‘What is your name, Teblor?’ the child asked.
‘I am Karsa Orlong, grandson of Pahlk-’
‘Pahlk? The Uryd who visited centuries ago?’
‘To slay scores of children-’
The man’s nod was serious as he interjected, ‘Children, yes, it makes sense for your kind to call us that. But Pahlk killed no-one, not at first. He came down from the pass, half starved and fevered. The first farmers who’d settled here took him in, nourished him back to health. It was only then that he murdered them all and fled. Well, not all. A girl escaped, made her way back along the lake’s south shore to Orbs, and told the detachment there-well, told them everything they needed to know about the Teblor. Since that time, of course, the Sunyd slaves have told us even more. You are Uryd. We’ve not reached your tribe-you’ve had no bounty hunters as yet, but you will. Within a century, I’d hazard, there will be no more Teblor in the fastnesses of Laederon Plateau. The only Teblor will be the ones branded and in chains. Plying the nets on the fishing boats, as the Sunyd now do. Tell me, Karsa, do you recognize me?’
‘You are the one who escaped us above the pass. Who came too late to warn his fellow children. Who, I know now, is full of lies. Your tiny voice insults the Teblor tongue. It hurts my ears.’
The man smiled. ‘Too bad. You should reconsider, in any case, warrior. For I am all that stands between your living or dying. Assuming you don’t die of your wounds first. Of course, you Teblor are uncommonly tough, as my companions have just been reminded, to their dismay. I see no blood frothing your lips, which is a good sign, and rather astonishing, since you’ve four lungs, while we have two.’
Another figure had appeared and now spoke to the tattooed man in stentorian tones, to which he simply shrugged. ‘Karsa Orlong of the Uryd,’ he called down, ‘soldiers are about to descend, to tie ropes to your limbs so you can be lifted out. It seems you’re lying on what’s left of the town’s factor, which has somewhat abated the anger up here, since he was not a well-liked man. I would suggest, if you wish to live, that you not resist the, uh, warleader’s nervous volunteers.’
Karsa watched as four soldiers were slowly lowered down on ropes. He made no effort to resist as they roughly bound his wrists, ankles and upper arms, for the truth was, he was incapable of doing so.
The soldiers were quickly dragged back up, then the ropes were drawn taut, and Karsa was steadily lifted. He watched the shaft of splintered wood slowly withdrawing from his chest. It had entered high, just above his right shoulder blade, through muscles, reappearing just to the right of his clavicle on that side. As he was pulled free, pain overwhelmed him.
A hand was then slapping him awake. Karsa opened his eyes. He was lying on the warehouse floor, faces crowding him on all sides. Everyone seemed to be speaking to him at once in their thin, weedy tongue, and though he could not understand the words raw hatred rode the tone, and Karsa knew he was being cursed, in the name of scores of lowlander gods, spirits and mouldering ancestors. The thought pleased him, and he smiled.
The soldiers flinched back as one.
The tattooed lowlander, whose hand had awakened him, was crouched down at Karsa’s side. ‘Hood’s breath,’ he muttered. ‘Are all Uryd like you? Or are you the one the priests spoke of? The one who stalked their dreams like Hood’s own Knight? Ah well, it doesn’t matter, I suppose, for it seems their fears were unfounded. Look at you. Half dead, with a whole town eager to see you and your companion flayed alive-there’s not a family to be found not in mourning, thanks to you. Grasp the world by the throat? Not likely; you’ll need Oponn’s luck to live out the hour.’
The broken arrow shaft had been driven deeper into Karsa’s back with the fall, gouging into the bone of his shoulder blade. Blood was spreading out on the floorboards beneath him.
There was a commotion as a new lowlander arrived, this one tall for his kind, thin with a severe, weather-lined face. He was dressed in shimmering clothes, deep blue and trimmed with gold thread sewn into intricate patterns. The guard spoke to him at length, though the man himself said nothing, nor did his expression change. When the guard was finished, the newcomer nodded, then gestured with one hand and turned away.
The guard looked down at Karsa once more. ‘That was Master Silgar, the man I work for, most of the time. He believes you will survive your wounds, Karsa Orlong, and so has prepared for you a… a lesson, of sorts.’ The man straightened and said something to the soldiers. There followed a brief argument, which concluded with an indifferent shrug from one of the soldiers.
Karsa’s limbs were lifted once more, two lowlanders to each, the men straining to hold him as they carried him to the warehouse doors.
The blood dripping down from his wounds was slowing, pain retreating behind a dull lassitude in the Teblor’s mind. He stared up at blue sky as the soldiers carried him to the centre of the street, the sounds of a crowd on all sides. They set him down propped up against a cart wheel, and Karsa saw before him Bairoth Gild.
He had been tied to a much larger spoked wheel, which itself rested against support poles. The huge warrior was a mass of wounds. A spear had been driven into his mouth, exiting just below his left ear, leaving the lower jaw shattered, bone gleaming red amidst torn flesh. The stubs of deep-driven quarrels crowded his torso.
But his eyes were sharp as they met Karsa’s own.
Villagers filled the street, held back by a cordon of soldiers. Angry shouts and curses filled the air, punctuated every now and then by wails of grief.
The guard positioned himself between Karsa and Bairoth, his expression mockingly thoughtful. Then he turned to Karsa. ‘Your comrade here will tell us nothing of the Uryd. We would know the number of warriors, the number and location of villages. We would know more of the Phalyd as well, who are said to be your match in ferocity. But he says nothing.’
Karsa bared his teeth. ‘I, Karsa Orlong, invite you to send a thousand of your warriors to wage war among the Uryd. None shall return, but the trophies will remain with us. Send two thousand. It matters not.’
The guard smiled. ‘You will answer our questions, then, Karsa Orlong?’
‘I will, for such words will avail you naught-’
‘Excellent.’ The guard gestured with one hand. A lowlander stepped up to Bairoth Gild, drawing his sword.
Bairoth sneered at Karsa. He snarled, the sound a mangled roar that Karsa nevertheless understood, ‘Lead me, Warleader!’
The sword slashed. Through Bairoth Gild’s neck. Blood sprayed, the huge warrior’s head flopping back, then rolling from a shoulder to land with a heavy thump on the ground.
A savage, gleeful roar erupted from the villagers.
The guard approached Karsa. ‘Delighted to hear that you will cooperate. Doing so buys you your life. Master Silgar will add you to his herd of slaves once you’ve told us all you know. I don’t think you will be joining the Sunyd out on the lake, however. No hauling of nets for you, Karsa Orlong, I’m afraid.’ He turned as a heavily armoured soldier appeared. ‘Ah, here is the Malazan captain. Ill luck, Karsa Orlong, that you should have timed your attack to coincide with the arrival of a Malazan company on its way to Bettrys. Now then, assuming the captain has no objections, shall we begin the questioning?’
The twin trenches of the slave-pits lay beneath the floor of a large warehouse near the lake, accessed through a trapdoor and a mould-smeared staircase. One side held, for the moment, only a half-dozen lowlanders chained to the tree trunk running the length of the trench, but more shackles awaited the return of the Sunyd net-haulers. The other trench was home to the sick and dying. Emaciated lowlander shapes huddled in their own filth, some moaning, others silent and motionless.
After he had done describing the Uryd and their lands, Karsa was dragged to the warehouse and chained in the second trench. Its sides were sloped, packed with damp clay. The centre log ran along the narrow, flat bottom, half-submerged in blood-streaked sewage. Karsa was taken to the far end, out of the reach of any of the other slaves, and shackles were fixed to both wrists and both ankles-whereas, he saw, among everyone else a single shackle sufficed.
They left him alone then.
Flies swarmed him, alighting on his chilled skin. He lay on his side against one of the sloping sides. The wound within which the arrowhead remained was threatening to close, and this he could not allow. He shut his eyes and began to concentrate until he could feel each muscle, cut and torn and seeping, holding fast around the iron point. Then he began working them, the slightest of contractions to test the position of the arrow-head-fighting the pulses of pain that radiated out with each flex. After a few moments, he ceased, let his body relax, taking deep breaths until he was recovered from his efforts. The flanged iron blade lay almost flat against his shoulder blade. Its tip had scoured a groove along the bone. There were barbs as well, bent and twisted.
To leave such an object within his flesh would make his left arm useless. He needed to drive it out.
He began to concentrate once more. Ravaged muscles and tissue, a path inward of chopped and sliced flesh.
A layer of sweat sheathed him as he continued to focus his mind, preparing, his breaths slowing, steadying.
He contracted his muscles. A ragged scream forced its way out. Another welter of blood, amidst relentless pain. The muscles spasmed in a rippling wave. Something struck the clay slope and slid down into the sewage.
Gasping, trembling, Karsa lay motionless for a long while. The blood streaming down from his back slowed, then ceased.
‘Lead me, War leader!’
Bairoth Gild had made those words a curse, in a manner and from a place of thought that Karsa did not understand. And then, Bairoth Gild had died senselessly. Nothing the lowlanders could do threatened the Uryd, for the Uryd were not as the Sunyd. Bairoth had surrendered his chance for vengeance, a gesture so baffling to Karsa that he was left stunned.
A brutal, knowing glare in Bairoth’s eyes, fixed solely on Karsa, even as the sword flashed towards his neck. He would tell the lowlanders nothing, yet it was a defiance without meaning-but no, there was meaning… for Bairoth chose to abandon me.
A sudden shiver took him. Urugal, have my brothers betrayed me? Delum Thord’s flight, Bairoth Gild’s death-am I to know abandonment again and again? What of the Uryd awaiting my return? Will they not follow when I proclaim war against the lowlanders?
Perhaps not at first. No, he realized, there would be arguments, and opinions, and, seated around the camp hearths, the elders would poke smouldering sticks into the fire and shake their heads.
Until word came that the lowlander armies were coming.
And then they will have no choice. Would we flee into the laps of the Phalyd? No. There will be no choice but to fight, and I, Karsa Orlong, will be looked upon then, to lead the Uryd.
The thought calmed him.
He slowly rolled over, blinking in the gloom, flies scattering all around his face.
It took a few moments of groping in the sludge to find the arrowhead and its stubby, splintered fragment of shaft. He then crouched down beside the centre log to examine the fittings holding the chains.
There were two sets of chains, one for his arms and one for his legs, each fixed to a long iron rod that had been driven through the trunk, the opposite end flattened out. The links were large and solid, forged with Teblor strength in mind. But the wood on the underside had begun to rot.
Using the arrow-head, he began gouging and digging into the sewage-softened wood around the flange.
Bairoth had betrayed him, betrayed the Uryd. There had been nothing of courage in his last act of defiance. Indeed, the very opposite. They had discovered enemies to the Teblor. Hunters, who collected Teblor trophies. These were truths that the warriors of all the tribes needed to hear, and delivering those truths was now Karsa’s sole task. He was not Sunyd, as the lowlanders were about to discover. The rot had been drawn up the hole. Karsa dug out the soaked, pulpy mass as far as the arrow-head could reach. He then moved on to the second fitting. The iron bar holding his leg chains would be tested first. There was no way to tell if it was day or night outside. Heavy boots occasionally crossed the plank floor above him, too random to indicate a set passage of time. Karsa worked unceasingly, listening to the coughs and moans of the lowlanders chained further down the trunk. He could not imagine what those sad children had done, to warrant such punishment from their kin. Banishment was the harshest sentence the Teblor inflicted on those among the tribe whose actions had, with deliberate intent, endangered the survival of the village, actions that ranged from carelessness to kin-murder. Banishment led, usually, to death, but that came of starvation of the spirit within the one punished. Torture was not a Teblor way, nor was prolonged imprisonment.
Of course, he reconsidered, it may be that these lowlanders were sick because their spirits were dying. Among the legends, there were fragments whispering that the Teblor had once owned slaves-the word, the concept, was known to him. Possession of another’s life, to do with as one wished. A slave’s spirit could do naught but starve.
Karsa had no intention of starving. Urugal’s shadow protected his spirit.
He tucked the arrow-head into his belt. Setting his back against the slope, he planted his feet against the log, one to either side of the fitting, then slowly extended his legs. The chain tautened. On the underside of the trunk, the flange was pulled into the wood with a steady splintering, grinding sound.
The shackles dug into his hide-wrapped ankles.
He began to push harder. There was a solid crunch, then the flange would go no further. Karsa slowly relaxed. A kick sent the bar thumping free on the other end. He rested for a few moments, then resumed the process once more.
After a dozen tries he had managed to pull the bar up the span of three fingers from where it had been at the beginning. The flange’s edges were bent now, battered by their assault on the wood. His leggings had been cut through and blood gleamed on the shackles.
He leaned his head back on the damp clay of the slope, his legs trembling.
More boots thumped overhead, then the trapdoor was lifted. The glow of lantern light descended the steps, and within it Karsa saw the nameless guard.
‘Uryd,’ he called out. ‘Do you still breathe?’
‘Come closer,’ Karsa challenged in a low voice, ‘and I will show you the extent of my recovery.’
The lowlander laughed. ‘Master Silgar saw true, it seems. It will take some effort to break your spirit, I suspect.’ The guard remained standing halfway down the steps. ‘Your Sunyd kin will be returning in a day or two.’
‘I have no kin who accept the life of slavery.’
‘That’s odd, since you clearly have, else you would have contrived to kill yourself by now.’
‘You think I am a slave because I am in chains? Come closer, then, child.’
‘ “Child,” yes. Your strange affectation persists, even while we children have you at our mercy. Well, never mind. The chains are but the beginning, Karsa Orlong. You will indeed be broken, and had you been captured by the bounty hunters high on the plateau, by the time they’d delivered you to this town you’d have had nothing left of Teblor pride, much less defiance. The Sunyd will worship you, Karsa Orlong, for killing an entire camp of bounty hunters.’
‘What is your name?’ Karsa asked.
‘Why?’
The Uryd warrior smiled in the gloom. ‘For all your words, you still fear me.’
‘Hardly.’ But Karsa heard the strain in the guard’s tone and his smile broadened. ‘Then tell me your name.’
‘Damisk. My name is Damisk. I was once a tracker in the Greydog army during the Malazan conquest.’
‘Conquest. You lost, then. Which of our spirits has broken, Damisk Greydog? When I attacked your party on the ridge, you fled. Left the ones who had hired you to their fates. You fled, as would a coward, a broken man. And this is why you are here, now. For I am chained and you are beyond my reach. You come, not to tell me things, but because you cannot help yourself. You seek the pleasure of gloating, yet you devour yourself inside, and so feel no true satisfaction. Yet we both know, you will come again. And again.’
‘I shall advise,’ Damisk said, his voice ragged, ‘my master to give you to the surviving bounty hunters, to do with you as they will. And I will watch-’
‘Of course you will, Damisk Greydog.’
The man backed up the stairs, the lantern’s light swinging wildly.
Karsa laughed.
A mornent later the trapdoor slammed down once more, and there was darkness.
The Teblor warrior fell silent, then planted his feet on the log yet again.
A weak voice from the far end of the trench stopped him. ‘Giant.’
The tongue was Sunyd, the voice a child’s. ‘I have no words for you, lowlander,’ Karsa growled.
‘I do not ask for words. I can feel you working on this Hood-damned tree. Will you succeed at whatever it is you are doing?’
‘I am doing nothing.’
‘All right, then. Must be my imagination. We’re dying here, the rest of us. In a most terrible, undignified manner.’
‘You must have done great wrong-’
The answering laugh was a rasping cough. ‘Oh indeed, giant. Indeed. We’re the ones who would not accept Malazan rule, so we held on to our weapons and hid in the hills and forests. Raiding, ambushing, making nuisances of ourselves. It was great fun. Until the bastards caught us.’
‘Careless.’
‘Three of you and a handful of your damned dogs, raiding an entire town! And you call me careless? Well, I suppose we both were, since we’re here.’
Karsa grimaced at the truth of that. ‘What is it you want, lowlander?’
‘Your strength, giant. There are four of us over here who are still alive, though I alone am still conscious… and very nearly sane. Sane enough, that is, to comprehend the fullest ignobility of my fate.’
‘You talk too much.’
‘For not much longer, I assure you. Can you lift this log, giant? Or spin it over a few times?’
Karsa was silent for a long moment. ‘What would that achieve?’
‘It would shorten the chains.’
‘I have no wish to shorten the chains.’
‘Temporarily.’
‘Why?’
‘Spin the damned thing, giant. So our chains wrap around it again and again. So, with one last turn, you drag us poor fools at this end under. So we drown.’
‘You would have me kill you?’
‘I applaud your swift comprehension, giant. More souls to crowd your shadow, Teblor-that’s how your kind see it, yes? Kill me, and I will walk with honour in your shadow.’
‘I am not interested in mercy, lowlander.’
‘How about trophies?’
‘I cannot reach you to take trophies.’
‘How well can you see in this gloom? I’ve heard that Teblor-’
‘I can see. Well enough to know that your right hand is closed in a fist. What lies within it?’
‘A tooth. Just fallen out. The third one since I’ve been chained down here.’
‘Throw it to me.’
‘I will try. I am afraid I’m somewhat… worse for wear. Are you ready?’
‘Throw.’
The man’s arm wavered as he lifted it.
The tooth flew high and wide, but Karsa’s arm shot out, chain snapping behind it, and he snatched the tooth from the air. He brought it down for a closer look, then grunted. ‘It’s rotted.’
‘Probably why it fell out. Well? Consider this, too. You will succeed in getting water right through the shaft, which should soften things up even more. Not that you’ve been up to anything down there.’
Karsa slowly nodded. ‘I like you, lowlander.’
‘Good. Now drown me.’
‘I will.’
Karsa slipped down to stand knee-deep in the foul muck, the fresh wounds around his ankles stinging at the contact.
‘I saw them bring you down, giant,’ the man said. ‘None of the Sunyd are as big as you.’
‘The Sunyd are the smallest among the Teblor.’
‘Must be some lowlander blood from way back, I’d imagine.’
‘They have fallen far indeed.’ Karsa lowered both arms, chains dragging, until his hands rested beneath the log.
‘My thanks to you, Teblor.’
Karsa lifted, twisted the log, then set it down once more, gasping. ‘This will not be quick, lowlander, and for that I am sorry.’
‘I understand. Take your time. Biltar slid right under in any case, and Alrute looks about to the next time. You’re doing well.’
He lifted the log once more, rolled it another half-twist. Splashes and gurgling sounds came from the other end.
Then a gasp. ‘Almost there, Teblor. I’m the last. One more-I’ll roll myself under it, so it pins me down.’
‘Then you are crushed, not drowned.’
‘In this muck? No worries there, Teblor. I’ll feel the weight, true, but it won’t cause me much pain.’
‘You lie.’
‘So what? It’s not the means, it’s the end that matters.’
‘All, things matter,’ Karsa said, preparing once more. ‘I shall twist it all the way round this time, lowlander. It will be easier now that my own chains are shorter. Are you ready?’
‘A moment, please,’ the man sputtered.
Karsa lifted the log, grunting with the immense weight pulling down on his arms.
‘I’ve had a change of heart-’
‘I haven’t.’ Karsa spun the log. Then dropped it.
Wild thrashing from the other end, chains sawing the air, then frantic coughing.
Surprised, Karsa looked up. A brown-smeared figure flailed about, sputtering, kicking.
Karsa slowly sat back, waiting for the man to recover. For a while, there was naught but heavy gasping from the other end of the log. ‘You managed to roll back over, then under and out. I am impressed, lowlander. It seems you are not a coward after all. I did not believe there were such as you among the children.’
‘Sheer courage,’ the man rasped. ‘That’s me.’
‘Whose tooth was it?’
‘Alrute’s. Now, no more spinning, if you please.’
‘I am sorry, lowlander, but I must now spin it the opposite way, until the log is as it was before I started.’
‘I curse your grim logic, Teblor.’
‘What is your name?’
‘Torvald Nom, though to my Malazan enemies, I’m known as Knuckles.’
‘And how came you to learn the Sunyd tongue?’
‘It’s the old trader language, actually. Before there were bounty hunters, there were Nathii traders. A mutually profitable trade between them and the Sunyd. The truth is, your language is close kin to Nathii.’
‘The soldiers spoke gibberish.’
‘Naturally; they’re soldiers.’ He paused. ‘All right, that sort of humour’s lost on you. So be it. Likely, those soldiers were Malazan.’
‘I have decided that the Malazans are my enemy.’
‘Something we share, then, Teblor.’
‘We share naught but this tree trunk, lowlander.’
‘If you prefer. Though I feel obliged to correct you on one thing. Hateworthy as the Malazans are, the Nathii these days are no better. You’ve no allies among the lowlanders, Teblor, be sure of that.’
‘Are you a Nathii?’
‘No. I’m Daru. From a city far to the south. The House of Nom is vast and certain families among it are almost wealthy. We’ve a Nom in the Council, in fact, in Darujhistan. Never met him. Alas, my own family’s holdings are more, uh, modest. Hence my extended travels and nefarious professions-’
‘You talk too much, Torvald Nom. I am ready to turn this log once more.’
‘Damn, I was hoping you’d forgotten about that.’
The iron bar’s end was more than halfway through the trunk, the flange a blunt, shapeless piece of metal. Karsa could not keep the aching and trembling from his legs, even as the rest periods between efforts grew ever longer. The larger wounds in his chest and back, created by the splinter of wood, had reopened, leaking steadily to mix with the sweat soaking his clothes. The skin and flesh of his ankles were shredded. Torvald had succumbed to his own exhaustion, shortly after the log had been returned to its original position, groaning in his sleep whilst Karsa laboured on.
For the moment, as the Uryd warrior rested against the clay slope, the only sounds were his own ragged gasps, underscored by softer, shallow breaths from the far end of the trunk.
Then the sound of boots crossed overhead, first in one direction, then back again, and gone.
Karsa pushed himself upright once more, his head spinning.
‘Rest longer, Teblor.’
‘There is no time for that, Torvald Nom-’
‘Oh, but there is. That slavemaster who now owns you will be waiting here for a while, so that he and his train can travel in the company of the Malazan soldiers. For as far as Malybridge, at least. There’s been plenty of bandit activity from Fool’s Forest and Yellow Mark, for which I acknowledge some proprietary pride, since it was me who united that motley collection of highwaymen and throat-slitters in the first place. They’d have already come to rescue me, too, if not for the Malazans.’
‘I will kill that slavemaster,’ Karsa said.
‘Careful with that one, giant. Silgar’s not a pleasant man, and he’s used to dealing with warriors like you-’
‘I am Uryd, not Sunyd.’
‘So you keep saying, and I’ve no doubt you’re meaner-you’re certainly bigger. All I was saying is, be wary of Silgar.’
Karsa positioned himself over the log.
‘You have time to spare, Teblor. There’s no point in freeing yourself if you’re then unable to walk. This isn’t the first time I’ve been in chains, and I speak from experience: bide your time, an opportunity will arise; if you don’t wither and die first.’
‘Or drown.’
‘Point taken, and yes, I understood your meaning when you spoke of courage. I admit to a moment of despair.’
‘Do you know how long you have been chained here?’
‘Well, there was snow on the ground and the lake’s ice had just broken.’
Karsa slowly glanced over at the barely visible, scrawny figure at the far end. ‘Torvald Nom, even a lowlander should not be made to suffer such a fate.’
The man’s laugh was a rattle. ‘And you call us children. You Teblor cut people down as if you were executioners, but among my kind, execution is an act of mercy. For your average condemned bastard, prolonged torture is far more likely. The Nathii have made the infliction of suffering an art-must be the cold winters or something. In any case, if not for Silgar claiming you-and the Malazan soldiers in town-the locals would be peeling the skin from your flesh right now, a sliver at a time. Then they’d lock you inside a box to let you heal. They know that your kind are immune to infections, which means they can make you suffer for a long, long time. There’s a lot of frustrated townsfolk out there right now, I’d imagine.’
Karsa began pulling on the bar once more.
He was interrupted by voices overhead, then heavy thumping, as of a dozen or more barefooted arrivals, the sound joined now by chains slithering across the warehouse floor.
Karsa settled back against the opposite trench slope.
The trapdoor opened. A child in the lead, lantern in hand, and then Sunyd-naked but for rough-woven short skirts-making a slow descent, their left ankles shackled with a chain linking them all together. The lowlander with the lantern walked down the walkway between the two trenches. The Sunyd, eleven in all, six men and five women, followed.
Their heads were lowered; none would meet Karsa’s steady, cold regard.
At a gesture from the child, who had halted four long paces from Karsa’s position, the Sunyd turned and slid down the slope of their trench. Three more lowlanders had appeared, and followed them down to apply the fixed shackles to the Teblor’s other ankles. There was no resistance from the Sunyd.
Moments later, the lowlanders were back on the walkway, then heading up the steps. The trapdoor squealed on its hinges, closing with a reverberating thump that sent dust drifting down through the gloom.
‘It is true, then. An Uryd.’ The voice was a whisper.
Karsa sneered. ‘Was that the voice of a Teblor? No, it could not have been. Teblor do not become slaves. Teblor would rather die than kneel before a lowlander.’
‘An Uryd… in chains. Like the rest of us-’
‘Like the Sunyd? Who let these foul children come close and fix shackles to their legs? No. I am a prisoner, but no bindings shall hold me for long. The Sunyd must be reminded what it is to be a Teblor.’
A new voice spoke from among the Sunyd, a woman’s. ‘We saw the dead, lined up on the ground before the hunters’ camp. We saw wagons, filled with dead Malazans. Townsfolk were wailing. Yet, it is said there were but three of you-’
‘Two, not three. Our companion, Delum Thord, was wounded in the head, his mind had fallen away. He ran with the dogs. Had his mind been whole, his bloodsword in his hands-’
There was sudden murmuring from the Sunyd, the word bloodsword spoken in tones of awe.
Karsa scowled. ‘What is this madness? Have the Sunyd lost all the old ways of the Teblor?’
The woman sighed. ‘Lost? Yes, long ago. Our own children slipping away in the night to wander south into the lowlands, eager for the cursed lowlander coins-the bits of metal around which life itself seems to revolve. Sorely used, were our children-some even returned to our valleys, as scouts for the hunters. The secret groves of bloodwood were burned down, our horses slain. To be betrayed by our own children, Uryd, this is what broke the Sunyd.’
‘Your children should have been hunted down,’ Karsa said. ‘The hearts of your warriors were too soft. Blood-kin is cut when betrayal is done. Those children ceased being Sunyd. I will kill them for you.’
‘You would have trouble finding them, Uryd. They are scattered, many fallen, many now sold into servitude to repay their debts. And some have travelled great distances, to the great cities of Nathilog and Genabaris. Our tribe is no more.’
The first Sunyd who had spoken added, ‘Besides, Uryd, you are in chains. Now the property of Master Silgar, from whom no slave has ever escaped. You will be killing no-one, ever again. And like us, you will be made to kneel. Your words are empty.’
Karsa straddled the log once more. He grasped hold of the chains this time, wrapping them about his wrists as many times as he could.
Then he threw himself back. Muscles bunching, legs pushing down on the log, back straightening. Grinding, splintering, a sudden loud crack.
Karsa was thrown backward onto the clay slope, chains snapping around him. Blinking the sweat from his eyes, he stared down at the log.
The trunk had split, down its entire length.
There was a low hiss from the other end, the rustle of freed chains. ‘Hood take me, Karsa Orlong,’ Torvald whispered, ‘you don’t take insults well, do you?’
Though no longer attached to the log, Karsa’s wrists and ankles were still chained to the iron bars. The warrior unravelled the chains from his battered, bleeding forearms, then collected one of the bars. Laying the ankle chain against the log, he drove the bar’s unflanged end into a single link, then began twisting it with both hands.
‘What has happened?’ a Sunyd asked. ‘What was that sound?’
‘The Uryd’s spine has snapped,’ the first speaker replied in a drawl.
Torvald’s laugh was a cold chuckle. ‘The Lord’s push for you, Ganal, I’m afraid.’
‘What do you mean, Nom?’
The link popped, sending a piece whipping across the trench to thud against the earthen wall.
Karsa dragged the chain from his ankle shackles. Then he set to splitting the one holding his wrists.
Another popping sound. He freed his arms.
‘What is happening?’
A third crack, as he snapped the chain from the iron bar he had been using-which was the undamaged one, its flange intact, sharp-edged and jagged. Karsa clambered from the trench.
‘Where is this Ganal?’ he growled.
All but one of the Sunyd lying in the opposite trench shrank back at his words.
‘I am Ganal,’ said the lone warrior who had not moved. ‘Not a broken spine after all. Well then, warrior, kill me for my sceptical words.’
‘I shall.’ Karsa strode down the walkway, lifting the iron bar.
‘If you do that,’ Torvald said hastily, ‘the others will likely raise a cry.’
Karsa hesitated.
Ganal smiled up at him. ‘If you spare me, there will be no alarm sounded, Uryd. It is night, still a bell or more before dawn. You will make good your escape-’
‘And by your silence, you will all be punished,’ Karsa said.
‘No. We were all sleeping.’
The woman spoke. ‘Bring the Uryd, in all your numbers. When you have slain everyone in this town, then you can settle judgement upon us Sunyd, as will be your right.’
Karsa hesitated, then he nodded. ‘Ganal, I give you more of your miserable life. But I shall come once more, and I shall remember you.’
‘I have no doubt, Uryd,’ Ganal replied. ‘Not any more.’
‘Karsa,’ Torvald said. ‘I may be a lowlander and all-’
‘I shall free you, child,’ the Uryd replied, turning from the Sunyd trench. ‘You have shown courage.’ He slid down to the man’s side. ‘You are too thin to walk,’ he observed. ‘Unable to run. Do you still wish for me to release you?’
‘Thin? I haven’t lost more than half a stone, Karsa Orlong. I can run.’
‘You sounded poorly earlier on-’
‘Sympathy.’
‘You sought sympathy from an Uryd?’
The man’s bony shoulders lifted in a sheepish shrug. ‘It was worth a try.’
Karsa pried the chain apart.
Torvald pulled his arms free. ‘Beru’s blessing on you, lad.’
‘Keep your lowlander gods to yourself.’
‘Of course. Apologies. Anything you say.’
Torvald scrambled up the slope. On the walkway, he paused. ‘What of the trapdoor, Karsa Orlong?’
‘What of it?’ the warrior growled, climbing up and moving past the lowlander.
Torvald bowed as Karsa went past, a scrawny arm sweeping out in a graceful gesture. ‘Lead me, by all means.’
Karsa halted on the first step and glanced back at the child. ‘I am warleader,’ he rumbled. ‘You would have me lead you, lowlander?’
Ganal said from the other trench, ‘Careful how you answer, Daru. There are no empty words among the Teblor.’
‘Well, uh, it was naught but an invitation. To precede me up the steps-’
Karsa resumed his climb.
Directly beneath the trapdoor, he examined its edges. He recalled that there was an iron latch that was lowered when locked, making it flush with the surrounding boards. Karsa jammed the chain-fixing end of the iron bar into the join beneath the latch. He drove it in as far as he could, then began levering, settling his full weight in gradual increments.
A splintering snap, the trapdoor jumping up slightly. Karsa set his shoulders against it and lifted.
The hinges creaked.
The warrior froze, waited, then resumed, slower this time.
As his head cleared the hatchway, he could see faint lantern-glow from the far end of the warehouse, and saw, seated around a small round table, three lowlanders. They were not soldiers-Karsa had seen them earlier in the company of the slavemaster, Silgar. There was the muted clatter of bones on the tabletop.
That they had not heard the trapdoor’s hinges was, to Karsa’s mind, remarkable. Then his ears caught a new sound-a chorus of creaks and groans, and, outside, the howl of a wind. A storm had come in from the lake, and rain had begun spraying against the north wall of the warehouse.
‘Urugal,’ Karsa said under his breath, ‘I thank you. And now, witness…’
One hand holding the trapdoor over him, the warrior slowly slid onto the floor. He moved far enough to permit Torvald’s equally silent arrival, then he slowly lowered the hatch until it settled. A gesture told Torvald to remain where he was, understanding indicated by the man’s fervent nod. Karsa carefully shifted the bar from his left hand to his right, then made his way forward.
Only one of the three guards might have seen him, from the corner of his eye, but his attention was intent on the bones skidding over the tabletop before him. The other two had their backs to the room.
Karsa remained low on the floor until he was less than three paces away, then he silently rose into a crouch.
He launched himself forward, the bar whipping horizontally, connecting with first one unhelmed head, then on to the second. The third guard stared open-mouthed. Karsa’s swing finished with his left hand grasping the red-smeared end of the bar, which he then drove crossways into the lowlander’s throat. The man was thrown back over his chair, striking the warehouse doors and falling in a heap.
Karsa set the bar down on the tabletop, then crouched down beside one of the victims and began removing his sword-belt.
Torvald approached. ‘Hood’s own nightmare,’ he muttered, ‘that’s what you are, Uryd.’
‘Take yourself a weapon,’ Karsa directed, moving on to the next corpse.
‘I will. Now, which way shall we run, Karsa? They’ll be expecting northwest, back the way you came. They’ll ride hard for the foot of the pass. I have friends-’
‘I have no intention of running,’ the warleader growled, looping both sword-belts over a shoulder, the scabbarded longswords looking minuscule where they rested against his back. He collected the flanged bar once more. He turned to find Torvald staring at him. ‘Run to your friends, lowlander. I will, this night, deliver sufficient diversion to make good your escape. Tonight, Bairoth Gild and Delum Thord shall be avenged.’
‘Don’t expect me to avenge your death, Karsa. It’s madness-you’ve already done the impossible. I’d advise you to thank the Lady’s pull and get away while you can. In case you’ve forgotten, this town’s full of soldiers.’
‘Be on your way, child.’
Torvald hesitated, then he threw up his hands. ‘So be it. For my life, Karsa Orlong, I thank you. The family of Nom will speak your name in its prayers.’
‘I will wait fifty heartbeats.’
Without another word Torvald headed to the warehouse’s sliding doors. The main bar had not been lowered into its slots; a smaller latch loosely held the door to the frame. He flipped it back, pushed the door to one side, sufficient only to pop his head out for a quick look. Then he shoved it open slightly more, and slipped outside.
Karsa listened to his footfalls, the splash of bare feet in mud, hurrying away to the left. He decided he would not wait fifty heartbeats. Even with the storm holding fast the darkness, dawn was not far away.
The Teblor slid the door back further and stepped outside. A track narrower than the main street, the wooden buildings opposite indistinct behind a slanting curtain of hard rain. To the right and twenty paces distant, light showed from a single murky window on the upper floor of a house standing next to a side street.
He wanted his bloodsword, but had no idea where it might be. Failing that, any Teblor weapon would suffice. And he knew where he might find some.
Karsa slid the door shut behind him. He swung right and, skirting the edge of the street, made his way towards the lakefront.
The wind whipped rain against his face, loosening the crusted blood and dirt. The shredded leathers of his shirt flapped heavily as he jogged towards the clearing, where waited the camp of the bounty hunters.
There had been survivors. A careless oversight on Karsa’s part; one he would now correct. And, in the huts of those cold-eyed children, there would be Teblor trophies. Weapons. Armour.
The huts and shacks of the fallen had already been stripped, the doors hanging open, rubbish strewn about. Karsa’s gaze settled on a nearby reed-walled shack clearly still occupied. He padded towards it.
Ignoring the small door, the warrior threw his shoulder against a wall. The reed panel fell inward, Karsa plunging through. There was a grunt from a cot to his left, a vague shape bolting into a sitting position. Iron bar swung down. Blood and bits of bone sprayed the walls. The figure sank back down.
The small, lone room of the shack was cluttered with Sunyd objects, most of them useless: charms, belts and trinkets. He did find, however, a pair of Sunyd hunting knives, sheathed in beaded buckskin over wood. A low altar caught Karsa’s attention. Some lowlander god, signified by a small clay statue-a boar, standing on its hind legs.
The Teblor knocked it to the earthen floor, then shattered it with a single stomp of his heel.
Returning outside, he approached the next inhabited shack.
The wind howled off the lake, white-maned waves crashing up the pebbled beach. The sky overhead was still black with clouds, the rain unceasing.
There were seven shacks in all, and in the sixth one-after killing the two men entwined together in the cot beneath the skin of a grey bear-he found an old Sunyd bloodsword, and an almost complete set of armour that, although of a style Karsa had never seen before, was clearly Teblor in origin, given its size and the sigils burned into the wooden plates. It was only when he began strapping it on that he realized that the grey, weathered wood was bloodwood-bleached by centuries of neglect.
In the seventh hut he found a small jar of blood-oil, and took the time to remove the armour and rub the pungent salve into its starved wood. He used the last of it to ease the sword’s own thirst.
He then kissed the gleaming blade, tasting the bitter oil.
The effect was instantaneous. His heart began pounding, fire ripping through his muscles, lust and rage filling his mind.
He found himself back outside, staring at the town before him through a red haze. The air was foul with the stench of lowlanders. He moved forward, though he could no longer feel his legs, his gaze fixing on the bronze-banded door of a large, timbered house.
Then it was flying inward, and Karsa was entering the low-ceilinged hallway beyond the threshold. Someone was shouting upstairs.
He found himself on the landing, face to face with a broad-shouldered, bald child. Behind him cowered a woman with grey-streaked hair, and behind her-now fleeing-a half-dozen servants.
The bald child had just taken down from the wall a longsword still in its jewel-studded scabbard. His eyes glittered with terror, his expression of disbelief remaining frozen on his features even as his head leapt from his shoulders.
And then Karsa found himself in the last room upstairs, ducking to keep his head beneath the ceiling as he stepped over the last of the servants, the house silent behind him. Before him, hiding behind a poster bed, a young female lowlander.
The Teblor dropped his sword. A moment later he held her before him, her feet kicking at his knees. He cupped the back of her head in his right hand, pushed her face against his armour’s oil-smeared breastplate.
She struggled, then her head snapped back, eyes suddenly wild.
Karsa laughed, throwing her down on the bed.
Animal sounds came from her mouth, her long-fingered hands snatching up at him as he moved over her.
The female clawed at him, her back arching in desperate need.
She was unconscious before he was done, and when he drew away there was blood between them. She would live, he knew. Blood-oil was impatient with broken flesh.
He was outside in the rain once more, sword in his hands. The clouds were lightening to the east.
Karsa moved on to the next house.
Awareness drifted away then, for a time, and when it returned he found himself in an attic with a window at the far end through which streamed bright sunlight. He was on his hands and knees, sheathed in blood, and to one side lay a child’s body, fat and in slashed robes, eyes staring sightlessly.
Waves of shivering racked him, his breath harsh gasps that echoed dully in the close, dusty attic. He heard shouts from somewhere outside and crawled over to the round, thick-glassed window at the far end.
Below was the main street, and he realized that he was near the west gate. Glass-distorted figures on restless horses were gathering-Malazan soldiers. As he watched, and to his astonishment, they suddenly set forth for the gate. The thundering of horse hoofs quickly diminished as the party rode westward.
The warrior slowly sat back. There was no sound from directly beneath him, and he knew that no-one remained alive in the house. He knew, also, that he had passed through at least a dozen such houses, sometimes through the front door, but more often through recessed side and rear doors. And that those places were now as silent as the one in which he now found himself.
The escape has been discovered. But what of the bounty hunters? What of the townsfolk who have yet to emerge onto the street, though the day is already half done? How many did I truly kill?
Soft footfalls below, five, six sets, spreading out through the room under him. Karsa, his senses still heightened beyond normal by the blood-oil, sniffed the air, but their scent had yet to reach him. Yet he knew-these were hunters, not soldiers. He drew a deep breath and held it for a moment, then nodded to himself. Yes, the slavemaster’s warriors. Deeming themselves cleverer than the Malazans, still wanting me for their master.
Karsa made no move-any shift of weight would be heard, he well knew. Twisting his head slowly, he glanced back at the attic’s hatch. It was closed-he’d no recollection of doing so, so probably it was the trapdoor’s own weight that had dropped it back into place. But how long ago? His gaze flicked to the child’s corpse. The blood dripping from his gaping wounds was thick and slow. Some time had passed, then.
He heard someone speak, and it was a moment before he realized that he could understand the language. ‘A bell, sir, maybe more.’
‘So where,’ another asked, ‘is Merchant Balantis? Here’s his wife, their two children… four servants-did he own more?’
There was more movement.
‘Check the lofts-’
‘Where the servants slept? I doubt fat old Balantis could have climbed that ladder.’
‘Here!’ another voice cried from further in. ‘The attic stairs are down!’
‘All right, so the merchant’s terror gave him wings. Go up and confirm the grim details, Astabb, and be quick. We need to check the next house.’
‘Hood’s breath, Borrug, I nearly lost my breakfast in the last place. It’s all quiet up there, can’t we just leave it at that? Who knows, the bastard might be chopping up the next family right now.’
There was silence, then: ‘All right, let’s go. This time, I think Silgar’s plain wrong. That Uryd’s path of slaughter is straight for the west gate, and I’d lay a year’s column he’s heading for T’lan Pass right now.’
‘Then the Malazans will run him down.’
‘Aye, they will. Come on.’
Karsa listened as the hunters converged on the front door then headed back outside. The Teblor remained motionless for another dozen heartbeats. Silgar’s men would find no further scenes of slaughter westward along the street. This fact alone would bring them back. He padded across to the trapdoor, lifted it clear, and made his way down the blood-spattered wooden steps. There were corpses strewn along the length of the hallway, the air foul with the reek of death.
He quickly moved to the back door. The yard outside was churned mud and puddles, a heap of pavestones off to one side awaiting the arrival of labourers. Beyond it was a newly built low stone wall, an arched gate in its centre. The sky overhead was broken with clouds carried on a swift wind. Shadows and patches of sunlight crawled steadily over the scene. There was no-one in sight.
Karsa crossed the yard at a sprint. He crouched down at the arched gate. Opposite him ran a rutted, narrow track, parallel to the main street, and beyond it a row of irregular heaps of cut brush amidst tall yellow grasses. The back walls of houses reared behind the heaps.
He was on the western side of the town, and here there were hunters. It followed, then, that he would be safer on the eastern side. At the same time, the Malazan soldiers appeared to be quartered there, though he’d watched at least thirty of them ride out through the west gate. Leaving how many?
Karsa had proclaimed the Malazans his enemy.
The warrior slipped out onto the track and headed east. Hunched low, he ran hard, his eyes scanning the way ahead, seeking cover, expecting at any moment the shout that would announce his discovery.
He moved into the shadows of a large house that leaned slightly over the alley. In another five strides he would come to the wide street that led down to the lakeshore. Crossing it undetected was likely to prove a challenge. Silgar’s hunters remained in the town, as did an unknown number of Malazans. Enough to cause him trouble? There was no telling.
Five cautious strides, and he was at the edge of the street. There was a small crowd at the far end, lakeside. Wrapped bodies were being carried out of a house, whilst two men struggled with a young, naked, blood-splashed woman. She was hissing and trying to claw at their eyes. It was a moment before Karsa recollected her. The blood-oil still burned within her, and the crowd had drawn back in obvious alarm, their attention one and all fixed on her writhing form.
A glance to the right. No-one.
Karsa bolted across the street. He was but a single stride from the alley opposite when he heard a hoarse shout, then a chorus of cries. Skidding through sluicing mud, the warrior raised his sword and snapped his gaze towards the distant crowd.
To see only their backs, as they fled like panicked deer, leaving the wrapped corpses strewn in their wake. The young woman, suddenly released, fell to the mud shrieking, one hand snapping out to clamp on the ankle of one of her captors. She was dragged through the mud for a body length before she managed to foul the man’s stride and send him sprawling. She clambered atop him with a snarl.
Karsa padded into the alley.
A bell started a wild clanging.
He continued on, eastward, parallel to the main street. The far end, thirty or more paces distant, seemed to face onto a long, stone-walled, single level building, the windows visible bearing heavy shutters. As he raced towards it, he saw three Malazan soldiers dart across his field of vision-all were helmed, visors lowered, and none turned their heads.
Karsa slowed his pace as he neared the alley’s end. He could see more of the building ahead now. It looked somehow different from all the others in the town, its style more severe, pragmatic-a style the Teblor could admire.
He halted at the alley mouth. A glance to his right revealed that the building before him fronted onto the main street, beyond which was a clearing to match that of the west gate, the edge of the town wall visible just beyond. To his left, and closer to hand, the building came to an end, with a wooden corral flanked by stables and outbuildings. Karsa returned his attention to his right and leaned out slightly further.
The three Malazan soldiers were nowhere to be seen.
The bell was still pealing somewhere behind him, yet the town seemed strangely deserted.
Karsa jogged towards the corral. He arrived with no alarms raised, stepped over the railing, and made his way along the building’s wall towards the doorway.
It had been left open. The antechamber within held hooks, racks and shelves for weapons, but all such weapons had been removed. The close dusty air held the memory of fear. Karsa slowly entered. Another door stood opposite, this one shut.
A single kick sent it crashing inward.
Beyond, a large room with a row of cots on either side. Empty.
The echoes of the shattered door fading, Karsa ducked through the doorway and straightened, looking around, sniffing the air. The chamber reeked of tension. He felt something like a presence, still there, yet somehow managing to remain unseen. The warrior cautiously stepped forward. He listened for breathing, heard nothing, took another step.
The noose dropped down from above, over his head and down onto his shoulders. Then a wild shout, and it snapped tight around his neck.
As Karsa raised his sword to slice through the hemp rope, four figures descended behind him, and the rope gave a savage yank, lifting the Teblor off his feet.
There was a sudden splintering from above, followed by a desultory curse, then the crossbeam snapped, the rope slackening though the noose remained taut around Karsa’s throat. Unable to draw breath, he spun, sword cleaving in a horizontal slash-that passed through empty air. The Malazan soldiers, he saw, had already dropped to the floor and rolled away.
Karsa dragged the rope free of his neck, then advanced on the nearest scrambling soldier.
Sorcery hammered him from behind, a frenzied wave that engulfed the Teblor. He staggered, then, with a roar, shook it off.
He swung his sword. The Malazan before him leapt backward, but the blade’s tip connected with his right knee, shattering the bone. The man shrieked as he toppled.
A net of fire descended on Karsa, an impossibly heavy web of pain that drove him to his knees. He sought to slash at it, but his weapon was fouled by the flickering strands. It began constricting as if it possessed a life of its own.
The warrior struggled within the ever-tightening net, and in moments was rendered helpless.
The wounded soldier’s screams continued, until a hard voice rumbled a command and eerie light flashed in the room. The shrieks abruptly stopped.
Figures closed in around Karsa, one crouching down near his head. A dark-skinned, scarred face beneath a bald, tattoo-stitched pate. The man’s smile was a row of gleaming gold. ‘You understand Nathii, I take it. That’s nice. You’ve just made Limp’s bad leg a whole lot worse, and he won’t be happy about that. Even so, you stumbling into our laps will more than make up for the house arrest we’re presently under-’
‘Let’s kill him, Sergeant-’
‘Enough of that, Shard. Bell, go find the slavemaster. Tell him we got his prize. We’ll hand him over, but not for nothing. Oh, and do it quietly-I don’t want the whole town outside with torches and pitchforks.’ The sergeant looked up as another soldier arrived. ‘Nice work, Ebron.’
‘I damned near wet my pants, Cord,’ the man named Ebron replied, ‘when he just threw off the nastiest I had.’
‘Just shows, don’t it?’ Shard muttered.
‘Shows what?’ Ebron demanded.
‘Well, only that clever beats nasty every time, that’s all.’
Sergeant Cord grunted, then said, ‘Ebron, see what you can do for Limp, before he comes round and starts screaming again.’
‘I’ll do that. For a runt, he’s got some lungs, don’t he just.’
Cord reached down and carefully slid his hand between the burning strands to tap a finger against the bloodsword. ‘So here’s one of the famed wooden swords. So hard it breaks Aren steel.’
‘Look at the edge,’ Shard said. ‘It’s that resin they use that makes that edge-’
‘And hardens the wood itself, aye. Ebron, this web of yours, is it causing him pain?’
The sorcerer’s reply came from beyond Karsa’s line of sight. ‘If it was you in that, Cord, you’d be howling to shame the Hounds. For a moment or two, then you’d be dead and sizzling like fat on a hearthstone.’
Cord frowned down at Karsa, then slowly shook his head. ‘He ain’t even trembling. Hood knows what we could do with five thousand of these bastards in our ranks.’
‘Might even manage to clean out Mott Wood, eh, Sergeant?’
‘Might at that.’ Cord rose and stepped away. ‘So what’s keeping Bell?’
‘Probably can’t find no-one,’ Shard replied. ‘Never seen a whole town take to the boats like that before.’
Boots sounded in the antechamber, and Karsa listened to the arrival of at least a half-dozen newcomers.
A soft voice said, ‘Thank you, Sergeant, for recovering my property-’
‘Ain’t your property any more,’ Cord replied. ‘He’s a prisoner of the Malazan Empire, now. He killed Malazan soldiers, not to mention damaging imperial property by kicking in that door there.’
‘You cannot be serious-’
‘I’m always serious, Silgar,’ Cord quietly drawled. ‘I can guess what you got in mind for this giant. Castration, a cut-out tongue, hobbling. You’ll put him on a leash and travel the towns south of here, drumming up replacements for your bounty hunters. But the Fist’s position on your slaving activities is well enough known. This is occupied territory-this is part of the Malazan Empire now, like it or not, and we ain’t at war with these so-called Teblor. Oh, I’ll grant you, we don’t appreciate renegades coming down and raiding, killing imperial subjects and all that. Which is why this bastard is now under arrest, and he’ll likely be sentenced to the usual punishment: the otataral mines of my dear old homeland.’ Cord moved to settle down beside Karsa once more. ‘Meaning we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, since our detachment’s heading home. Rumours of rebellion and such, though I doubt it’ll come to much.’
Behind him, the slavemaster spoke. ‘Sergeant, the Malazan hold upon its conquests on this continent is more than precarious at the moment, now that your principal army is bogged down outside the walls of Pale. Do you truly wish for an incident here? To so flout our local customs-’
‘Customs?’ Still gazing down at Karsa, Cord bared his teeth. ‘The Nathii custom has been to run and hide when the Teblor raid. Your studious, deliberate corruption of the Sunyd is unique, Silgar. Your destruction of that tribe was a business venture on your part. Damned successful it was, too. The only flouting going on here is yours, with Malazan law.’ He looked up, his smile broadening. ‘What in Hood’s name do you think our company’s doing here, you perfumed piece of scum?’
All at once tension filled the air as hands settled on sword-grips.
‘Rest easy, I’d advise,’ Ebron said from one side. ‘I know you’re a Mael priest, Silgar, and you’re right on the edge of your warren right now, but I’ll turn you into a lumpy puddle if you make so much as a twitch for it.’
‘Order your thugs back,’ Cord said, ‘or this Teblor will have company on his way to the mines.’
‘You would not dare-’
‘Wouldn’t I?’
‘Your captain would-’
‘No, he wouldn’t.’
‘I see. Very well. Damisk, take the men outside for a moment.’
Karsa heard receding footsteps.
‘Now then, Sergeant,’ Silgar continued after a moment, ‘how much?’
‘Well, I admit I was considering some kind of exchange. But then the town’s bells stopped. Which tells me we’re out of time. Alas. Captain’s back-there, the sound of the horses, coming fast. All of this means we’re all official, now, Silgar. Of course, maybe I was stringing you along all the time, until you finally went and offered me a bribe. Which, as you know, is a crime.’
The Malazan troop had arrived at the corral, Karsa could hear. A few shouts, the stamping of hoofs, a brief exchange of words with Damisk and the other guards standing outside, then heavy boots on the floorboards.
Cord turned. ‘Captain-’
A rumbling voice cut him off. ‘I thought I’d left you under house guard. Ebron, I don’t recall granting you permission to rearm these drunken louts…’ Then the captain’s words trailed away.
Karsa sensed the smile on Cord’s face as he said, ‘The Teblor attempted an assault on our position, sir-’
‘Which no doubt sobered you up quick.’
‘That it did, sir. Accordingly, our clever sorcerer here decided to give us back our weapons, so that we could effect the capture of this overgrown savage. Alas, Captain, matters have since become somewhat more complicated.’
Silgar spoke. ‘Captain Kindly, I came here to request the return of my slave and was met with overt hostility and threats from this squad here. I trust their poor example is not indicative of the depths to which the entire Malazan army has fallen-’
‘That they’re definitely not, Slavemaster,’ Captain Kindly replied.
‘Excellent. Now, if we could-’
‘He tried to bribe me, sir,’ Cord said in a troubled, distressed tone.
There was silence, then the captain said, ‘Ebron? Is this true?’
‘Afraid it is, Captain.’
There was cool satisfaction in Kindly’s voice as he said, ‘How unfortunate. Bribery is a crime, after all…’
‘I was just saying the same thing, sir,’ Cord noted.
‘I was invited to make an offer!’ Silgar hissed.
‘No you wasn’t,’ Ebron replied.
Captain Kindly spoke. ‘Lieutenant Pores, place the slavemaster and his hunters under arrest. Detach two squads to oversee their incarceration in the town gaol. Put them in a separate cell from that bandit leader we captured on the way back-the infamous Knuckles is likely to have few friends locally. Barring those we strung up beside the road east of here, that is. Oh, and send in a healer for Limp-Ebron seems to have made something of a mess in his efforts on the unfortunate man.’
‘Well,’ Ebron snapped, ‘I ain’t Denul, you know.’
‘Watch your tone, Mage,’ the captain calmly warned.
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘I admit to some curiosity, Ebron,’ Kindly continued. ‘What is the nature of this spell you have inflicted on this warrior?’
‘Uh, a shaping of Ruse-’
‘Yes, I know your warren, Ebron.’
‘Yes, sir. Well, it’s used to snare and stun dhenrabi in the seas-’
‘Dhenrabi? Those giant sea-worms?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, why in Hood’s name isn’t this Teblor dead?’
‘Good question, Captain. He’s a tough one, he is, ain’t he just.’
‘Beru fend us all.’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Sergeant Cord.’
‘Sir?’
‘I have decided to drop the charges of drunkenness against you and your squad. Grief for lost ones. An understandable reaction, all things considered. This time. The next abandoned tavern you stumble into, however, is not to be construed as an invitation to licentiousness. Am I understood?’
‘Perfectly, sir.’
‘Good. Ebron, inform the squads that we are departing this picturesque town. As soon as possible. Sergeant Cord, your squad will see to the loading of supplies. That will be all, soldiers.’
‘What of this warrior?’ Ebron asked.
‘How long will this sorcerous net last?’
‘As long as you like, sir. But the pain-’
‘He seems to be bearing up. Leave him as he is, and in the meantime think of a way to load him onto the bed of a wagon.’
‘Yes, sir. We’ll need long poles-’
‘Whatever,’ Captain Kindly muttered, striding away.
Karsa sensed the sorcerer staring down on him. The pain had long since faded, no matter what Ebron’s claims, and indeed, the steady, slow tensing and easing of the Teblor’s muscles had begun to weaken it.
Not long, now…