The mutiny came that fell dawn, when through the heavy mists that had plagued us for ten days we looked to the east, and there saw, rising vast and innumerable on the cloud-bound horizon, dragons. Too large to comprehend, their heads above the sun, their folded wings reaching down to cast a shadow that could swallow all of Drene. This was too much, too frightening even for the more seasoned soldiers in our troop, for their dark eyes were upon us, an alien regard that drained the blood from our hearts, the very iron from our swords and spears.
To walk into those shadows would quail a champion of the First Empire. We could not face such challenge, and though I voiced my fury, my dismay, it was naught but the bolster demanded of any expedition’s leader, and indeed, I had no intention of demanding of my party the courage that I myself lacked. Bolster is a dangerous thing, lest one succeeds where one would not. And so I ceased rhy umbrage, perhaps too easily yet none made account of that, relieved as they all were as we broke camp, packed our mules, and turned to the west.
– Four Days Into the Wildlands Thrydis Addanict
Banishment killed most victims, when the world beyond was harsh, when survival could not be purchased without the coin of co-operation. No graver punishment was possible among the tribal peoples, whether Awl or D’rhasilhani or Keryn. Yet it was the clan structure itself that imposed deadly intransigence, and with it a corresponding devastation when one was cast out, alone, bereft of all that gave meaning to life. Victims crumpled into themselves, abandoning all skills that could serve to sustain them; they withered, then died.
The Letherii, and their vast cities, the tumult of countless faces, were-beyond the chains of Indebtedness-almost indifferent to banishing. True, such people were not immune to the notion of spiritual punishment-they existed in families, after all, a universal characteristic of humans-yet such scars as were delivered from estrangement were survivable. Another village, another city-the struggle of beginning again could be managed and indeed, for some, beginning anew became an addiction in its own right. A way of absolving responsibility.
Redmask, his life that of the Awl, unsullied for generations, had come to believe that the nature of the Letherii-his most hated enemy-had nevertheless stained his spirit. Banishment had not proved a death sentence. Banishment had proved a gift, for with it he discovered freedom. The very lure that drew so many young warriors into the Lether Empire, where anonymity proved both bane and emancipation.
Driven away, he had wandered far, with no thought of ever returning. He was not as he had once been, no longer the son of his father, yet what he had become was, even to himself, a mystery.
The sky overhead was unmarred by clouds, the new season finding its heat, and jackrabbits raced from one thicket of momentary cover to another ahead of him as he rode the Letherii horse on the herd trail on its northeasterly route. A small herd, he had noted, with few fly-swarmed birth-stains along the path’s outskirts, where rodara males would gather protectively until the newborn was able to find its legs. The clan guiding these beasts was probably small.
Redmask’s guardian K’Chain Che’Malle were nowhere to be seen, but that was not unusual. The huge reptiles had prodigious appetites. At this time of year, the wild bhederin that had wintered in pocket forests-a solitary, larger breed than those of the plains to the south-ventured out from cover in search of mates. Massing more than two Letherii oxen, the bulls were ferocious and belligerent and would charge anything that approached too close, barring a female of its own kind. Sag’Churok, the male K’ell Hunter, delighted in meeting that thundering charge-Redmask had seen its pleasure, revealed in the slow sinuous lashing Of the tail-as it stood in the bull’s path, iron blades lifted high. As fast as the bhederin was, the K’Chain Che’Malle was faster. Each time after slaying the beast, Sag’Churok would yield the carcass to Gunth Mach, until she’d eaten her fill.
Redmask rode on through the day, his pace leisurely to ruse the burden on the horse, and when the sun was descending towards the horizon, igniting distant storm clouds, he came within sight of the Awl encampment, situated on an ancient oxbow island between two dry eroded riverbeds. The herds were massed on the flanks of the valleys to either side and the sprawl of dome-shaped, sewn-hide huts huddled amidst the smoke of cookfires blankering the valley.
No outriders. No pickets. And far too large a camp for the size of the herds.
Redmask reined in on the ridge line. He studied the Bene below. Here and there, voices rose in ritual mourn-ing. Few children were visible moving about between the huts,
Alter some time, as he sat motionless on the high Letherii saddle, someone saw him. Sudden cries, scurrying motion in the growing shadows, then a half-dozen warriors set out at a trot towards him.
Behind them, the camp had already begun a panicked breaking, sparks flying as hearths were kicked and stamped out. Hide walls rippled on the huts.
Herd and dray dogs appeared, racing to join the approaching warriors.
The Awl warriors were young, he saw as they drew closer. Only a year or two past their death nights. Not a single veteran among them. Where were the Elders? The shouldermen?
Halting fifteen paces downslope, the six warriors began conferring in hissed undertones, then one faced the encampment and loosed a piercing cry. All activity stopped below.
Faces stared up at Redmask. Not a single warrior among them seemed bold enough to venture closer.
The dogs were less cowed by the presence of a lone warrior. Growling, hackles raised, they crept in a half-circle towards him. Then, catching an unexpected scent, the beasts suddenly shrank back, tails dipping, thin whines coming from their throats.
Finally, one young warrior edged forward a step. ‘You cannot be him,’ he said.
Redmask sighed. ‘Where is your war leader?’ he demanded.
The youth filled his chest and straightened. ‘I am the clan’s war leader. Masarch, son of Nayrud.’
‘When was your death night?’
‘Those are the old ways,’ Masarch said, baring his teeth in a snarl. ‘We have abandoned such foolishness.’
Another spoke up behind the war leader. ‘The old ways have failed us! We have cast them out!’
Masarch said, ‘Remove that mask; it is not for you. You seek to deceive us. You ride a Letherii horse-you are one of the Factor’s spies.’
Redmask made no immediate reply. His gaze slid past the war leader and his followers, fixing once more on the camp below. A crowd was gathering at the near edge, watching. He was silent for another twenty heartbeats, then he said, ‘You have set out no pickets. A Letherii troop could line this ridge and plunge down into your midst, and you would not be prepared. Your women cry out their distress, a sound that can be heard for leagues on a still night like this. Your people are starving, war leader, yet they light an excess of fires, enough to make above you a cloud of smoke that will not move, and reflects the light from below. You have been culling the newborn rodara and myrid, instead of butchering the ageing males and females past bearing. You must have no shouldermen, for if you did, they would bury you in the earth and force upon you the death night, so that you might emerge, born anew and, hopefully, gifted with new wisdom-wisdom you clearly lack.’
Masarch said nothing to that. He had finally seen Redmask’s weapons. ‘You are him,’ he whispered. ‘You have returned to the Awl’dan.’
‘Which clan is this?’
‘Redmask,’ the war leader said, gesturing behind him. ‘This clan… it is yours…’
Receiving naught but silence from the mounted warrior, Masarch added, ‘We, we are all that remain. There are no shouldermen, Redmask. No witches.’ He waved out towards the flanking herds. ‘These beasts you see here, they are all that’s left.’ He hesitated, then straightened once more. ‘Redmask, you have returned… for nothing. You do not speak, and this tells me that you see the truth of things, Great Warrior, you are too late.’
liven to this, Redmask was silent. He slowly dismounted. The dogs, which had continued their trepid circling, tails ducked, either picked up a fresh scent or heard something from the gloom beyond, for they suddenly broke and pelted back down the slope, disappearing into the camp. That panic seemed to ripple through the warriors facing him, but none fled, despite the fear and confusion gripping their expressions.
Licking his lips, Masarch said, ‘Redmask, the Letherii are destroying us. Outrider camps have been ambushed, set upon and slaughtered, the herds stolen away. The Aendinar clan is no more. Sevond and Niritha remnants crawled to the Ganetok-only the Ganetok remains strong, for they are furthest east and, cowards that they are, they made pact with foreigners-’
‘Foreigners.’ Redmask’s eyes narrowed in their slits. ‘Mercenaries.’
Masarch nodded. ‘There was a great battle, four seasons past, and those foreigners were destroyed.’ He made a gesture. ‘The Grey Sorcery.’
‘Did not the victorious Letherii then march on the Ganetok camps?’
‘No, Redmask, too few remained-the foreigners fought well.’
‘Masarch,’ he said, ‘I do not understand. Did not the Ganetok fight alongside their mercenaries?’
The youth spat. ‘Their war leader gathered from the. clans fifteen thousand warriors. When the Letherii arrived, he fled, and the warriors followed. They abandoned the foreigners! Left them to slaughter!’
‘Settle the camp below,’ Redmask said. He pointed to the warriors standing behind Masarch. ‘Stand first watch along this ridge line, here and to the west. I am now war leader to the Renfayar clan. Masarch, where hides the Ganetok?’
‘Seven days to the east. They now hold the last great herd of the Awl.’
‘Masarch, do you challenge my right to be war leader?’
The youth shook his head. ‘You are Redmask. The Elders among the Renfayar who were your enemies are all dead, Their sons are dead.’
‘How many warriors remain among the Renfayar?’
Masarch frowned, then gestured. ‘You have met us, War Leader.’
A nod.
Redmask noted a lone dray dog sitting at the edge of the camp. It seemed to be watching him. He raised his left hand and the beast lunged into motion. The huge animal, a male, reached him moments later, dropping onto its chest and settling its wide, scarred head between Redmask’s feet. He reached down and touched its snout-a gesture that, for most, would have risked fingers. The dog made no move.
Masarch was staring down at it with wide eyes. ‘A lone survivor,’ he said, ‘from an outrider camp. It would not let us approach.’
‘The foreigners,’ Redmask said quietly, ‘did they possess wardogs?’
‘No. But they were sworn followers of the Wolves of War, and indeed, War Leader, it seemed those treacherous, foul beasts tracked them-always at a distance, yet in vast numbers. Until the Ganetok Elders invoked magic and drove them all away.’ Masarch hesitated, then said, ‘Redmask, the war leader among the Ganetok-’
Unseen behind the mask, a slow smile formed. ‘Firstborn son of Capalah. Hadralt.’
‘How did you know?’
‘Tomorrow, Masarch, we drive the herds east-to the Ganetok. I would know more of those hapless foreigners who chose to fight for us. To die for the people of the Awl’dan.’
‘We are to crawl to the Ganetok as did the Sevond and the Niritha?’
‘You are starving. The herds are too weakened. I lead six youths none of whom has passed the death night. Shall the seven of us ride to war against the Letherii?’
Though young, it was clear that Masarch was no fool. ‘You shall challenge Hadralt? Redmask, your warriors-we, we will all die. We are not enough to meet the hundreds of challenges that will be flung at us, and once we are dead, you will have to face those challenges, long before you are deemed worthy to cross weapons with Hadralt himself.’
‘You will not die,’ Redmask said. ‘And none shall challenge any of you.’
‘Then you mean to carve through a thousand warriors to face Hadralt?’
‘What would be the point of that, Masarch? I need those warriors. Killing them would be a waste. No.’ He paused, then said, ‘I am not without guardians, Masarch. And I doubt that a single Ganetok warrior will dare challenge them. Hadralt shall have to face me, he and I, alone in the circle. Besides,’ he added, ‘we haven’t the time for all the rest.’
‘The Ganetok hold to the old ways, War Leader. There will be rituals. Days and days before the circle is made-’
‘Masarch, we must go to war against the Letherii. Every warrior’of the Awl-’
‘War Leader! They will not follow you! Even Hadralt could only manage a third of them, and that with payment of rodara and myrid that halved his holdings!’ Masarch waved at the depleted herds on the hillsides. ‘We-we have nothing left! You could not purchase the spears of a hundred warriors!’
‘Who holds the largest herds, Masarch?’
‘The Ganetok themselves-’
‘No. I ask again, who holds the largest herds?’
The youth’s scowl deepened. ‘The Letherii.’
‘I will send three warriors to accompany the last of the Renfayar to the Ganetok. Choose two of your companion” to accompany us.’ The dray dog rose and moved to one side. Redmask collected the reins of his horse and set out down towards the camp. The dray fell in to heel on his left. ‘We shall ride west, Masarch, and find us some herds.’
‘We ride against the Letherii? War Leader, did you not moments ago mock the notion of seven warriors waging war against them? Yet now you say-’
‘War is for later,’ Redmask said. ‘As you say, we need herds. To buy the services of the warriors.’ He paused and looked back at the trailing youth. ‘Where did the Letherii get their beasts?’
‘From the Awl! From us!’
‘Yes. They stole them. So we must steal them back.’
‘Four of us, War Leader?’
‘And one dray, and my guardians.’
‘What guardians?’
Redmask resumed his journey. ‘You lack respect, Masarch. Tonight, I think, you will have your death night.’
‘The old ways are useless! I will not!’
Redmask’s fist was a blur-it was questionable whether, in the gloom, Masarch even saw it-even as it connected solidly with the youth’s jaw, dropping him in his tracks. Redmask reached down and grabbed a handful of hide jerkin, then began dragging the unconscious Masarch back down to the camp.
When the young man awoke, he would find himself in a coffin, beneath an arm’s reach of earth and stones. None of the usual traditional, measured rituals prior to a death night, alas, the kind that served to prepare the chosen for internment. Of course, Masarch’s loose reins displayed an;ippalling absence of respect, sufficient to obviate the gift of mercy, which in truth was what all those rituals were about.
Hard lessons, then. But becoming an adult depended on such lessons.
He expected he would have to pound the others into submission as well, which made for a long night ahead.
For us all.
The camp’s old women would be pleased by the ruckus, he suspected. Preferable to wailing through the night, in any case.
The last tier of the buried city proved the most interesting, as far as Udinaas was concerned. He’d had his fill of the damned sniping that seemed to plague this fell party of fugitives, a testiness that seemed to be getting worse, especially from Fear Sengar. The ex-slave knew that the Tiste Edur wanted to murder him, and as for the details surrounding the abandonment of Rhulad-which made it clear that Udinaas himself had had no choice in the matter, that he had been as much a victim as Fear’s own brother-well, Fear wasn’t interested. Mitigating circumstances did not alter his intransigence, his harsh sense of right and wrong which did not, it appeared, extend to his own actions-after all, Fear had been the one to deliberately walk away from Rhulad.
Udinaas, upon regaining consciousness, should have returned to the Emperor.
To do what? Suffer a grisly death at Rhulad’s hands? Yes, we were almost friends, he and I-as much as might be possible between slave and master, and of that the master ever feels more generous and virtuous than the slave-but I did not ask to be there, at the madman’s side, struggling to guide him across that narrow bridge of sanity, when all Rhulad wanted to do was leap head-first over the side at every step. No, he had made do with what he had, and in showing that mere splinter of sympathy, he had done more for Rhulad than any of the Sengars-brothers, mother, father. More indeed than any Tiste Edur. Is it any wonder none of you know happiness, Fear Sengar? You are all twisted branches from the same sick tree.
There was no point in arguing this, of course. Seren Pedac alone might understand, might even agree with all that Udinaas had to say, but she wasn’t interested in actually being one of this party. She clung to the role of Acquitor, a finder of trails, the reader of all those jealously guarded maps in her head. She liked not having to choose; better still, she liked not having to care.
A strange woman, the Acquitor. Habitually remote. Without friends… yet she carries a Tiste Edur sword. Trull Sengar’s sword. Kettle says he set it into her hands. Did she under’ stand the significance of that gesture? She must have. Trull Sengar had then returned to Rhulad. Perhaps the only brother who’d actually cared-where was he now? Probably dead.
Fresh, night-cooled air flowed down the broad ramp, moaned in the doorways situated every ten paces or so to either side. They were nearing the surface, somewhere in the saddleback pass-but on which side of the fort and its garrison? If the wrong side, then Silchas Ruin’s swords would keen loud and long. The dead piled up in the wake of that walking white-skinned, red-eyed nightmare, didn’t they just. The few times the hunters caught up with the hunted, they paid with their lives, yet they kept coming, and that made little sense.
Almost as ridiculous as this mosaic floor with its glowing armies. Images of lizard warriors locked in war, long-tails against short-tails, with the long-tails doing most of the dying, as far as he could tell. The bizarre slaughter beneath their feet spilled out into the adjoining rooms, each one, it seemed, devoted to the heroic death of some champion-Fouled K’ell, Naw’rhuk Adat and Matrons, said Silchas Ruin as, enwreathed in sorcerous light, he explored each such side chamber, his interest desultory and cursory at best. In any case, Udinaas could read enough into the colourful scenes to recognize a campaign of mutual annihilation, with every scene of short-tail victory answered with a Matron’s sorcerous conflagration. The winners never won because the losers refused to lose. An insane war.
Seren Pedac was in the lead, twenty paces ahead, and Udinaas saw her halt and suddenly crouch, one hand lift-i ng. The air sweeping in was rich with the scent of loam and wood dust. The mouth of the tunnel was small, overdrawn and half blocked by angled fragments of basalt from what had once been an-arched gate, and beyond was darkness.
Seren Pedac waved the rest forward. ‘I will scout out ahead,’ she whispered as they gathered about just inside the cave mouth. ‘Did anyone else notice that there were no hats in that last stretch? That floor was clean.’
‘There are sounds beyond human hearing,’ Silchas Ruin said. ‘The flow of air is channelled through vents and into tubes behind the walls, producing a sound that perturbs bats, insects, rodents and the like. The Short-Tails were skilied at such things.’
‘So, not magic, then?’ Seren Pedac asked. ‘No wards or curses here?’
‘No.’
Udinaas rubbed at his face. His beard was filthy, and there were things crawling in the snarls of hair. ‘Just find out if we’re on the right side of that damned fort, Acquitor.’
‘I was making sure I wouldn’t trip some kind of ancient ward stepping outside, Indebted, something that all these broken boulders suggests has happened before. Unless of course you want to rush out there yourself.’
‘Now why would I do that?’ Udinaas asked. ‘Ruin gave you your answer, Seren Pedac; what are you waiting for?’
‘Perhaps,’ Fear Sengar said, ‘she waits for you to be quiet. We shall all, I suppose, end up waiting for ever in that regard.’
‘Tormenting you, Fear, gives me my only pleasure.’
‘A sad admission indeed,’ Seren Pedac murmured, then edged forward, over the tumbled rocks, and into the night beyond.
Udinaas removed his pack and settled down on the littered floor, dried leaves crunching beneath him. He leaned against a tilted slab of stone and stretched out his legs.
Fear moved up to crouch at the very edge of the cave mouth.
Humming to herself, Kettle wandered off into a nearby side chamber.
Silchas Ruin stood regarding Udinaas. ‘I am curious,’ he said after a time. ‘What gives your life meaning, Letherii?’
‘That’s odd. I was just thinking the same of you, Tiste Andii.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Why would I lie?’
‘Why wouldn’t you?’
‘All right,’ Udinaas said. ‘You have a point.’
‘So you will not answer my question.’
‘You first.’
‘I do not disguise what drives me.’
‘Revenge? Well, fine enough, I suppose, as a motivation
– at least for a while and maybe a while is all you’re really interested in. But let’s be honest here, Silchas Ruin: as the sole meaning for existing, it’s a paltry, pathetic cause.’
‘Whereas you claim to exist to torment Fear Sengar.’
‘Oh, he manages that all on his own.’ Udinaas shrugged. ‘The problem with questions like that is, we rarely find meaning to what we do until well after we’ve done it. At that point we come up with not one but thousands-reasons, excuses, justifications, heartfelt defences. Meaning? Really, Silchas Ruin, ask me something interesting.’
‘Very well. I am contemplating challenging our pursuers
– no more of this unnecessary subterfuge. It offends my nature, truth be told.’
At the tunnel mouth, Fear turned to regard the Tiste Andii. ‘You will kick awake a hornet’s nest, Silchas Ruin. Worse, if this fallen god is indeed behind Rhulad’s power, you might find yourself suffering a fate far more dire than millennia buried in the ground.’
‘Fear’s turning into an Elder before our eyes,’ Udinaas said. ‘Jumping at shadows. You want to take on Rhulad and Hannan Mosag and his K’risnan, Silchas Ruin, you have my blessing. Grab the Errant by the throat and tear this empire to pieces. Turn it all into ash and dust. Level the whole damned continent, Tiste Andii-we’ll just stay here in this cave. Come collect us when you’re finished.’
Fear bared his teeth at Udinaas. ‘Why would he bother sparing us?’
‘I don’t know,’ the ex-slave replied, raising an eyebrow. ‘Pity?’
Kettle spoke from the side chamber’s arched doorway. ‘Why don’t any of you like each other? I like all of you. Even Wither.’
‘It’s all right,’ Udinaas said, ‘we’re all just tortured by who we are, Kettle.’
No-one said much after that.
Seren Pedac reached the edge of the forest, keeping low to remain level with the stunted trees. The air was thin and cold at this altitude. The stars overhead were bright and sharp, the dust-shrouded crescent moon still low on the horizon to the north. Around her was whispered motion through the clumps of dead leaves and lichen-a kind of scaled mouse ruled the forest floor at night, a species she had never seen before. They seemed unusually fearless, so much so that more than one had scampered across her boots. No predators, presumably. Even so, their behaviour was odd.
Before her stretched a sloped clearing, sixty or more paces, ending at a rutted track. Beyond it was a level stretch of sharp, jagged stones, loose enough to be treacherous. The fort squatting in the midst of this moat of rubble was stone-walled, thick at the base and tapering sharply to twice the height of a man. The corner bastions were massive, squared and flat-topped. On those platforms were swivel-mounted ballestae. Seren could make out huddled figures positioned around the nearest one, while other soldiers were visible, shoulders and heads, walking the raised platform on the other side of the walls.
As she studied the fortification, she heard the soft clunk of armour and weapons to her left. She shrank back as a patrol appeared on the rutted track. Motionless, breath held, she watched them amble past.
After another twenty heartbeats, she turned about and made her way back through the stunted forest. She almost missed the entrance to the cave mouth, a mere slit of black behind high ferns beneath a craggy overhang of tilted, layered granite. Pushing through, she stumbled into Fear Sengar.
‘Sorry,’ he whispered. ‘We were beginning to worry, or, at least,’ he added, ‘I was.’
She gestured him back into the cave.
‘Good news,’ she said once they were inside. ‘We’re behind the garrison-the pass ahead should be virtually unguarded-’
‘There are K’risnan wards up the trail,’ Silchas Ruin cut in. ‘Tell me of this garrison, Acquitor.’
Seren closed her eyes. Wards? Errant take us, what game is Hannan Mosag playing here? ‘I could smell horses from the fort. Once we trip those wards they’ll be after us, and we can’t outrun mounted soldiers.’
‘The garrison,’ Silchas said.
She shrugged. ‘The fort looks impregnable. I’d guess (here’s anywhere between a hundred and two hundred soldiers there. And with that many there’s bound to be mages, as well as a score or more Tiste Edur.’
‘Silchas Ruin is tired of being chased,’ Udinaas said from where he lounged, back resting on a stone slab.
Dread filled Seren Pedac at these words. ‘Silchas, can we not go round these wards?’
‘No.’
She glanced across at Fear Sengar, saw suspicion and unease in the warrior’s expression, but he would not meet her eyes. What conversation did 1 just miss here? ‘You are no stranger to sorcery, Silchas Ruin. Could you put everyone in that fort to sleep or something? Or cloud their minds, make them confused?’
He gave her an odd look. ‘I know of no sorcery that can achieve that.’
‘Mockra,’ she replied. ‘The warren of Mockra.’
‘No such thing existed in my day,’ he said. ‘The K’risnan sorcery, rotted through with chaos as it is, seems recogniz-able enough to me. I have never heard of this Mockra.’
‘Corlos, the mage with Iron Bars-the Crimson Guard mercenaries-he could reach into minds, fill them with false terrors.’ She shrugged. ‘He said the magic of Holds and Elder Warrens has, almost everywhere else, been supplanted.’
‘I had wondered at the seeming weakness of Kurald Galain in this land. Acquitor, I cannot achieve what you ask. Although, I do intend to silence everyone in that fort And collect for us some horses.’
‘Silchas, there are hundreds of Letherii there, not just soldiers. A fort needs support staff. Cooks, scullions, smiths, carpenters, servants-’
And the Tiste Edur,’ Fear added, ‘will have slaves.’
‘None of this interests me,’ the Tiste Andii said, moving past Seren and leaving the mouth of the cave.
Udinaas laughed softly. ‘Red Ruin stalks the land. We must heed this tale of righteous retribution gone horribly wrong. So, Fear Sengar, your epic quest twists awry-what will you tell your grandchildren now?’
The Edur warrior said nothing.
Seren Pedac hesitated; she could hear Silchas Ruin walk’ ing away-a few strides crunching through leaves-then he was gone. She could hurry after him. Attempt one last time to dissuade him. Yet she did not move. In the wake or Ruin’s passage the only sound filling the forest was the scurry and rustle of the scaled mice, in their thousands it seemed, all flowing in the same direction as the Tiste Andii. Sweat prickled like ice on her skin. Look at us, Frozen like rabbits.
Yet what can 1 do? Nothing. Besides, it’s not my business, is it? I am but a glorified guide. Not one of these here holds to a cause that matters to me. They’re welcome to their grand ambitions. I was asked to lead them out, that’s all.
This is Silchas Ruin’s war. And Fear Sengar’s. She looked over at Udinaas and found him studying her from where he sat, eyes glittering, as if presciently aware of her thoughts, the sordid tracks each converging on a single, pathetic con-elusion. Not my business. Errant take you, Indebted.
Mangled and misshapen, the K’risnan Ventrala reached up a scrawny, root-like forearm and wiped the sweat from his brow. Around him candles flickered, a forlorn invocation to Sister Shadow, but it seemed the ring of darkness in the small chamber was closing in on all sides, as inexorable as any tide, He had woken half a bell earlier, heart pounding and breath coming in gasps. The forest north of the fort was seething with orthen, a rock-dwelling scaled creature unique to this mountain pass-since his arrival at the fort he had seen perhaps a half-dozen, brought in by the maned Cats the Letherii locals kept. Those cats knew better than to attempt to eat the orthen, poison as they were, yet were not averse to playing with them until dead. Orthen avoided forest and soft ground. They dwelt among rocks. Yet now they swarmed the forest, and the K’risnan could feel some-thing palpable from their presence, a stirring that tasted of bloodlust.
Should he crouch here in his room, terrified of creatures he could crush underfoot? He needed to master this unseemly panic-listen! He could hear nothing from the fort lookouts. No alarms shouted out.
But the damned orthen carpeted the forest floor up the pass, massing in unimaginable numbers, and that dread scaly flood was sweeping down, and Ventrala’s panic rose yet higher, threatening to erupt from his throat in shrieks. He struggled to think.
Some kind of once in a decade migration, perhaps. Once In a century, even. A formless hunger. That and nothing more. The creatures would heave up against the walls, seethe for a time, then leave before the dawn. Or they’d flow around the fort, only to plunge from the numerous ledges and cliffs to either side of the approach. Some Creatures were driven to suicide-yes, that was it…
The bloodlust suddenly burgeoned. The K’risnan’s head rocked back, as if he’d just been slapped. Chills swept through him. He heard himself begin gibbering, even as he awakened the sorcery within him. His body flinched as chaotic power blossomed like poison in his muscles and bones. Sister Shadow had nothing to do with this magic lacing through him, nothing at all, but he was past caring about such things.
Then, as shouts rose from the wall, K’risnan Ventrala sensed another presence in the forest beyond, a focus to all | that bloodlust, a presence-and it was on its way.
Atri-Preda Hayenar awoke to distant shouts. An alarm was being raised, from the wall facing up-trail. And that, she realized as she quickly donned her uniform, made little sense. Then again, there wasn’t much about this damned assignment that did. Pursue, she’d been told, but avoid contact. And now, one of those disgusting K’risnan had arrived, escorted by twenty-five Merude warriors. Well, if there was any real trouble brewing, she would let them handle it.
Their damned fugitives, after all. They could have them, with the Errant’s blessing.
A moment later she was flung from her feet as a deafening concussion tore through the fort.
K’risnan Ventrala screamed, skidding across the floor to slam up against the wall, as a vast cold power swept over him, plucking at him as would a crow a rotted corpse. His own sorcery had recoiled, contracted into a trembling core deep in his chest-it had probed towards that approaching presence, probed until some kind of contact was achieved. And then Ventrala-and all that churning power within him-had been rebuffed.
Moments later, the fort’s wall exploded.
Atri-Preda Hayenar stumbled from the main house and found the compound a scene of devastation. The wall between the up-trail bastions had been breached, the impact spilling huge pieces of stone and masonry onto the muster area. And the rock was burning-a black, sizzling coruscation that seemed to devour the stone even as it flared wild, racing across the rubble.
Broken bodies were visible amidst the wreckage, and from the stables-where the building’s back wall leaned precariously inward-horses were screaming as if being devoured alive. Swarming over everything in sight were orthen, closing on fallen soldiers, and where they gathered, skin was chewed through and the tiny scaled creatures then burrowed in a frenzy into pulped meat.
Through the clouds of dust in the breach, came a tall figure with drawn swords.
White-skinned, crimson-eyed.
Errant take me-he’s had enough of running-the White Crow-
She saw a dozen Tiste Edur appear near the barracks. Heavy throwing spears darted across the compound, converging on the ghastly warrior.
He parried them all aside, one after the other, and with each clash of shaft against blade the swords sang, until it seemed a chorus of deathly voices filled the air.
Hayenar, seeing a score of her Letherii soldiers arrive, Itaggered towards them. ‘Withdraw!’ she shouted, waving like a madwoman. ‘Retreat, you damned fools!’
It seemed they had but awaited the command, as the unit broke into a rout, heading en masse for the down-trail gate.
One of the Tiste Edur closed on the Atri-Preda. ‘What are you doingV he demanded. ‘The K’risnan is coming-he’ll slap this gnat down-’
‘When he does,’ she snarled, pulling back, ‘we’ll be happy to regroup!’
The Edur unsheathed his cutlass. ‘Call them into battle, Atri-Preda-or I’ll cut you down right here!’
She hesitated.
To their right, the other Tiste Edur had rushed forward and now engaged the White Crow.
The swords howled, a sound so filled with glee that Hayenar’s blood turned to ice. She shook her head, watching, as did the warrior confronting her, as the White Crow curved his way through the Merude in a maelstrom of severed limbs, decapitations and disembowelling slashes that sent bodies reeling away.
‘-your Letherii! Charge him, damn you!’ She stared across at the Edur warrior. ‘Where’s your ‘ K’risnan?’ she demanded. ‘Where is he?’
Ventrala clawed his way into the corner of the room furthest from the conflagration outside. Endless, meaningless words were spilling from his drool-threaded mouth. His power had fled. Abandoning him here, in this cursed room. Not fair. He had done all that was asked of him. He had surrendered his flesh and blood, his heart and his very bones, all to Hannan Mosag.
There had been a promise, a promise of salvation, of vast rewards for his loyalty-once the hated youngest son of Tomad Sengar was torn down from the throne. They were to track Fear Sengar, the traitor, the betrayer, and when the net was finally closed around him it would not be Rhulad smiling in satisfaction. No, Rhulad, the fool, knew nothing about any of this. The gambit belonged to Hannan Mosag, the Warlock King, who had had his throne stolen from him. And it was Hannan who, with Fear Sengar in his hands- and the slave, Udinaas-would work out] his vengeance.
The Emperor needed to be stripped, every familiar face twisted into a mask of betrayal, stripped, yes, until he was completely alone. Isolated in his own madness.
Only then-
Ventrala froze, curled tight into a foetal ball, at soft laughter spilling towards him… from inside his room!
‘Poor K’risnan,’ it then murmured. ‘You had no idea this pale king of the orthen would turn on you, this strider of battlefields. His road is a river of blood, you pathetic fool, and… oh! look! his patience, his forbearance-it’s all gone!’
A wraith, here with him, whispering madness. ‘Begone,’ he hissed, ‘lest you share my fate! I did not summon you-’
‘No, you didn’t. My chains to the Tiste Edur have been severed. By the one out there. Yes, you see, I am his, not yours. The White Crow’s-hah, the Letherii surprised me there-but it was the mice, K’risnan… seems a lifetime ago now. In the forest north of Hannan Mosag’s village. And an apparition-alas, no-one understands, no-one takes note. But that is not my fault, is it?’
‘Go away-’
‘I cannot. Will not, rather. Can you hear? Outside? It’s all quiet now. Most of the Letherii got away, unfortunately. Tumbling like drunk goats down the stairs, with their captain among them-she was no fool. As for your Merude, well, they’re all dead. Now, listen! Boots in the hallway-he’s on his way!’
The terror drained away from Ventrala. There was no point, was there? At least, finally, he would be delivered from this racked, twisted cage of a body. As if recalling the dignity it had once possessed, that body now lurched into motion, lifting itself into a sitting position, back pushed into the corner-it seemed to have acquired its own will, disconnected from Ventrala, from the mind and spirit that held to that name, that pathetic identity. Hannan Mosag had once said that the power of the Fallen One fed on all that was flawed and imperfect in one’s soul, which in turn manifested in flesh and bone-what was then necessary was to teach oneself to exult in that power, even as it twisted and destroyed the soul’s vessel.
Ventrala, with the sudden clarity that came with approaching death, now realized that it was all a lie. Pain was not to be embraced. Chaos was anathema to a mortal body. It ruined the flesh because it did not belong there. There was no exaltation in self-destruction.
A chorus of voices filled his skull, growing ever louder. The swords…
There was a soft scuffing sound in the hallway beyond, then the door squealed open;
Orthen poured in, flowing like grey foam in the grainy darkness. A moment later, the White Crow stepped into view. The song of the two swords filled the chamber.
Red, lambent eyes fixed on Ventrala.
The Tiste Andii then sheathed his weapons, muting the keening music. ‘Tell me of this one who so presumes to offend me.’
Ventrala blinked, then shook his head. ‘You think the Crippled God is interested in challenging you, Silchas Ruin? No, this… offence… it is Hannan Mosag’s, and his alone. I understand that now, you see. It’s why my power is gone. Fled. The Crippled God is not ready for the likes of you.’
The white-skinned apparition was motionless, silent, for a time. Then he said, ‘If this Hannan Mosag knows my name, he knows too that I have reason to be affronted. By him. By all the Tiste Edur who have inherited the rewards of Scabandari’s betrayal. Yet he provokes me.’
‘Perhaps,’ Ventrala said, ‘Hannan Mosag presumed the Crippled God’s delight in discord was without restraint.’
Silchas Ruin cocked his head. ‘What is your name, K’risnan?’
Ventrala told him.
‘I will let you live,’ the Tiste Andii said, ‘so that you may deliver to Hannan Mosag my words. The Azath cursed me with visions, its own memories, and so I was witness to many events on this world and on others. Tell Hannan Mosag this: a god in pain is not the same as a god obsessed with evil. Your Warlock King’s obsessions are his own. It would seem, alas, that he is… confused. For that, I am merciful this night… and this night alone. Hereafter, should he resume his interference, he will know the extent of my displeasure.’
‘I shall convey your words with precision, Silchas Ruin.’
‘You should choose a better god to worship, Ventrala. Tortured spirits like company, even a god’s.’ He paused, then said, ‘Then again, perhaps it is the likes of you who have in turn shaped the Crippled God. Perhaps, without his broken, malformed worshippers, he would have healed long ago.’
Soft rasping laughter from the wraith.
Silchas Ruin walked back through the doorway. ‘I am conscripting some horses,’ he said without turning round.
Moments later, the wraith slithered after him.
The orthen, which had been clambering about in seemingly aimless motion, now began to withdraw from the chamber.
Ventrala was alone once more. To the stairs, find the Atri-Preda-an escort, for the journey back to Letheras. And I will speak to Hannan Mosag. And I will tell him about death in the pass. I will tell him of a Soletaken Tiste Andii with two knife wounds in his back, wounds that will not heal. Yet… he forbears.
Silchas Ruin knows more of the Crippled God than any of us, barring perhaps Rhulad. But he does not hate. No, he feels pity.
Pity, even for me.
Seren Pedac heard the horses first, hoofs thumping at the walk up the forested trail. The night sky above the fort was strangely black, opaque, as if from smoke-yet there was no glow from flames. They had heard the concussion, the destruction of at least one stone wall, and Kettle had yelped with laughter, a chilling, grotesque sound. Then, distant screams and, all too quickly thereafter, naught but silence.
Silchas Ruin appeared, leading a dozen mounts, accompanied by sullen moaning from the scabbarded swords.
‘And how many of my kin did you slay this time?’ Fear Sengar asked.
‘Only those foolish enough to oppose me. This pursuit,’ he said, ‘it does not belong to your brother. It is the Warlock King’s. I believe we cannot doubt that he seeks what we seek. And now, Fear Sengar, the time has come to set our knives on the ground, the two of us. Perhaps Hannan Mosag’s desires are a match to yours, but I assure you, such desires cannot be reconciled with mine.’
Seren Pedac felt a heaviness settle in the pit of her stomach. This had been a long time in coming, the one issue avoided-again and again, ever excused to the demands of simple expediency. Fear Sengar could not win this battle-they all knew it. Did he intend to stand in Silchas Ruin’s way? One more Tiste Edur to cut down? ‘There is no compelling reason to broach this subject right now,’ she said. ‘Let’s just get on these horses and ride.’
‘No,’ Fear Sengar said, eyes fixed on the Tiste Andii’s. ‘Let it be now. Silchas Ruin, in my heart I accept the truth of Scabandari’s betrayal. You trusted him, and you suffered unimaginably in consequence. Yet how can we make reparation? We are not Soletaken. We are not ascendants. We are simply Tiste Edur, and so we fall like saplings before you and your swords. Tell me, how do we ease your thirst for vengeance?’
‘You do not, nor is my killing your kin in any way an answer to my need. Fear Sengar, you spoke of reparation. Is this your desire?’
The Edur warrior was silent for a half-dozen heartbeats, then he said, ‘Scabandari brought us to this world.’
Yours was dying.’
Yes.’
‘You may not be aware of this,’ Silchas Ruin continued, ‘but Bloodeye was partly responsible for the sundering of Shadow. Nonetheless, of greater relevance, to me, are the betrayals that came before that particular crime. Betrayals against my own kin-my brother, Andarist-which set such grief upon his soul that he was driven mad.’ He slowly cocked his head. ‘Did you imagine me naive in fashioning an alliance with Scabandari Bloodeye?’
Udinaas barked a laugh. ‘Naive enough to turn your back on him.’
Seren Pedac shut her eyes. Please, Indebted, just keep your mouth shut. Just this once.
‘You speak truth, Udinaas,’ Silchas Ruin replied after a moment. ‘I was exhausted, careless. I did not imagine he would be so… public. Yet, in retrospect, the betrayal had to be absolute-and that included the slaughter of my followers.’
Fear Sengar said, ‘You intended to betray Scabandari, only he acted first. A true alliance of equals, then.’
‘I imagined you might see it that way,’ the Tiste Andii replied. ‘Understand me, Fear Sengar. I will not countenance freeing the soul of Scabandari Bloodeye. This world has enough reprehensible ascendants.’
‘Without Father Shadow,’ Fear said, ‘I cannot free Rhulad from the chains of the Crippled God.’
‘You could not, even with him.’
‘I do not believe you, Silchas Ruin. Scabandari was your match, after all. And I do not think the Crippled God hunts you in earnest. If it is indeed Hannan Mosag behind this endless pursuit, then the ones he seeks are myself and Udinaas. Not you. It is, perhaps, even possible that the Warlock King knows nothing of you-of who you are, beyond the mysterious White Crow.’
‘That does not appear to be the case, Fear Sengar.’
The statement seemed to rock the Tiste Edur.
Silchas Ruin continued, ‘Scabandari Bloodeye’s body was destroyed. Against me, now, he would be helpless: A soul without provenance is a vulnerable thing. Furthermore, it may be that his power is already being… used.’
‘By whom?’ Fear asked, almost whispering.
The Tiste Andii shrugged. ‘It seems,’ he said with something close to indifference, ‘that your quest is without purpose. You cannot achieve what you seek. I will offer you this, Fear Sengar. The day I choose to move against the Crippled God, your brother shall find himself free, as will all the Tiste Edur. When that time comes, we can speak of reparation.’
Fear Sengar stared at Silchas Ruin, then glanced, momentarily, at Seren Pedac. He drew a deep breath, then said, ‘Your offer… humbles me. Yet I could not imagine what the Tiste Edur could gift you in answer to such deliverance.’
‘Leave that to me,’ the Tiste Andii said.
Seren Pedac sighed, then strode to the horses. ‘It’s almost dawn. We should ride until midday at least. Then we can sleep.’ She paused, looked once more over at Silchas Ruin. ‘You are confident we will not be pursued?’
‘I am, Acquitor.’
‘So, were there in truth wards awaiting us?’
The Tiste Andii made no reply.
As the Acquitor adjusted the saddle and stirrups on one of the horses to suit Kettle, Udinaas watched the young girl squatting on her haunches near the forest edge, playing with an orthen that did not seem in any way desperate to escape her attentions. The darkness had faded, the mists silver in the growing light.
Wither appeared beside him, like a smear of reluctant night. ‘These scaled rats, Udinaas, came from the K’Chain Che’Malle world. There were larger ones, bred for food, but they were smart-smarter perhaps than they should have been. Started escaping their pens, vanishing into the mountains. It’s said there are some still left-’
Udinaas grunted his derision. ‘It’s said? Been hanging round in bars, Wither?’
‘The terrible price of familiarity-you no longer respect me, Indebted. A most tragic error, for the knowledge I possess-’
‘Is like a curse of boredom,’ Udinaas said, pushing himself to his feet. ‘Look at her,’ he said, nodding towards Kettle. ‘Tell me, do you believe in innocence? Never mind; I’m not that interested in your opinion. By and large, I don’t. Believe, that is. And yet, that child there… well, I am already grieving.’
‘Grieving what?’ Wither demanded.
‘Innocence, wraith. When we kill her.’
Wither was, uncharacteristically, silent.
Udinaas glanced down at the crouching shade, then sneered. ‘All your coveted knowledge…’
Seventeen legends described the war against the scaled demons the Awl called the Kechra; of those, sixteen were of battles, terrible clashes that left the corpses of warriors scattered across the plains and hills of the Awl’dan. Less a true war than headlong flight, at least in the first years. The Kechra had come from the west, from lands that would one day belong to the empire of Lether but were then, all those countless centuries ago, little more than blasted wastes-fly-swarmed marshlands of peat and rotten ice. A ragged, battered horde, the Kechra had seen battle before, and it was held in some versions of those legends that the Kechra were themselves fleeing, fleeing a vast, devastating war that gave cause to their own desperation.
In the face of annihilation, the Awl had learned how to fight such creatures. The tide was met, held, then turned.
Or so the tales proclaimed, in ringing, stirring tones of triumph.
Redmask knew better, although at times he wished he didn’t. The war ended because the Kechra’s migration reached the easternmost side of the Awl’dan, and then continued onward. Granted, they had been badly mauled by the belligerent ancestors of the Awl, yet, in truth, they had been almost indifferent to them-an obstacle in their path-and the death of so many of their own kind was but one more ordeal in a history of fraught, tragic ordeals since coming to this world.
Kechra. K’Chain Che’Malle, the Firstborn of Dragons.
There was, to Redmask’s mind, nothing palatable or sus-taining about knowledge. As a young warrior, his world had been a single knot on the rope of the Awl people, his own deliberate binding to the long, worn history of bloodlines, He had never imagined that there were so many other ropes, so many intertwined threads; he had never before comprehended how vast the net of existence, nor how tangled it had become since the Night of Life-when all that was living came into being, born of deceit and betrayal and doomed to an eternity of struggle.
And Redmask had come to understand struggle-there in the startled eyes of the rodara, the timid fear of the myrid; in the disbelief of a young warrior dying on stone and wind-blown sand; in the staring comprehension of a woman surrendering her life to the child she pushed out from between her legs. He had seen elders, human and beast, curl up to die; he had seen others fight for their last breath with all the will they could muster. Yet in his heart, he could find no reason, no reward waiting beyond that eternal struggle.
Even the spirit gods of his people battled, flailed, warred with the weapons of faith, with intolerance and the sweet, deadly waters of hate. No less confused and sordid than any mortal.
The Letherii wanted, and want invariably transformed into a moral right to possess. Only fools believed such things to be bloodless, either in intent or execution.
Well, by the same argument-by its very fang and talon-there existed a moral right to defy them. And in such a battle, there would be no end until one side or the other was obliterated. More likely, both sides were doomed to suffer that fate. This final awareness is what came from too much knowledge.
Yet he would fight on.
These plains he and his three young followers moved through had once belonged to the Awl. Until the Letherii expanded their notion of self-interest to include stealing land and driving away its original inhabitants. Cairn markers and totem stones had all been removed, the boulders left in heaps; even the ring-stones that had once anchored huts were gone. The grasses were overgrazed, and here and there long rectangular sections had seen the earth broken in anticipation of planting crops, fence posts stacked nearby. But Redmask knew that this soil was poor, quickly exhausted except in the old river valleys. The Letherii might manage a generation or two before the top-soil blew away. He had seen the results east of the wastelands, in far Kolanse-an entire civilization totterin on the edge of starvation as desert spread like plague.
The blurred moon had lifted high in the star-spattered night sky as they drew closer to the mass of rodara. There was little point in going after the myrid-the beasts were not swift runners over any reasonable distance-but as they edged closer, Redmask could see the full extent of this rodara herd. Twenty thousand head, perhaps even more.
A large drover camp, lit by campfires, commanded a hill’ top to the north. Two permanent buildings of cut-log walls and sod-capped roofs overlooked the shallow valley and the herds-these would, Redmask knew, belong to the Factor’s foreman, forming the focus for the beginning of a true settlement.
Crouched in the grasses at the edge of a drainage gully cutting through the valley side, the three young warriors on his left, Redmask studied the Letherii for another twenty heartbeats; then he gestured Masarch and the others back into the gully itself.
‘This is madness,’ the warrior named Theven whispered. There must be a hundred Letherii in that camp-and what of the shepherds and their dogs? If the wind shifts…’
‘Quiet,’ said Redmask. ‘Leave the dogs and the shepherds to me. As for the camp, well, they will soon be busy enough. Return to the horses, mount up, and be ready to flank and drive the herd when it arrives.’
In the moon’s pale light, Masarch’s expression was nerve-twisted, a wild look in his eyes-he had not done well on his death night, but thus far he appeared more or less sane. Both Theven and Kraysos had, Redmask suspected, made use of bledden herb smuggled with them into their coffins, which they chewed to make themselves insensate, beyond such things as panic and convulsions. Perhaps that was just as well. But Masarch had possessed no bledden herb. And, as was common to people of open lands, confinement was worse than death, worse than anything one could imagine.
Yet there was value in searing that transition into adulthood, rebirth that began with facing oneself, one’s own demonic haunts that came clambering into view in grisly succession, immune to every denial. With the scars born of that transition, a warrior would come to understand the truth of imagination: that it was a weapon the mind drew at every turn, yet as deadly to its wielder as to its conjured foes. Wisdom arrived as one’s skill with that weapon grew-we fight every battle with our imaginations: the battles within, the battles in the world beyond. This is the truth of command, and a warrior must learn command, of oneself and of others. It was possible that soldiers, such as the Letherii, experienced something similar in attaining rank, but Redmask was not sure of that.
Glancing back, he saw that his followers had vanished into the darkness. Probably, he judged, now at their horses. Waiting with fast, shallow breaths drawn into suddenly tight lungs. Starting at soft noises, gripping their reins and weapons in sweat-layered hands.
Redmask made a soft grunting sound and the dray, lying on its belly, edged closer. He settled a hand on its thick-furred neck, briefly, then drew it away. Together, the two set out, side by side, both low to the ground, towards the rodara herd.
Abasard walked slowly along the edge of the sleeping herd to keep himself alert. His two favoured dogs trotted in his wake. Born and raised as an Indebted in Drene, the sixteen-year-old had not imagined a world such as this-the vast sky, sprawling darkness and countless stars at night, enormous and depthless at day; the way the land itself reached out impossible distances, until at times he could swear he saw a curvature to the world, as if it existed like an island in the sea of the Abyss. And so much life, in the grasses, in the sky. In the spring tiny flowers erupted from every hillside, with berries ripening in the valleys. All his life, until his family had accompanied the Factor’s foreman, he had lived with his father and mother, his brothers and sisters, with his grandmother and two aunts-all crowded into a house little more than a shack, facing onto a rubbish-filled alley that stank of urine. The menagerie of his youth was made up of rats, blue-eyed mice, meers, cockroaches, scorpions and silverworms.
But here, in this extraordinary place, he had discovered a new life. Winds that did not stink with rot and waste. And there was room, so much room. He had witnessed with his own eyes a return to health among the members of his family-his frail little sister now wiry and sun-darkened, ever grinning; his grandmother, whose cough had virtually vanished; his father, who stood taller now, no longer hunched beneath low-ceilinged shacks and worksheds. Only yesterday, Abasard had heard him laugh, for the very first time.
Perhaps, the youth dared believe, once the land was broken and crops were planted, there would be the chance to work their way free of debt. Suddenly, all things seemed possible.
His two dogs loped past him, vanished in the gloom ahead. A not unusual occurrence. They liked to chase jackrabbits, or low-flying rhinazan. He heard a brief commotion in the grasses just beyond a slight rise. Abasard adjusted his grip on the staff he carried, increased his pace-if the dogs had trapped and killed a jackrabbit, there would be extra meat in the stew tomorrow.
Reaching the rise, he paused, searched the darkness below for his dogs. They were nowhere to be seen. Abasard downed, then let out a low whistle, expecting at any moment to hear them trot back to him. Yet only silence answered his summons. Confused, he slowly dropped into a crouch.
Ahead and to his right, a few hundred rodara shifted-awake and restless now.
Something was wrong. Wolves? The Bluerose cavalry the foreman kept under contract had hunted the local ones down long ago. Even the coyotes had been driven away, as had the bears.
Abasard crept forward, his mouth suddenly dry, his heart pounding hard in his chest.
His free hand, reaching out before him, came into contact with soft, warm fur. One of his dogs, lying motionless, still under his probing touch. Near its neck, the fur was wet. He reached down along it until his fingers sank into torn flesh where its throat should have been. The wound was ragged. Wolf. Or one of those striped cats. But of the latter he had only ever seen skins, and those came from the far south, near Bolkando Kingdom.
Truly frightened now, he continued on, and moments later found his other dog. This one had a broken neck. The two attacks, he realized, had to have been made simultaneously, else one or the other of the beasts would have barked.
A broken neck… but no other wounds, no slather of saliva on the fur.
The rodara heaved a half-dozen paces to one side again, and he could make out, at the very edge of his vision, their heads lifted on their long necks, their ears upright. Yet no fear-sounds came from them. So, no dangerous scent, no panic-someone has their attention. Someone they’re used to obeying.
There was no mistaking this-the herd was being stolen. Abasard could not believe it. He turned about, retracing his route. Twenty paces of silent footfalls later, he set out into a run-back to the camp.
Redmask’s whip snaked out to wrap round the shepherd’s neck-the old Letherii had been standing, outlined well against the dark, staring mutely at the now-moving herd. A sharp tug from Redmask and the shepherd’s head rolled from the shoulders, the body-arms jerking momentarily out to the sides-falling to one side.
The last of them, Redmask knew, as he moved up. Barring one, who had been smart enough to flee, although that would not save him in the end. Well, invaders had to accept the risks-they were thieves as well, weren’t they? Luxuriating in their unearned wealth, squatting on land not their own, arrogant enough to demand that it change to suit their purposes. As good as pissing on the spirits in the earth-one paid for such temerity and blasphemy.
He pushed away that last thought as unworthy. The spirits could take care of themselves, and they would deliver their own vengeance, in time-for they were as patient as they were inexorable. It was not for Redmask to act on behalf of those spirits. No, that form of righteousness was both unnecessary and disingenuous. The truth was this: Redmask enjoyed being the hand of Awl vengeance. Personal and, accordingly, all the more delicious.
He had already begun his killing of the Letherii, back in Drene.
Drawing his knife as he crouched over the old man’s severed head, he cut off the Letherii’s face, rolled it up and stored it with the others in the salt-crusted bag at his hip.
Most of the herd dogs had submitted to the Awl dray’s challenge-they now followed the larger, nastier beast as it worked to waken the entire herd, then drive it en masse eastward.
Straightening, Redmask turned as the first screams erupted from the drover camp.
Abasard was still forty paces from the camp when he saw one of the tents collapse to one side, poles and guides snapping, as an enormous two-legged creature thumped over it, talons punching through to the struggling forms beneath, and screams tore through the air. Head swivelling to one side, the fiend continued on in its loping, stiff-tailed gait. There were huge swords in its hands.
Another one crossed its path, fast, low, heading for the foreman’s house. Abasard saw a figure dart from this second beast’s path-but not quickly enough, as its head snapped forward, twisting so that its jaws closed to either side of the man’s head. Whereupon the reptile threw the flailing form upward in a bone-breaking surge. The limp corpse sailed in the air, landing hard and rolling into the hearth fire in a spray of sparks.
Abasard stood, paralysed by the horror of the slaughter he saw before him. He had recognized that man. Another Indebted, a man who had been courting one of his aunts, a man who always seemed to be laughing.
Another figure caught his eye. His baby sister, ten years old, racing out from the camp-away from another tent whose inhabitants were dying beneath chopping swords-our tent. Father-
The reptile lifted its head, saw his sister’s fleeting form, and surged after her.
All at once, Abasard found himself running, straight for the monstrous creature.
If it saw him converging, it was indifferent-until the very last moment, as Abasard raised his staff to swing overhand, hoping to strike the beast on its hind leg, imagining bones breaking-
The nearer sword lashed out, so fast, so-
Abasard found himself lying on sodden grasses, feeling heat pour from one side of his body, and as the heat poured out, he grew ever colder. He stared, seeing nothing yet, sensing how something was wrong-he was on his side, but his head was flattened down, his ear pressed to the ground. There should have been a shoulder below and beneath his head, and an arm, and it was where all the heat was pouring out.
And further down, the side of his chest, this too seemed to be gone.
He could feel his right leg, kicking at the ground. But no left leg. He did not understand.
Slowly, he settled onto his back, stared up at the night sky.
So much room up there, a ceiling beyond the reach of everyone, covering a place in which they could live. Uncrowded, room enough for all.
He was glad, he realized, that he had come here, to see, to witness, to understand. Glad, even as he died.
Redmask walked out of the dark to where Masarch waited with the Letherii horse. Behind him, the rodara herd was a mass of movement, the dominant males in the lead, their attention fixed on Redmask. Dogs barked and nipped from the far flanks. Distant shouts from the other two young warriors indicated they were where they should be.
Climbing into the saddle, Redmask nodded to Masarch then swung his mount round.
Pausing for a long moment, Masarch stared at the distant Letherii camp, where it seemed the unholy slaughter continued unabated. His guardians, he’d said.
He does not fear challenges to come. He will take the fur of the Ganetok war leader. He will lead us to war against the Letherii. He is Redmask, who forswore the Awl, only to now return.
I thought it Was too late.
I now think 1 am wrong.
He thought again of his death night, and memories returned like winged demons. He had gone mad, in that hollowed-out log, gone so far mad that hardly any of him had survived to return, when the morning light blinded him. Now, the insanity was loose, tingling at the very ends of his limbs, loose and wild but as yet undecided, not yet ready to act, to show its face. There was nothing to hold it back. No-one.
No-one but Redmask. My war leader.
Who unleashed his own madness years ago.