The argument was this: a civilization shackled to the strictures of excessive control on its populace, from choice of religion through to the production of goods, will sap the will and the ingenuity of its people-for whom such qualities are no longer given sufficient incentive or reward. At face value, this is accurate enough. Trouble arrives when the opponents to such a system institute its extreme opposite, where individualism becomes godlike and sacrosanct, and no greater service to any other ideal (including community) is possible. In such a system rapacious greed thrives behind the guise of freedom, and the worst aspects of human nature come to the fore, a kind of intransigence as fierce and nonsensical as its maternalistic counterpart.
And so, in the clash of these two extreme systems, one is witness to brute stupidity and blood-splashed insensitivity; two belligerent faces glowering at each other across the unfathomed distance, and yet, in deed and in fanatic regard, they are but mirror reflections.
This would be amusing if it weren’t so pathetically idiotic…
– In Defence of Compassion, Denabaris of Letheras, 4th century
Dead pirates were better, Shurq Elalle mused. There was a twisted sort of justice in the dead preying upon the living, especially when it came to stealing all their treasured possessions. Her pleasure in prying those ultimately worthless objects from their hands was the sole reason for her criminal activities, more than sufficient incentive to maintain her new’found profession. Besides, she was good at it.
The hold of the Undying Gratitude was filled with the cargo from the abandoned Edur ship, the winds were fresh and steady, pushing them hard north out of the Draconean Sea, and it looked as if the huge fleet in her wake was not getting any closer.
Edur and Letherii ships, a hundred, maybe more. They’d come out of the southwest, driving at a converging angle towards the sea lane that led to the mouth of the Lether River. The same lane that Shurq Elalle’s ship now tracked, as well as two merchant scows the Undying Gratitude was fast overhauling. And that last detail was too bad, since those Pilott scows were ripe targets, and without a mass of Imperial ships crawling up her behind, she’d have pounced.
Cursing, Skorgen Kaban limped up to where she stood at the aft rail. ‘It’s that infernal search, ain’t it? The two main fleets, or what’s left of ‘em.’ The first mate leaned over the rail and spat down into the churning foam skirling out from the keel. ‘They’re gonna be nipping our tails all the way into Letheras harbour.’
‘That’s right, Pretty, which means we have to stay nice.’
‘Aye. Nothing more tragic than staying nice.’
‘We’ll get over it,’ Shurq Elalle said. ‘Once we’re in the harbour, we can sell what we got, hopefully before the fleet arrives to do the same-because then the price will drop, mark my words. Then we head back out. There’ll be more Pilott scows, Skorgen.’
‘You don’t think that fleet came up on the floating wreck, do you? They’ve got every stretch of canvas out, like maybe they was chasing us. We get to the mouth and we’re trapped, Captain.’
‘Well, you have a point there. If they were truly scattered by that storm, a few of them could have come up on the wreck before it went under.’ She thought for a time, then said, ‘Tell you what. We’ll sail past the mouth. And if they ignore us and head upriver, we can come round and follow them in. But that means they’ll offload before we will, which means we won’t make as much-’
‘Unless their haul ain’t going to market,’ the first mate cut in. ‘Could be it’s all to replenish the royal vaults, Captain, or maybe it goes to the Edur and nobody else. Blood and Kagenza, after all. We could always find a coastal port and do our selling there.’
‘You get wiser with every body part you lose, Pretty.’
He grunted. ‘Gotta be some kind of upside.’
‘That’s the attitude,’ she replied. ‘All right, that’s what we’ll do, but never mind the coastal port-they’re all dirt poor this far north, surrounded by nothing but wilderness and bad roads where the bandits line up to charge tolls. And if a few Edur galleys take after us, we can always scoot straight up to that hold-out prison isle this side of Fent Reach-that’s a tight harbour mouth, or so I’ve been told, and they got a chain to keep the baddies out.’
‘Pirates ain’t baddies?’
‘Not as far as they’re concerned. The prisoners are running things now.’
‘I doubt it’ll be that easy,’ Skorgen muttered. ‘We’d just be bringing trouble down on them-it’s not like the Edur couldn’t have conquered them long ago. They just can’t be bothered.’
‘Maybe, maybe not. The point is, we’ll run out of food and water if we can’t resupply somewhere. Edur galleys are fast, fast enough to stay with us. Anywhere we dock they’ll be on us before the last line is drawn to the bollard. With the exception of the prison isle.’ She scowled. ‘It’s a damned shame. I wanted to go home for a bit.’
‘Then we’d best hope the whole damned fleet back there heads upriver,’ Skorgen the Pretty said, scratching round an eye socket.
‘Hope and pray-you pray to any gods, Skorgen?’
‘Sea spirits, mostly. The Face Under the Waves, the Guardian of the Drowned, the Swallower of Ships, the Stealer of Winds, the Tower of Water, the Reef Hiders, the-’
‘All right, Pretty, that’ll do. You can keep your host of disasters to yourself… just make sure you do all the propitiations.’
‘Thought you didn’t believe in all that, Captain.’
‘I don’t. But it never hurts to make sure.’
‘One day their names will rise from the water, Captain,’ Skorgen Kaban said, making a complicated warding gesture with his one remaining hand. ‘And with them the seas will lift high, to claim the sky itself. And the world will vanish beneath the waves.’
‘You and your damned prophecies.’
‘Not mine. Fent. Ever see their early maps? They show a coast leagues out from what it is now. All their founding villages are under hundreds of spans of water.’
‘So they believe their prophecy is coming true. Only it’s going to take ten thousand years.’
His shrug was lopsided. ‘Could be, Captain. Even the Edur claim that the ice far to the north is breaking up. Ten thousand years, or a hundred. Either way, we’ll be long dead by then.’
Speak for yourself, Pretty. Then again, what a thought. Me wandering round on the sea bottom for eternity. ‘Skorgen, get young Burdenar down from the crow’s nest and into my cabin.’
The first mate made a face. ‘Captain, you’re wearing him out.’
‘I ain’t heard him complain.’
‘Of course not. We’d all like to be as lucky-your pardon, Captain, for me being too forward, but it’s true. I was serious, though. You’re wearing him out, and he’s the youngest sailor we got.’
‘Right, meaning I’d probably kill the rest of you. Call him down, Pretty.’
‘Aye, Captain.’
She stared back at the distant ships. The long search was over, it seemed. What would they be bringing back to fair Letheras, apart from casks of blood? Champions. Each one convinced they can do what no other has ever managed. Kill the Emperor. Kill him dead, deader than me, so dead he never gets back up.
Too bad that would never happen.
On his way out of Letheras, Venitt Sathad, Indebted servant to Rautos Hivanar, halted the modest train outside the latest addition to the Hivanar holdings. The inn’s refurbishment was well under way, he saw, as, accompanied by the owner of the construction company under hire, he made his way past the work crews crowding the main building, then out back to where the stables and other outbuildings stood.
Then stopped.
The structure that had been raised round the unknown ancient mechanism had been taken down. Venitt stared at the huge monolith of unknown metal, wondering why, now that it had been exposed, it looked so familiar. The edifice bent without a visible seam, three-quarters of the way up-at about one and a half times his own height-a seemingly perfect ninety degrees. The apex looked as if it awaited some kind of attachment, if the intricate loops of metal were anything more than decorative. The object stood on a platform of the same peculiar, dull metal, and again there was no obvious separation between it and the platform itself.
‘Have you managed to identify its purpose?’ Venitt asked the old, mostly bald man at his side.
‘Well,’ Bugg conceded, ‘I have some theories.’
‘I would be interested in hearing them.’
‘You will find others in the city,’ Bugg said. ‘No two alike, but the same nonetheless, if you know what I mean.’
‘No, I don’t, Bugg.’
‘Same manufacture, same mystery as to function. I’ve never bothered actually mapping them, but it may be that there is some kind of pattern, and from that pattern, the purpose of their existence might be comprehended. Possibly.’
‘But who built them?’
‘No idea, Venitt. Long ago, I suspect-the few others I’ve seen myself are mostly underground, and further out towards the river bank. Buried in silts.’
‘In silts…’ Venitt continued staring, then his eyes slowly widened. He turned to the old man. ‘Bugg, I have a most important favour to ask of you. I must continue on my way, out of Letheras. I need a message delivered, however, back to my master. To Rautos Hivanar.’
Bugg shrugged. ‘I see no difficulty managing that, Venitt.’
‘Good. Thank you. The message is this: he must come here, to see this for himself. And-and this is most important-he must bring his collection of artifacts.’
‘Artifacts?’
‘He will understand, Bugg.’
‘All right,’ the old man said. ‘I can get over there in a couple of days… or I can send a runner if you like.’
‘Best in person, Bugg, if you would. If the runner garbles the message, my master might end up ignoring it.’
As you like, Venitt. Where, may I ask, are you going?’
The Indebted scowled. ‘Bluerose, and then on to Drene.’
A long journey awaits you, Venitt. May it prove dull and uneventful’
‘Thank you, Bugg. How go things here?’
‘We’re waiting for another shipment of materials. When that arrives, we can finish up. Your master has pulled another of my crews over for that shoring-up project at his estate, but until the trusses arrive that’s not as inconvenient as it might be.’ He glanced at Venitt. ‘Do you have any idea when Hivanar will be finished with all of that?’
‘Strictly speaking, it’s not shoring-up-although that is involved.’ He paused, rubbed at his face. ‘More of a scholarly pursuit. Master is extending bulwarks out into the river, then draining and pumping the trenches clear so that the crews can dig down through the silts.’
Bugg frowned. ‘Why? Is he planning to build a breakwater or a pier?’
‘No. He is recovering… artifacts.’
Venitt watched the old man look back at the edifice, and saw the watery eyes narrow. ‘I wouldn’t mind seeing those.’
‘Some of your foremen and engineers have done just that… but none were able to work out their function.’ And yes, they are linked to this thing here. In fact, one piece is a perfect replica of this, only on a much smaller scale. ‘When you deliver your message, you can ask to see what he’s found, Bugg. I am sure he would welcome your observations.’
‘Perhaps,’ the old man said distractedly.
‘Well,’ Venitt said. ‘I had best be going.’
‘Errant ignore you, Venitt Sathad.’
‘And you, Bugg.’
‘If only…’
That last statement was little more than a whisper, and Venitt glanced back at Bugg as he crossed the courtyard on his way out. A peculiar thing to say.
But then, old men were prone to such eccentricities.
Dismounting, Atri-Preda Bivatt began walking among the wreckage. Vultures and crows clambered about from one bloated body to the next, as if confused by such a bounteous feast. Despite the efforts of the carrion eaters, it was clear to her that the nature of the slaughter was unusual. Huge blades, massive fangs and talons had done the damage to these hapless settlers, soldiers and drovers.
And whatever had killed these people had struck before-the unit of cavalry that had pursued Redmask from Drene’s North Gate had suffered an identical fate.
In her wake strode the Edur Overseer, Brohl Handar. ‘There are demons,’ he said, ‘capable of this. Such as those the K’risnan conjured during the war… although they rarely use teeth and claws.’
Bivatt halted near a dead hearth. She pointed to a sweep of dirt beside it. ‘Do your demons leave tracks such as these?’
The Edur warrior came to her side. ‘No,’ he said after a moment. ‘This has the appearance of an oversized, flightless bird.’
‘Oversized?’ She glanced over at him, then resumed her walk.
Her soldiers were doing much the same, silent as they explored the devastated encampment. Outriders, still mounted, were circling the area, keeping to the ridge lines.
The rodara and myrid herds had been driven away, their tracks clearly visible heading east. The rodara herd had gone first, and the myrid had simply followed. It was] possible, if the Letherii detachment rode hard, that they would catch up to the myrid. Bivatt suspected the raiders would not lag behind to tend to the slower-moving beasts.
‘Well, Atri-Preda?’ Brohl Handar asked from behind her. ‘Do we pursue?’
She did not turn round. ‘No.’
‘The Factor will be severely displeased by your decision.’
And that concerns you?’
‘Not in the least.’
She said nothing. The Overseer was growing more confident in his appointment. More confident, or less cautious-there had been contempt in the Tiste Edur’s tone. Of course, that he had chosen to accompany this expedition was evidence enough of his burgeoning independence. For all of that, she almost felt sorry for the warrior.
‘If this Redmask is conjuring demons of some sort,’ Brohl Handar continued, ‘then we had best move in strength, accompanied by both Letherii and Edur mages. Accordingly, I concur with your decision.’
‘It pleases me that you grasp the military implications of this, Overseer. Even so, in this instance even the desires of the Factor are of no importance to me. I am first and foremost an officer of the empire.’
‘You are, and I am the Emperor’s representative in this region. Thus.’
She nodded.
A few heartbeats later the Tiste Edur sighed. ‘It grieves me to see so many slain children.’
‘Overseer, we are no less thorough when slaying the Awl.’
‘That, too, grieves me.’
‘Such is war,’ she said.
He grunted, then said, ‘Atri-Preda, what is happening on these plains is not simply war. You Letherii have initiated a campaign of extermination. Had we Edur elected to cross that threshold, would you not have called us barbarians in truth? You do not hold the high ground in this conflict, no matter how you seek to justify your actions.’
‘Overseer,’ Bivatt said coldly, ‘I care nothing about justifications, nor moral high ground. I have been a soldier too long to believe such things hold any sway over our actions. Whatever lies in our power to do, we do.’ She gestured at the destroyed encampment around them. ‘Citizens of Lether have been murdered. It is my responsibility to give answer to that, and so I shall.’
‘And who will win?’ Brohl Handar asked.
‘We will, of course.’
‘No, Atri-Preda. You will lose. As will the Awl. The victors are men such as Factor Letur Anict. Alas, such people as the Factor view you and your soldiers little differently from how they view their enemies. You are to be used, and this means that many of you will die. Letur Anict does not care. He needs you to win this victory, but beyond that his need for you ends… until a new enemy is found. Tell me, do empires exist solely to devour? Is there no value in peace? In order and prosperity and stability and security? Are the only worthwhile rewards the stacks of coin in Letur Anict’s treasury? He would have it so-all the rest is incidental and only useful if it serves him. Atri-Preda, you are in truth less than an Indebted. You are a slave-I am not wrong in this, for I am a Tiste Edur who possesses slaves. A slave, Bivatt, is how Letur Anict and his kind see you.’
‘Tell me, Overseer, how would you fare without your slaves?’
‘Poorly, no doubt.’
She turned about and walked back to her horse. ‘Mount up. We’re returning to Drene.’
‘And these dead citizens of the empire? Do you leave their bodies to the vultures?’
‘In a month even the bones will be gone,’ Bivatt said, swinging onto her horse and gathering the reins. ‘The whittle beetles will gnaw them all to dust. Besides, there is not enough soil to dig proper graves.’
‘There are stones,’ Brohl Handar noted.
‘Covered in Awl glyphs. To use them would be to curse the dead.’
‘Ah, so the enmity persists, so that even the ghosts war with each other. It is a dark world you inhabit, Atri-Preda.’
She looked down at him for a moment, then said, ‘Are the shadows any better, Overseer?’ When he made no reply, she said, ‘On your horse, sir, if you please.’
The Ganetok encampment, swollen with the survivors of the Sevond and Niritha clans, sprawled across the entire valley. Beyond to the east loomed vast dun-hued clouds from the main herds in the next few valleys. The air was gritty with dust and the acrid smell of hearth fires. Small bands of warriors moved back and forth like gangs of thugs, weapons bristling, their voices loud.
Outriders had made contact with Redmask and his paltry tribe earlier in the day, yet had kept their distance, seemingly more interested in the substantial herd of rodara trailing the small group. An unexpected wealth for so few Awl, leaving possession open to challenge, and it was clear to Redmask as he drew rein on a rise overlooking the encampment that word had preceded them, inciting countless warriors into bold challenge, one and all coveting rodara and eager to strip the beasts away from the mere handful of Renfayar warriors.
Alas, he would have to disappoint them. ‘Masarch,’ he now said, ‘remain here with the others. Accept no challenges.’
‘No-one has come close enough to see your mask,’ the youth said. ‘No-one suspects what you seek, War Leader. As soon as they do, we shall be under siege.’
‘Do you fear, Masarch?’
‘Dying? No, not any more.’
‘Then you are a child no longer. Wait, do nothing.’ Redmask nudged his horse onto the slope, gathering it into a collected canter as he approached the Ganetok encampment. Eyes fixed on him, then held, as shouts rose, the voices more angry than shocked. Until the nearer warriors made note of his weapons. All at once a hush fell over the encampment, rippling in a wave, and in its wake rose a murmuring, the anger he had first heard only now with a deeper timbre.
Dray dogs caught the burgeoning rage and drew closer, fangs bared and hackles stiff.
Redmask reined in. His Letherii horse tossed its head and stamped, snorting to warn off the huge dogs.
Someone was coming through the gathered crowd, like the prow of an unseen ship pushing through tall reeds. Settling back on the foreign saddle, Redmask waited.
Hadralt, firstborn son to Capalah, walked with his father’s swagger but not his physical authority. He was short and lean, reputedly very fast with the hook-bladed shortswords cross-strapped beneath each arm. Surrounding him were a dozen of his favoured warriors, huge, hulking men whose faces had been painted in a simulacrum of scales, copper in tone yet clearly intended to echo Redmask’s own. The expressions beneath that paint were now ones of chagrin.
His hands restless around the fetishes lining his belt, Hadralt glowered up at Redmask. ‘If you are who you claim to be, then you do not belong here. Leave, or your blood will feed the dry earth.’
Redmask let his impassive gaze slide over the copper-faced warriors. ‘You mouth the echoes, yet quail from the source.’ He looked once more upon the war leader. ‘I am before you now, Hadralt son of Capalah. Redmask, war leader of the Renfayar clan, and on this day I will kill you.’
The dark eyes widened, then Hadralt sneered. ‘Your life was a curse, Redmask. You have not yet earned the right to challenge me. Tell me, will your pathetically few pups fight for you? Your ambition will see them all killed, and my warriors shall take the Renfayar herds. And the Renfayar women-but only of bearing age. The children and elders will die, for they are burdens we will not abide. The Renfayar shall cease to be.’
‘For your warriors to gain the right to challenge my kin, Hadralt, they must first defeat my own champions.’
‘And where are they hiding, Redmask? Unless you mean that scarred dray that followed you in.’
The laughter at that jest was overloud.
Redmask glanced back at the lone beast. Lying on the ground just to the right of the horse, it had faced down all the other dogs in the area without even rising. The dray lifted its head and met Redmask’s eyes, as if the animal not only comprehended the words that had been spoken, but also welcomed the opportunity to face every challenger. He felt something stir in his chest. ‘This beast-understands courage,’ he said, facing Hadralt once more. ‘Would that I had ten thousand warriors to match it. Yet all I see before me is you, Hadralt, war leader of ten thousand cowards.’
The clamour that erupted then seemed to blister the air. Weapons flashed into sunlight, the massed crowd edging in. A sea of faces twisted with rage.
Hadralt had gone pale. Then he raised his arms and held them high until the outcry fell away. ‘Every warrior here,’ he said in a trembling voice, ‘shall take a piece of your hide, Redmask. They deserve no less in answer to your words. You seek to take my place? You seek to lead? Lead… these cowards? You have learned nothing in your exile. Not a warrior here will follow you now, Redmask. Not one.’
‘You hired an army,’ Redmask said, unable to keep the contempt from his tone. ‘You marched at their sides against the Letherii. And then, when the battle was offered and your new-found allies were engaged-fighting for you-you all fled. Cowards? That is too kind a word. In my eyes, Hadralt, you and your people are not Awl, not any more, for no true Awl warrior would do such a thing. I came upon rheir bodies. I was witness to your betrayal. The truth is this. When I am war leader here, before this day’s sun touches the horizon, it will fall to every warrior present to prove his worth, to earn the right to follow me. And I shall not be easy to convince. Copper paint on the faces of cowards-no greater insult could you have delivered to me.’
‘Climb down,’ Hadralt said in a rasp. ‘Down off that Letherii nag. Climb down, Redmask, to meet your end.’
Instead he drew out a hollowed rodara horn and lifted it to his lips. The piercing blast silenced all in the encampment except for the dogs, which began a mournful howling in answer. Redmask replaced the horn at his belt. ‘It is the way of time,’ he said, loud enough for his voice to carry, ‘for old enemies to find peace in the passing of ages. We have fought many wars, yet it was the first that holds still in the memory of the Awl, here in this very earth.’ He paused, for he could feel the reverberation beneath him-as did others now-as the two K’Chain Che’Malle approached in answer to his call. ‘Hadralt, son of Capalah, you are about to stand alone, and you and I shall draw our weapons. Prepare yourself.’
From the ridge, where stood the modest line of Renfayar warriors, six in all, two other shapes loomed into view, huge, towering. Then, in liquid motion, the pair flowed down the slope.
Silence hung heavy, beyond the thump of taloned feet, and hands that had rested on the grips and pommels of weapons slowly fell away.
‘My champions,’ said Redmask. ‘They are ready for your challengers, Hadralt. For your copper-faces.’
The war leader said nothing, and Redmask could see in the warrior’s expression that he would not risk losing the force of his words, when his commands were disobeyed-as they would be, a truth of which all who were present were now aware. Destiny awaited, then, in this solitary clash of wills.
Hadralt licked his lips. ‘Redmask, when I have killed you, what then of these Kechra?’
Making no reply, Redmask dismounted, walking to halt six paces in front of Hadralt. He unlimbered the rygtha crescent axe and centred his grip on the hafted weapon. ‘Your father is gone. You must now let go of his hand and stand alone, Hadralt. The first and last time. You have failed as war leader. You led Awl warriors to battle, then led them in flight. You betrayed allies. And now, you hide here on the very edge of the wastelands, rather than meet the invading Letherii blade to blade, teeth to throat. You will now step aside, or die.’
‘Step aside?’ Hadralt tilted his head, then managed a rictus smile. ‘That choice is not offered to an Awl warrior.’
‘True,’ Redmask said. ‘Only to elders who can no longer defend themselves, or to those too broken by wounds.’
Hadralt bared his teeth. ‘I am neither.’
‘Nor are you an Awl warrior. Did your father step aside? No, I see that he did not. He looked into your soul, and knew you, Hadralt. And so, old as he was, he fought you. For his tribe. For his honour.’
Hadralt unsheathed his hook-blades. He was trembling once more.
One of the copper-faces then spoke. ‘Capalah ate in the hut of his son. In a single night he sickened and died. In the morning, his face was the colour of blue lichen.’
Trenys’galah?’ Redmask’s eyes narrowed in the mask’s slits. ‘You poisoned your father, Hadralt? Rather than meet his blades? How is it you stand here at all?’
‘Poison has no name,’ muttered the same copper-face.
Hadralt said, ‘I am the reason the Awl still live! You will lead them to slaughter, Redmask! We are not yet ready to face the Letherii. I have been trading for weapons-yes, there are Letherii who believe our cause is just. We give up poor land, and receive fine iron weapons-and now you come, to undo all my plans!’
‘I see those weapons,’ Redmask said. ‘In the hands of many of your warriors. Have they been tested in battle? You are a fool, Hadralt, to believe you won that bargain. The traders you meet are in the employ of the Factor-he profits on both sides of this war-’
‘A lie!’
‘I was in Drene,’ Redmask said, ‘less than two weeks ago. I saw the wagons and their crates of cast-off weapons, the iron blades that will shatter at the first blow against a shield. Weapons break, are lost, yet this is what you accepted, this is what you surrendered land for-land home to the dust of our ancestors. Home to Awl spirits, land that has drunk Awl blood.’
‘Letherii weapons-’
‘Must be taken from the corpses of soldiers-those are the weapons worthy of the term, Hadralt. If you must use their way of fighting, then you must use weapons of a quality to match. Lest you invite your warriors to slaughter. And this,’ he added, ‘is clearly what you were not prepared to do. Thus, Hadralt, I am led to conclude that you knew the truth. If so, then the traders paid you in more than weapons. Did you share out the coin, War Leader? Do your kin even know of the hoard you hide in your hut?’
Redmask watched as the copper-faces slowly moved away from Hadralt. Recognizing the betrayal their leader had committed upon them, upon the Awl.
‘You intended surrender,’ Redmask continued, ‘didn’t you? You were offered an estate in Drene, yes? And slaves and Indebted to do your bidding. You planned on selling off our people, our history-’
‘We cannot win!’
Hadralt’s last words. Three sword-blades erupted from his chest, thrust into his back by his own copper-faces. Eyes wide with shock, the firstborn son and slayer of Capalah, last worthy leader of the Ganetok, stared across at Redmask. Hook-blades fell from his hands, then he sagged forward, sliding from the swords with a ghastly sucking sound almost immediately replaced by the gush of blood.
Eyes blank now in death, the corpse of Hadralt then toppled face-first into the dust.
Redmask returned the rygtha to its harness. ‘Seeds fall from the crown of the stalk. What is flawed there makes its every child weak. The curse of cowardice has ended this day. We are the Awl, and I am your war leader.’ He paused, looked round, then said, And so I shall lead you to war.’
On the ridge overlooking the sprawling encampment, Masarch made a gesture to sun and sky, then earth and wind. ‘Redmask now rules the Awl.’
Kraysos, standing on his right, grunted then said, ‘Did you truly doubt he would succeed, Masarch? Kechra guard his flanks. He is the charging crest of a river of blood, and he shall flood these lands. And even as the Letherii drown in it, so shall we.’
‘You cheated the death night, Kraysos, and so you still fear dying.’
On Masarch’s other side, Theven snorted. ‘The bledden herb had lost most of its potency. It took neither of us through the night. I screamed to the earth, Masarch. I screamed and screamed. So did Kraysos. We do not fear what is to come.’
‘Hadralt was killed by his own warriors,’ Masarch said. ‘From behind. This does not bode well.’
‘You are wrong,’ Theven said. ‘Redmask’s words have turned them all. I did not think such a thing would be possible.’
‘I suspect we will be saying that often,’ noted Kraysos.
‘We should walk down, now,’ said Masarch. ‘We are his first warriors, and behind us now there are tens of thousands.’
Theven sighed. ‘The world has changed.’
‘We will live a while longer, you mean.’
The young warrior glanced across at Masarch. ‘That is for Redmask to decide.’
Brohl Handar rode at the Atri’Preda’s side as the troop made its way down the trader track, still half a day from Drene’s gates. The soldiers at their backs were silent, stoking anger and dreams of vengeance, no doubt. There had been elements of Bluerose cavalry stationed in Drene since shortly after the annexation of Bluerose itself. As far as Brohl Handar understood, the acquisition of Bluerose had not been as bloodless as Drene had been. A complicated religion had served to unite disaffected elements of the population, led by a mysterious priesthood the Letherii had been unable to entirely exterminate. Reputedly some rebel groups still existed, active mostly in the mountains lining the western side of the territory.
In any case, the old Letherii policy of transferring Bluerose units to distant parts of the empire continued under Edur rule, certainly suggesting that risks remained. Brohl Handar wondered how the newly appointed Edur overseer in Bluerose was managing, and he reminded himself to initiate contact with his counterpart-stability in Bluerose was essential, for any disruption of Drene’s principal supply route and trading partner could prove disastrous if the situation here in the Awl’dan ignited into full-out war.
‘You seem thoughtful, Overseer,’ Bivatt said after a time.
‘Logistics,’ he replied.
‘If by that you mean military, such needs are my responsibility, sir.’
‘Your army’s needs cannot be met in isolation, Atri-Preda. If this conflict escalates, as I believe it will, then even the Factor cannot ensure that shortages will not occur, particularly among non-combatants in Drene and surrounding communities.’
‘In all-out war, Overseer, the requirements of the military always take precedence. Besides, there is no reason to anticipate shortages. The Letherii are well versed in these matters. Our entire system of transport was honed by the exigencies of expansion. We possess the roads, the necessary sea lanes and merchant vessels.’
‘There nonetheless remains a chokepoint,’ Brohl Handar pointed out. ‘The Bluerose Mountains.’
She shot him a startled glance. ‘The primary eastward trade goods through that range are slaves and some luxury foodstuffs from the far south. Bluerose of course is renowned for its mineral wealth, producing a quality of iron that rivals Letherii steel. Tin, copper, lead, lime and fire-rock, as well as cedar and spruce-all in abundance, while the Bluerose Sea abounds with cod. In return, Drene’s vast farms annually produce a surplus harvest of grains. Overseer, you appear to have been misinformed with respect to the materiel demands in question. There will be no shortages-’
‘Perhaps you are right.’ He paused, then continued, ‘Atri-Preda, it is my understanding that the Factor has instituted extensive trafficking of low-grade weapons and armour across the Bluerose Mountains. These weapons are in turn sold to the Awl, in exchange for land or at least the end of dispute over land. Over four hundred broad-bed wagonloads have been shipped thus far. Although the factor holds the tithe seal, no formal acknowledgement nor taxation of these items has taken place. From this, I can only assume that a good many other supplies are moving to and fro across those mountains, none with official approval.’
‘Overseer, regardless of the Factor’s smuggling operations, the Bluerose Mountains are in no way a chokepoint when it comes to necessary supplies.’
‘I hope you are right, especially given the recent failures of that route.’
‘Excuse me? What failures?’
‘The latest shipment of poor quality war materiel failed to arrive this side of the mountains, Atri-Preda. Furthermore, brigands struck a major fortress in the pass, routing the Letherii company stationed there.’
‘What? I have heard nothing of this! An entire company routed?’
‘So it seems. Alas, that was the extent of the information provided me. Apart from the weapons, I was unsure what other items the Factor lost in that shipment. If, as you tell me, there was nothing more of consequence to fall into the hands of the brigands, then I am somewhat relieved.’
Neither spoke for a time. Brohl Handar was aware that the Atri-Preda’s thoughts were racing, perhaps drawn into a tumult of confusion-uncertainty at how much Brohl knew, and by extension the Tiste Edur, regarding Letherii illegalities; and perhaps greater unease at the degree to which she herself had remained ignorant of recent events in Bluerose. That she’d been shaken told him she was not as much an agent of Letur Anict as he had feared.
He decided he had waited long enough. Atri-Preda, this imminent war with the Awl. Tell me, have you determined the complement of forces you feel will be necessary to effect victory?’
She blinked, visibly shifting the path of her thinking to address his question. ‘More or less, Overseer. We believe that the Awl could, at best, field perhaps eight or nine thousand warriors. Certainly not more than that. As an army, they are undisciplined, divisive due to old feuds and rivalries, and their style of combat is unsuited to fighting as a unit. So, easily broken, unprepared as they are for any engagement taking longer than perhaps a bell. Generally, they prefer to raid and ambush, keeping to small troops and striving to remain elusive. At the same time, their almost absolute dependency on their herds, and the vulnerability of their main camps, will, inevitably, force them to stand and fight-whereupon we annihilate them.’
‘A succinct preface,’ Brohl Handar said.
‘To answer you, we possess six companies of the Bluerose Battalion and near full complement of the reformed Artisan Battalion, along with detachments from the Drene Garrison and four companies from the Harridict Brigade. To ensure substantial numerical superiority, I will request the Crimson Rampant Brigade and at least half of the Merchants’ Battalion.’
‘Do yau anticipate that this Redmask will in any way modify the tactics employed by the Awl?’
‘No. He did not do so the first time. The threat he represents lies in his genius for superior ambushes and appallingly effective raids, especially on our supply lines. The sooner he is killed, the swifter the end of the war. If he succeeds in evading our grasp, then we can anticipate a long and bloody conflict.’
‘Atri-Preda, I intend to request three K’risnan and four thousand Edur warriors.’
‘Victory will be quick, then, Overseer, for Redmask will not be able to hide for long from your K’risnan.’
‘Precisely. I want this war over as soon as possible, and with minimal loss of life-on both sides. Accordingly, we must kill Redmask at the first opportunity. And shatter the Awl army, such as it is.’
‘You wish to force the Awl to capitulate and seek terms?’
‘Yes.’
‘Overseer, I will accept capitulation. As for terms, the only ones I will demand are complete surrender. The Awl will be enslaved, one and all. They will be scattered throughout the empire but nowhere near their traditional homelands. As slaves, they will be booty, and the right to pick first will be the reward I grant my soldiers.’
‘The fate of the Nerek and the Fent and the Tarthenal.’
‘Even so.’
‘The notion does not sit well with me, Atri-Preda. Nor will it with any Tiste Edur, including the Emperor.’
‘Let us argue this point once we have killed Redmask, Overseer.’
He grimaced, then nodded. ‘Agreed.’
Brohl Handar silently cursed this Redmask, who had single-handedly torn through his hopes for a cessation of hostilities, for an equitable peace. Instead, Letur Anict now possessed all the justification he needed to exterminate the Awl, and no amount of tactical genius in ambushes and raids would, in the end, make any difference at all. It is the curse of leaders to believe they can truly change the world.
A curse that has even afflicted me, it seems. Am I too now a slave to Letur Anict and those like him?
The rage within him was the breath of ice, held deep and overlong, until its searing touch burned in his chest. Upon hearing the copper-face Natarkas’s last words, he rose in silent fury and stalked from the hut, then stood, eyes narrowed, until his vision could adjust to the moonless, cloud-covered night. Nearby, motionless as carved sentinels of stone, stood his K’Chain Che’Malle guardians, their eyes faintly glowing smudges in the darkness. As Redmask pushed himself into motion, their heads turned in unison to watch as he set off through the encampment.
Neither creature followed, for which he was thankful. Every step taken by the huge beasts set the camp’s dogs to howling and he was in no mood for their brainless cries.
Half the night was gone. He had called in the clan leaders and the most senior elders, one and all crowding into the hut that had once belonged to Hadralt. They had come expect ing castigation, more condemnation from their new and much feared war leader, but Redmask had no interest in fur-ther belittling the warriors now under his command. The wounds of earlier that day were fresh enough. The courage they had lost could only be regained in battle.
For all of Hadralt’s faults, he had been correct in on thing-the old way of fighting against the Letherii was doomed to fail. Yet the now-dead war leader’s purported intent to retrain the Awl to a mode of combat identical to that of the Letherii was, Redmask told his followers, also doomed. The tradition did not exist, the Awl were skilled in the wrong weapons, and loyalties rarely crossed lines of clan and kin.
A new way had to be found.
Redmask had then asked about the mercenaries that ha been hired, and the tale that unfolded had proved both complicated and sordid, details teased out from reluctant, shamefaced warriors. Oh, there had been plenty of Letherii coin delivered as part of the land purchase, and that wealth had been originally amassed with the intent of hiring a foreign army-one that had been found on the borderlands to the east. But Hadralt had then grown to covet all that gold and silver, so much so that he betrayed that army-led them to their deaths-rather than deliver the coin into their possession.
Such was the poison that was coin.
Where had these foreigners come from?
From the sea, it appeared, a landing on the north coast of the wastelands, in transports under the flag of Lamatath, a distant peninsular kingdom. Soldier priests and priestesses, sworn to wolf deities.
What had brought them to this continent?
Prophecy.
Redmask had started at that answer, which came from Natarkas, the spokesman among the copper-faces, the same warrior who had revealed Hadralt’s murder of Capalah.
A prophecy, War Leader, Natarkas had continued. A final war. They came seeking a place they called the Battlefield of the Gods. They called themselves the Grey Swords, the Reve of Togg and Fanderay. There were many women among them, including one of the commanders. The other is a man, one-eyed, who claims he has lost that eye three times-
No, War Leader, this one still lives. A survivor of the battle. Hadralt imprisoned him. He lies in chains behind the women’s blood-hut-
Natarkas had fallen silent then, recoiling at the sudden rage he clearly saw in Redmask’s eyes.
And now the masked war leader strode through the Ganetok encampment, eastward to the far edge where trenches had been carved into the slope, taking away the wastes of the Awl; to the hut of blood that belonged to the women, then behind it, where, chained to a stake, slept a filthy creature, the lower half of his battered body in the drainage trench, where women’s blood and urine trickled through mud, roots and stones on their way to the deep pits beyond.
Halting, then, to stand over the man, who awoke, turning his head to peer with one glittering eye up at Redmask.
‘Do you understand me?’ the war leader asked.
A nod.
‘What is your name?’
The lone eye blinked, and the man reached up to scratch the blistered scar tissue around the empty socket where his other eye had been. He then grunted, as if surprised, and struggled into a sitting position. ‘Anaster was my new name,’ he said; a strange twist of his mouth that might have been a grin, then the man added, ‘but I think my older name better suits me, with a slight alteration, that is. I am Toc.’ The smile broadened. ‘Toc the Unlucky.’
‘I am Redmask-’
‘I know who you are. I even know what you are.’
‘How?’
‘Can’t help you there.’
Redmask tried again. ‘What hidden knowledge of me do you think you possess?’
The smile faded, and the man looked down, seeming to study the turgid stream of thinned blood round his knees. ‘It made little sense back then. Makes even less sense now. You’re not what we expected, Redmask.’ He coughed, then spat, careful to avoid the women’s blood.
‘Tell me what you expected?’
Another half-smile, yet Toc would not look up as he said, ‘Why, when one seeks the First Sword of the K’Chain Che’Malle, well, one assumes it would be… K’Chain Che’Malle. Not human. An obvious assumption, don’t you think?’
‘First Sword? I do not know this title.’
Toc shrugged. ‘K’ell Champion. Consort to the Matron. Hood take me, King. They’re all the same in your case.’ The man finally glanced up once more, and something glistened in his lone eye as he asked, ‘So don’t tell me the mask fooled them. Please…’
The gorge the lone figure emerged from was barely visible. Less than three man-heights across, the crevasse nestled between two steep mountainsides, half a league long and a thousand paces deep. Travellers thirty paces away, traversing the raw rock of the mountain to either side, would not even know the gorge existed. Of course, the likelihood of unwitting travellers anywhere within five leagues of the valley was virtually non-existent. No obvious trails wended through the Bluerose range this far north of the main passes; there were no high pastures or plateaux to invite settlement, and the weather was often fierce.
Clambering over the edge of the gorge into noon sunlight, the figure paused in a crouch and scanned the vicinity. Seeing nothing untoward, he straightened. Tall, thin, his midnight-black hair long, straight and unbound, his face unlined, the features somewhat hooded, eyes like firerock, the man reached into a fold in his faded black hide shirt and withdrew a length of thin chain, both ends holding a plain finger-ring-one gold, the other silver. A quick flip of his right index finger spun the rings round, then wrapped them close as the chain coiled tight. A moment later he reversed the motion. His right hand thus occupied, coiling and uncoiling the chain, he set off.
Southward he went, into and out of swaths of shadow and sunlight, his footfalls almost soundless, the snap of the chain the only noise accompanying him. Tied to his back was a horn and bloodwood bow, unstrung. At his right hip was a quiver of arrows, bloodwood shafts and hawk-feather fletching; at the quiver’s moss-packed base, the arrowheads were iron, teardrop-shaped and slotted, the blades on each head forming an X pattern. In addition to this weapon he carried a baldric-slung plain rapier in a silver-banded turtleshell scabbard. The entire scabbard and its fastening rings were bound with sheepskin to deaden the noise as he padded along. These details to stealth were one and all undermined by the spinning and snapping chain.
The afternoon waned on, until he moved through unbroken shadow as he skirted the eastern flank of each successive valley he traversed, ever southward. Through it all the chain twirled, the rings clacking upon contacting each other, then whispering out and spinning yet again.
At dusk he came to a ledge overlooking a broader valley, this one running more or less east-west, whereupon, satisfied with his vantage point, he settled into a squat and waited. Chain whispering, rings clacking.
Two thousand spins later, the rings clattered, then went still, trapped inside the fist of his right hand. His eyes, which had held fixed on the western mouth of the pass, unmindful of the darkness, had caught movement. He tucked the chain and rings back into the pouch lining the inside of his shirt, then rose.
And began the long descent.
The Onyx Wizards, purest of the blood, had long since ceased to struggle against the strictures of the prison they had created for themselves. Antiquity and the countless traditions that were maintained to keep its memory alive were the chains and shackles they had come to accept. To accept, they said, was to grasp the importance of responsibility, and if such a thing as a secular god could exist, then to the dwellers of Andara, the last followers of the Black-Winged Lord, that god’s name was Responsibility. And it had, over the decades since the Letherii Conquest, come to rival in power the Black-Winged Lord himself.
The young archer, nineteen years of age, was not alone in his rejection of the stolid, outdated ways of the Onyx Wizards. And like many of his compatriots of similar age-the first generation born to the Exile-he had taken a name for himself that bespoke the fullest measure of that rejection. Clan name cast away, all echoes of the old language-both the common tongue and the priest dialect-dispensed with. His clan was that of the Exiled, now.
For all these gestures of independence, a direct command delivered by Ordant Brid, Reve Master of the Rock among the Onyx Order, could not be ignored.
And so the young warrior named Clip of the Exiled had exited the eternally dark monastery of Andara, had climbed the interminable cliff wall and eventually emerged into hated sunlight to travel overland beneath the blinded stars of day, arriving at an overlook above the main pass.
The small party of travellers he now approached were not traders. No baggage train of goods accompanied them. No shackled slaves stumbled in their wake. They rode Letherii horses, yet even with the presence of at least three Letherii, Clip knew that this was no imperial delegation. No, these were refugees. And they were being hunted.
And among them walks the brother of my god.
As Clip drew nearer, as yet unseen by the travellers, he sensed a presence flowing alongside him. He snorted his disgust. ‘A slave of the Tiste Edur, tell me, do you not know your own blood? We will tear you free, ghost-something you should have done for yourself long ago.’
‘I am unbound,’ came the hissing reply.
‘Then I suppose you are safe enough from us.’
‘Your blood is impure.’
Clip smiled in the darkness. ‘Yes, I am a cauldron of failures. Nerek, Letherii-even D’rhasilhani.’
‘And Tiste Andii.’
‘Then greet me, brother.’
Rasping laughter. ‘He has sensed you.’
‘Was I sneaking up on them, ghost?’
‘They have halted and now await.’
‘Good, but can they guess what I will say to them? Can you?’
‘You are impertinent. You lack respect. You are about to come face to face with Silchas Ruin, the White Crow-’
‘Will he bring word of his lost brother? No? I thought not.’
Another hiss of laughter. ‘Oddly enough, I believe you will fit right in with the ones you are about to meet.’
Seren Pedac squinted into the gloom. She was tired. They all were after long days traversing the pass, with no end in sight. Silchas Ruin’s announcement that someone was approaching brought them all to a halt beside the sandy fringe of a stream, where insects rose in clouds to descend upon them. The horses snorted, tails flicking and hides rippling.
She dismounted a moment after Silchas Ruin, and followed him across the stream. Behind her the others remained where they were. Kettle slept in the arms of Udinaas, and he seemed disinclined to move lest he wake her. Fear Sengar slipped down from his horse but made no further move.
Standing beside the albino Tiste Andii, Seren could now hear a strange swishing and clacking sound, whispering down over the tumbled rocks beyond. A moment later a tall, lean form appeared, silhouetted against grey stone.
A smudge of deeper darkness flowed out from his side to hover before Silchas Ruin.
‘Kin,’ said the wraith.
‘A descendant of my followers, Wither?’
‘Oh no, Silchas Ruin.’
Breath slowly hissed from the Tiste Andii. ‘My brother’s. They were this close?’
The young warrior drew closer, his pace almost sauntering. The tone of his skin was dusky, not much different from that of a Tiste Edur. He was twirling a chain in his right hand, the rings on each end blurring in the gloom. ‘Silchas Ruin,’ he said, ‘I greet you on behalf of the Onyx Order of Andara. It has been a long time since we last met a Tiste Andii not of our colony.’ The broad mouth quirked slightly. ‘You do not look at all as I had expected.’
‘Your words verge on insult,’ Silchas Ruin said. ‘Is this how the Onyx Order would greet me?’
The young warrior shrugged, the chain snapping taut for a beat, then spinning out once more. ‘There are K’risnan wards on the trail ahead of you-traps and snares. Nor will you find what you seek in Bluerose, not the city itself nor Jasp nor Outbound.’
‘How is it you know what I seek?’
‘He said you would come, sooner or later.’
‘Who?’
Brows rose. ‘Why, your brother. He didn’t arrive in time to prevent your getting taken down, nor the slaughter of your followers-’
‘Did he avenge me?’
‘A moment,’ Seren Pedac cut in. ‘What is your name?’
A white smile. ‘Clip. To answer you, Silchas Ruin, he was not inclined to murder all the Tiste Edur. Scabandari Bloodeye had been destroyed by Elder Gods. A curse was laid upon the lands west of here, denying even death’s release. The Edur were scattered, assailed by ice, retreating seas and terrible storms. In the immediate aftermath of the Omtose Phellack curse, their survival was at risk, and Rake left them to it.’
‘I do not recall my brother being so… merciful.’
‘If our histories of that time are accurate,’ Clip said, ‘then he was rather preoccupied. The sundering of Kurald Emurlahn. Rumours of Osserc in the vicinity, a mercurial dalliance with Lady Envy, arguments and a shaky alliance with Kilmandaros, and then, finally, Silanah, the Eleint who emerged at his side from Emurlahn at the closing of the gate.’
‘It seems much of that time is common knowledge among your Order,’ Silchas Ruin observed, his tone flat. ‘He stayed with you for a lengthy period, then.’
‘He stays nowhere for very long,’ Clip replied, clearly amused by something.
Seren Pedac wondered if the youth knew how close he was to pushing Ruin over the edge. A few more ill-chosen words and Clip’s head would roll from his shoulders. ‘Is it your mission,’ she asked the Tiste Andii, ‘to guide-us to our destination?’
Another smile, another snap of the chain. ‘It is. You will be, uh, welcomed as guests of the Andara. Although the presence of both Letherii and Tiste Edur in your party is somewhat problematic. The Onyx Order has been outlawed, as you know, subject to vicious repression. The Andara represents the last secret refuge of our people. Its location must not be compromised.’
‘What do you suggest?’ Seren asked.
‘The remainder of this journey,’ Clip replied, ‘will be through warren. Through Kurald Galain.’
Silchas Ruin cocked his head at that, then grunted, ‘I am beginning to understand. Tell me, Clip, how many wizards of the Order dwell in the Andara?’
‘There are five, and they are the last.’
‘And can they agree on anything?’
‘Of course not. I am here by the command of Ordant Brid, Reve Master of the Rock. My departure from the Andara was uneventful, else it is likely I would not be here-’
‘Should another of the Order have intercepted you.’
A nod. ‘Can you wait for the maelstrom your arrival will bring, Silchas Ruin? I can’t.’
‘Thus, your greeting earlier should have been qualified. The Order does not welcome us. Rather, this Ordant Brid does.’
‘They all choose to speak for the Order,’ Clip said, his eyes glittering, ‘when it will most confound the others. Now, I can see how eager you all are.’ From his right hand the chain whipped out, the silver ring round his index finger, and at the snap of the chain’s full length, a gate into Darkness appeared to the warrior’s right. ‘Call the others here,’ Clip said, ‘at haste. Even now, bound wraiths serving the Tiste Edur are converging. Of course, they all dream of escape-alas, that we cannot give them. But their Edur masters watch through their eyes, and that won’t do.’
Seren Pedac turned about and summoned the others.
Clip stepped to one side and bowed low. ‘Silchas Ruin, I invite you to walk through first, and know once more the welcome embrace of true Darkness. Besides,’ he added, straightening as Ruin strode towards the gate, ‘you will make for us a bright beacon-’
One of Silchas Ruin’s swords hissed out, a gleaming blur, the edge slashing across the space where Clip’s neck had been, but the young warrior had leaned back… just enough, and the weapon sang through air.
A soft laugh from the youth, appallingly relaxed. ‘He said you’d be angry.’
Silchas Ruin stared across at Clip for a long moment, then he turned and walked through the gate.
Drawing a deep.breath to slow her heart, Seren Pedac glared at Clip. ‘You have no idea-’
‘Don’t I?’
The others appeared, leading their horses. Udinaas, with Kettle tucked into one arm, barely glanced over at Clip before he tugged his horse into the rent.
‘You wish to cross swords with a god, Clip?’
‘He gave himself away-oh, he’s fast all right, and with two weapons he’d be hard to handle, I’ll grant you-’
‘And will the Reve Master who sent you be pleased with your immature behaviour?’
Clip laughed. ‘Ordant could have selected any of a hundred warriors at hand for this mission, Letherii.’
‘Yet he chose you, meaning he is either profoundly stupid or he anticipated your irreverence.’
You waste your time, Acquitor,’ Fear Sengar said, coming up alongside her and eyeing Clip. ‘He is Tiste Andii. His mind is naught but darkness, in which ignorance and foolishness thrive.’
To Fear the young warrior bowed again. ‘Edur, please, proceed. Darkness awaits you.’ And he waved at the gate.
As Fear Sengar led his horse into the gate, the chain on Clip’s right index finger spun out once more, ending with a clash of rings.
‘Why do you do that?’ Seren demanded, irritated.
Brows lifted. ‘Do what?’
Swearing under her breath, the Acquitor walked through the gate.