The One God strode out-a puppet trailing severed strings-from the conflagration. Another city destroyed, another people cut down in their tens of thousands. Who among us, witnessing his emergence, could not but conclude that madness had taken him? For all the power of creation he possessed, he delivered naught but death and destruction. Stealer of Life, Slayer and Reaper, in his eyes where moments earlier there had been the blaze of unreasoning rage, now there was calm. He knew nothing. He could not resolve the blood on his own hands. He begged us for answers, but we could say nothing.
We could weep. We could laugh.
We chose laughter.
– Creed of the Mockers Cabal
Let’s play a game, the wind whispered. Then it laughed in the soft hiss of dust and sand. Hedge sat, listening, the crumbly stone block beneath him eroded into a saddle shape, comforting enough, all things considered. It might have been an altar once, fallen through some hole in the sky-Hood knew, enough strange objects had tumbled down from the low, impenetrable clouds during his long, meandering journey across this dire world. Some of them far too close for comfort.
Yes, probably an altar. The depression wherein resided his behind felt too even, too symmetrical to be natural. But he did not worry about blasphemy-this was, after all, where the dead went. And the dead included, on occasion, gods.
The wind told him as much. It had been his companion for so long, now, he had grown accustomed to its easy revelations, its quiet rasp of secrets and its caressing embrace. When he stumbled onto a scatter of enormous bones, hinting at some unhuman, monstrous god of long ago, the wind-as it slipped down among those bones, seeped between jutting ribs and slithered through orbitals and into the hollow caves of skulls-moaned that god’s once-holy name. Names. It seemed they had so many, their utterances now and for ever more trapped in the wind’s domain. Voiced in the swirl of dust, nothing but echoes now.
Let’s play a game.
There is no gate-oh, you’ve seen it, I well know.
But it is a lie. It is what your mind builds, stone by stone.
For your kind love borders. Thresholds, divisions, delineations. To enter a place you believe you must leave another. But look around and you can see. There is no gate, my jriend.
I show you this. Again and again. The day you comprehend, the day wisdom comes to you, you will join me. The flesh that encompasses you is your final conceit. Abandon it, my love. You once scattered yourself and you will do so again. When wisdom arrives. Has wisdom arrived yet?
The wind’s efforts at seduction, its invitations to his accepting some kind of wilful dissolution, were getting irritating. Grunting, he pushed himself upright.
On the slope to his left, a hundred or more paces away, sprawled the skeleton of a dragon. Something had shattered its ribcage, puncturing blows driving shards and fragments inward-fatally so, he could see even from this distance. The bones looked strange, sheathed one and all in something like black, smoky glass. Glass that webbed down to the ground, then ran in frozen streams through furrows on the slope. As if the beast’s melting flesh had somehow vitrified.
He had seen the same on the two other dragon remains he had come across.
He stood, luxuriating in his conceit-in the dull pain in his lower back, the vague earache from the insistent wind, and the dryness at the back of his throat that forced him to repeatedly clear it. Which he did, before saying, ‘All the wonders and miseries of a body, wind, that is what you have forgotten. What you long for. You want me to join you? Ha, it’s the other way round.’
You will never win this game, my love-
‘Then why play it?’
He set off at an angle up the hillside. On the summit, he could see more stone rubble, the remnants of a temple that had dropped through a hole in the earth, plucked from mortal eyes in a conflagration of dust and thunder. Like cutting the feet out from under a god. Like obliterating a faith with a single slash of the knife. A hole in the earth, then, the temple’s pieces tumbling through the Abyss, the ethered layers of realm after realm, until they ran out of worlds to plunge through.
Knock knock, right on Hood’s head.
Your irreverence will deliver unto you profoundest regret, beloved.
‘My profoundest regret, wind, is that it never rains here. No crashing descent of water-to drown your every word.’
Your mood is foul today. This is not like you. We have played so many games together, you and I.
‘Your breath is getting cold.’
Because you are walking the wrong way!
‘Ah. Thank you, wind.’
A sudden bitter gust buffeted him, evincing its displeasure. Grit stung his eyes, and he laughed. ‘Hood’s secret revealed, at last. Scurry on back to him, wind, you have lost (his game.’
You fool. Ponder this question: among the fallen, among the dead, will you find more soldiers-more fighters than non-fighters? Will you find more men than women? More gods than mortals? More fools than the wise? Among the Fallen, my friend, does the echo of marching armies drown all else? Or the moans of the diseased, the cries of the starving?
‘I expect, in the end,’ he said after a moment, ‘it all evens out.’
You are wrong. I must answer you, even though it will break your heart. I must.
‘There is no need,’ he replied. ‘I already know.’
Do you? whispered the wind.
‘You want me to falter. In despair. I know your tricks, wind. And I know, too, that you are probably all that remains of some ancient, long-forgotten god. Hood knows, maybe you are all of them, their every voice a tangled mess, pushing dust and sand and little else. You want me to fall to my knees before you. In abject worship, because maybe then some trickle of power will come to you. Enough to make your escape.’ He grunted a laugh. ‘But this is for you to ponder, wind. Among all the fallen, why do you haunt me?’
Why not? You boldly assert bone and flesh. You would spit in I lood’s face-you would spit in mine if you could think of a way to dodge my spitting it right back.
Aye, I would at that. Which is my point. You chose wrongly, wind. Because I am a soldier.’
Let’s play a game.
‘Let’s not.’
Among the Fallen, who-
‘The answer is children, wind. More children than anyone else.’
Then where is your despair?
‘You understand nothing,’ he said, pausing to spit. ‘For a man or a woman to reach adulthood, they must first kill the child within them.’
You are a most vicious man, soldier.
‘You still understand nothing. I have just confessed my despair, wind. You win the game. You win every game. But I will march on, into your icy breath, because that’s what soldiers do.’
Odd, it does not feel as if I have won.
On a flat stretch of cold but not yet frozen mud, he came upon tracks. Broad, flattened and bony feet, one set, heading in the same direction. Someone… seeking perhaps what he sought. Water pooled in the deep prints, motionless and reflecting the pewter sky.
He crouched down, studying the deep impressions. ‘Be useful, wind. Tell me who walks ahead of me.’
Silent. One who does not play.
‘Is that the best you can do?’
Vndead.
He squinted down at the tracks, noting the wide, slightly misaligned gait, the faint streaks left by dangling tufts of hide, skins, whatever. T’lan Imass?’
Broken.
‘Two, maybe three leagues ahead of me.’
More. Water crawls slowly here.
‘I smell snow and ice.’
My breath betrays all that I devour. Turn back to a sweeter kiss, beloved.
‘You mean the reek of fly-swarmed swamp I’ve endured for the past two months?’ He straightened, adjusted his heavy pack.
You are cruel. At least the one ahead says nothing. Thinks nothing. Feels nothing.
‘T’lan Imass for certain, then.’
Broken.
‘Yes, I understood you the first time.’
What will you do?
‘If need be, I will give you a gift, wind.’
A gift? Oh, what is it?
‘A new game-you have to guess.’
I will think and think and-
‘Hood’s breath-oh-oh! Forget I just said that!’
– and think and think…
They rode hard, westward at first, paralleling the great river for most of two days, before reaching the feeder track that angled northerly towards Almas, a modest town distinguished only by its garrison and stables, where Atri-Preda Yan Tovis, Varat Taun and their Letherii company could rest, resupply and requisition fresh mounts.
Varat Taun knew flight when he saw it, when he found himself part of it. Away from Letheras, where, a day before their departure, the palace and barracks seemed caught in a rising storm of tension, the smell of blood heady in the air, a thousand rumours cavorting in all directions but none of them possessing much substance, beyond news relating the casting out of two families, the widows and children of two men who had been the Chancellor’s bodyguards, and who were clearly no longer among the living.
Had someone tried to assassinate Triban Gnol? He’d wondered that out loud early in this journey and his commander had simply grunted, as if nothing in the notion surprised or even alarmed her. Of course she knew more than she was letting on, but Twilight had never been free with her words.
Nor am I, it turns out. The horrors of what I witnessed in that cavern-no, nothing 1 can say could possibly convey the… the sheer extremity of the truth. So best leave it. The ones who will witness will not live long past the experience. What then will remain of the empire?
And is this not why we are running away?
A foreigner rode with them. A Mocker, Yan Tovis had said, whatever that meant. A monk of some sort. With the painted face of a cavorting mummer-what mad religion is that? Varat Taun could not recall the strange little man saying a word-perhaps he was mute, perhaps his tongue had been cut out. Cultists did terrible things to themselves. The journey across the seas and oceans of the world had provided a seemingly endless pageantry of bizarre cultures and customs. No amount of self-mutilation in misguided service to some god would surprise Varat Taun. The Mocker had been among the challengers, but the absurdity of this was now obvious-after the first day of riding he had been exhausted, reeling in the saddle. He was, evidently, a healer.
Who healed me. Who guided me out from the terror and confusion. I have spoken my gratitude, but he just nodded. Did he witness the visions in my mind? Is he now struck mute, his very sanity under siege? In any case, he was no challenger to the Emperor, and that was why he now rode beside Yan Tovis, although what value she placed in this Mocker escaped the lieutenant.
Perhaps it’s no different from how she views me. I ride in this company in an act of mercy. Soon to be sent to a posting in my home city. To be with my wife and my child. Twilight is not thinking as an Atri-Preda-not even her duty as a soldier was enough to compel her to report what she had learned to her superiors.
But this is not the first time, is it? Why should I be surprised? She surrendered Pent Reach to the Edur, didn’t she? No battle, they just opened the gates.
‘Clearly, she loves the Edur so much she can go with them, to take command of the Letherii forces in the fleets.’ So went the argument, dry and mocking.
The truth may be that Yan Tovis is a coward.
Varat Taun did not like that thought, even as it now hounded him. He reminded himself of the battles, the skirmishes, both on water and ashore, where there had been nothing-not a single moment-when he had been given cause to doubt her courage.
Yet here, now, she was fleeing Letheras with her elite company.
Because 1 confirmed that Gral’s claims. Besides, would 1 will’ ingly stand beside Icarium again7. No, not at his side, not in the same city, preferably not on the same damned continent. Does that make me a coward as well?
There had been a child, in that cavern, a strange thing, more imp than human. And it had managed what no-one else could-taking down Icarium, stealing away his rage and all the power that came with it. Varat Taun did not think there would be another such intervention. The defenders of the First Throne had possessed allies. The Emperor in Gold could not but refuse the same. There would be no-one there to stop Icarium. No-one but Rhulad himself, which was of course possible.
It is our lack of faith in our Emperor that has set us on this road.
But what if neither one will fall? What if Icarium finds himself killing Rhulad again and again? Ten times, fifty, a hundred-ten thousand? An endless succession of battles, obliterating all else. Could we not see the end of the world?
Icarium cannot yield. Rhulad will not. They will share that inevitability. And they will share the madness that comes of it.
Bluerose would not be far enough away. No place will.
He had left behind the one man who understood what was coming better than anyone else. The barbarian. Who wore a heavy hood to hide his features when among strangers. Who spat on his hands to smooth back his hair. Who greeted each and every dawn with a litany of curses against all who had wronged him. Yet, now, 1 see him in my mind as if looking upon a brother.
He and 1 alone survived. Together, we brought Icarium out.
His thoughts had brought him to this moment, this conflation of revelations, and he felt his heart grow cold in his chest. Varat Taun pushed his horse to a greater pace, until he came up alongside his commander. Atri-Preda.’
She looked across at him.
‘1 must go back,’ he said.
‘To warn them?’
‘No, sir.’
‘What of your family, Varat Taun?’
He glanced away. ‘I have realized something. Nowhere is far enough.’
‘I see. Then, would you not wish to be at her side?’
‘Knowing I cannot save them…’ Varat shook his head. ‘The Gral and I-together-I don’t know, perhaps we can do something-if we’re there.’
‘Can I talk you out of this?’
He shook his head.
‘Very well. Errant’s blessing on you, Varat Taun.’
‘He is right,’ said the Mocker behind them. ‘I too must return.’
A heavy sigh gusted from Yan Tovis. ‘So be it-I should have known better than to try to save anyone but myself-no, I’m not as bitter as that sounded. My apologies. You both have my blessing. Be sure to walk those horses on occasion, however.’
‘Yes sir. Atri-Preda? Thank you.’
‘What word do I send to your wife?’
‘None, sir. Please.’
Yan Tovis nodded.
Varat Taun guided his mount off the road, reining in. The monk followed suited, somewhat more awkwardly. The lieutenant watched in some amusement. ‘You have no horses in your lands?’
‘Few. Cabal is an archipelago for the most part. The mainland holdings are on the sides of rather sheer cliffs, a stretch of coast that is severely mountainous. And what horses we do have are bred for labour and food.’
To that, Varat Taun said nothing.
They waited on the side of the track, watching the column of mounted soldiers ride past.
Errant take me, what have 1 done? * * *
The lake stretched on with no end in sight. The three figures had rowed their well-provisioned boat for what passed for a day and most of a night in the Shadow Realm, before the craft ran aground in shallows. Unable to find a way past, they had shouldered the packs and disembarked, wading in silty, knee-deep water. Now, midway through the next day, they dragged exhausted, numbed legs through a calm lake that had been no deeper than their hips since dawn-until they reached a sudden drop-off.
Trull Sengar had been in the lead, using his spear to probe the waters ahead, and now he moved to one side, step by step, the butt of the weapon stirring the grey, milky silts along the edge. He continued on for a time, watched by his companions. ‘Doesn’t feel natural,’ he finally said, making his way back to the others. ‘The drop-away is smooth, even.’ Moving past Onrack and Quick Ben, he resumed probing the ledge in the opposite direction. ‘No change here.’
The wizard voiced a long, elaborate string of curses in his Malazan tongue, then said, ‘I could take to the air, drawing on Sere-although how long I could manage that is anyone’s guess.’ He glared across at Onrack. ‘You can just melt into silts, you damned T’lan Imass.’
‘Leaving me,’ said Trull, who then shrugged. ‘I will swim, then-there may well be a resumption of the shallows ahead-you know, we’ve been walking on an unnaturally level bottom for some time. Imagine for the moment that we are on a submerged concourse of some sort-enormous, granted, but still. This drop-off could simply mark a canal. In which case I should soon find the opposite side.’
‘A concourse?’ Quick Ben grimaced. ‘Trull, if this is a concourse beneath us it’s the size of a city-state.’
Onrack said, ‘You will find one such construct, Wizard, covering the southeast peninsula of Stratem. K’Chain Che’Malle. A place where ritual wars were fought-before all ritual was abandoned.’
‘You mean when the Short-Tails rebelled.’
Trull swore under his breath. ‘I hate it when everyone knows more than me.’ Then he snorted. ‘Mind you, my company consists of a mage and an undead, so I suppose it’s no surprise I falter in comparison.’
‘Falter?’ Onrack’s neck creaked loud as the warrior turned to regard the Tiste Edur. ‘Trull Sengar, you are the Knight of Shadow.’
Quick Ben seemed to choke.
Above the wizard’s sudden fit of coughing, Trull shouted: ‘I am what7. Was this Cotillion’s idea? That damned upstart-’
‘Cotillion did not choose you, friend,’ Onrack said. ‘I cannot tell you who made you what you now are. Perhaps the Eres’al, although I do not comprehend the nature of her claim within the realm of Shadow. One thing, however, is very clear-she has taken an interest in you, Trull Sengar. Even so, I do not believe the Eres’al was responsible. I believe you yourself were.’
‘How? What did I do?’
The T’lan Imass slowly tilted its head to one side. ‘Warrior, you stood before Icarium. You held the Lifestealer. You did what no warrior has ever done.’
‘Absurd,’ snapped Trull. ‘I was finished. If not for Quick Ben here-and the Eres’al-I’d be dead, my chopped-up bones mouldering outside the throne room.’
‘It is your way, my friend, to disarm your own achievements.’
‘Onrack-’
Quick Ben laughed. ‘He’s calling you modest, Edur. And don’t bother denying the truth of that-you still manage to startle me on that count. I’ve lived most of my life among mages or in the ranks of an army, and in neither company did I ever find much in the way of self-deprecation. We were all too busy pissing on each other’s trees. One needs a certain level of, uh, bravado when it’s your job to kill people.’
‘Trull Sengar fought as a soldier,’ Onrack said to the wizard. ‘The difference between you two is that he is unable to hide his grief at the frailty of life.’
‘Nothing frail about us,’ Quick Ben muttered. ‘Life stays stubborn until it has no choice but to give up, and even then it’s likely to spit one last time in the eye of whatever’s killed it. We’re cruel in victory and cruel in defeat, my friends. Now, if you two will be quiet for a moment, I can go in search of a way out of here.’
‘Not flying?’ Trull asked, leaning on his spear.
‘No, a damned gate. I’m beginning to suspect this lake doesn’t end.’
‘It must end,’ the Edur said.
‘The Abyss is not always twisted with wild storms. Sometimes it’s like this-placid, colourless, a tide rising so slowly that it’s impossible to notice, but rise it does, swallowing this tilted, dying realm.’
‘The Shadow Realm is dying, Quick Ben?’
The wizard licked his lips-a nervous gesture Trull had seen before from the tall, thin man-then shrugged. ‘I think so. With every border an open wound, it’s not that surprising. Now, quiet everyone. I need to concentrate.’
Trull watched as Quick Ben closed his eyes.
A moment later his body grew indistinct, grainy at its edges, then began wavering, into and out of solidity.
The Tiste Edur, still leaning on his spear, grinned over at Onrack. ‘Well, old friend, it seems we wander the unknown yet again.’
‘I regret nothing, Trull Sengar.’
‘It’s virtually the opposite for me-with the exception of talking you into freeing me when I was about to drown in the Nascent-which, I’ve just realized, doesn’t look much different from this place. Flooding worlds. Is this more pervasive than we realize?’
A clattering of bones as the T’lan Imass shrugged. ‘I would know something, Trull Sengar. When peace comes to a warrior…’
The Edur’s eyes narrowed on the battered undead. ‘How do you just cast off all the rest? The surge of pleasure at the height of battle? The rush of emotions, each one threatening to overwhelm you, drown you? That sizzling sense of being alive? Onrack, I thought your kind felt… nothing.’
‘With awakening memories,’ Onrack replied, ‘so too other… forces of the soul.’ The T’lan Imass lifted one withered hand. ‘This calm on all sides-it mocks me.’
‘Better a wild storm?’
‘I think, yes. A foe to fight. Trull Sengar, should I join this water as dust, I do not think I would return. Oblivion would take me with the promise of a struggle ended. Not what I desire, friend, for that would mean abandoning you. And surrendering my memories. Yet what does a warrior do when peace is won?’
‘Take up fishing,’ Quick Ben muttered, eyes still closed, body still wavering. ‘Now enough words from you two. This isn’t easy.’
Wavering once more in and out of existence, then, suddenly-gone.
Ever since Shadowthrone had stolen him away-when Kalam needed him the most-Quick Ben had quietly seethed. Repaying a debt in one direction had meant betraying a friend in another. Unacceptable.
Diabolical.
And if Shadowthrone thinks he has my loyalty just because he pushed Kal into the Deadhouse, then he is truly as mad as we all think he is. Oh, I’m sure the Azath and whatever horrid guardian resides in there would welcome Kalam readily enough. Mount his head on the wall above the mantel, maybe-all right, that’s not very likely. But the Azath collects. That’s what it does, and now it has my oldest friend. So, how in Hood’s name do I get him out!
Damn you, Shadowthrone.
But such anger left him feeling unbalanced, making con-centration difficult. And the skin rotting from my legs isn’t helping either. Still, they needed a way out. Cotillion hadn’t explained much. No, he’d just expected us to figure things out for ourselves. What that means is that there’s only one real direction. Wouldn’t do to have us get lost now, would it?
Slightly emboldened-a momentary triumph over diffidence-Quick Ben concentrated, his senses reaching out to the surrounding ether. Solid, clammy, a smooth surface yielding like sponge under the push of imagined hands. The fabric of this realm, the pocked skin of a ravaged world. He began applying more pressure, seeking… soft spots, weak’ nesses-I know you exist.
Ah, you are now aware of me-1 can feel that. Curious, you feel almost… feminine. Well, a first time for everything. What had been clammy beneath his touch was now simply cool. Hood’s breath, I’m not sure I like the images accompany’ ing this thought of pushing through.
Beyond his sense of touch, there was nothing. Nothing for his eyes to find; no scent in the tepid air; no sound beyond the faint swish of blood in the body-there one moment, gone the next as he struggled to separate his soul, free it to wander.
This isn’t that bad-
A grisly tearing sound, then a vast, inexorable inhalation, tearing his spirit loose-yanking him forward and through, stumbling, into acrid swirling heat, thick clouds closing on all sides, soft sodden ground underfoot. He groped forward, his lungs filling with a pungent vapour that made his head reel. Gods, what sickness is this? 1 can’t breathe-
The wind spun, drove him staggering forward-sudden chill, stones turning beneath his feet, blessed clean air that he sucked in with desperate gasps.
Down onto his hands and knees. On the rocky ground, lichen and mosses. On either side, a thinly spread forest in miniature-he saw oaks, spruce, alder, old and twisted and none higher than his hip. Dun-hued birds flitted among small green leaves. Midges closed in, sought to alight-but he was a ghost here, an apparition-thus far. But this is where we must go.
The wizard slowly lifted his head, then climbed to his feet.
He stood in a shallow, broad valley, the dwarf forest covering the basin behind him and climbing the slopes on all sides, strangely park-like in the generous spacing of the trees. And they swarmed with birds. From somewhere nearby came the sound of trickling water. Overhead, dragonflies with wingspans to match that of crows darted in their uncanny precision, feeding on midges. Beyond this feeding frenzy the sky was cerulean, almost purple near the horizons. Tatters of elongated clouds ran in high ribbons, like the froth of frozen waves on some celestial shore.
Primordial beauty-tundra’s edge. Gods, I hate tundra. But so be it, as kings and queens say when it’s all swirled down the piss’hole. Nothing to be done for it. Here we must come.
Trull Sengar started at the sudden coughing-Quick Ben had reappeared, half bent over, tears streaming from his eyes and something like smoke drifting from his entire body. He hacked, then spat and slowly straightened. Grinning.
The proprietor of the Harridict Tavern was a man under siege. An affliction that had reached beyond months and into years. His establishment, once devoted to serving the island prison’s guards, had since been usurped along with the rest of the port town following the prisoners’ rebellion. Chaos now ruled, ageing honest folk beyond their years. But the money was good.
He had taken to joining Captain Shurq Elalle and Skorgen Kaban the Pretty at their preferred table in the corner during lulls in the mayhem, when the serving wenches and scull-boys rushed about with more purpos’ than panic, dull exhaustion replacing abject terror in their glazed eyes-and all seemed, for the moment, right and proper.
There was a certain calm with this here captain-a pirate if the Errant pisses straight and he ain’t missed yet-and a marked elegance and civility to her manner that told the proprietor that she had stolen not just coins from the highborn but culture as well, which marked her as a smart, sharp woman.
He believed he was falling in love, hopeless as that was. Stress of the profession and too much sampling of inland ales had left him-in his honest, not unreasonably harsh judgement-a physical wreck to match his moral lassitude which on good days he called his business acumen. Protruding belly round as a stew pot and damned near as greasy. Bulbous nose-one up on Skorgen there-with hurst veins, hair-sprouting blackheads and swirling bristles that reached down from the nostrils to entwine with his moustache-once a fashion among hirsute men but no more, alas. Watery close-set eyes, the whites so long yellow he was no longer sure they hadn’t always been that colour. A few front teeth were left, four in all, one up top, three below. Better than his wife, then, who’d lost her last two stumbling into a wall while draining an ale casket-the brass spigot knocking the twin tombstones clean out of their sockets, and if she hadn’t then choked on the damned things she’d still be with him, bless her. Times she was sober she’d work like a horse and bite just as hard and both lalents did her well working the tables.
But life was lonely these days, wasn’t it just, then in saunters this glorious, sultry pirate captain. A whole sight better than those foreigners, walking in and out of the Brullyg Shake’s Palace as if it was their ancestral home, then spending their nights here, hunched down at the games table-the biggest table in the whole damned lavern, if you mind, with a single jug of ale to last the entire night no matter how many of them crowded round their st range, foreign, seemingly endless game.
Oh, he’d demanded a cut as was his right and they paid over peaceably enough-even though he could make no sense of the rules of play. And how those peculiar rectangular coins went back and forth! But the tavern’s take wasn’t worth it. A regular game of Bale’s Scoop on any given night would yield twice as much for the house. And the ale quaffed-a player didn’t need a sharp brain to play Bale’s, Errant be praised. So these foreigners were worse than lumps of moss renting a rock, as his dear wife used to say whenever he sat down for a rest.
Contemplating life, my love. Contemplate this fist, dear husband. Wasn’t she something, wasn’t she just something. Been so quiet since that spigot punched her teeth down her throat.
‘All right, Ballant,’ Skorgen Kaban said in a sudden gust of beery breath, leaning over the table. ‘You come and sit wi’ us every damned night. And just sit. Saying nothing. You’re the most tight-lipped tavernkeep I’ve ever known.’
‘Leave the man alone,’ the captain said. ‘He’s mourning. Grief don’t need words for company. In fact, words is the last thing grief needs, so wipe your dripping nose, Pretty, and shut the toothy hole under it.’
The first mate ducked. ‘Hey, I never knew nothing about grief, Captain.’ He used the back of one cuff to blot at the weeping holes where his nose used to be, then said to Ballant, ‘You just sit here, Keeper, and go on saying nothing to no-one for as long as you like.’
Ballant struggled to pull his adoring gaze from the captain, long enough to nod and smile at Skorgen Kaban, then looked back again to Shurq Elalle.
The diamond set in her forehead glittered in the yellowy lantern light like a knuckle sun, the jewel in her frown-oh, he’d have to remember that one-but she was frowning, and that was never good. Not for a woman.
‘Pretty,’ she now said in a low voice, ‘you remember a couple of them Crimson Guard-in the squad? There was that dark-skinned one-sort of a more earthy colour than an Edur. And the other one, with that faint blue skin, some island mix, he said.’
‘What about them, Captain?’
‘Well.’ She nodded towards the foreigners at the games table on the other side of the room. ‘Them. Something reminds me of those two in Iron Bars’s squad. Not just skin, but their gestures, the way they move-even some of the words I’ve overheard in that language they’re speaking. Just… odd echoes.’ She then fixed her dark but luminous gaze on Ballant. ‘What do you know about them, Keeper?’
‘Captain,’ Skorgen objected, ‘he’s in mourning-’
‘Be quiet, Pretty. Me and Ballant are having an inconsequential conversation.’
Yes, most inconsequential, even if that diamond blinded him, and that wonderful spicy aroma that was her breath made his head swim as if it was the finest liqueur. Blinking, he licked his lips-tasting sweat-then said, ‘They have lots of private meetings with Brullyg Shake. Then they come down here and waste time.’
Even her answering grunt was lovely.
Skorgen snorted-wetly-then reached out with his one good hand and wiped clean the tabletop. ‘Can you believe that, Captain? Brullyg an old friend of yours and you can’t e’en get in to see him while a bunch of cheap foreigners can natter in his ear all day an’ every day!’ He half rose. ‘I’m thinking a word with these here-’
‘Sit down, Pretty. Something tells me you don’t want to mess with that crowd. Unless you’re of a mind to lose another part of your body.’ Her frown deepened, almost swallowing that diamond. ‘Ballant, you said they waste time, right? Now, that’s the real curious part about all this. People like them don’t waste time. No. They’re waiting. For something or someone. And those meetings with the Shake-that sounds like negotiating, the kind of negotiating that Brullyg can’t walk away from.’
That don’t sound good, Captain,’ Skorgen muttered. ‘In fact, it makes me nervous. Never mind avalanches of ice-Brullyg didn’t run when that was coming down-’
Shurq Elalle thumped the table. ‘That’s it! Thank you, Pretty. It-was something one of those women said. Brevity or Pithy-one of them. That ice was beaten back, all right, but not thanks to the handful of mages working for the Shake. No-those foreigners are the ones who saved this damned island. And that’s why Brullyg can’t bar his door against them. It isn’t negotiation, because they’re the ones doing all the talking.’ She slowly leaned back. ‘No wonder the Shake won’t see me-Errant take us, I’d be surprised if he was still alive-’
‘No, he’s alive,’ Ballant said. ‘At least, people have seen him. Besides, he has a liking for Fent ale and orders a cask from me once every three days without fail, and that hasn’t changed. Why, just yesterday-’
The captain leaned forward again. ‘Ballant. Next time you’re told to deliver one, let me and Pretty here do the delivering.’
‘Why, I could deny you nothing, Captain,’ Ballant said, then felt his face flush.
But she just smiled.
He liked these inconsequential conversations. Not much different from those he used to have with his wife. And… yes, here it was-that sudden sense of a yawning abyss awaiting his next step. Nostalgia rose within him, brimming his eyes.
Under siege, dear husband? One swing of this fist and those walls will come tumbling down-you do know that, husband, don’t you?
Oh yes, my love.
Odd, sometimes he would swear she’d never left. Dead or not, she still had teeth.
Blue-grey mould filled pocks in the rotted ice like snow’s own fur, shedding with the season as the sun’s bright heat devoured the glacier. But winter, when it next came, would do little more than slow the inexorable disintegration. This river of ice was dying, an age in retreat.
Seren Pedac had scant sense of the age to come, since she felt she was drowning in its birth, swept along in the mud and refuse of long-frozen debris. Periodically, as their discordant, constantly bickering party climbed ever higher into the northern Bluerose Mountains, they would hear the thundering collapse of distant ice cliffs, calving beneath the besieging sun; and everywhere water streamed across bared rock, coughed its way along channels and fissures, swept past them in its descent into darkness-the journey to the sea just begun-swept past, to traverse subterranean caverns, shadowed gorges, sodden forests.
The mould was sporing, and that had triggered a recoil of Seren’s senses-her nose was stuffed, her throat was dry and sore and she was racked with bouts of sneezing that had proved amusing enough to elicit even a sympathetic smile from Fear Sengar. That hint of sympathy alone earned her forgiveness-the pleasure the others took at her discomfort deserved nothing but reciprocation, when the opportunity arose, and she was certain it would.
Silchas Ruin, of course, was not afflicted with a sense of humour, in so far as she could tell. Or its dryness beggared a desert. Besides, he strode far enough ahead to spare himself her sneezing fits, with the Tiste Andii, Clip, only a few strides in his wake-like a sparrow harassing a hawk. Every now and then some fragment of Clip’s monologue drifted back to where Seren and her companions struggled along, and while it was clear that he was baiting the brother of his god, it was equally evident that the Mortal Sword of the Black-Winged Lord was, as Udinaas had remarked, using the wrong bait.
Four days now, this quest into the ravaged north, climbing the spine of the mountains. Skirting huge masses of broken ice that slid-almost perceptibly-ever downslope, voicing terrible groans and gasps. The leviathans are fatally wounded, Udinaas once observed, and will not go quietly.
Melting ice exuded a stench beyond the acrid bite of the mould spores. Decaying detritus: vegetation and mud frozen for centuries; the withered corpses of animals, some of them beasts long extinct, leaving behind twisted hides of brittle fur every whisper of wind plucked into the air, fractured bones and bulging cavities filled with gases that eventually burst, hissing out fetid breath. It was no wonder Seren Pedac’s body was rebelling.
The migrating mountains of ice were, it turned out, cause for the near-panic among the Tiste Andii inhabitants of the subterranean monastery. The deep gorge that marked its entrance branched like a tree to the north, and back down each branch now crawled packed snow and enormous blocks of ice, with streams of meltwater providing the grease, ever speeding their southward migration. And there was fetid magic in that ice, remnants of an ancient ritual still powerful enough to defeat the Onyx Wizards.
Seren Pedac suspected that there was more to this journey, and to Clip’s presence, than she and her companions had been led to believe. We walk towards the heart of that ritual, to the core that remains. Because a secret awaits us there.
Does Clip mean to shatter the ritual? What will happen if he does?
And what if to do so ruins us? Our chances of finding the soul of Scabandari Bloodeye, of releasing it?
She was beginning to dread this journey’s end.
There will be blood.
Swathed in the furs the Andii had provided, Udinaas moved up alongside her. ‘Acquitor, I have been thinking.’
‘Is that wise?’ she asked.
‘Of course not, but it’s not as if I can help it. The same for you, I am sure.’
Grimacing, she said, ‘I have lost my purpose here. Clip now leads. I… I don’t know why I am still walking in your sordid company.’
‘Contemplating leaving us, are you?’
She shrugged.
‘Do not do that,’ said Fear Sengar behind them.
Surprised, she half turned. ‘Why?’
The warrior looked uncomfortable with his own statement. He hesitated.
What mystery is this?
Udinaas laughed. ‘His brother offered you a sword, Acquitor. Fear understands-it wasn’t just expedience. Nor was your taking it, I’d wager-’
‘You do not know that,’ Seren said, suddenly uneasy. ‘Trull spoke-he assured me it was nothing more-’
‘Do you expect everyone to speak plainly?’ the ex-slave asked. ‘Do you expect anyone to speak plainly? What sort of world do you inhabit, Acquitor?’ He laughed. ‘Not the same as mine, that’s for certain. For every word we speak, are there not a thousand left unsaid? Do we not often say one thing and mean the very opposite? Woman, look at us-look at yourself. Our souls might as well be trapped inside a haunted keep. Sure, we built it-each of us-with our own hands, but we’ve forgotten half the rooms, we get lost in the corridors. We stumble into rooms of raging heat, then stagger back, away, lest our own emotions roast us alive. Other places are cold as ice-as cold as this frozen land around us. Still others remain for ever dark-no lantern will work, every candle dies as if starved of air, and we grope around, collide with unseen furniture, with walls. We look out through the high windows, but distrust all that we see. We armour ourselves against unreal phantasms, yet shadows and whispers make us bleed.’
‘Good thing the thousand words for each of those were left unsaid,’ Fear Sengar muttered, ‘else we find ourselves in the twilight of all existence before you are through.’
Udinaas replied without turning. ‘I tore away the veil of your reason, Fear, for asking the Acquitor to stay. Do you deny that? You see her as betrothed to your brother. And that he happens to be dead means nothing, because, unlike your youngest brother, you are an honourable man.’
A grunt of surprise from Udinaas, as Fear Sengar reached out to grasp the ex-slave, hands closing on the wrapped folds of fur. A surge of anger sent Udinaas sprawling onto the muddy scree.
As the Tiste Edur then whirled to advance on the winded Letherii, Seren Pedac stepped into his path. ‘Stop. Please, Fear. Yes, I know he deserved it. But… stop.’
Udinaas had managed to sit up, Kettle crouching down at his side and trying to wipe the smears of mud from his face. He coughed, then said, ‘That will be the last time I compliment you, Fear.’
Seren turned on the ex-slave. ‘That was a rather vicious compliment, Udinaas. And I second your own advice-don’t say anything like that again. Ever. Not if you value your life-’
Udinaas spat grit and blood, then said, ‘Ah, but now we’ve stumbled into a dark room indeed. And, Seren Pedac, you are not welcome there.’ He pushed himself upright. ‘You have been warned.’ Then he looked up, one hand settling on Kettle’s shoulder. His eyes, suddenly bright, avid, scanned Seren, Fear, and then moved up the trail, to where Silchas Ruin and Clip now stood side by side, regarding those downslope. ‘Here’s a most telling question-the kind few dare utter, by the way. Which one among us, friends, is not haunted by a death wish? Perhaps we ought to discuss mutual suicide…’
No-one spoke for a half-dozen heartbeats. Until Kettle said, ‘I don’t want to die!’
Seren saw the ex-slave’s bitter smile crumble, a sudden collapse into undeniable grief, before he turned away.
‘Trull was blind to his own truth,’ Fear said to her in a quiet voice. ‘I was there, Acquitor. I know what I saw.’
She refused to meet his eyes. Expedience. How could such a warrior proclaim his love for me? How could he even believe he knew me enough for that?
And why can I see his face as clear in my mind as if he stood here before me? 1 am haunted indeed. Oh, Udinaas, you were right. Fear is an honourable man, so honourable as to break all our hearts.
But, Fear, there is no value in honouring one who is dead.
‘Trull is dead,’ she said, stunning herself with her own brutality as she saw Fear visibly flinch. ‘He is dead.’ And so am I. There is no point in honouring the dead. I have seen too much to believe otherwise. Grieve for lost potential, the end of possibilities, the eternally silent demise of promise. Grieve for that, Fear Sengar, and you will understand, finally, how grief is but a mirror, held close to one’s own face.
And every tear springs from the choices we ourselves did not make.
When 1 grieve, Fear, I cannot even see the bloom of my own breath-what does that tell you?
They resumed walking. Silent.
A hundred paces above the group, Clip spun his chain and rings. ‘What was all that about?’ he asked.
‘You have lived in your tidy cave for too long,’ the white-skinned Tiste Andii said.
‘Oh, I get out often enough. Carousing in Bluerose-the gods know how many bastards have been brewed by my seed. Why-’
‘One day, Mortal Sword,’ Silchas Ruin interrupted, ‘you will discover what cuts deeper than any weapon of iron.’
‘Wise words from the one who smells still of barrows and rotting cobwebs.’
‘If the dead could speak, Clip, what would they tell you?’
‘Little, I expect, beyond complaints about this and that.’
‘Perhaps, then, that is all you deserve.’
‘Oh, I lack honour, do I?’
‘I am not sure what you lack,’ Silchas Ruin replied, ‘but I am certain I will comprehend before we are done.’
Rings and chain snapped taut. ‘Here they come. Shall we continue onward and upward?’
There was so much that Toe the Younger-Anaster, Firstborn of the Dead Seed, the Thrice-blinded, Chosen by the Wolf Gods, the Unlucky-did not wish to remember.
His other body for one; the body he had been born into, the first home to his soul. Detonations against Moon’s Spawn above the doomed city of Pale, fire and searing, blazing heat-oh, don’t stand there. Then that damned puppet, Hairlock, delivering oblivion, wherein his soul had found a rider, another force-a wolf, one-eyed and grieving.
How the Pannion Seer had lusted for its death. Toc recalled the cage, that spiritual prison, and the torment as his body was broken, healed, then broken yet again, a procession seemingly without end. But these memories and pain and anguish persisted as little more than abstract notions. Yet, mangled and twisted as that body had been, at least it was mine.
Strip away years, course sudden in new blood, feel these strange limbs so vulnerable to cold. To awaken in another’s flesh, to start against muscle memories, to struggle with those that were suddenly gone. Toc wondered if any other mortal soul had ever before staggered this tortured path. Stone and fire had marked him, as Tool once told him. To lose an eye delivers the gift of preternatural sight. And what of leaving a used-up body for a younger, healthier one? Surely a gift-so the wolves desired, or was it Silverfox?
But wait. A closer look at this Anaster-who lost an eye, was given a new one, then lost it yet again. Whose mind-before it was broken and flung away-was twisted with terror, haunted by a mother’s terrible love; who had lived the life of a tyrant among cannibals-oh yes, look closely at these limbs, the muscles beneath, and remember-this body has grown with the eating of human flesh. And this mouth, so eager with its words, it has tasted the succulent juices of its kin-remember that?
No, he could not.
But the body can. It knows hunger and desire on the battle’ field-walking among the dead and dying, seeing the split flesh, the jutting bones, smelling the reek of spilled blood-ah, how the mouth waters.
Well, everyone had his secrets. And few are worth sharing. Unless you enjoy losing friends.
He rode apart from the train, ostensibly taking an outrider flank, as he had done as a soldier, long ago. The Awl army of Redmask, fourteen thousand or so warriors, half again as many in the trailing support train-weaponsmiths, healers, horsewives, elders, old women, the lame and the once-born children, and, of course, twenty or so thousand rodara. Along with wagons, travois, and almost three thousand herd dogs and the larger wolf-hunters the Awl called dray. If anything could trigger cold fear in Toc it was these beasts. Too many by far, and rarely fed, they ranged in packs, running down every creature on the plains for leagues around.
But let us not forget the K’Chain Che’Malle. Living, breathing ones. Tool-or perhaps it was Lady Envy-had told him that they had been extinct for thousands of years-tens, hundreds of thousands, even. Their civilization was dust. And wounds in the sky that never heal; now there’s a detail worth remembering, Toc.
The huge creatures provided Redmask’s bodyguard at the head of the vanguard-no risk of assassination, to be sure. The male-Sag’Churok-was a K’ell Hunter, bred to kill, the elite guard of a Matron. So where is the Matron? Where is his Queen?
Perhaps it was the young female in the K’ell’s company. Gunth Mach. Toc had asked Redmask how he had come to know their names, but the war leader had refused him an answer. Reticent bastard. A leader must have his secrets, perhaps more so than anyone else. But Redmask’s secrets are driving me mad. K’Chain Che’Malle, for Hood’s sake!
Outcast, the young warrior had journeyed into the eastern wastelands. So went the tale, although after that initial statement it was a tale that in truth went nowhere, since virtually nothing else was known of Redmask’s adventures during those decades-yet at some point, this man donned a red-scaled mask. And found himself flesh and blood K’Chain Che’Malle. Who did not chop him to pieces. Who somehow communicated to him their names. Then swore allegiance. What is it, then, about this story that I really do not like!
How about all of it.
The eastern wastelands. A typical description for a place the name-givers found inhospitable or unconquerable. We can’t claim it so it is worthless, a wasted land, a wasteland. Hah, and you thought us without imaginations!
Haunted by ghosts, or demons, the earth blasted, where every blade of grass clings to a neighbour in abject terror. The sun’s light is darker, its warmth colder. Shadows are smudged. Water brackish and quite possibly poisonous. Two-headed babies are common. Every tribe needed such a place. For heroic war leaders to wander into on some fraught quest rife with obscure motivations that could easily be bludgeoned into morality tales. And, alas, this par-ticular tale is far from done. The hero needs to return, to deliver his people. Or annihilate them.
Toe had his memories, a whole battlefield’s worth, and as the last man left standing he held few illusions of grandeur, either as witness or as player. So this lone eye cannot help but look askance. Is it any wonder I’ve taken to poetry?
The Grey Swords had been cut to pieces. Slaughtered. Oh, they’d yielded their lives in blood enough to pay the Hound’s Toll, as the Gadrobi were wont to say. But what had their deaths meant? Nothing. A waste. Yet here he rode, in the company of his betrayers.
Does Redmask offer redemption? He promises the defeat of the Letherii-but they were not our enemies, not until we agreed the contract. So, what is redeemed? The extinction of the Grey Swords? Oh, 1 need to twist and bend to bind those two together, and how am I doing thus far?
Badly. Not a whisper of righteousness-no crow croaks on my shoulder as we march to war.
Oh, Tool, I could use your friendship right now. A few terse words on futility to cheer me up.
Twenty myrid had been killed, gutted and skinned but not hung to drain their blood. The cavities where their organs had been were stuffed solid with a local tuber that had been sweated on hot stones. The carcasses were then wrapped in hides and loaded into a wagon that was kept apart from all the others in the train. Redmask’s plans for the battle to come. No more peculiar than all the others. The man has spent years thinking on this inevitable war. That makes me nervous.
Hey, Tool, you’d think after all I’ve been through, I’d have no nerves left. But I’m no Whiskeyjack. Or Kalam. No, for me, it just gets worse.
Marching to war. Again. Seems the world wants me to be a soldier.
Well, the world can go fuck itself.
‘A haunted man,’ the elder said in his broken growl as he reached up and scratched the savage red scar marring his neck. ‘He should not be with us. Fey in darkness, that one. He dreams of running with wolves.’
Redmask shrugged, wondering yet again what this old man wanted with him. An elder who did not fear the K’Chain Che’Malle, who was so bold as to guide his ancient horse between Redmask and Sag’Churok.
‘You should have killed him.’
‘I do not ask for your advice, Elder,’ Redmask said. ‘He is owed respite. We must redeem our people in his eyes.’
‘Pointless,’ the old man snapped. ‘Kill him and we need redeem ourselves to no-one. Kill him and we are free.’
‘One cannot flee the past.’
‘Indeed? That belief must taste bitter for one such as you, Redmask. Best discard it.’
Redmask slowly faced the man. ‘Of me, Elder, you know nothing.’
A twisted smile. ‘Alas, I do. You do not recognize me, Redmask. You should.’
‘You are Renfayar-my tribe. You share blood with Masarch.’
‘Yes, but more than that. I am old. Do you understand? I
am the oldest among our people, the last one left… who was there, who remembers. Everything.’ The smile broadened, revealing rotted teeth, a pointed red-almost purple-tongue. ‘I know your secret, Redmask. I know what she meant to you, and I know why.’ The eyes glittered, black and red-rimmed. ‘You had best fear me, Redmask. You had best heed my words-my advice. I shall ride your shoulder, yes? From this moment on, until the very day of battle. And I shall speak with the voice of the Awl, my voice the voice of their souls. And know this, Redmask: I shall not countenance their betrayal. Not by you, not by that one-eyed stranger and his bloodthirsty wolves.’
Redmask studied the old man a moment longer, then fixed his gaze ahead once more.
A soft, ragged laugh at his side, then, You dare say nothing. You dare do nothing. I am a dagger hovering over your heart. Do not fear me-there is no need, unless you intend evil. I wish you great glory in this war. I wish the end of the Letherii, for all time. Perhaps such glory shall come by your hand-together, you and I, let us strive for that, yes?’
A long moment of silence.
‘Speak, Redmask,’ the elder growled. ‘Lest I suspect defiance.’
An end to the Letherii, yes,’ Redmask finally said, in a grating voice. ‘Victory for the Awl.’
‘Good,’ grunted the old man. ‘Good.’
The magic world had ended abruptly, an ending as sudden as the slamming of a trunk lid-a sound that had always shocked her, frozen her in place. Back in the city, that place of reeks and noise, there had been a house steward, a tyrant, who would hunt down slave children who had, in his words, disappointed him. A night spent in the musty confines of the bronze box would teach them a thing or two, wouldn’t it?
Stayandi had spent one such night, enclosed in cramped darkness, two months or so before the slaves joined the colonists out on the plain. The solid clunk of the lid had truly seemed, then, the end of the world. Her shrieks had filled the close air of the trunk until something broke in her throat, until every scream was naught but a hiss of air.
Since that time, she had been mute, yet this had proved a gift, for she had been selected to enter the Mistress’s domain as a handmaiden in training. No secrets would pass her lips, after all. And she would have been there still, if not for the homesteading.
A magic world. So much space, so much air. The freedom of blue skies, unending wind and darkness lit by countless stars-she had not imagined such a world existed, all within reach.
And then one night, it ended. A fierce nightmare made real in screams of slaughter.
Abasard-
She had fled into the darkness, stunned with the knowledge of his death-her brother, who had flung himself into the demon’s path, who had died in her place. Her bared feet, feather-light, carrying her away, the hiss of grasses soon the only sound to reach her ears. Stars glittering, the plain bathed silver, the wind cooling the sweat on her skin.
In her mind, her feet carried her across an entire continent. Away from the realm of people, of slaves and masters, of herds and soldiers and demons. She was alone now, witness to a succession of dawns, smeared sunsets, alone on a plain that stretched out unbroken on all sides. She saw wild creatures, always at a distance. Darting hares, antelope watching from ridgelines, hawks wheeling in the sky. At night she heard the howl of wolves and coyotes and, once, the guttural bellow of a bear.
She did not eat, and the pangs of hunger soon passed, so that she floated, and all that her eyes witnessed shone with a luminous clarity. Water she licked from dew-laden grasses, the cupped holes of deer and elk tracks in basins, and once she found a spring, almost hidden by thick brush in which flitted hundreds of tiny birds. It had been their chittering songs that had drawn her attention.
An eternity of running later, she had fallen. And found no strength to rise once more, to resume the wondrous journey through this glowing land.
Night then stole upon her, and not long after came the four-legged people. They wore furs smelling of wind and dust, and they gathered close, lying down, sharing the warmth of their thick, soft cloaks. There were children among them, tiny babes that crawled as did their parents, squirming and snuggling up against her.
And when they fed on milk, so did Stayandi.
The four-legged people were as mute as she was, until they began their mournful cries, when night was at its deepest; crying-she knew-to summon the sun.
They stayed with her, guardians with their gifts of warmth and food. After the milk, there was meat. Crushed, mangled carcasses-mice, shrews, a headless snake-she ate all they gave her, tiny bones crunching in her mouth, damp fur and chewy skin.
This too seemed timeless, a foreverness. The grown-ups came and went. The children grew burlier, and she now crawled with them when it was time to wander.
When the bear appeared and rushed towards them, she was not afraid. It wanted the children, that much was obvious, but the grown-ups attacked and drove it off. Her people were strong, fearless. They ruled this world.
Until one morning she awoke to find herself alone. Forcing herself to her hind legs, helpless whimpering coming from her throat in jolts of pain, she scanned the land in all directions-
And saw the giant. Bare above the waist, the deep hue of sun-darkened skin almost entirely obscured beneath white paint-paint that transformed his chest, shoulders and face into bone. His eyes, as he walked closer, were black pits in the caked mask skull. He carried weapons: a long spear, a sword with a broad, curved blade. The fur of the four-legged people was wrapped about his hips, and the small but deadly knives strung in a necklace about the warrior’s neck, they too belonged to her people.
Frightened, angry, she bared her teeth at the stranger, even as she cowered in the fold of a small hummock-nowhere to run, knowing he could catch her effortlessly. Knowing that yet another of her worlds had shattered. Fear was her bronze box, and she was trapped, unable to move.
He studied her for a time, cocking his head as she snapped and snarled. Then slowly crouched down until his eyes were level with her own.
And she fell silent.
Remembering… things.
They were not kind eyes, but they were-she knew-like her own. As was his hairless face beneath that deathly paint.
She had run away, she now recalled, until it seemed her fleeing mind had outstripped her flesh and bone, had darted out into something unknown and unknowable.
And this savage face, across from her, was slowly bringing her mind back. And she understood, now, who the four-legged people were, what they were. She remembered what it was to stand upright, to run with two legs instead of four. She remembered an encampment, the digging of cellar pits, the first of the sod-walled houses. She remembered her family-her brother-and the night the demons came to steal it all away.
After a time of mutual silent regard, he straightened, settled the weapons and gear about himself once more, then set out.
She hesitated, then rose.
And, at a distance, she followed.
He walked towards the rising sun.
Scratching at the scarred, gaping hole where one eye had been, Toc watched the children running back and forth as the first cookfires were lit. Elders hobbled about with iron pots and wrapped foodstuffs-they were wiry, weathered folk, but days of marching had dulled the fire in their eyes, and more than a few snapped at the young ones who passed too close.
He saw Redmask, trailed by Masarch and Natarkas and another bearing the red face-paint, appear near the area laid out for the war leader’s yurt. Seeing Toc, Redmask approached.
‘Tell me, Toc Anaster, you flanked our march on the north this day-did you see tracks?’
‘What sort do you mean?’
Redmask turned to Natarkas’s companion. ‘Torrent rode to the south. He made out a trail that followed an antelope track-a dozen men on foot-’
‘Or more,’ the one named Torrent said. ‘They were skilled.’
‘Not Letherii, then,’ Toe guessed.
‘Moccasined,’ Redmask replied, his tone betraying slight irritation at Torrent’s interruption. ‘Tall, heavy.’
‘I noted nothing like that,’ said Toc. ‘Although I admit 1 was mostly scanning horizon lines.’
‘This place shall be our camp,’ Redmask said after a moment. ‘We will meet the Letherii three leagues from here, in the valley known as Bast Fulmar. Toc Anaster, will you stay with the elders and children or accompany us?’
‘I have had my fill of fields of battle, Redmask. I said I’d found myself a soldier again, but even an army’s train needs guards, and that is about all I am up to right now.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe from now on.’
The eyes in that scaled mask held on Toe for a half-dozen heartbeats, then slowly turned away. ‘Torrent, you too will stay here.’
The warrior stiffened in surprise. ‘War Leader-’
‘You will begin training those children who are close to their death nights. Bows, knives.’
Torrent bowed, stiffly. ‘As you command.’
Redmask left them, trailed by Natarkas and Masarch.
Torrent glanced over at Toc. ‘My courage is not broken,’ he said.
‘You’re young still,’ he replied.
‘You will oversee the younger children, Toc Anaster. That and nothing more. You will keep them and yourself out of my way.’
Toe had had enough of this man. ‘Torrent, you rode at your old war leader’s side when you Awl abandoned us to the Letherii army. Be careful of your bold claims of courage. And when I came to you and pleaded for the lives of my soldiers, you turned away with the rest of them. I believe Redmask has just taken your measure, Torrent, and if I hear another threat from you I will give you reason to curse me-with what will be your last breath.’
The warrior bared his teeth in a humourless smile. ‘All I see in that lone eye, Toe Anaster, tells me you are already cursed.’ He pivoted and walked away.
Well, the bastard has a point. So maybe I’m not as good at this give and take as I imagined myself to be. For these Awl, it is a way of life, after all. Then again, the Malazan armies are pretty good at it, too-no wonder I never really fit.
A half-dozen children hurried past, trailed by a mud-smeared toddler struggling to keep up. Seeing the chattering mob vanish round a tent, the toddler halted, then let out a wail.
Toc grunted. Aye, you and me both.
He made a rude sound and the toddler looked over, eyes wide. Then laughed.
Eye socket fiercely itching once more, Toe scratched for a moment, then headed over, issuing yet another rude noise. Oh, look at that-innocent delight. Well, Toc, take your rewards where and when you can.
Redmask stood at the very edge of the sprawling encampment, studying the horizon to the south. ‘Someone is out there,’ he said in a low voice.
‘So it seems,’ Natarkas said. ‘Strangers-who walk our land as if they owned it. War Leader, you have wounded Torrent-’
‘Torrent must learn the value of respect. And so he will, as weapon master to a score of restless adolescents. When next he joins us, he will be a wiser man. Do you challenge my decisions, Natarkas?’
‘Challenge? No, War Leader. But at times I will probe them, if I find the need to understand them better.’
Redmask nodded, then said to the warrior standing a short distance away, ‘Heed those words, Masarch.’
‘So I shall,’ the young warrior replied.
‘Tomorrow,’ said Redmask, ‘I lead my warriors to war. Bast Fulmar.’
Natarkas hissed, then said, ‘A cursed valley.’
‘We will honour the blood spilled there three hundred years ago, Natarkas. The past will die there, and from there on we shall look only to a new future. New in every way.’
‘This new way of fighting, War Leader, I see little honour in it.’
‘You speak true. There is none to be found. Such is necessity.’
‘Must necessity be surrender?’
Redmask looked across at the warrior whose face was painted in the likeness of his own mask. ‘When the ways surrendered hold naught but the promise of failure, then yes. It must be done. They must be cast away.’
‘The elders will find that difficult to accept, War Leader.’
‘I know. You and I have played this game before. This is not their war. It is mine. And I mean to win it.’
They were silent then, as the wind, a dirge through dead grasses, moaned ghostly across the land.