'He spoke of those who would fall, and in his cold eyes stood naked the truth that it was we of whom he spoke. Words of broken reeds and covenants of despair, of surrender given as gifts and slaughter in the name of salvation.
He spoke of the spilling of war, and he told us to flee into unknown lands, so that we might be spared the spoiling of our lives…'
Words of the Iron Prophet Iskar Jarak
The Anibar (the Wickerfolk) One moment the shadows between the trees were empty, the next moment that Samar Dev glanced up, her breath caught upon seeing figures. On all sides where the sunlit clearing was clawed back by the tangle of black spruce, ferns and ivy, stood savages… 'Karsa Orlong,' she whispered, 'we have visitors…'
The Teblor, his hands red with gore, cut away another slice of flesh from the dead bhederin's flank, then looked up. After a moment he grunted, then returned to his butchering.
They were edging forward, emerging from the gloom. Small, wiry, wearing tanned hides, strips of fur bound round their upper arms, their skin the colour of bog water, stitched with ritual scarring on exposed chests and shoulders. On their faces grey paint or wood ash covered their lower jaws and above the lips, like beards. Elongated circles of icy blue and grey surrounded their dark eyes. Carrying spears, axes at hide belts along with an assortment of knives, they were bedecked in ornaments of cold-hammered copper that seemed shaped to mimic the phases of the moon; and on one man was a necklace made from the vertebrae of some large fish, and descending from it was a gold-ringed, black copper disc, representing, she surmised, a total eclipse. This man, evidently a leader of some kind, stepped forward.
Three strides, eyes on an unmindful Karsa Orlong, out into the sunlight, where he slowly knelt.
Samar now saw that he held something in his hands. 'Karsa, pay attention. What you do now will determine whether we pass through their land peaceably or ducking spears from the shadows.'
Karsa reversed grip on the huge skinning knife he had been working with, and stabbed it deep into the bhederin carcass. Then he rose to face the kneeling savage.
'Get up,' he said.
The man flinched, lowering his head.
'Karsa, he's offering you a gift.'
'Then he should do so standing. His people are hiding here in the wilderness because he hasn't done enough of that. Tell him he needs to stand.'
They had been speaking in the trader tongue, and something in the kneeling warrior's reactions led Samar to suspect that he had understood the exchange… and the demand, for he slowly climbed to his feet. 'Man of the Great Trees,' he now said, his accent harsh and guttural to Samar's ears. 'Deliverer of Destruction, the Anibar offer you this gift, and ask that you give us a gift in return-'
'Then they are not gifts,' Karsa replied. 'What you seek is to barter.'
Fear flickered in the warrior's eyes. The others of his tribe – the Anibar – remained silent and motionless between the trees, yet Samar sensed a palpable dismay spreading among them. Their leader tried again: 'This is the language of barter, Deliverer, yes. Poison that we must swallow. It does not suit what we seek.'
Scowling, Karsa turned to Samar Dev. 'Too many words that lead nowhere, witch. Explain.'
'This tribe follows an ancient tradition lost among most peoples of Seven Cities,' she said. 'The tradition of gift-giving. The gift itself is a measure of a number of things, with subtle and often confusing ways of attributing value. These Anibar have of necessity learned about trading, but they do not ascribe value the same way as we do, and so they usually lose in the deal. I suspect they generally fare poorly when dealing with canny, unscrupulous merchants from the civilized lands. There is-'
'Enough,' Karsa interrupted. He gestured towards the leader – who flinched once more – and said, 'Show me this gift. But first, tell me your name.'
'I am, in the poison tongue, Boatfinder.' He held up the object in his hands. 'The courage brand,' he said, 'of a great father among the bhederin.'
Samar Dev, brows lifting, regarded Karsa. 'That would be a penis bone, Teblor.'
'I know what it is,' he answered in a growl. 'Boatfinder, what in turn do you ask of me?'
'Revenants come into the forest, besetting the Anibar clans north of here. They slaughter all in their path, without cause. They do not die, for they command the air itself and so turn aside every spear that seeks them. Thus we hear. We lose many names.'
'Names?' Samar asked.
His gaze flicked to her and he nodded. 'Kin. Eight hundred and fortyseven names woven to mine, among the north clans.' He gestured to the silent warriors behind him. 'As many names to lose among these here, each one. We know grief in the loss for ourselves, but more for our children. The names we cannot take back – they go and never come again, and so we diminish.'
Karsa said, 'You want me to kill revenants,' and he pointed at the gift, 'in exchange for that.'
'Yes.'
'How many of these revenants are there?'
'They come in great ships, grey-winged, and set out into the forest in hunts, each hunt numbering twelve. They are driven by anger, yet nothing we seek to do appeases that anger. We do not know what we do to offend them so.'
Probably offered them a damned penis bone. But Samar Dev kept that thought to herself.
'How many hunts?'
'A score thus far, yet their boats do not depart.'
Karsa's entire face had darkened. Samar Dev had never seen such raw fury in him before. She suddenly feared he would tear this small cowering man apart. Instead, he said, 'Cast off your shame, all of you. Cast it off! Slayers need no reason to slay. It is what they do.
That you exist is offence enough for such creatures.' He stepped forward and snatched the bone from Boatfinder's hands. 'I will kill them all. I will sink their damned ships. This I-'
'Karsa!' Samar cut in.
He swung to her, eyes blazing.
'Before you vow anything so… extreme, you might consider something more achievable.' At his expression, she hastened on, 'You could, for example, be content with driving them from the land, back into their ships. Make the forest… unpalatable.'
After a long, tense moment, the Teblor sighed. 'Yes. That would suffice. Although I am tempted to swim after them.'
Boatfinder was looking at Karsa with eyes wide with wonder and awe.
For a moment, Samar thought that the Teblor was – uncharacteristically – attempting humour. But no, the huge warrior had been serious. And, to her dismay, she believed him and so found nothing funny nor absurd in his words. 'The time for that decision can wait, can't it?'
'Yes.' He scowled once more at Boatfinder. 'Describe these revenants.'
'Tall, but not as tall as you. Their flesh is the hue of death. Eyes cold as ice. They bear iron weapons, and among them are shamans whose very breath is sickness – terrible clouds of poisonous vapour – all whom it touches die in great pain.'
Samar Dev said to Karsa, 'I think their use of the term "revenant" is meant for anything or anyone not from their world. But the foes they speak of come from ships. That seems unlikely were they in truth undead. The breath of shamans sounds like sorcery.'
'Boatfinder,' Karsa said, 'when I am done here you will lead me to the revenants.'
The colour drained from the man's face. 'It is many, many days of travel, Deliverer. I think to send word that you are coming – to the clans of the north-'
'No. You will accompany us.'
'But – but why?'
Karsa stepped forward, one hand snapping out to clutch Boatfinder by the neck. He dragged the man close. 'You shall witness, and in witnessing you will become more than what you are now. You shall be prepared – for all that is coming, to you and your miserable people.'
He released the man, who staggered back, gasping. 'My own people once believed they could hide,' the Teblor said, baring his teeth. 'They were wrong. This I have learned, and this you will now learn. You believe the revenants are all that shall afflict you? Fool. They are but the first.'
Samar watched the giant warrior walk back to his butchering.
Boatfinder stared after him with glistening, terror-filled eyes. Then he spun about, hissed in his own language. Six warriors rushed forward, past their leader, drawing knives as they approached Karsa.
'Teblor,' Samar warned.
Boatfinder raised his hands. 'No! No harm is sought you, Deliverer.
They now help you with the cutting, that is all. The bounty is prepared for you, so that we need waste no time-'
'I want the hides cured,' Karsa said.
'Yes.'
'And runners to deliver to us those hides and smoked meat from this kill.'
'Yes.'
'Then we can leave now.'
Boatfinder's head bobbed, as if he could not trust his own voice in answer to that final demand.
Sneering, Karsa retrieved his knife and walked over to a nearby pool of brackish water, where he began washing the blood from the blade, then from his hands and forearms.
Samar Dev drew close to Boatfinder as the half-dozen warriors fell to butchering the dead bhederin. 'Boatfinder.'
He glanced at her with skittish eyes. 'You are a witch – so the Deliverer calls you.'
'I am. Where are your womenfolk? Your children?'
'Beyond this swamp, west and north,' he replied. 'The land rises, and there are lakes and rivers where we find the black grain, and among the flat-rock, berries. We are done our great hunt in the open lands, and now they return to our many camps with winter's meat. Yet,' he gestured at his warriors, 'we follow you. We witness the Deliverer slaying the bhederin. He rides a bone-horse – we do not see a bonehorse ridden. He carries a sword of birth-stone. The Iron Prophet tells our people of such warriors – the wielders of birth-stone. He says they come.'
'I have not heard of this Iron Prophet,' Samar Dev said, frowning.
Boatfinder made a gesture and faced south. 'To speak of this, it is the frozen time.' He closed his eyes, and his tone suddenly changed. '
In the Time of Great Slaying, which is the frozen time of the past, the Anibar dwelt on the plains, and would travel almost to the East River, where the great walled camps of the Ugari rose from the land, and with the Ugari the Anibar would trade meat and hides for iron tools and weapons. The Great Slaying came to the Ugari, then, and many fled to seek refuge among the Anibar. Yet the Slayers followed, the Mezla they were called by the Ugari, and a terrible battle was fought and all those who had sheltered among the Anibar fell to the Mezla.
'Fearing retribution for the aid given to the Ugari, the Anibar prepared to flee – deeper into the Odhan – but the leader of the Mezla found them first. With a hundred dark warriors, he came, yet he stayed their iron weapons. The Anibar were not his enemy, he told them, and then he gave warning – others were coming, and they would be without mercy. They would destroy the Anibar. This leader was the Iron Prophet, King Iskar Jarak, and the Anibar heeded his words, and so fled, west and north, until these lands here and the forests and lakes beyond, became their home.' He glanced over to where Karsa, his supplies gathered, sat astride his Jhag horse, and his voice changed once more. 'The Iron Prophet tells us there is a time when, in our greatest peril, wielders of the birth-stone come to defend us. Thus, when we see who travels our land, and the sword in his hands… this time is soon to be a frozen time.'
Samar Dev studied Boatfinder for a long moment, then she faced Karsa.
'I don't think you will be able to ride Havok,' she said. 'We are about to head into difficult terrain.'
'Until such time comes, I will ride,' the Teblor replied. 'You are free to lead your own horse. Indeed, you are free to carry it over all terrain you deem difficult.'
Irritated, she headed towards her own horse. 'Fine, for now I will ride behind you, Karsa Orlong. At the very least I will not have to worry about being whipped by branches, since you'll be knocking down all those trees in your path.'
Boatfinder waited until both were ready, then he set out, along the north edge of the boggy glade, until he reached its end and promptly turned to vanish into the forest.
Karsa halted Havok and glared at the thick, snarled undergrowth and the crowded black spruce.
Samar Dev laughed, earning her a savage look from the Teblor.
Then he slipped down from his stallion's back.
They found Boatfinder waiting for them, an apologetic look on his grey-painted face. 'Game trails, Deliverer. In these forests there are deer, bear, wolf and elk – even the bhederin do not delve deep beyond the glades. Moose and caribou are further north. These game trails, as you see, are low. Even Anibar stoop in swift passage. In the unfound time ahead of which scant can be said, we find more flat-rock and the way is easier.'
Both interminable and monotonous, the low forest was a journey tangled and snarled, rife with frustration, as if it lived with the sole purpose of denying passage. The bedrock was close to the surface, a battered purple and black rock, shot through in places with long veins of quartzite, yet its surface was bent, tilted and folded, forming high-walled basins, sinkholes and ravines filled with exfoliated slabs sheathed in slick, emerald-green moss. Tree-falls crowded these depressions, the black spruce's bark rough as sharkskin and the needleless, web-thick branches harsh as claws and unyielding.
Spears of sunlight reached down here and there, throwing motes of intense colour into an otherwise gloomy, cavernous world.
Towards dusk, Boatfinder led them to a treacherous scree, up which he scrambled. Karsa and Samar Dev, leading their horses, found the climb perilous, every foothold less certain than the last – moss giving way like rotted skin to expose sharp-edged angular rock and deep-holes, any one of which could have snapped a horse-leg.
Sodden with grimy sweat, scratched and scraped, Samar Dev finally reached the summit, turning to guide her horse the last few steps.
Before them wound more or less flat bedrock, grey with the skin of lichen. From modest depressions here and there rose white and jack pines, the occasional straggly oak, fringed in juniper and swaths of blueberry and wintergreen bushes. Sparrow-sized dragon-flies darted through spinning clouds of smaller insects in the fading sunlight.
Boatfinder gestured northward. 'This path leads to a lake. We camp there.'
They set off.
No higher ground was visible in any direction, and as the elongated basolith twisted and turned, flanked every now and then by slightly lower platforms and snags, Samar Dev quickly realized how easy it would be to get lost in this wild land. The path bifurcated ahead and, approaching the junction, Boatfinder strode along the east edge, looking down for a time, then chose the ridge on the right.
Matching his route, Samar Dev glanced over the edge and saw what he had been searching for, a sinuous line of smallish boulders lying on a shelf of stone slightly below them, the pattern creating something like a snake, the head consisting of a wedge-shaped, flattened rock, while at the other end the last stone of the tail was no bigger than her thumbnail. Lichen covered the stones, bunching round each one to suggest that the trail-marker was very old. There was nothing obvious in the petroform that would make the choice of routes clear, although the snake's head was aligned in the direction they were walking.
'Boatfinder,' she called out, 'how is it that you read this serpent of boulders?'
He glanced back at her. 'A snake is away from the heart. A turtle is the heart's path.'
'All right, then why aren't they on this higher ground, so you don't have to look for them?'
'When the black grain is carried south, we are burdened – neither turtle nor snake must lose shape or pattern. We run these stone roads.
Burdened.'
'Where do you take the harvest?'
'To our gather camps on the plains. Each band. We gather the harvest.
Into one. And divide it, so that each band has sufficient grain. Lakes and rivers and their shores cannot be trusted. Some harvest yields true. Other harvest yields weak. As water rises and as water falls. It is not the same. The flat-rock seeks to be level, across all the world, but it cannot, and so water rises and water falls. We do not kneel before inequity, else we ourselves discard fairness and knife finds knife.'
'Old rules to deal with famine,' Samar said, nodding.
'Rules in the frozen time.'
Karsa Orlong looked at Samar Dev. 'What is this frozen time, witch?'
'The past, Teblor.'
She watched his eyes narrow thoughtfully, then he grunted and said, '
And the unfound time is the future, meaning that now is the flowing time-'
'Yes!' Boatfinder cried. 'You speak life's very secret!'
Samar Dev pulled herself into the saddle – on this ridge they could ride their horses – carefully. She watched Karsa Orlong follow suit, as a strange stillness filled her being. Born, she realized, of Boatfinder's words. 'Life's very secret.' This flowing time not yet frozen and only now found out of the unfound. 'Boatfinder, the Iron Prophet came to you long ago – in the frozen time – yet he spoke to you of the unfound time.'
'Yes, you understand, witch. Iskar Jarak speaks but one language, yet within it is each and all. He is the Iron Prophet. The King.'
'Your king, Boatfinder?'
'No. We are his shadows.'
'Because you exist only in the flowing time.'
The man turned and made a reverent bow that stirred something within Samar Dev. 'Your wisdom honours us, witch,' he said.
'Where,' she asked, 'is Iskar Jarak's kingdom?'
Sudden tears in the man's eyes. 'An answer we yearn to find. It is lost-'
'In the unfound time.'
'Yes.'
'Iskar Jarak was a Mezla.'
'Yes.'
Samar Dev opened her mouth for one more question, then realized that it wasn't necessary. She knew its answer. Instead, she said, '
Boatfinder, tell me, from the frozen time into the flowing time, is there a bridge?'
His smile was wistful, filled with longing. 'There is.'
'But you cannot cross it.'
'No.'
'Because it's burning.'
'Yes, witch, the bridge burns.'
King Iskar Jarak, and the unfound kingdom…
Descending like massive, raw steps, the shelves of rock marched down into crashing foam and spume. A fierce wind raked the northern sea's dark waves to the very horizon, where storm-clouds commanded the sky, the colour of blackened armour. At their backs and stretching the western length of coastline, rose a bent-back forest of pines, firs and cedars, their branches torn and made ragged by the battering winds.
Shivering, Taralack Veed drew the furs closer, then turned his back on the raging seas. 'We now travel westward,' he said, speaking loud enough to be heard above the gale. 'Follow this coast until it curls north. Then we strike inland, directly west, into the land of stone and lakes. Difficult, for there is little game to be found there, although we will be able to fish. Worse, there are bloodthirsty savages, too cowardly to attack by day. Always at night. We must be ready for them. We must deliver slaughter.'
Icarium said nothing, his unhuman gaze still fixed on that closing storm.
Scowling, Taralack moved back into the rock-walled camp they had made, crouching in the blessed lee and holding his red, cold-chafed hands over the driftwood fire. Few glimmers of the Jhag's legendary, near mythical equanimity remained. Dark and dour, now. A refashioning of Icarium, by Taralack Veed's own hands, although he but followed the precise instructions given him by the Nameless Ones. The blade has grown dull. You shall be the whetstone, Gral.
But whetstones were insensate, indifferent to the blade and to the hand that held it. For a warrior fuelled by passion, such immunity was difficult to achieve, much less maintain. He could feel the weight now, ever building, and knew he would, one day, grow to envy the merciful death that had come to Mappo Runt.
They had made good time thus far. Icarium was tireless. Once given direction. And Taralack, for all his prowess and endurance, was exhausted. I am no Trell, and this is not simple wandering. Not any more, and never again for Icarium.
Nor, it seemed, for Taralack Veed.
He looked up when he heard scrabbling, and watched Icarium descend.
'These savages you spoke of,' the Jhag said without preamble, 'why should they seek to challenge us?'
'Their forsaken forest is filled with sacred sites, Icarium.'
'We need only avoid trespass, then.'
'Such sites are not easily recognized. Perhaps a line of boulders on the bedrock, mostly buried in lichen and moss. Or the remnant of an antler in the crotch of a tree, so overgrown as to be virtually invisible. Or a vein of quartzite glittering with flecks of gold. Or the green tool-stone – the quarries are no more than a pale gouge in vertical rock, the green stone shorn from it by fire and cold water.
Mayhap little more than a bear trail on bedrock, trodden by the miserable beasts for countless generations. All sacred. There is no fathoming the minds of such savages.'
'It seems you know much of them, yet you have told me you have never before travelled their lands.'
'I have heard of them, in great detail, Icarium.'
A sudden edge in the Jhag's eyes. 'Who was it that informed you so, Taralack Veed of the Gral?'
'I have wandered far, my friend. I have mined a thousand tales-'
'You were being prepared. For me.'
A faint smile suited the moment and Taralack found it easily enough. '
Much of that wandering was in your company, Icarium. Would that I could gift you my memories of the time we have shared.'
'Would that you could,' Icarium agreed, staring down at the fire now.
'Of course,' Taralack added, 'there would be much darkness, many grim and unpleasant deeds, within that gift. The absence within you, Icarium, is both blessing and curse – you do understand that, don't you?'
'There is no blessing in that absence,' the Jhag said, shaking his head. 'All that I have done cannot demand its rightful price. Cannot mark my soul. And so I remain unchanging, forever naive-'
'Innocent-'
'No, not innocent. There is nothing exculpatory in ignorance, Taralack Veed.'
You call me by name, now, not as 'friend'. Has mistrust begun to poison you? 'And so it is my task, each time, to return to you all that you have lost. It is arduous and wears upon me, alas. My weakness lies in my desire to spare you the most heinous of memories. There is too much pity in my heart, and in seeking to spare you I now find that I but wound.' He spat on his hands and slicked back his hair, then stretched his hands out once more close to the flames. 'Very well, my friend. Once, long ago, you were driven by the need to free your father, who had been taken by a House of the Azath. Faced with terrible failure, a deeper, deadlier force was born – your rage. You shattered a wounded warren, and you destroyed an Azath, releasing into the world a host of demonic entities, all of whom sought only domination and tyranny. Some of those you killed, but many escaped your wrath, and live on to this day, scattered about the world like so many evil seeds.
'The most bitter irony is this: your father sought no release. He had elected, of his own will, to become a Guardian of an Azath House, and it may be he remains so to this day.
'In consequence of the devastation you wrought, Icarium, a cult, devoted since time began to the Azath, deemed it necessary to create guardians of their own. Chosen warriors who would accompany you, no matter where you went – for your rage and the destruction of the warren had torn from you all memory of your past – and so now you were doomed, for all time, it seemed, to seek out the truth of all that you have done. And to stumble into rage again and yet again, wreaking annihilation.
'This cult, that of the Nameless Ones, thus contrived to bind to you a companion. Such as I. Yes, my friend, there have been others, long before I was born, and each has been imbued with sorcery, slowing the rigours of ageing, proof against all manner of disease and poison for as long as the companion's service held true. Our task is to guide you in your fury, to assert a moral focus, and above all, to be your friend, and this latter task has proved, again and again, the simplest and indeed, most seductive of them all, for it is easy to find within ourselves a deep and abiding love for you. For your earnestness, your loyalty, and for the unsullied honour within you.
'I will grant you, Icarium, your sense of justice is a harsh one. Yet, ultimately, profound in its nobility. And now, awaiting you, there is an enemy. An enemy only you, my friend, are powerful enough to oppose.
And so we now journey, and all who seek to oppose us, for whatever reason, must be swept aside. For the greater good.' He allowed himself to smile again, only this time he filled it with a hint of vast yet courageously contained anguish. 'You must now wonder, are the Nameless Ones worthy of such responsibility? Can their moral integrity and sense of honour match yours? The answer lies in necessity, and above that, in the example you set. You guide the Nameless Ones, my friend, with your every deed. If they fail in their calling, it will be because you have failed in yours.'
Pleased that he had recalled with perfection the words given him, Taralack Veed studied the great warrior who stood before him, firelit, his face hidden behind his hands. Like a child for whom blindness imposed obliteration.
Icarium was weeping, he realized.
Good. Even he. Even he will feed upon his own anguish and make of it an addictive nectar, a sweet opiate of self-recrimination and pain.
And so all doubt, all distrust, shall vanish.
For from those things, no sweet bliss can be wrung.
From overhead, a spatter of cold rain, and the deep rumble of thunder.
The storm would soon be upon them. 'I am rested enough,' Taralack said, rising. 'A long march awaits us-'
'There is no need,' Icarium said behind his hands.
'What do you mean?'
'The sea. It is filled with ships.'
The lone rider came down from the hills shortly after the ambush.
Barathol Mekhar, his huge, scarred and pitted forearms spattered with blood, rose from his long, silent study of the dead demon. He was wearing his armour and helm, and he now drew out his axe.
Months had passed since the T'lan Imass had appeared – he'd thought them long gone, gone even before old Kulat wandered off in his newfound madness. He had not realized – none of them had – that the terrible, undead creatures had never left.
The party of travellers had been slaughtered, the ambush so swiftly executed that Barathol had not even known of its occurrence – until it was far too late. Jhelim and Filiad had suddenly burst into the smithy, screaming of murder just beyond the hamlet. He had collected his weapon and run with them to the western road, only to find the enemy already departed, their task done, and upon the old road, dying horses and motionless bodies sprawled about as if they had dropped from the sky.
Sending Filiad to find the old woman Nulliss – who possessed modest skill as a healer – Barathol had returned to his smithy, ignoring Jhelim who trailed behind him like a lost pup. He had donned his armour, taking his time. The T'lan Imass, he suspected, would have been thorough. They would have had leisure to ensure that they had made no mistakes. Nulliss would find that nothing could be done for the poor victims.
Upon returning to the west road, however, he was astonished to see the ancient Semk woman shouting orders at Filiad from where she knelt at the side of one figure. It seemed to Barathol's eyes as he hurried forward, that she had thrust her hands into the man's body, her scrawny arms making motions as if she was kneading bread dough. Even as she did this, her gaze was on a woman lying nearby, who had begun moaning, legs kicking furrows in the dirt. From her, blood had spilled out everywhere.
Nulliss saw him and called him over.
Barathol saw that the man she knelt beside had been eviscerated.
Nulliss was pushing the intestines back inside. 'For Hood's sake, woman,' the blacksmith said in a growl, 'leave him be. He's done. You' ve filled his cavity with dirt-'
'Boiling water is on the way,' she snapped. 'I mean to wash it out.'
She nodded towards the thrashing woman. 'That one is stabbed in the shoulder, and now she's in labour.'
'Labour? Gods below. Listen, Nulliss, boiling water won't do, unless you mean to cook his liver for supper tonight-'
'Go back to your damned anvil, you brainless ape! It was a clean cut – I've seen what boars can do with their tusks and that was a whole lot worse.'
'Might've started clean-'
'I said I mean to clean it! But we can't carry him back with his guts trailing behind us, can we?'
Nonplussed, Barathol looked round. He wanted to kill something. A simple enough desire, but he already knew it would be thwarted and this soured his mood. He walked over to the third body. An old man, tattooed and handless – the T'lan Imass had chopped him to pieces. So.
He was their target. The others were simply in the way. Which is why they cared nothing whether they lived or died. Whereas this poor bastard couldn't be more dead than he was.
After a moment, Barathol made his way towards the last victim in sight. From the hamlet, more people were on the way, two of them carrying blankets and rags. Storuk, Fenar, Hayrith, Stuk, all looking somehow small, diminished and pale with fear. Nulliss began screaming orders once more.
Before him was sprawled a demon of some kind. Both limbs on one side had been sliced away. Not much blood, he noted, but something strange appeared to have afflicted the creature upon its death. It looked… deflated, as if the flesh beneath the skin had begun to dissolve, melt away into nothing. Its odd eyes had already dried and cracked.
'Blacksmith! Help me lift this one!'
Barathol walked back.
'On the blanket. Storuk, you and your brother on that end, one corner each. Fenar, you're with me on the other end-'
Hayrith, almost as old as Nulliss herself, held in her arms the rags.
'What about me?' she asked.
'Go sit by the woman. Stuff a cloth into the wound – we'll sear it later, unless the birth gives her trouble-'
'With the blood loss,' Hayrith said, eyes narrowing, 'she probably won't survive it.'
'Maybe. For now, just sit with her. Hold her damned hand and talk, and-'
'Yes, yes, witch, you ain't the only one round here who knows about all that.'
'Good. So get going.'
'You've just been waiting for this, haven't ya?'
'Be quiet, you udderless cow.'
'Queen Nulliss, High Priestess of Bitchiness!'
'Blacksmith,' Nulliss growled, 'hit her with that axe, will you?'
Hissing, Hayrith scurried off.
'Help me,' Nulliss said to him, 'we've got to lift him now.'
It seemed a pointless task, but he did as she asked, and was surprised to hear her pronounce that the young man still lived after they'd set him on the blanket.
As Nulliss and the others carried him away, Barathol strode back to the dismembered corpse of the old, tattooed man. And crouched at his side. It would be an unpleasant task, but it was possible that Barathol could learn something of him from his possessions. He rolled the body over, then halted, staring down into those lifeless eyes. A cat's eyes. He looked with renewed interest at the pattern of tattoos, then slowly sat back.
And only then noticed all the dead flies. Covering the ground on all sides, more flies than he had ever seen before. Barathol straightened, walked back to the dead demon.
Staring down thoughtfully, until distant motion and the sound of horse hoofs snared his attention. Behind him, villagers had returned to retrieve the pregnant woman.
And now he watched as the rider rode directly towards him.
On a lathered horse the colour of sun-bleached bone. Wearing dustsheathed armour lacquered white. The man's face pale beneath the rim of his helm, drawn with grief. Reining in, he slipped down from the saddle and, ignoring Barathol, staggered over to the demon, where he fell to his knees.
'Who – who did this?' he asked.
'T'lan Imass. Five of them. A broken lot, even as T'lan Imass go. An ambush.' Barathol pointed towards the body of the tattooed man. 'They were after him, I think. A priest, from a cult devoted to the First Hero Treach.'
'Treach is now a god.'
To that, Barathol simply grunted. He looked back at the ramshackle hovels of the hamlet he had come to think of as home. 'There were two others. Both still alive, although one will not last much longer. The other is pregnant and even now gives birth-'
The man stared up at him. 'Two? No, there should have been three. A girl…'
Barathol frowned. 'I'd thought the priest was their target – they were thorough with him – but now I see that they struck him down because he posed the greatest threat. They must have come for the girl – for she is not here.'
The man rose. He matched Barathol in height, if not breadth. 'Perhaps she fled… into the hills.'
'It's possible. Although,' he added, pointing at a dead horse nearby, 'I'd wondered at that extra mount, saddled like the others. Cut down on the trail.'
'Ah, yes. I see.'
'Who are you?' Barathol asked. 'And what was this missing girl to you?'
Shock was still writ deep into the lines of his face, and he blinked at the questions, then nodded. 'I am named L'oric. The child was… was for the Queen of Dreams. I was coming to collect her – and my familiar.' He looked down once more at the demon, and anguish tugged at his features yet again.
'Fortune has abandoned you, then,' Barathol said. A thought occurred to him. 'L'oric, have you any skill in healing?'
'What?'
'You are one of Sha'ik's High Mages, after all-'
L'oric looked away, as if stung. 'Sha'ik is dead. The rebellion is crushed.'
Barathol shrugged.
'Yes,' L'oric said, 'I can call upon Denul, if required.'
'Is the life of that girl all that concerns you?' He gestured down at the demon. 'You can do nothing for your familiar – what of their companions? The young man will die – if he has not already done so.
Will you stand here, dwelling only on what you have lost?'
A flash of anger. 'I advise caution,' L'oric said in a low voice. 'You were once a soldier – that much is obvious – yet here you have hidden yourself away like a coward, whilst the rest of Seven Cities rose up, dreaming of freedom. I will not be chastised by one such as you.'
Barathol's dark eyes studied L'oric a moment longer, then he turned away and began walking towards the buildings. 'Someone will come,' he said over his shoulder, 'to dress the dead for burial.'
Nulliss had chosen the old hostelry to deposit her charges. A cot was dragged out from one of the rooms for the woman, whilst the eviscerated youth was laid out on the communal dining table. A cookpot filled with water steamed above the hearth, and Filiad was using a prod to retrieve soaked strips of cloth and carry them over to where the Semk woman worked.
She had drawn out the intestines once more but seemed to be ignoring that pulsing mass for the moment, both of her hands deep in the cavity of his gut. 'Flies!' she hissed as Barathol entered. 'This damned hole is filled with dead flies!'
'You will not save him,' Barathol said, walking to the bar counter and setting down his axe on the battered, dusty surface, the weapon making a heavy clunking sound on the wood. He began removing his gauntlets, glancing over at Hayrith. 'Has she given birth?' he asked.
'Aye. A girl.' Hayrith was washing her hands in a basin, but she nodded towards a small bundled shape lying on the woman's chest. '
Already suckling. I'd thought things were gone bad, blacksmith. Bad.
The baby came out blue. Only the cord weren't knotted and weren't round its neck.'
'So why was it blue?'
'Was? Still is. Napan father, I'd say.'
'And the mother's fate?'
'She'll live. I didn't need Nulliss. I know how to clean and sear a wound. Why, I followed the Falah'd of Hissar's Holy Army, seen plenty a battlefields in my day. Cleaned plenty a wounds, too.' She flung water from her hands, then dried them on her grubby tunic. 'She'll have fever, of course, but if she survives that, she'll be fine.'
'Hayrith!' called out Nulliss. 'Get over here and rinse out these rags! Then toss 'em back in the boiling water – gods below, I'm losing him – his heart, it's fading.'
The door swung open. Heads turned to stare at L'oric, who slowly stepped inside.
'Who in Hood's name is that?' Hayrith asked.
Barathol unstrapped his helm as he said, 'High Mage L'oric, a refugee from the Apocalypse.'
Hayrith cackled. 'Well, ain't he found the right place! Welcome, L' oric! Grab yourself a tankard a dust an' a plate of ashes an' join us!
Fenar, stop staring and go find Chaur an' Urdan – there's horse meat out there needs butchering – we don't want none a them wolves in the hills comin' down an' gettin' it first.'
Barathol watched as L'oric strode over to where Nulliss knelt above the youth on the table. She was pushing in rags then pulling them out again – there was far too much blood – no wonder the heart was fading.
'Move aside,' L'oric said to her. 'I do not command High Denul, but at the very least I can clean and seal the wound, and expunge the risk of infection.'
'He's lost too much blood,' Nulliss hissed.
'Perhaps,' L'oric conceded, 'but let us at least give his heart a chance to recover.'
Nulliss backed away. 'As you like,' she snapped. 'I can do no more for him.'
Barathol went behind the bar, crouched opposite a panel of wood, which he rapped hard. It fell away, revealing three dusty jugs. Retrieving one, he straightened, setting it down on the counter. Finding a tankard, he wiped it clean, then, tugging free the stopper, poured the tankard full.
Eyes were on him – all barring those of L'oric himself, who stood beside the youth, hands settling on the chest. Hayrith asked, in a tone of reverence. 'Where did that come from, blacksmith?'
'Old Kulat's stash,' Barathol replied. 'Don't expect he'll be coming back for it.'
'What's that I smell?'
'Falari rum.'
'Blessed gods above and below!'
Suddenly the locals present in the room were one and all crowding the bar. Snarling, Nuiliss pushed Filiad back. 'Not you – too young-'
'Too young? Woman, I've seen twenty-six years!'
'You heard me! Twenty-six years? Ain't enough to 'preciate Falari rum, you scrawny whelp.'
Barathol sighed. 'Don't be greedy, Nuillss. Besides, there's two more jugs on the shelf below.' Collecting his tankard, he moved away from them, Filiad and Jhelim both fighting as they scrabbled round the counter.
A livid scar was all that remained of the sword slash across the youth's belly, apart from splashes of drying blood. L'oric still stood beside him, hands motionless on the chest. After a moment, he opened his eyes, stepping back. 'It's a strong heart… we'll see. Where's the other one?'
'Over there. Shoulder wound. It's been seared, but I can guarantee sepsis will set in and probably end up killing her, unless you do something.'
L'oric nodded. 'She is named Scillara. The young man I do not know.'
He frowned. 'Heboric Ghost Hands-' he rubbed at his face – 'I would not have thought…' He glanced over at Barathol. 'When Treach chose him to be his Destriant, well, there was so much… power. T'lan Imass? Five broken T'lan Imass?'
Barathol shrugged. 'I myself did not see the ambush. The Imass first showed up months past, then it seemed that they'd left. After all, there was nothing here that they wanted. Not even me.'
'Servants of the Crippled God,' L'oric said. 'The Unbound, of High House of Chains.' He headed towards the woman he'd named Scillara. '
The gods are indeed at war…'
Barathol stared after him. He downed half the rum in the tankard, then joined the High Mage once more. 'The gods, you say.'
'Fever already whispers within her – this will not do.' He closed his eyes and began muttering something under his breath. After a moment, he stepped back, met Barathol's eyes. 'This is what comes. The blood of mortals spilled. Innocent lives… destroyed. Even here, in this rotted hole of a village, you cannot hide from the torment – it will find you, it will find us all.'
Barathol finished the rum. 'Will you now hunt for the girl?'
'And singlehanded wrest her from the Unbound? No. Even if I knew where to look, it is impossible. The Queen of Dreams' gambit has failed – likely she already knows that.' He drew a deep, ragged breath, and Barathol only now noticed how exhausted the man was. 'No,' he said again, with a vague, then wretched look. 'I have lost my familiar… yet…' he shook his head, 'yet, there is no pain – with the severing there should be pain – I do not understand…'
'High Mage,' Barathol said, 'there are spare rooms here. Rest. I'll get Hayrith to find you some food, and Filiad can stable your horse.
Wait here until I return.'
The blacksmith spoke to Hayrith, then left the hostelry, returning once more to the west road. He saw Chaur, Fenar and Urdan stripping saddles and tack from the dead horses. 'Chaur!' he called, 'step away from that one – no, this way, there, stand still, damn you. There.
Don't move.' The girl's horse. Reaching it, he moved round carefully, seeking tracks.
Chaur fidgeted – a big man, he had the mind of a child, although the sight of blood had never bothered him.
Ignoring him, Barathol continued reading the scrapes, furrows and dislodged stones, and finally found a small footprint, planted but once, and strangely twisting on the ball of the foot. To either side, larger prints, skeletal yet bound here and there by leather strips or fragments of hide.
So. She had leapt clear of the fatally wounded horse, yet, even as her lead foot contacted the ground, the T'lan Imass snared her, lifting her – no doubt she struggled, but against such inhuman, implacable strength, she had been helpless.
And then, the T'lan Imass had vanished. Fallen to dust. Somehow taking her with them. He did not think that was possible. Yet… no tracks moved away from the area.
Frustrated, Barathol started back to the hostelry.
At a whining sound behind him he turned. 'It's all right, Chaur. You can go back to what you were doing.'
A bright smile answered him.
As he entered, Barathol sensed that something had changed. The locals were backed to the wall behind the bar. L'oric stood in the centre of the chamber, facing the blacksmith who halted just inside the doorway.
The High Mage had drawn his sword, a blade of gleaming white.
L'oric, his eyes hard on Barathol, spoke: 'I have but just heard your name.'
The blacksmith shrugged.
A sneer twisted L'oric's pale face. 'I imagine all that rum loosened their tongues, or they just plain forgot your commands to keep such details secret.'
'I've made no commands,' Barathol replied. 'These people here know nothing of the outside world, and care even less. Speaking of rum…'
He slid his gaze to the crowd behind the bar. 'Nulliss, any of it left?'
Mute, she nodded.
'On the counter then, if you please,' Barathol said. 'Beside my axe will do.'
'I would be foolish to let you near that weapon,' L'oric said, raising the sword in his hand.
'That depends,' replied Barathol, 'whether you intend fighting me, doesn't it?'
'I can think of a hundred names of those who, in my place right now, would not hesitate.'
Barathol's brows rose. 'A hundred names, you say. And how many of those names still belong to the living?'
L'oric's mouth thinned into a straight line.
'Do you believe,' Barathol went on, 'that I simply walked from Aren all those years ago? I was not the only survivor, High Mage. They came after me. It was damned near one long running battle from Aren Way to Karashimesh. Before I left the last one bleeding out his life in a ditch. You may know my name, and you may believe you know my crime… but you were not there. Those that were are all dead. Now, are you really interested in picking up this gauntlet?'
'They say you opened the gates-'
Barathol snorted, walked over towards, the jug of rum Nulliss had set on the bar. 'Ridiculous. T'lan Imass don't need gates.' The Semk witch found an empty tankard and thunked it on the counter. 'Oh, I opened them all right – on my way out, on the fastest horse I could find. By that time, the slaughter had already begun.'
'Yet you did not stay, did you? You did not fight, Barathol Mekhar!
Hood take you, man, they rebelled in your name!'
'Too bad they didn't think to ask me first,' he replied in a growl, filling the tankard. 'Now, put that damned sword away, High Mage.'
L'oric hesitated, then he sagged where he stood and slowly resheathed the weapon. 'You are right. I am too tired for this. Too old.' He frowned, then straightened again. 'You thought those T'lan Imass were here for you, didn't you?'
Barathol studied the man over the battered rim of the tankard, and said nothing.
L'oric ran a hand through his hair, looked round as if he'd forgotten where he was.
'Hood's bones, Nulliss,' Barathol said in a sigh, 'find the poor bastard a chair, will you?'
The grey haze and its blinding motes of silver slowly faded, and all at once Felisin Younger could feel her own body again, sharp stones digging into her knees, the smell of dust, sweat and fear in the air.
Visions of chaos and slaughter filled her mind. She felt numbed, and it was all she could do to see, to register the shape of things about her. Before her, sunlight flung sharp-edged shafts against a rock wall rent through with stress fractures. Heaps of windblown sand banked what used to be broad, shallow stone steps that seemed to lead up into the wall itself. Closer, the large knuckles, pale beneath thin, weathered skin, of the hand that clutched her right arm above the elbow, the exposed ligaments of the wrist stretching, making faint sounds like twisting leather. A grip she could not break – she had exhausted herself trying. Close and fetid, the reek of ancient decay, and visible – every now and then – a blood-smeared, rippled blade, broad near its hooked point, narrowing down at the leather-wrapped handle. Black, glassy stone, thinned into translucence along the edge.
Others stood around her, more of the dread T'lan Imass. Spattered with blood, some with missing or mangled limbs, and one with half its face smashed away – but this was old damage, she realized. Their most recent battle, no more than a skirmish, had cost them nothing.
The wind moaned mournfully along the rock wall. Felisin pushed herself to her feet, scraped the embedded stones from her knees. They're dead.
They're all dead. She told herself this again and again, as if the words were newly discovered – not yet meaningful to her, not yet a language she could understand. My friends are all dead. What was the point of saying them? Yet they returned again and again, as if desperate to elicit a response – any response.
A new sound reached her. Scrabbling, seeming to come from the cliffface in front of them. Blinking the stinging sweat from her eyes, she saw that one of the fissures looked to have been widened, the sides chipped away as if by a pick, and it was from this that a bent figure emerged. An old man, wearing little more than rags, covered in dust.
Suppurating sores wept runny liquid on his forearms and the backs of his hands.
Seeing her, he fell to his knees. 'You have come! They promised – but why would they lie?' Amidst the words issuing from his mouth were odd clicking sounds. 'I will take you, now – you'll see. Everything is fine. You are safe, child, for you have been chosen.'
'What are you talking about?' Felisin demanded, once again trying to tug her arm free – and this time she succeeded, as the deathly hand unclenched. She staggered.
The old man leapt to his feet and steadied her. 'You are exhausted – no surprise. So many rules were broken to bring you here-'
She stepped away from him and set a hand against the sun-warmed stone wall. 'Where is here?'
'An ancient city, Chosen One. Once buried, but soon to live once more.
I am but the first who has been called upon to serve you. Others will come – are coming even now, for they too have heard the Whispers. You see, it is the weak who hear them, and oh there are very many, very many of the weak.' More clicking sounds – there were pebbles in his mouth.
Turning, Felisin faced away from the cliff wall, studied the stretch of broken, wasted land beyond. Signs of an old road, signs of tillage… 'We walked this – weeks ago!' She glared at the old man. '
You've taken me back!'
He smiled, revealing worn, chipped teeth. 'This city belongs to you, now, Chosen One-'
'Stop calling me that!'
'Please – you have been delivered and blood has been spilled in that deliverance – it falls to you to give such sacrifice meaning-'
'Sacrifice? That was murder! They killed my friends!'
'I will help you grieve, for that is my weakness, you see? I grieve always – for myself – because of drink, and the thirst always within me. Weakness. Kneel before it, child. Make of it a thing to worship.
There is no point in fighting – the world's sadness is far more powerful than you can ever hope to be, and that is what you must come to understand.'
'I want to leave.'
'Impossible. The Unbound have delivered you. Where could you go even if you might? We are leagues upon leagues from anywhere.' He sucked on the pebbles, swallowed spit, then continued, 'You would have no food.
No water. Please, Chosen One, a temple awaits you within this buried city – I have worked so long, so hard to ready it for you. There is food, and water. And soon there will be more servants, all desperate to answer your every desire – once you accept what you have become.'
He paused to smile again, and she saw the stones – black, polished, at least three, each the size of a knuckle bone. 'Soon, you shall realize what you have become – leader of the greatest cult of Seven Cities, and it will sweep beyond, across every sea and every ocean – it shall claim the world-'
'You are mad,' Felisin said.
'The Whispers do not lie.' He reached for her and she recoiled at that glistening, pustuled hand. 'Ah, there was plague, you see. Poliel, the goddess herself, she bowed before the Chained One – as must we all, even you – and only then shall you come into your rightful power.
Plague – it claimed many, it left entire cities filled with blackened bodies – but others survived, because of the Whispers, and so were marked – by sores and twisted limbs, by blindness. For some it was their tongues. Rotting and falling off, thus leaving them mute. Among others, their ears bled and all sound has left their world. Do you understand? They had weakness, and the Chained One – he has shown how weakness becomes strength. I can sense them, for I am the first. Your seneschal. I sense them. They are coming.'
She continued staring down at his sickly hand, and after a moment he returned it to his side.
Clicking. 'Please, follow me. Let me show you all that I have done.'
Felisin lifted her hands to her face. She did not understand. None of this made any sense. 'What,' she asked, 'is your name?'
'Kulat.'
'And what,' she said in a whisper, 'is mine?'
He bowed. 'They did not understand – none of them did. The Apocalyptic – it is not just war, not just rebellion. It is devastation. Not just of the land – that is but what follows – do you see? The Apocalypse, it is of the spirit. Crushed, broken, slave to its own weaknesses.
Only from such a tormented soul can ruin be delivered to the land and to all who dwell upon it. We must die inside to kill all that lies outside. Only then, once death takes us all, only then shall we find salvation.' He bowed lower. 'You are Sha'ik Reborn, Chosen as the Hand of the Apocalypse.'
'Change of plans,' muttered Iskaral Pust as he scurried about, seemingly at random, moving into and out of the campfire's light. '
Look!' he hissed. 'She's gone, the mangy cow! A few monstrous shadows in the night and poof! Nothing but spiders, hiding in every crack and cranny. Bah! Snivelling coward. I was thinking, Trell, that we should run. Yes, run. You go that way and I'll go this way – I mean, I'll be right behind you, of course, why would I abandon you now? Even with those things on the way…' He paused, pulled at his hair, then resumed his frantic motion. 'But why should I worry? Have I not been loyal? Effective? Brilliant as ever? So, why are they here?'
Mappo drew out a mace from his sack. 'I see nothing,' he said, 'and all I can hear is you, High Priest. Who has come?'
'Did I say anything was coming?'
'Yes, you did.'
'Can I help it if you've lost your mind? But why, that's what I want to know, yes, why? It's not like we need the company. Besides, you'd think this was the last place they'd want to be, if what I'm smelling is what I'm smelling, and I wouldn't be smelling what I'm smelling if something wasn't there that didn't smell, right?' He paused, cocked his head. 'What's that smell? Never mind, where was I? Yes, trying to conceive of the inconceivable, the inconceivable being the notion that Shadowthrone is actually quite sane. Preposterous, I know. Anyway, if that, then this, this being he knows what he's doing. He has reasons – actual reasons.'
'Iskaral Pust,' Mappo said, rising from where he had been sitting near the fire. 'Are we in danger?'
'Has Hood seen better days? Of course we're in danger, you oafish fool – oh, I must keep such opinions to myself. How about this? Danger?
Haha, my friend, of course not. Haha. Ha. Oh, here they are…'
Massive shapes emerged from the darkness. Red ember eyes to one side, lurid green eyes on another, then other sets, one gold, another coppery. Silent, hulking and deadly.
The Hounds of Shadow.
Somewhere far away in the desert, a wolf or coyote howled as if it had caught a scent from the Abyss itself. Closer to hand, even the crickets had fallen silent.
The hairs on the back of the Trell's neck stiffened. He too could now smell the fell beasts. Acrid, pungent. With that reek came painful memories. 'What do they want with us, High Priest?'
'Be quiet – I need to think.'
'No need to tax yourself,' said a new voice from the darkness, and Mappo turned to see a man step into the fire's light. Grey-cloaked, tallish, and otherwise nondescript. 'They are but… passing through.'
Iskaral's face brightened with false pleasure even as he flinched. '
Ah, Cotillion – can you not see? I have achieved all Shadowthrone asked of me-'
'With that clash you had with Dejim Nebrahl,' Cotillion said, 'you have in fact exceeded expectations – I admit, I had no idea you possessed such prowess, Iskaral Pust. Shadowthrone chose well his Magi.'
'Yes, he's full of surprises, isn't he?' The High Priest crab-walked over to crouch by the fire, then he cocked his head and said, 'Now, what does he want? To put me at ease? He never puts me at ease. To lead the Hounds onto some poor fool's trail? Not for long, I hope. For that fool's sake. No, none of these things. He's here to confound me, but I am a High Priest of Shadow, after all, and so cannot be confounded. Why? Because I serve the most confounding god there is, that's why. Thus, need I worry? Of course, but he'll never know, will he? No, I need only smile up at this killer god and say: Would you like some cactus tea, Cotillion?'
'Thank you,' Cotillion replied, 'I would.'
Mappo set his mace down and resumed his seat as Iskaral poured out the tea. The Trell struggled against the desperation growing within him.
Somewhere to the north, Icarium sat before flames likely little different from these ones, haunted as ever by what he could not remember. Yet, he was not alone. No, another has taken my place. That should have been cause for relief, but all Mappo could feel was fear.
I cannot trust the Nameless Ones – I learned that a long time ago. No, Icarium was now being led by someone who cared nothing for the Jhag'It pleases me, Mappo Runt,' said Cotillion, 'that you are well.'
'The Hounds of Shadow once fought at our sides,' Mappo said, 'on the Path of Hands.'
Cotillion nodded, sipping at the tea. 'Yes, you and Icarium came very close, then.'
'Close? What do you mean?'
The Patron God of Assassins was a long time in replying. Around them, just beyond the camp, the huge Hounds seemed to have settled for the night. 'It is less a curse,' he finally said, 'than a… residue. The death of an Azath House releases all manner of forces, energies – not just those belonging to the denizens in their earthen tombs. There is, burned into Icarium's soul, something like an infection, or, perhaps, a parasite. Its nature is chaos, and the effect is one of discontinuity. It defies progression, of thought, of spirit, of life itself. Mappo, that infection must be expunged, if you would save Icarium.'
The Trell could barely draw breath. In all the centuries at the Jhag's side, among all the words given him by the Nameless Ones, by scholars and sages across half the world, he had never before heard anything like this. 'Are – are you certain?'
A slow nod. 'As much as is possible. Shadowthrone, and I,' he looked up, then half-shrugged, 'our path to ascendancy was through the Houses of the Azath. There were years – a good number of them – in which neither I nor the man who at that time was known as Emperor Kellanved were to be found anywhere within the Malazan Empire. For we had begun another quest, a bolder gambit.' Firelight gleamed in his dark eyes. '
We set out to map the Azath. Every House, across this entire realm. We set out to master its power-'
'But that is not possible,' Mappo said. 'You failed – you cannot have done otherwise, else you both would now be far more than gods-'
'True enough, as far as it goes.' He studied the tea in the clay cup nestled in the bowl of his hands. 'Certain realizations came to us, however, earned from hard experience and somewhat unrelenting diligence. The first was this: our quest would demand far more than a single, mortal lifespan. The other realizations – well, perhaps I had best leave those for another night, another time. In any case, in comprehending that such a gambit would enforce upon us demands we could not withstand – not as Emperor and Master Assassin, that is – it proved necessary to make use of what we had learned to date.'
'To make yourselves gods.'
'Yes. And in so doing, we learned that the Azath are far more than Houses created as prisons for entities of power. They are also portals. And one more thing for certain – they are the repositories for the Lost Elementals.'
Mappo frowned. 'I have not heard that phrase before. Lost Elementals?'
'Scholars tend to acknowledge but four, generally: water, fire, earth and air; yet others exist. And it is from these others that comes the immense power of the Azath Houses. Mappo, one is at an immediate disadvantage in discerning a pattern, when one has but four points of reference, with an unknown number of others as yet invisible, unaccounted for in the scheme.'
'Cotillion, these Lost Elementals – are they perhaps related to the aspects of sorcery? The warrens and the Deck of Dragons? Or, more likely, the ancient Holds?'
'Life, death, dark, light, shadow… possibly, but even that seems a truncated selection. What of, for example, time? Past, present, future? What of desire, and deed? Sound, silence? Or are the latter two but minor aspects of air? Does time belong to light? Or is it but a point somewhere between light and dark, yet distinct from shadow?
What of faith and denial? Can you now understand, Mappo, the potential complexity of relationships?'
'Assuming they exist at all, beyond the notion of concepts.'
'Granted. Yet, maybe concepts are all that's needed, if the purpose of the elements is to give shape and meaning to all that surrounds us on the outside, and all that guides us from within.'
Mappo leaned back. 'And you sought to master such power?' He stared at Cotillion, wondering if even a god was capable of such conceit, such ambition. And they began on their quest long before they became gods… 'I confess that I hope you and Shadowthrone fail – for what you describe should not fall into anyone's hands, not a god's, not a mortal's. No, leave it to the Azath-'
'And so we would have, had we not come to understand that the Azath's control was failing. The Nameless Ones, I suspect, have come to the same realization, and so are now driven to desperation. Alas, we believe their latest decision will, if anything, further pitch the Azath towards chaos and dissolution.' He nodded towards Iskaral Pust, who crouched nearby, muttering to himself. 'Hence, our decision to… intervene. Too late, unfortunately, to prevent Dejim Nebrahl's release, and the ambush itself. But… you are alive, Trell.'
And so, Cotillion, in seeking to master the Azath, you now find yourself serving it. Desire versus deed… 'To lift Icarium's curse,'
Mappo shook his head. 'This is an extraordinary offer, Cotillion. I find myself torn between doubt and hope.' A wry smile – 'Ah, I begin to understand how mere concepts are enough.'
'Icarium has earned an end to his torment,' the god said, 'has he not?'
'What must I do?'
'For now, do as you are doing – pursue your friend. Stay on that trail, Mappo. A convergence is coming, of a magnitude so vast it will very likely defy comprehension. The gods seem oblivious to the cliffedge they are all approaching, and yes, every now and then I include myself among them.'
'You hardly seem oblivious.'
'Well then, perhaps helpless is a more accurate term. In any event, you and I will speak again. For now, do not doubt that you are needed.
By us, by every mortal and above all, by Icarium.' He set the cup down and rose.
The faint sound of the Hounds lifting themselves into readiness reached Mappo's ears.
'I know I need not say this,' the god said, 'but I shall anyway. Do not give up hope, Mappo. For this, despair is your greatest foe. When the time comes for you to stand between Icarium and all that the Nameless Ones seek… well, I believe that you will not fail.'
Mappo watched Cotillion walk into the darkness, the Hounds slipping into the god's wake. After a moment, the Trell glanced over at Iskaral Pust. And found sharp, glittering eyes fixed on him. 'High Priest,'
Mappo asked, 'do you intend to join me in my journey?'
'Alas, I cannot.' The Dal Honese glanced away. 'The Trell's insane! He will fail! Of course he will fail! As good as dead, ah, I cannot bear now to even so much as look at him. All Mogora's healing – for naught!
A waste!' Iskaral Pust rubbed at his face, then leapt to his feet. '
Too many equally important tasks await me, Mappo Runt. No, you and I shall walk momentarily divergent paths, yet side by side to glory nonetheless! As Cotillion has said, you shall not fail. Nor will I.
Victory shall be ours!' He raised a bony fist and shook it at the night sky. Then hugged himself. 'Gods below, we're doomed.'
A cackle from Mogora, who had reappeared, her arms loaded down with firewood implausibly cut and split as if by a master woodsman. She dumped it beside the fire. 'Stir them embers, dear pathetic husband of mine.'
'You cannot command me, hag! Stir them yourself! I have more vital tasks before me right now!'
'Such as?'
'Well, to begin with, I need to pee.'