The others had all set out—Apsalar sparing one searching glance their way—leaving the two alone.
“How can we trust in something we cannot understand?” the Trell demanded. “You said ‘aware.’ How? Precisely what is aware?”
“I have no idea. I sense a presence, that is all. And if I can sense it, then it in turn can sense me. Tremorlor suffers, Mappo. It fights alone, and its cause is just. I mean to help the Azath, and so to Tremorlor lies the choice—to accept my help or not.”
The Trell struggled to disguise his distress. Oh, my friend, you offer help without realizing how quickly that blade can turn. In your ignorance you are so pure, so noble. If Tremorlor knows you better than you know yourself, will it dare accept your offer?
“What is wrong, friend?”
Bleak suspicion showed in the Jhag’s eyes, and Mappo was forced to look away. What is wrong? I would speak to warn you, my friend. Should Tremorlor take you, the world is freed of a vast threat, but I lose a friend. No, I betray you to eternal imprisonment. The Elders and the Nameless Ones who set upon me this task would command me with certainty. They would care nothing of love. Nor would the young Trell warrior who so freely made his vow hesitate—for he did not know the man he was to follow. Nor did he possess doubts. Not then, so long ago. “I beg you, Icarium, let us turn back now. The risk is too great, my friend.” He felt his eyes water as he stared out across the plain. My friend. At last, dear Elders, I am revealed to you. You chose wrongly. I am a coward.
“I wish,” Icarium said slowly, haltingly, “I wish I could understand. The war I see within you breaks my heart, Mappo. You must realize by now…”
“Realize what?” the Trell croaked, still unable to meet the Jhag’s eyes.
“That I would give my life for you, my only friend, my brother.”
Mappo wrapped his arms about himself. “No,” he whispered. “Do not say that.”
“Help me end your war. Please.”
The Trell drew a deep, ragged breath. “The city of the First Empire, the one upon the old island…”
Icarium waited.
“Destroyed…by your hand, Icarium. Yours is a blind rage…a rage unequaled. It burns fierce, so fierce all your memory of what you do is obliterated. I watch you—I have watched you stirring those cold ashes, ever seeking to discover who you are, yet there I stand, at your side, bound by a vow to prevent you ever committing such an act again. You have destroyed cities, entire peoples. Once you begin killing, you cannot stop, until all before you is…lifeless.”
The Jhag said nothing, nor could Mappo look at his friend. The Trell’s arms ached with his own protective, helpless hug. His anguish was a storm within him, and he was holding it back with all his strength.
“And Tremorlor knows,” Icarium said, in a cold, flat voice. “The Azath can do naught but take me.”
If it is able, and so sorely tested before the effort’s even begun. In your anger you may destroy it—spirits below, what do we risk here?
“I believe this warren has shaped you, Icarium. After all this time, you have finally come home.”
“Where it began, it shall end. I go to Tremorlor.”
“Friend—”
“No. I cannot walk free with this knowledge—you must see that, Mappo. I cannot—”
“If Tremorlor takes you, you will not die, Icarium. Your imprisonment is eternal, yet you shall be…aware.”
“Aye, a worthy punishment for my crimes.”
The Trell cried out at that.
Icarium’s hand fell on his shoulder. “Walk with me to my prison, Mappo. Do what you must—what you clearly have done before—to prevent my rage. I must not be allowed to resist.”
Please—
“Do what a friend would do. And free yourself, if I am to be so presumptuous as to offer you a gift in return. We must end this.”
He shook his head, seeking to deny everything. Coward! Strike him down now! Drag him away from here—far away—he will return to consciousness recalling none of this. I can lead him away, in some other direction, and we can be as we were, as we always have been—
“Rise, please, the others await us.”
The Trell had not realized he was on the ground, curled tight. He tasted blood in his mouth.
“Rise, Mappo. One last task.”
Firm, strong hands helped him climb to his feet. He tottered as if drunk or fevered.
“Mappo, I cannot call you friend otherwise.”
“That,” the Trell gasped, “was unfair—”
“Aye, it seems I must make you what I seem to be. Let anger be the iron of your resolve. Leave no room for doubt—you were ever too sentimental, Trell.”
Even your attacks with words are kindly said. Ah, gods, how can I do this?
“The others are deeply shaken by what they have seen—what shall we tell them?”
Mappo shook his head. Still a child in so many ways, Icarium. They know.
“Come along now. My home awaits this prodigal return.”
“It had to come,” Fiddler said as they arrived. Mappo studied each of them in turn and saw the knowledge plainly writ, in every hue. Iskaral Pust’s wizened face was twisted in a febrile grin—fear, anticipation and a host of other emotions only he could explain, had he been willing. Apsalar seemed to have set aside whatever sympathy she felt, and now eyed Icarium as if gauging a potential opponent; her uncertainty at her own ability showed for the first time. There was resignation in Rellock’s eyes, all too aware of the threat to his daughter. Crokus alone seemed immune to the knowledge, and Mappo once again wondered at the certainty the young man seemed to have discovered within himself. As if the lad admires Icarium—but what part of the Jhag does he admire?
They stood on a hill, the roots chaotic underfoot. Some ancient creature lies imprisoned beneath us. All these hills…Ahead, the landscape changed, the roots rising in narrow ridges to create thick walls, forming corridors in a sprawling, wild maze. Some of the roots within the walls seemed to be moving. Mappo’s gaze narrowed as he studied that ceaseless motion.
“Make no efforts to save me,” Icarium announced, “should Tremorlor seek to take me. Indeed, assist those efforts in any way you can—”
“Fool!” Iskaral Pust crowed. “The Azath needs you first! Tremorlor risks a cast of the knuckles that even Oponn would quail at! Desperation! A thousand Soletaken and D’ivers are converging! My god has done all he can, as have I! And who will thank us? Who will acknowledge our sacrifice? You must not fail us now, horrid Jhag!”
Grimacing, Icarium turned to Mappo. “I shall defend the Azath—tell me, can I fight without…without that burning rage?”
“You possess a threshold,” the Trell conceded. But oh so near.
“Hold yourself back,” Fiddler said, checking his crossbow. “Until the rest of us have done all we can do.”
“Iskaral Pust,” Crokus snapped. “That includes not just you, but your god—”
“Hah! You would command us? We have brought the players together—no more can be asked—”
The Daru closed on the High Priest, a knife-point flashing to rest lightly against Pust’s neck. “Not good enough,” he said. “Call your god, damn you. We need more help!”
“The risks—”
“Are greater if you just stand back, dammit! What if Icarium kills the Azath?”
Mappo held his breath, astonished at how deeply Crokus understood the situation.
There was silence.
Icarium stepped back, shaken.
Oh yes, friend, you possess such power.
Iskaral Pust blinked, gaped, then shut his mouth with a snap. “Unforeseen,” he finally whimpered. “All that would be freed…oh, my! Release me now.”
Crokus stepped back, sheathing his knife.
“Shadowthrone…uh…my worthy Lord of Shadow…is thinking. Yes! Thinking furiously! Such is the vastness of his genius that he can outwit even himself!” The High Priest’s eyes widened and he spun to face the forest behi
nd them.
A distant howl sounded from the wood.
Iskaral Pust smiled.
“I’ll be damned,” Apsalar muttered. “I didn’t think he had it in him.”
Five Hounds of Shadow emerged from the wood like a loping pack of wolves, though each was as tall as a pony. To mock all things natural, the pale, sightless Hound named Blind led the way. Her mate Baran ran behind and to her right. Gear and Shan followed in rough flanking positions. The pack’s leader, Rood, sauntered in their wake.
Mappo shivered. “I thought there were seven.”
“Anomander Rake killed two on the Rhivi Plain,” Apsalar said, “when he demanded Cotillion cease possession of my body.”
Crokus spun in surprise. “Rake? I didn’t know that.”
Mappo raised an eyebrow at the Daru. “You know Anomander Rake, Lord of Moon’s Spawn?”
“We met but once,” Crokus said.
“I would hear that tale some day.”
The lad nodded, tight-lipped.
Mappo, you are the only fool here who believes we will survive this. He fixed his gaze once more on the approaching Hounds. In all his travels with Icarium, they had never before crossed paths with the legendary creatures of Shadow, yet the Trell well knew their names and descriptions, and the Hound he feared most was Shan. She moved like fluid darkness, her eyes crimson slits. Where the others showed, in the scars tracked across their muscled bulk, the savage ferocity of brawlers, Shan’s sleek approach was a true killer’s, an assassin’s. The Trell felt the hair rise on the back of his neck as those deadly eyes found and held him for the briefest of moments.
“They are not displeased,” Iskaral Pust crooned.
Mappo pulled his eyes away from the beasts and saw Fiddler staring at him. The knowledge that passed between them was instant and certain. The sapper’s head tilted a fraction. The Trell sighed, slowly blinked, then turned to Icarium. “My friend—”
“I welcome them,” the Jhag rumbled. “We shall speak no more of it, Mappo.”
In silence the Hounds arrived, fanning out to encircle the company.
“Into the maze we go,” Iskaral Pust said, then cackled as a distant, uncanny scream reached them. The Hounds raised their heads at the sound, testing the motionless air, but seemed otherwise unexcited. There was around each beast an aura of dreadful competence, wrought with vast antiquity like threads of iron.
The High Priest of Shadow broke into another dance, brought to an abrupt halt by Baran’s head and shoulder as the animal, with blurring speed, batted Iskaral Pust to the ground.
Fiddler grunted as he reached down to help the priest up. “You’ve managed to irritate your god, Pust.”
“Nonsense,” the man gasped. “Affection. The puppy was so pleased to see me it became overexcited.”
They set off toward the maze, beneath a sky the color of polished iron.
Gesler strode to where Duiker, Bult and Captain Lull sat drinking weak herbal tea. The corporal’s face was red and swollen around the fractured nose, his voice a rough whine. “We can’t pack no more aboard, so we’re pulling out to catch the last of the tide.”
“How quickly can those undead oarsmen take you to Aren?” Lull asked.
“Won’t be long. Three days at the most. Don’t worry, we won’t lose any of the wounded on the way, sir—”
“What makes you so certain of that, Corporal?”
“Things are kind of timeless on the Silanda, sir. All those heads still drip blood, only they ain’t been attached to their bodies for months, years, maybe even decades. Nothing rots. Fener’s tusk, we can’t even grow beards when we’re aboard, sir.”
Lull grunted.
It was an hour before dawn. The sounds of frenzied activity rising from Korbolo Dom’s encampment had not ceased. Sorcerous wards prevented the Wickan warlocks from discovering the nature of that activity. The lack of knowing had stretched everyone’s nerves taut.
“Fener guard you all,” Gesler said.
Duiker looked up to meet the man’s eyes. “Deliver our wounded, Corporal.”
“Aye, Historian, we’ll do just that. And maybe we can even pry Nok’s fleet out of the harbor, or shame Pormqual into marching. The captain of the City Garrison’s a good man—Blistig—if he wasn’t responsible for the protection of Aren, he’d be here by now. Anyway, maybe the two of us can put some iron into the High Fist’s spine.”
“As you say,” Lull muttered. “Get on with you now, Corporal, you’re almost as ugly as me and it’s turning my stomach.”
“Got more than a few spare Tiste Andii eyes if you’d like to try one out for a fitting, sir. Last chance.”
“I’ll pass, Corporal, but thanks for the offer.”
“Don’t mention it. Fare you well, Historian. Sorry we couldn’t have done better with Kulp and Heboric.”
“You did better than anyone could have hoped for, Gesler.”
With a shrug, the man turned toward the waiting dory. Then he paused. “Oh, Commander Bult.”
“Aye?”
“My apologies to the Fist for breaking his hand.”
“Sormo’s managed to force-heal that, Corporal, but I’ll pass your thoughts on.”
“You know, Commander,” Gesler said a moment before stepping into the boat, “I just noticed—between you and the captain you got three eyes and three ears and almost a whole head of hair.”
Bult swung around to glare at the corporal. “Your point?”
“Nothing. Just noticing, sir. See you all in Aren.”
Duiker watched the man row his way across the yellow sludge of the river. See you all in Aren. That was feeble, Corporal Gesler, but well enough meant.
“For the rest of my days,” Lull sighed, “I’ll know Gesler as the man who broke his nose to spite his face.”
Bult grinned, tossed the dregs of his tea onto the muddy ground and rose with a crackling of joints. “Nephew will like that one, Captain.”
“Was it just a matter of mistrust, Uncle?” Duiker asked, looking up.
Bult stared down for a moment, then shrugged. “Coltaine would tell you it was so, Historian.”
“But what do you think?”
“I’m too tired to think. If you are determined to know the Fist’s thoughts on Korbolo Dom’s offer, you might try asking him yourself.”
They watched the commander walk away.
Lull grunted. “Can’t wait to read your account of the Chain of Dogs, old man. Too bad I didn’t see you send a trunk full of scrolls with Gesler.”
Duiker climbed to his feet. “It seems nobody wants to hold hands this night.”
“Might have better luck tomorrow night.”
“Might.”
“Thought you’d found a woman. A marine—what was her name?”
“I don’t know. We shared one night…”
“Ah, sword too small for the sheath, eh?”
Duiker smiled. “We decided it would not do to repeat that night. We each have enough losses to deal with…”
“You are both fools, then.”
“I imagine we are.”
Duiker set off through the restless, sleepless encampment. He heard few conversations, yet a bleak awareness roared around him, a sound only his bones could feel.
He found Coltaine outside his command tent, conferring with Sormo, Nil and Nether. The Fist’s right hand was still swollen and mottled, and his pale, sweat-beaded face revealed the trauma of forced healing.
Sormo addressed the historian. “Where is your Corporal List?”
Duiker blinked. “I am not sure. Why?”
“He is possessed of visions.”
“Aye, he is.”
The warlock’s gaunt face twisted in a grimace. “We sense nothing of what lies ahead. A land so emptied is unnatural, Historian. It has been scoured, its soul destroyed. How?”
“List says there was a war once, out on the plain beyond the forest. So long ago that all memory of it has vanished. Yet an echo remains, sealed in the very bedro
ck.”
“Who fought this war, Historian?”
“Yet to be revealed, I’m afraid. A ghost guides List in his dreams, but it will be no certain unveiling.” Duiker hesitated, then sighed. “The ghost is Jaghut.”
Coltaine glanced east, seemed to study the paling skyline.
“Fist,” Duiker said after a moment, “Korbolo Dom—”
There was a commotion nearby. They turned to see a nobleman rushing toward them. The historian frowned, then recognition came. “Tumlit—”
The old man, squinting fiercely as he scanned each face, finally came to a halt before Coltaine. “A most dreadful occurrence, Fist,” he gasped in his tremulous voice.
Duiker only now heard a restlessness rising from the refugee encampment stretched up the trader track. “Tumlit, what has happened?”
“Another emissary, I’m afraid. Brought through in secret. Met with the Council—I sought to dissuade them but failed, alas. Pullyk and Nethpara have swayed the others. Fist, the refugees shall cross the river, under the benign protection of Korbolo Dom—”
Coltaine spun to his warlocks. “To your clans. Send Bult and the captains to me.”
Shouts now sounded from the Wickans in the clearing as the mass of refugees surged forward, pushing through, down to the ford. The Fist found a nearby soldier. “Have the clan war chiefs withdraw their warriors from their path—we cannot contest this.”
He’s right—we won’t be able to stop the fools.
Bult and the captains arrived in a rush and Coltaine snapped out his commands. Those orders made it clear to Duiker that the Fist was preparing for the worst. As the officers raced off, Coltaine faced the historian.
“Go to the sappers. By my command they are to join the refugee train, insignia and uniforms exchanged for mundane garb—”
“That won’t be necessary, Fist—they all wear assorted rags and looted gear anyway. But I’ll have them tie their helms to their belts.”
“Go.”
Duiker set off. The sky was lightening, and with that burgeoning glow the butterflies stirred on all sides, a silent shimmering that sent shivers through the historian for no obvious reason. He worked his way up the seething train, skirting one edge and pushing through the ranks of infantry who were standing back and watching the refugees without expression.
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