‘Kneel before Order? You blind fool—’
‘Order? I was speaking of compassion—’
‘Fine, then go ahead! Step outside yourself, Leandris! No, better yet. Step outside.’
‘Only the new one can do that, Cassa. And he’d better be quick about it.’
Twisting, Heboric managed to look down, to catch a glimpse of his left forearm, the wrist, the hand—that was not there. A god. A god has taken them. I was blind to that—the jade’s ghost hands made me blind to that—
He tilted his head back, as the screams and shrieks suddenly rose higher, deafening, mind-numbing. The world turned red, the red of blood—
Something tugged on his arms. Hard. Once. Twice.
Darkness.
Heboric opened his eyes. Saw above him the colourless canvas of his tent. The air was cold.
A barely human sound escaped him, and he rolled onto his side beneath the blankets, curling tight into a ball. Shivers thrummed through him.
A god. A god has found me.
But which god?
It was night, perhaps only a bell from dawn. The camp outside was silent, barring the distant, sorrow-filled howls of desert wolves.
After a while, Heboric stirred once more. The dung fire was out. No lanterns had been lit. He drew aside the blankets and slowly sat up.
Then stared down at his hands, disbelieving.
They remained ghostly, but the otataral was gone. The power of the jade remained, pulsing dully. Yet now there were slashes of black through it. Lurid—almost liquid—barbs banded the backs of his hands, then tracked upward, shifting angle as they continued up his forearms.
His tattoos had been transformed.
And, in this deepest darkness, he could see. Unhumanly sharp, every detail crisp as if it was day outside.
His head snapped round at a sound and a motion—but it was simply a rhizan, alighting light as a leaf on the tent roof.
A rhizan? On the tent roof?
Heboric’s stomach rumbled in sudden hunger.
He looked down at his tattoos once more. I have found a new god. Not that I was seeking one. And I know who. What.
Bitterness filled him. ‘In need of a Destriant, Treach? So you simply…took one. Stole from him his own life. Granted, not much of a life, but still, I owned it. Is this how you recruit followers? Servants? By the Abyss, Treach, you have a lot to learn about mortals.’
The anger faded. There had been gifts, after all. An exchange of sorts. He was no longer blind. Even more extraordinary, he could actually hear the sounds of neighbours sleeping in their tents and yurts.
And there, faint on the near-motionless air…the smell of…violence. But it was distant. The blood had been spilled some time earlier in the night. Some domestic dispute, probably. He would have to teach himself to filter out much of what his newly enlivened senses told him.
Heboric grunted under his breath, then scowled. ‘All right, Treach. It seems we both have some learning to do. But first…something to eat. And drink.’
When he rose from his sleeping mat, the motion was startlingly fluid, though it was some time before Heboric finally noted the absence of aches, twinges, and the dull throb of his joints.
He was far too busy filling his belly.
Forgotten, the mysteries of the jade giants, the innumerable imprisoned souls within them, the ragged wound in the Abyss.
Forgotten, as well, that faint blood-scented tremor of distant violence…
The burgeoning of some senses perforce took away from others. Leaving him blissfully unaware of his newfound singlemindedness. Two truths he had long known did not, for some time, emerge to trouble him.
No gifts were truly clean in the giving.
And nature ever strives for balance. But balance was not a simple notion. Redress was not simply found in the physical world. A far grimmer equilibrium had occurred…between the past and the present.
Felisin Younger’s eyes fluttered open. She had slept, but upon awakening discovered that the pain had not gone away, and the horror of what he had done to her remained as well, though it had grown strangely cold in her mind.
Into her limited range of vision, close to the sand, a serpent slipped into view directly in front of her face. Then she realized what had awoken her—there were more snakes, slithering over her body. Scores of them.
Toblakai’s glade. She remembered now. She had crawled here. And L’oric had found her, only to set off once again. To bring medicine, water, bedding, a tent. He had not yet returned.
Apart from the whispering slither of the snakes, the glade was silent. In this forest, the branches did not move. There were no leaves to flutter in the cool, faint wind. Dried blood in folds of skin stung as she slowly sat up. Sharp pains flared beneath her belly, and the raw wound where he had cut flesh away—there, between her legs—burned fiercely.
‘I shall bring this ritual to our people, child, when I am the Whirlwind’s High Priest. All girls shall know this, in my newly shaped world. The pain shall pass. All sensation shall pass. You are to feel nothing, for pleasure does not belong in the mortal realm. Pleasure is the darkest path, for it leads to the loss of control. And we mustn’t have that. Not among our women. Now, you shall join the rest, those I have already corrected…’
Two such girls had arrived, then, bearing the cutting instruments. They had murmured encouragement to her, and words of welcome. Again and again, in pious tones, they had spoken of the virtues that came of the wounding. Propriety. Loyalty. A leavening of appetites, the withering of desire. All good things, they said to her. Passions were the curse of the world. Indeed, had it not been passions that had enticed her own mother away, that were responsible for her own abandonment? The lure of pleasure had stolen Felisin’s mother…away from the duties of motherhood…
Felisin leaned over and spat into the sand. But the taste of their words would not go away. It was not surprising that men could think such things, could do such things. But that women could as well…that was indeed a bitter thing to countenance.
But they were wrong. Walking the wrong trail. Oh, my mother abandoned me, but not for the embrace of some lover. No, it was Hood who embraced her.
Bidithal would be High Priest, would he? The fool. Sha’ik would find a place for him in her temple—or at least a place for his skull. A cup of bone to piss in, perhaps. And that time was not long in coming.
Still…too long. Bidithal takes girls into his arms every night. He makes an army, a legion of the wounded, the bereft. And they will be eager to share out their loss of pleasure. They are human, after all, and it is human nature to transform loss into a virtue. So that it might be lived with, so that it might be justified.
A glimmer of dull light distracted her, and she looked up. The carved faces in the trees around her were glowing. Bleeding grey, sorcerous light. Behind each there was…a presence.
Toblakai’s gods.
‘Welcome, broken one.’ The voice was the sound of limestone boulders grinding together. ‘I am named Ber’ok. Vengeance swarms about you, with such power as to awaken us. We are not displeased with the summons, child.’
‘You are Toblakai’s god,’ she muttered. ‘You have nothing to do with me. Nor do I want you. Go away, Ber’ok. You and the rest—go away.’
‘We would ease your pain. I shall make of you my special…responsibility. You seek vengeance? Then you shall have it. The one who has damaged you would take the power of the desert goddess for himself. He would usurp the entire fragment of warren, and twist it into his own nightmare. Oh, child, though you might believe otherwise—now—the wounding is of no matter. The danger lies in Bidithal’s ambition. A knife must be driven into his heart. Would it please you to be that knife?’
She said nothing. There was no way to tell which of the carved faces belonged to Ber’ok, so she could only look from one to the next. A glance to the two fully rendered Toblakai warriors revealed that they possessed no emanation, were grey and lifeless in the pre-dawn
darkness.
‘Serve us,’ Ber’ok murmured, ‘and we in turn shall serve you. Give us your answer quickly—someone comes.’
She noted the wavering lantern light on the trail. L’oric. ‘How?’ she asked the gods. ‘How will you serve me?’
‘We shall ensure that Bidithal’s death is in a manner to match his crimes, and that it shall be…timely.’
‘And how am I to be the knife?’
‘Child,’ the god calmly replied, ‘you already are.’
Chapter Fourteen
The Teblor have long earned their reputation as slayers of children, butcherers of the helpless, as mortal demons delivered unto the Nathii in a curse altogether undeserved. The sooner the Teblor are obliterated from their mountain fastnesses the sooner the memory of them will finally begin to fade. Until Teblor is no more than a name used to frighten children, we see our cause as clear and singular.
THE CRUSADE OF 1147
AYED KOURBOURN
The wolves loped through the almost luminescent fog, their eyes flashing when they swung their massive heads in his direction. As if he was an elk, struggling through deep snow, the huge beasts kept pace on either side, ghostly, with the implacable patience of the predators they were.
Though it was unlikely these mountain beasts had ever before hunted a Teblor warrior. Karsa had not expected to find snow, particularly since his route took him alongside the north shoulder of the jagged range—it was fortunate that he would not have to climb through any passes. On his right, less than two leagues distant, he could still see the ochre sands of the desert basin, and well knew that down there, the sun blazed hot—the same sun that looked down upon him now, a blurred orb of cold fire.
The snow was shin-deep, slowing his steady jog. Somehow, the wolves managed to run across its wind-hardened, crusty surface, only occasionally plunging a paw through. The fog enshrouding hunters and prey was in fact snow crystals, glittering with bright, blinding light.
Somewhere to the west, Karsa had been told, the range of mountains would end. There would be sea on his right, a narrow rumpled passage of hills ahead and on his left. Across those hills, then southward, there would be a city. Lato Revae. The Teblor had no interest in visiting it, though he would have to skirt it. The sooner he left civilized lands behind, the better. But that was two river crossings distant, with weeks of travel between now and then.
Though he ran alone along the slope, he could feel the presence of his two companions. Ghost spirits at the most, but perhaps nothing more than fractured selves of his own mind. Sceptical Bairoth Gild. Stolid Delum Thord. Facets of his own soul, so that he might persist in this dialogue of self-doubt. Perhaps, then, nothing more than an indulgence.
Or so it would seem, if not for the countless, blood-scoring edges of Bairoth Gild’s commentary. At times, Karsa felt as if he was a slave once more, hunched beneath endless flagellation. The notion that he was delivering this to himself was beyond contemplating.
‘Not entirely beyond, Warleader, if you’d spare yourself but a moment to regard your own thoughts.’
‘Not now, Bairoth Gild,’ Karsa replied. ‘I am running short on breath as it is.’
‘Altitude, Karsa Orlong,’ came Delum Thord’s voice. ‘Though you do not feel it, with each step westward you are descending. Soon you will leave the snow behind. Raraku may have once been an inland sea, but it was a sea couched in the lap of high mountains. Your entire journey thus far, Warleader, has been a descent.’
Karsa could spare that thought only a grunt. He had felt no particular descent, but horizons played deceptive games in this land. The desert and mountains ever lied, he had long since discovered.
‘When the snow is gone,’ Bairoth Gild murmured, ‘the wolves will attack.’
‘I know. Now be quiet—I see bare rock ahead.’
As did his hunters. They numbered at least a dozen, taller at the shoulder than those of Karsa’s homeland, and furred in tones of dun, grey and speckled white. The Teblor watched as four of the beasts sprinted ahead, two on each side, making for the exposed rock.
Growling, Karsa unslung his wooden sword. The bitter cold air had left his hands slightly numb. Had the western end of the Holy Desert held any sources of water, he would not have climbed to these heights, but there was little point in second-guessing that decision now.
The panting breaths of the wolves were audible on either side and behind him.
‘They want the sure footing, Warleader. Then again, so do you. Beware the three in your wake—they will strike first, likely a pace or two before you reach the rock.’
Karsa bared his teeth at Bairoth’s unnecessary advice. He well knew what these beasts would do, and when.
A sudden thumping of paws, flurries of snow springing into the air, and all the wolves raced past a surprised Karsa. Claws clattered on the bared rock, water spraying from the sun’s melt, and the beasts wheeled to form a half-circle before the Teblor.
He slowed his steps, readying his weapon. For once, even Bairoth Gild was silenced—no doubt as uncertain as he himself was.
A rasping, panting stranger’s voice hissed through Karsa’s mind: ‘We enjoyed that, Toblakai. You have run without pause for three nights and almost four days. That we are impressed would be a tragic understatement. We have never before seen the like. See our heaving flanks? You have exhausted us. And look at you—you breathe deep and there is red around your eyes, yet you stand ready, with not a waver in your legs, or from the strange sword in your hands. Will you now do us harm, warrior?’
Karsa shook his head. The language was Malazan. ‘You are like a Soletaken, then. But many, not one. This would be…D’ivers? I have killed Soletaken—this fur on my shoulders is proof enough of that, if you doubt me. Attack me if you will, and when I have killed all of you, I will have a cloak even the gods will envy.’
‘We are no longer interested in killing you, warrior. Indeed, we accost you now to deliver a warning.’
‘What kind of warning?’
‘You are on someone’s trail.’
Karsa shrugged. ‘Two men, both heavy, though one is taller. They walk side by side.’
‘Side by side, yes. And what does that tell you?’
‘Neither leads, neither follows.’
‘Danger rides your shoulders, Toblakai. About you is an air of threat—another reason why we will not cross you. Powers vie for your soul. Too many. Too deadly. But heed our warning: should you cross one of those travellers…the world will come to regret it. The world, warrior.’
Karsa shrugged a second time. ‘I am not interested in fighting anyone at the moment, D’ivers. Although, if I am in turn crossed, then I am not the one to answer for whatever regret the world then experiences. Now, I am done with words. Move from my path, or I will kill you all.’
The wolves hesitated. ‘Tell them that Ryllandaras sought to dissuade you. Before you make your last living act one that sees this world destroyed.’
He watched them wheel and make their way down the slope.
Bairoth Gild’s laugh was a faint thunder in his mind. Karsa nodded. ‘None would accept the blame for what has not yet occurred,’ he rumbled. ‘That, by itself, constitutes a curiously potent warning.’
‘You do indeed grow into yourself, Karsa Orlong. What will you do?’
Karsa bared his teeth as he reslung his sword over a fur-clad shoulder. ‘Do, Bairoth Gild? Why, I would meet these dire travellers, of course.’
This time, Bairoth Gild did not laugh.
Strains of meltwater flowed over the brittle rock beneath Karsa’s moccasins. Ahead, the descent continued into a crowded maze of sandstone mesas, their level tops capped with ice and snow. Despite the bright, mid-afternoon sun in the cloudless sky, the narrow, twisting channels between the mesas remained in deep shadow.
But the snow underfoot had vanished, and already he could feel a new warmth in the air. There seemed but one way down, and it was as much a stream as a trail. Given the lack of signs, the
Teblor could only assume that the two strangers ahead of him had taken the same route.
He moved slower now, his legs heavy with fatigue. The truth of his exhaustion had not been something he would reveal to the D’ivers wolves, but that threat was behind him now. He was close to collapse—hardly ideal if he was about to cross blades with a world-destroying demon.
Still his legs carried him forward, as if of their own accord. As if fated.
‘And fate, Karsa Orlong, carries its own momentum.’
‘Returned at last to hound me once more, Bairoth Gild? At the very least, you should speak words of advice. This Ryllandaras, this D’ivers—portentous words, yes?’
‘Absurdly so, Warleader. There are no powers in this world—or any other—that pose such absolute threat. Spoken through the frenzied currents of fear. Likely personal in nature—whoever walks ahead has had dealings with the one named Ryllandaras, and it was the D’ivers who suffered with the meeting.’
‘You are probably right, Bairoth Gild. Delum Thord, you have been silent a long while. What are your thoughts?’
‘I am troubled, Warleader. The D’ivers was a powerful demon, after all. To take so many shapes, yet remain one. To speak in your mind as would a god…’
Karsa grimaced. ‘A god…or a pair of ghosts. Not a demon, Delum Thord. We Teblor are too careless with that word. Forkrul Assail. Soletaken. D’ivers. None are demons in truth, for none were summoned to this world, none belong to any other realm but this one. They are in truth no different from us Teblor, or the lowlanders. No different from rhizan and capemoths, from horses and dogs. They are all of this world, Delum Thord.’
‘As you say, Warleader. But we Teblor were never simplistic in our use of the word. Demon also refers to behaviour, and in this manner all things can be demonic. The one named Ryllandaras hunted us, and had you not driven it into exhaustion, it would have attacked, despite your words to the contrary.’
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