Rock was bone. Dust was flesh. Water was blood. Residues settled in multitudes, becoming layers, and upon those layers yet more, and on and on until a world was made, until all that death could hold up one’s feet where one stood, and rise to meet every step one took. A solid bed to lie on. So much for the world. Death holds us up. And then there were the breaths that filled, that made the air, the heaving assertions measuring the passing of time, like notches marking the arc of a life, of every life. How many of those breaths were last ones? The final expellation of a beast, an insect, a plant, a human with film covering his or her fading eyes? And so how, how could one draw such air into the lungs? Knowing how filled with death it was, how saturated it was with failure and surrender?
Such air choked him, burned down his throat, tasting of the bitterest acid. Dissolving and devouring, until he was naught but…residue.
They were so young, his companions. There was no way they could understand the filth they walked on, walked in, walked through. And took into themselves, only to fling some of it back out again, now flavoured by their own sordid additions. And when they slept, each night, they were as empty things. While Heboric fought on against the knowledge that the world did not breathe, not any more. No, now, the world drowned.
And I drown with it. Here in this cursed wasteland. In the sand and heat and dust. I am drowning. Every night. Drowning.
What could Treach give him? This savage god with its overwhelming hungers, desires, needs. Its mindless ferocity, as if it could pull back and reclaim every breath it drew into its bestial lungs, and so defy the world, the ageing world and its deluge of death. He was wrongly chosen, so every ghost told him, perhaps not in words, but in their constant crowding him, rising up, overwhelming him with their silent, accusatory regard.
And there was more. The whisperings in his dreams, voices emerging from a sea of jade, beseeching. He was the stranger who had come among them; he had done what none other had done: he had reached through the green prison. And they prayed to him, begging for his return. Why? What did they want?
No, he did not want answers to such questions. He would return this cursed gift of jade, this alien power. He would cast it back into the void and be done with it.
Holding to that, clinging to that, was keeping him sane. If this torment of living could be called sane. Drowning, I am drowning, and yet…these damned feline gifts, this welter of senses, so sweet, so rich, I can feel them, seeking to seduce me. Back into this momentary world.
In the east the sun was clawing its way back into the sky, the edge of some vast iron blade, just pulled from the forge. He watched the red glow cutting the darkness, and wondered at this strange sense of imminence that so stilled the dawn air.
A groan from the bundle of blankets where Scillara slept, then: ‘So much for the blissful poison.’
Heboric flinched, then drew a deep breath, released a slow sigh. ‘Which blissful poison would that be, Scillara?’
Another groan, as she worked her way into a sitting position. ‘I ache, old man. My back, my hips, everywhere. And I get no sleep – no position is comfortable and I have to pee all the time. This, this is awful. Gods, why do women do it? Again and again and again – are they all mad?’
‘You’d know better than I,’ Heboric said. ‘But I tell you, men are no less inexplicable. In what they think. In what they do.’
‘The sooner I get this beast out the better,’ she said, hands on her swollen belly. ‘Look at me, I’m sagging. Everywhere. Sagging.’
The others had woken, Felisin staring wide-eyed at Scillara – with the discovery that the older woman was pregnant, there had been a time of worship for young Felisin. It seemed that the disillusionment had begun. Cutter had thrown back his blankets and was already resurrecting last night’s fire. The demon, Greyfrog, was nowhere to be seen. Off hunting, Heboric supposed.
‘Your hands,’ Scillara noted, ‘are looking particularly green this morning, old man.’
He did not bother confirming this observation. He could feel that alien pressure well enough. ‘Naught but ghosts,’ he said, ‘the ones from beyond the veil, from the very depths of the Abyss. Oh how they cry out. I was blind once. Would that I were now deaf.’
They looked at him strangely, as they often did after he’d spoken. Truths. His truths, the ones they couldn’t see, nor understand. It didn’t matter. He knew what he knew. ‘There is a vast dead city awaiting us this day,’ he said. ‘Its residents were slain. All of them. By Icarium, long ago. There was a sister city to the north – when they heard what had happened, they journeyed here to see for themselves. And then, my young companions, they chose to bury E’napatha N’apur. The entire city. They buried it intact. Thousands of years have passed, and now the winds and rains have rotted away that solid face. Now, the old truths are revealed once more.’
Cutter poured water into a tin pot and set it on the hook slung beneath an iron tripod. ‘Icarium,’ he said. ‘I travelled with him for a time. With Mappo, and Fiddler.’ He then made a face. ‘And Iskaral Pust, that insane little stoat of a man. Said he was a High Priest of Shadow. A High Priest! Well, if that’s the best Shadowthrone can do…’ He shook his head. ‘Icarium…was a…well, he was tragic, I guess. Yet, he would not have attacked that city without a reason, I think.’
Heboric barked a laugh. ‘Aye, no shortage of reasons in this world. The King barred the gates, would not permit him to enter. Too many dark tales surrounding the name of Icarium. A soldier on the battlements fired a warning arrow. It ricocheted off a rock and grazed Icarium’s left leg, then sank deep into the throat of his companion – the poor bastard drowned in his own blood – and so Icarium’s rage was unleashed.’
‘If there were no survivors,’ Scillara said, ‘how do you know all this?’
‘The ghosts wander the region,’ Heboric replied. He gestured. ‘Farms once stood here, before the desert arrived.’ He smiled at the others. ‘Indeed, today is market day, and the roads – which none but I can see – are crowded with push-carts, oxen, men and women. And children and dogs. On either side, drovers whistle and tap their staves to keep the sheep and goats moving. From the poor farms this close to the city, old women come out with baskets to collect the dung for their fields.’
Felisin whispered, ‘You see all this?’
‘Aye.’
‘Right now?’
‘Only fools think the past is invisible.’
‘Do those ghosts,’ Felisin asked, ‘do they see you?’
‘Perhaps. Those that do, well, they know they are dead. The others do not know, and do not see me. The realization of one’s own death is a terrifying thing; they flee from it, returning to their illusion – and so I appear, then vanish, and I am naught but a mirage.’ He rose. ‘Soon, we will approach the city itself, and there will be soldiers, and these ghosts see me, oh yes, and call out to me. But how can I answer, when I don’t understand what they want of me? They cry out, as if in recognition—’
‘You are the Destriant of Treach, the Tiger of Summer,’ Cutter said.
‘Treach was a First Hero,’ Heboric replied. ‘A Soletaken who escaped the Slaughter. Like Ryllandaras and Rikkter, Tholen and Denesmet. Don’t you see? These ghost soldiers – they did not worship Treach! No, their god of war belonged to the Seven, who would one day become the Holies. A single visage of Dessimbelackis – that and nothing more. I am nothing to them, Cutter, yet they will not leave me alone!’
Both Cutter and Felisin had recoiled at his outburst, but Scillara was grinning.
‘You find all this amusing?’ he demanded, glaring at her.
‘I do. Look at you. You were a priest of Fener, and now you’re a priest of Treach. Both gods of war. Heboric, how many faces do you think the god of war has? Thousands. And in ages long past? Tens of thousands? Every damned tribe, old man. All different, but all the same.’ She lit her pipe, smoke wreathing her face, then said, ‘Wouldn’t surprise me if all the gods are just aspects of one god, and all this f
ighting is just proof that that one god is insane.’
‘Insane?’ Heboric was trembling. He could feel his heart hammering away like some ghastly demon at the door to his soul.
‘Or maybe just confused. All those bickering worshippers, each one convinced their version is the right one. Imagine getting prayers from ten million believers, not one of them believing the same thing as the one kneeling beside him or her. Imagine all those Holy Books, not one of them agreeing on anything, yet all of them purporting to be the word of that one god. Imagine two armies annihilating each other, both in that god’s name. Who wouldn’t be driven mad by all that?’
‘Well,’ Cutter said into the silence that followed Scillara’s diatribe, ‘the tea’s ready.’
Greyfrog squatted atop a flat rock, looking down on the unhappy group. The demon’s belly was full, although the wild goat still kicked on occasion. Morose. They are not getting along. Tragic list, listlessly reiterated. Child-swollen beauty is miserable with aches and discomfort. Younger beauty feels shocked, frightened and alone. Yet likely to reject soft comfort given by adoring Greyfrog. Troubled assassin beset by impatience, for what, I know not. And terrible priest. Ah, shivering haunt! So much displeasure! Dismay! Perhaps I could regurgitate the goat, and we could share said fine repast. Fine, still kicking repast. Aai, worst kind of indigestion!
‘Greyfrog!’ Cutter called up. ‘What are you doing up there?’
‘Friend Cutter. Discomfort. Regretting the horns.’
Thus far, Samar Dev reflected, the notations on the map had proved accurate. From dry scrubland to plains, and now, finally, patches of deciduous forest, arrayed amidst marshy glades and stubborn remnants of true grassland. Two, perhaps three days of travel northward and they would reach boreal forest.
Bhederin-hunters, travelling in small bands, shared this wild, unbroken land. They had seen such bands from a distance and had come upon signs of camps, but it was clear that these nomadic savages had no interest in contacting them. Hardly surprising – the sight of Karsa Orlong was frightening enough, astride his Jhag horse, weapons bristling, bloodstained white fur riding his broad shoulders.
The bhederin herds had broken up and scattered into smaller groups upon reaching the aspen parkland. There seemed little sense, as far as Samar Dev could determine, to the migration of these huge beasts. True, the dry, hot season was nearing its end, and the nights were growing cool, sufficient to turn rust-coloured the leaves of the trees, but there was nothing fierce in a Seven Cities winter. More rain, perhaps, although that rarely reached far inland – the Jhag Odhan to the south was unchanging, after all.
‘I think,’ she said, ‘this is some kind of ancient memory.’
Karsa grunted, then said, ‘Looks like forest to me, woman.’
‘No, these bhederin – those big hulking shapes beneath the trees over there. I think it’s some old instinct that brings them north into these forests. From a time when winter brought snow and wind to the Odhan.’
‘The rains will make the grass lush, Samar Dev,’ the Teblor said. ‘They come up here to get fat.’
‘All right, that sounds reasonable enough. I suppose. Good for the hunters, though.’ A few days earlier they had passed a place of great slaughter. Part of a herd had been separated and driven off a cliff. Four or five dozen hunters had gathered and were butchering the meat, women among them tending smoke-fires and pinning strips of meat to racks. Half-wild dogs – more wolf than dog, in truth – had challenged Samar Dev and Karsa when they rode too close, and she had seen that the beasts had no canines, likely cut off when they were young, although they presented sufficient threat that the travellers elected to draw no closer to the kill-site.
She was fascinated by these fringe tribes living out here in the wastes, suspecting that nothing had changed for them in thousands of years; oh, iron weapons and tools, evincing some form of trade with the more civilized peoples to the east, but they used no horses, which she found odd. Instead, their dogs were harnessed to travois. And mostly basketry instead of fired-clay pots, which made sense given that the bands travelled on foot.
Here and there, lone trees stood tall on the grasslands, and these seemed to be a focal point for some kind of spirit worship, given the fetishes tied to branches, and the antlers and bhederin skulls set in notches and forks, some so old that the wood had grown round them. Invariably, near such sentinel trees there would be a cemetery, signified by raised platforms housing hide-wrapped corpses, and, of course, the crows squabbling over every perch.
Karsa and Samar had avoided trespass on such sites. Though Samar suspected that the Teblor would have welcomed a succession of running battles and skirmishes, if only to ease the boredom of the journey. Yet for all his ferocity, Karsa Orlong had proved an easy man to travel with, albeit somewhat taciturn and inclined to brooding – but whatever haunted him had nothing to do with her, nor was he inclined to take it out on her – a true virtue rare among men.
‘I am thinking,’ he said, startling her.
‘What about, Karsa Orlong?’
‘The bhederin and those hunters at the base of the cliff. Two hundred dead bhederin, at least, and they were stripping them down to the bone, then boiling the bones themselves. Whilst we eat nothing but rabbits and the occasional deer. I think, Samar Dev, we should kill ourselves one of these bhederin.’
‘Don’t be fooled by them, Karsa Orlong. They are a lot faster than they look. And agile.’
‘Yes, but they are herd animals.’
‘What of it?’
‘The bulls care more about protecting ten females and their calves than one female separated out from the others.’
‘Probably true. So, how do you plan on separating one out? And don’t forget, that female won’t be a docile thing – it could knock you and your horse down given the chance. Then trample you.’
‘I am not the one to worry about that. It is you who must worry, Samar Dev.’
‘Why me?’
‘Because you will be the bait, the lure. And so you must be sure to be quick and alert.’
‘Bait? Now hold on—’
‘Quick and alert. I will take care of the rest.’
‘I can’t say I like this idea, Karsa Orlong. I am in fact quite content with rabbits and deer.’
‘Well, I’m not. And I want a hide.’
‘What for? How many hides do you plan to wear?’
‘Find us a small clump of the beasts – they are not frightened by your horse as much as they are by mine.’
‘That’s because Jhag horses will take calves on occasion. So I read…somewhere.’
The Teblor bared his teeth, as if he found the image amusing.
Samar Dev sighed, then said, ‘There’s a small herd just ahead and to the left – they moved out of this glade as we approached.’
‘Good. When we reach the next clearing I want you to begin a canter towards them.’
‘That will draw out the bull, Karsa – how close do you expect me to get?’
‘Close enough to be chased.’
‘I will not. That will achieve nothing—’
‘The females will bolt, woman. And from them I shall make my kill – how far do you think the bull will chase you? He will turn about, to rejoin his harem—’
‘And so become your problem.’
‘Enough talk.’ They were picking their way through a stand of poplar and aspen, the horses pushing through chest-high dogwood. Just beyond was another glade, this one long, the way the green grasses were clumped suggesting wet ground. On the far side, perhaps forty paces distant, a score of hulking dark shapes loomed beneath the branches of more trees.
‘This is swamp,’ Samar Dev noted. ‘We should find another—’
‘Ride, Samar Dev.’
She halted her horse. ‘And if I don’t?’
‘Stubborn child. I shall leave you here, of course – you are slowing me down as it is.’
‘Was that supposed to hurt my feelings, Karsa Orlong? You wa
nt to kill a bhederin just to prove to yourself that you can best the hunters. So, no cliff, no blinds or corrals, no pack of wolf-dogs to flank and drive the bhederin. No, you want to leap off your horse and wrestle one to the ground, then choke it to death, or maybe throw it against a tree, or maybe just lift it up and spin it round until it dies of dizziness. And you dare to call me a child?’ She laughed. Because, as she well knew, laughter would sting.
Yet no sudden rage darkened his face, and his eyes were calm as they studied her. Then he smiled. ‘Witness.’
And with that he rode out into the clearing. Inky water spraying from the Jhag horse’s hoofs, the beast voicing something like a snarl as it galloped towards the herd. The bhederin scattered in a thunderous crash of bushes and snapping branches. Two shot out directly towards Karsa.
A mistake, Samar Dev realized in that moment, to assume there was but one male. One was clearly younger than the other, yet both were huge, eyes red-rimmed with rage, water exploding round them as they charged their attacker.
The Jhag horse, Havok, swerved suddenly, legs gathering beneath him, then the young stallion launched himself over the back of the larger bull. But the bhederin was quicker, twisting and heaving its massive head upward, horns seeking the horse’s exposed underbelly.
That upward lunge killed the bull, for the beast’s head met the point of Karsa’s stone sword, which slid into the brain beneath the base of the skull, severing most of its spine in the process.
Havok landed in a splash and spray of muck on the far side of the collapsing bull, well beyond the range of the second male – which now pivoted, stunningly fast, and set off in pursuit of Karsa.
The warrior swung his horse to the left, hoofs pounding as Havok ran parallel to the edge of trees, chasing after the half-dozen females and calves that had lumbered out into the clearing. The second bull closed fast behind them.
The cows and calves scattered once more, one bolting in a direction different from the others. Havok swerved into its wake, and a heartbeat later was galloping alongside the beast. Behind them, the second male had drawn up to flank the other females – and one and all, this group then crashed back into the thicket.
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