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 naïve—’
‘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.
Bonehunters Page 57