Sergeant Balm was cursing behind Bottle as they walked the stony road. Scorched boots, soles flapping, mere rags covering the man’s shoulders beneath the kiln-hot sun, Balm was giving voice to the miseries afflicting everyone who had crawled out from under Y’Ghatan. Their pace was slowing, as feet blistered and sharp rocks cut into tender skin, and the sun raised a resisting wall of blinding heat before them. Clawing through it had become a vicious, enervating struggle.
Where others among the squads carried children, Bottle found himself carrying a mother rat and her brood of pups, the former perched on his shoulder and the latter swathed in rags in the crook of one arm. More sordid than comic, and even he could see that, but he would not relinquish his new… allies.
Striding at Bottle’s side was the halfblood Seti, Koryk. Freshly adorned in human finger bones and not much else. He’d knotted them in the singed strands of his hair, and with each step there was a soft clack and clatter, the music grisly to Bottle’s ears.
Koryk carried more in a clay pot with a cracked rim that he’d found in the pit of a looted grave. No doubt he planned on distributing them to the other soldiers. As soon as we’ve found enough clothes to wear.
He caught a skittering sound off among the withered scrub to his left. Those damned lizard skeletons. Chasing down my scouts. He wondered to whom they belonged. Reasonable to assume they were death-aspected, which possibly made them servants of Hood. He knew of no mages among the squads who used Hood’s Warren – then again those who did rarely advertised the fact. Maybe that healer, Deadsmell, but why would he want familiars now? He sure didn’t have them down in the tunnels. Besides, you’d need to be a powerful mage or priest to be able to conjure up and bind two familiars. No, not Deadsmell. Who, then?
Quick Ben. That wizard had far too many warrens swirling round him. Fiddler had vowed to drag Bottle up to the man, and that was an introduction Bottle had no desire to make. Fortunately, the sergeant seemed to have forgotten his squad, caught up as he was in this sordid reunion of old-timers.
‘Hungry enough yet?’ Koryk asked.
Startled, Bottle glanced over at the man. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Skewered pinkies to start, then braised rat – it’s why you’ve brought them along, isn’t it?’
‘You’re sick.’
Just ahead, Smiles turned to fling back a nasty laugh. ‘Good one. You can stop now, Koryk – you’ve reached your quota for the year. Besides, Bottle ain’t gonna eat them rats. He’s married the momma and adopted the whelps – you missed the ceremony, Koryk, when you was off hunting bones. Too bad, we all cried.’
‘We missed our chance,’ Koryk said to Bottle. ‘We could’ve beat her unconscious and left her in the tunnels.’
A good sign. Things are getting back to normal. Everything except the haunted look in the eyes. It was there, in every soldier who’d gone through the buried bones of Y’Ghatan. Some cultures, he knew, used a ritual of burial and resurrection to mark a rite of passage. But if this was a rebirth, it was a dour one. They’d not emerged innocent, or cleansed. If anything, the burdens seemed heavier. The elation of having survived, of having slipped out from the shadow of Hood’s Gates, had proved woefully shortlived.
It should have felt… different. Something was missing. The Bridgeburners had been forged by the Holy Desert Raraku – so for us, wasn’t Y’Ghatan enough? It seemed that, for these soldiers here, the tempering had gone too far, creating something pitted and brittle, as if one more blow would shatter them.
Up ahead, the captain called out a halt, her voice eliciting a chorus of curses and groans of relief. Although there was no shade to be found, walking through this furnace was far worse than sitting by the roadside easing burnt, cut and blistered feet. Bottle stumbled down into the ditch and sat on a boulder. He watched, sweat stinging his eyes, as Deadsmell and Lutes moved among the soldiers, doing what they could to heal the wounds.
‘Did you see that Red Blade captain?’ Smiles asked, crouching nearby. ‘Looking like she’d just come from a parade ground.’
‘No she didn’t,’ Corporal Tarr said. ‘She’s smoke-stained and scorched, just like you’d expect.’
‘Only she’s got all her hair.’
‘So that’s what’s got you snarly,’ Koryk observed. ‘Poor Smiles. You know it won’t grow back, don’t you? Never. You’re bald now for the rest of your life—’
‘Liar.’
Hearing the sudden doubt in her voice, Bottle said, ‘Yes, he is.’
‘I knew that. And what’s with the black-haired woman on the horse? Anybody here know who she is?’
‘Fiddler recognized her,’ Tarr said. ‘A Bridgeburner, I’d guess.’
‘She makes me nervous,’ Smiles said. ‘She’s like that assassin, Kalam. Eager to kill someone.’
I suspect you’re right. And Fid wasn’t exactly thrilled to see her, either.
Tarr spoke: ‘Koryk, when you going to share those finger bones you collected?’
‘Want yours now?’
‘Aye, I do.’
Her throat parched, her skin layered in sweat even as shivers rippled through her, Hellian stood on the road. Too tired to walk, too sick to sit down – she feared she’d never get up again, just curl into a little juddering ball until the ants under her skin finished their work and all that skin just peeled away like deer hide, whereupon they’d all march off with it, singing songs of triumph in tiny squeaking voices. It was the drink, she knew. Or, rather, the lack of it. The world around her was too sharp, too clear; none of it looked right, not right at all. Faces revealed too many details, all the flaws and wrinkles unveiled for the first time. She was shocked to realize that she wasn’t the oldest soldier there barring that ogre Cuttle. Well, that was the one good thing that had come of this enforced sobriety. Now, if only those damned faces could disappear just like the wrinkles on them, then she’d be happier. No, wait, it was the opposite, wasn’t it? No wonder she wasn’t happy.
Ugly people in an ugly world. That’s what came from seeing it all the way it really was. Better when it was blurred – all farther away back then, it had seemed, so far away she’d not noticed the stinks, the stains, the errant hairs rising from volcanic pores, the miserable opinions and suspicious expressions, the whisperings behind her back.
Turning, Hellian glared down at her two corporals. ‘You think I can’t hear you? Now be quiet, or I’ll rip one of my ears off and won’t you two feel bad.’
Touchy and Brethless exchanged a glance, then Touchy said, ‘We ain’t said nothing, Sergeant.’
‘Nice try.’
The problem was, the world was a lot bigger than she had ever imagined. More crannies for spiders than a mortal could count in a thousand lifetimes. Just look around for proof of that. And it wasn’t just spiders any more. No, here there were flies that bit and the bite sank an egg under the skin. And giant grey moths that fluttered in the night and liked eating scabs from sores when you were sleeping. Waking up to soft crunching way too close by. Scorpions that split into two when you stepped on them. Fleas that rode the winds. Worms that showed up in the corners of your eyes and made red swirling patterns through your eye lids, and when they got big enough they crawled out your nostrils. Sand ticks and leather leeches, flying lizards and beetles living in dung.
Her entire body was crawling with parasites – she could feel them. Tiny ants and slithering worms under her skin, burrowing into her flesh, eating her brain. And now that the sweet taste of alcohol was gone, they all wanted out.
She expected, at any moment, to suddenly erupt all over, all the horrid creatures clambering out and her body deflating like a punctured bladder. Ten thousand wriggling things, all desperate for a drink.
‘I’m going to find him,’ she said. ‘One day.’
‘Who?’ Touchy asked.
‘That priest, the one who ran away. I’m going to find him, and I’m going to tie him up and fill his body with worms. Push ’em into his mouth, his nose, his eyes and ears
and other places, too.’
No, she wouldn’t let herself explode. Not yet. This sack of skin was going to stay intact. She’d make a deal with all the worms and ants, some kind of deal. A truce. Who said you can’t reason with bugs?
‘It sure is hot,’ Touchy said.
Everyone looked at him.
Gesler scanned the soldiers where they sat or sprawled alongside the track. What the fire hadn’t burned the sun now had. Soldiers on the march wore their clothes like skin, and for those whose skin wasn’t dark, the burnished bronze of hands, faces and necks contrasted sharply with pallid arms, legs and torsos. But what had once been pale was now bright red. Among all those light-skinned soldiers who’d survived Y’Ghatan, Gesler himself was the only exception. The golden hue of his skin seemed unaffected by this scorching desert sun.
‘Gods, these people need clothes,’ he said.
Beside him, Stormy grunted. About the extent of his communication lately, ever since he’d heard of Truth’s death.
‘They’ll start blistering soon,’ Gesler went on, ‘and Deadsmell and Lutes can only do so much. We got to catch up with the Fourteenth.’ He turned his head, squinted towards the front of the column. Then he rose. ‘Ain’t nobody thinking straight, not even the captain.’
Gesler made his way up the track. He approached the gathering of old Bridgeburners. ‘We been missing the obvious,’ he said.
‘Nothing new in that,’ Fiddler said, looking miserable.
Gesler nodded towards Apsalar. ‘She’s got to ride ahead and halt the army. She’s got to get ’em to bring us horses, and clothes and armour and weapons. And water and food. We won’t even catch up otherwise.’
Apsalar slowly straightened, brushing dust from her leggings. ‘I can do that,’ she said in a quiet voice.
Kalam rose and faced Captain Faradan Sort, who stood nearby. ‘The sergeant’s right. We missed the obvious.’
‘Except that there is no guarantee that anyone will believe her,’ the captain replied after a moment. ‘Perhaps, if one of us borrowed her horse.’
Apsalar frowned, then shrugged. ‘As you like.’
‘Who’s our best rider?’ Kalam asked.
‘Masan Gilani,’ Fiddler said. ‘Sure, she’s heavy infantry, but still…’
Faradan Sort squinted down the road. ‘Which squad?’
‘Urb’s, the Thirteenth.’ Fiddler pointed. ‘The one who’s standing, the tall one, the Dal Honese.’
Masan Gilani’s elongated, almond-shaped eyes narrowed as she watched the old soldiers approaching.
‘You’re in trouble,’ Scant said. ‘You did something, Gilani, and now they want your blood.’
It certainly looked that way, so Masan made no reply to Scant’s words. She thought back over all of the things she had done of late. Plenty to consider, but none came to mind that anyone might find out about, not after all this time. ‘Hey, Scant,’ she said.
The soldier looked up. ‘What?’
‘You know that big hook-blade I keep with my gear?’
Scant’s eyes brightened. ‘Yes?’
‘You can’t have it,’ she said. ‘Saltlick can have it.’
‘Thanks, Masan,’ Saltlick said.
‘I always knew,’ Hanno said, ‘you had designs on Salty. I could tell, you know.’
‘No I don’t, I just don’t like Scant, that’s all.’
‘Why don’t you like me?’
‘I just don’t, that’s all.’
They fell silent as the veterans arrived. Sergeant Gesler, his eyes on Masan, said, ‘We need you, soldier.’
‘That’s nice.’ She noted the way his eyes travelled her mostly naked frame, lingering on her bared breasts with their large, dark nipples, before, with a rapid blinking, he met her eyes once more.
‘We want you to take Apsalar’s horse and catch up with the Fourteenth.’ This was from Sergeant Strings or Fiddler or whatever his name was these days. It seemed Gesler had forgotten how to talk.
‘That’s it?’
‘Aye.’
‘All right. It’s a nice horse.’
‘We need you to convince the Adjunct we’re actually alive,’ Fiddler went on. ‘Then get her to send us mounts and supplies.’
‘All right.’
The woman presumably named Apsalar led her horse forward and handed Masan Gilani the reins.
She swung up into the saddle, then said, ‘Anybody got a spare knife or something?’
Apsalar produced one from beneath her cloak and passed it up to her.
Masan Gilani’s fine brows rose. ‘A Kethra. That will do. I’ll give it back to you when we meet up again.’
Apsalar nodded.
The Dal Honese set off.
‘Shouldn’t take long,’ Gesler said, watching as the woman, riding clear of the column, urged her horse into a canter.
‘We’ll rest for a while longer here,’ Faradan Sort said, then resume our march.’
‘We could just wait,’ Fiddler said.
The captain shook her head, but offered no explanation.
The sun settled on the horizon, bleeding red out to the sides like blood beneath flayed skin. The sky overhead was raucous with sound and motion as thousands of birds winged southward. They were high up, mere black specks, flying without formation, yet their cries reached down in a chorus of terror.
To the north, beyond the range of broken, lifeless hills and steppe-land ribboned by seasonal run-off, the plain descended to form a white-crusted salt marsh, beyond which lay the sea. The marsh had once been a modest plateau, subsiding over millennia as underground streams and springs gnawed through the limestone. The caves, once high and vast, were now crushed flat or partially collapsed, and those cramped remnants were flooded or packed with silts, sealing in darkness the walls and vaulted ceilings crowded with paintings, and side chambers still home to the fossilized bones of Imass.
Surmounting this plateau there had been a walled settlement, small and modest, a chaotic array of attached residences that would have housed perhaps twenty families at the height of its occupation. The defensive walls were solid, with no gates, and for the dwellers within, ingress and egress came via the rooftops and single-pole ladders.
Yadeth Garath, the first human city, was now little more than salt-rotted rubble swallowed in silts, buried deep and unseen beneath the marsh. No history beyond the countless derivations from its ancient name remained, and of the lives and deaths and tales of all who had once lived there, not even bones survived.
Dejim Nebrahl recalled the fisher folk who had dwelt upon its ruins, living in their squalid huts on stilts, plying the waters in their round, hide boats, and walking the raised wooden platforms that crossed the natural canals wending through the swamp. They were not descendants of Yadeth Garath. They knew nothing of what swirled beneath the black silts, and this itself was an undeniable truth, that memory withered and died in the end. There was no single tree of life, no matter how unique and primary this Yadeth Garath – no, there was a forest, and time and again, a tree, its bole rotted through, toppled to swiftly vanish in the airless muck.
Dejim Nebrahl recalled those fisher folk, the way their blood tasted of fish and molluscs, dull and turgid and clouded with stupidity. If man and woman cannot – will not – remember, then they deserved all that was delivered upon them. Death, destruction and devastation. This was no god’s judgement – it was the world’s, nature’s own. Exacted in that conspiracy of indifference that so terrified and baffled humankind.
Lands subside. Waters rush in. The rains come, then never come. Forests die, rise again, then die once more. Men and women huddle with their broods in dark rooms in all their belated begging, and their eyes fill with dumb failure, and now they are crumbled specks of grey and white in black silt, motionless as the memory of stars in a long-dead night sky.
Exacting nature’s judgement, such was Dejim Nebrahl’s purpose. For the forgetful, their very shadows stalk them. For the forgetful, death ever arrives unexpected
ly.
The T’rolbarahl had returned to the site of Yadeth Garath, as if drawn by some desperate instinct. Dejim Nebrahl was starving. Since his clash with the mage near the caravan, his wanderings had taken him through lands foul with rotted death. Nothing but bloated, blackened corpses, redolent with disease. Such things could not feed him.
The intelligence within the D’ivers had succumbed to visceral urgency, a terrible geas that drove him onward on the path of old memories, of places where he had once fed, the blood hot and fresh pouring down his throats.
Kanarbar Belid, now nothing but dust. Vithan Ta’ur, the great city in the cliff-face – now even the cliff was gone. A swath of potsherds reduced to gravel was all that remained of Minikenar, once a thriving city on the banks of a river now extinct. The string of villages north of Minikenar revealed no signs that they had ever existed. Dejim Nebrahl had begun to doubt his own memories.
Driven on, across the gnawed hills and into the fetid marsh, seeking yet another village of fisher folk. But he had been too thorough the last time, all those centuries past, and none had come to take the place of the slaughtered. Perhaps some dark recollection held true, casting a haunted pall upon the swamp. Perhaps the bubbling gases still loosed ancient screams and shrieks and the boatmen from the isles, passing close, made warding gestures before swinging the tiller hard about.
Fevered, weakening, Dejim Nebrahl wandered the rotted landscape.
Until a faint scent reached the D’ivers.
Beast, and human. Vibrant, alive, and close.
The T’rolbarahl, five shadow-thewed creatures of nightmare, lifted heads and looked south, eyes narrowing. There, just beyond the hills, on the crumbling track that had once been a level road leading to Minikenar. The D’ivers set off, as dusk settled on the land.
Masan Gilani slowed her horse’s canter when the shadows thickened with the promise of night. The track was treacherous with loose cobbles and narrow gullies formed by run-off. It had been years since she’d last ridden wearing so little – nothing more than a wrap about her hips – and her thoughts travelled far back to her life on the Dal Honese plains. She’d carried less weight back then. Tall, lithe, smooth-skinned and bright with innocence. The heaviness of her full breasts and the swell of her belly and hips came much later, after the two children she’d left behind to be raised by her mother and her aunts and uncles. It was the right of all adults, man or woman, to take the path of wandering; before the empire conquered the Dal Honese, such a choice had been rare enough, and for the children, raised by kin on all sides, their health tended by shamans, midwives and shoulder-witches, the abandonment of a parent was rarely felt.
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