Blood and Bone

by Ian C. Esslemont

  ‘Call them off,’ came her mistress’s clear voice.

  A weak flick from one of the obscured figures and the rumbling presence sank as if to haunches, backing away. Ina padded along the wet planks to her mistress’s side. ‘Call these two off,’ she murmured to the Queen of Dreams. ‘I beg of you. We know them’ – she flicked her blade to the near-translucent one who wavered hardly more than a hanging scrap of shadow – ‘the Deceiver, and,’ she motioned to the other far more substantial presence, ‘the patron of killers. They have no honour, m’lady.’

  The Queen of Dreams stood with one thick arm crossed over her heavy bosom, supporting the other, chin in hand while she studied the two. ‘My dealings have been few, Ina. Do not worry yourself.’ She heaved a great sigh as if preparing herself for a distasteful task and let her arms fall. ‘What is it you wish, Usurper? No, wait, let me tell you what it is you wish. In brief, you hope to turn every unfolding, every meeting or event, all to your eventual benefit, yes?’

  Ina could plainly see through to the rolling dark waves behind the hunched figure as it gave what might have been a shrug. ‘You have the truth. I confess that I am no different from you, Enchantress.’

  ‘You may congratulate yourself on some few superficial resemblances. But we differ profoundly, Usurper. You are young while I am old. This persists as an unbridgeable gulf between us that you yet may cross. Eventually … a century at a time.’

  The wavering scarves of shadow that outlined the Deceiver shifted then, as if affronted. ‘That title. You persist in that title. One throne is as good as any other. Are you trying to provoke me?’

  The Enchantress squinted southwards as if tired of the conversation. ‘Shadow has a throne, Usurper.’

  ‘That again. Shadow is … broken. And the throne with it.’

  A tired, almost sad smile came and went from the Queen.

  The slit eyes of the other figure, the Rope, had not left Ina the entire time and he leaned to his cohort to murmur, ‘Time.’

  The Deceiver waved a limp hand once again. ‘Yes, yes. We are currently enmeshed in said unfoldings to the west. Suggestively close to the west, in fact. Many wonder at the peculiar timing of your journey …’

  ‘All will shy away once they are certain of whom I am going to meet. You can be sure of that.’

  The tatters of shadow wavered as if the figure were shifting from foot to foot. ‘Ah, yes. Well … you have our warning! Have a care! Now, we must go. Charming though you may be in your disarming coquetry, we can hardly be expected to idle about here all the day and night. Much to do.’

  The two faded away like passing scraps of shade.

  ‘Warning?’ Ina asked. ‘What does he mean?’

  The Queen of Dreams hugged herself, crossing her arms as if chilled. ‘Not even he knows. But I would not have him change. Shadow finds him … amusing. At least for now. And that is a good thing.’

  Ina studied the muted seas. She self-consciously touched a finger to her mask as she did so – it was hopelessly smeared blue now from the constant damp. ‘Have we stopped?’

  ‘No, this calm will pass.’

  ‘And our destination?’

  The Queen of Dreams studied her for a time. ‘Jacuruku. You have heard of it?’

  ‘We have heard the travellers’ tales. City of riches. City of magic. Where any wish may be granted by the one who awaits within. Ardata the Perilous.’

  The Queen of Dreams hugged herself even tighter. ‘Yes, Ina. Perilous. Very perilous.’

  *

  Within the plains of Shadow, Ammanas and his cohort, Dancer, kicked their way through the worn stones of an ancient nameless ruin.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Dancer asked, rather irritated. ‘A warning? A warning about what?’

  Shadowthrone gave another negligent flick of his hand. ‘That? Oh, I just throw those out. It confuses them.’

  ‘That it does,’ Dancer breathed aside. Then he stopped as his partner had come to a halt, facing away. Ammanas now peered to where a dark brooding forest dominated the landscape. The hounds surrounding them paced restlessly, uneasy this close to these woods. The forest of the Azathanai.

  Ammanas gave a shudder. His hands tightened on the silver hound’s head of his walking stick. He raised his hooded eyes to Dancer. ‘The Azathanai.’ And he shivered again. ‘Inhuman and thus incomprehensible.’ He raised the walking stick in emphasis. ‘Oh, I try. I do try. But there—’ and he pointed to the woods. ‘But there. There lies true impenetrability. Their goals – if they can even be said to possess such – what are they? They vex me. They truly do.’

  ‘You’re not the first.’

  Ammanas gave a faint laugh. ‘No. Certainly not. Yet …’ and he raised a crooked finger. ‘Perhaps I shall be the last, no?’

  ‘We can only hope – and plan.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Ammanas set off again. His slippered feet shuffled through the dust. After a time he cleared his throat. ‘So, what do you think that damned Azathanai meant – the throne? What sort of nonsense is that?’ His tiny eyes darted about from one shadow to another. ‘You don’t think it’s true … do you?’

  Dancer smiled as if somehow secretly pleased by his cohort’s unease. He gave a mimicked negligent wave. ‘That? Oh, I think she just tossed that off to confuse you.’

  * * *

  For Pon-lor, descending out of the Gangrek Mounts and entering the green abyss that stretched before them to the eastern horizon was like slowly submerging himself into warm poisoned water. The dense high canopy closed over his head like the surface of the sea and beneath he found the atmosphere so humid as to be almost unbreathable. Sweat started from his brow, back and limbs. His robes hung from him as smothering weights.

  Two of the guards he had led from the slaughter within Chanar Keep had not survived their wounds. Of the two remaining, one was already ill beyond his skill to heal. Many, he knew, blamed the air itself; unhealthy, bearer of sicknesses in its heavy wafting miasmas. But Thaumaturg teachings insisted that it was in fact the countless insects. They were a maddening curse. Bites left smears of blood across faces and necks. Some of these wounds refused to heal, becoming swollen livid welts that wept a clear humour that only attracted even greater clouds of the midges, mites and flies of all types. He said nothing, but he knew that many of these creatures carried parasites and fevers, and that some were even laying eggs within the wounds, which would eventually hatch to feast upon the host’s flesh. As for his own bites, he could purify himself through his Thaumaturg arts.

  This morning the sick guard, Lo-sen, would not waken. He lay gripped in a burning fever, delirious, hardly even aware of his surroundings. The remaining guard, Toru, stood aside, scanning the surrounding jungle while Pon-lor studied his companion. He set a hand to the man’s sweaty brow and found it searing hot to the touch. I can heal flesh and break flesh … but I cannot cure a fever.

  He raised his eyes to Toru. ‘There is nothing I can do.’

  Looking away, the man flexed his grip upon his sword. After a time he grated: ‘There is one thing.’

  Pon-lor dropped his gaze. Yes. One last thing. The onus is upon me. He summoned his powers and drew a hand down across the blank staring eyes. He felt the heart racing like a terrified colt trapped in the man’s chest and he soothed it. He eased the mad beating then slowed it even more to a calm easy rest. The man’s clenched frame relaxed and a long breath eased from him. When Pon-lor removed his hand the man’s heart beat no more. Pon-lor stood, straightened his robes.

  ‘Thank you, Magister,’ Toru said.

  Thank me? No – you should curse me. I have led you poorly. Lost my command. My only hope to redeem myself is to return with the damned yakshaka, or this witch herself. Collecting that bastard Jak’s head along the way wouldn’t hurt either.

  He gestured into the jungle. ‘This way.’

  After the sun had passed its zenith – from what he could glimpse of it through the layers of canopy – he chanced upo
n a plant he recognized. It was a thick crimson-hued vine dotted by large cup-shaped flowers, pale and veined, like flesh. Alistophalia. The Pitcher. Also known as Ardata’s Cup.

  He broke off one blossom and examined it while he pushed aside leaves and grasses. Within, trapped by the clear sticky ichors, lay corpses of insects all in varying degrees of decomposition.

  It feeds upon those it attracts.

  He remembered the words of an ancient writer: Beware the Queen’s gifts, for poison and death lie hidden within.

  Yet their Thaumaturg lore had found many uses for poison. This one’s could deaden nerves and mask pain. In larger doses it induced a trance-like sleep that to all outward appearances mimicked death. In just a slightly stronger dose it brought the eternal sleep itself. It was Master Surin’s serum of choice for his dissections. Under its influence a subject lived even as Surin exposed the heart and vital organs. The diaphragm continued to expand, the lungs to operate. Surin’s slick hands slid amid the glistening organs as he indicated this feature and that. Pon-lor and his classmates had crowded close round the table.

  Surin had turned his attention to the head. He’d raised his keen scalpel blade to the immobilized face. ‘And now, gentlemen,’ he’d said, ‘the miracle of adaptation that is the eye.’ And the blade had descended to slide into the exposed clear orb. Pon-lor remembered thinking, appalled: This man is still alive, still aware trapped within.

  Did he watch as the knife-edge penetrated his eye?

  ‘My lord?’ Toru asked.

  Pon-lor halted, blinking. He peered up. ‘Yes?’

  The guard gestured to a gap through the fronds, where the earth was bare and beaten. He squatted to examine the spoor. ‘Some sort of animal track. Heading east for now.’ He raised his helmeted head to look at Pon-lor, cocked a brow.

  ‘If you think it safe …’

  Toru straightened. ‘I believe so, Magister.’

  Pon-lor started forward but Toru stepped in front. ‘With your permission – I will lead.’ He drew his blade.

  ‘Very well.’ Following, Pon-lor returned his attention to the cup-shaped blossom in his hand. Beautiful … but deadly.

  He cast it aside.

  The track veered to the north and then to the south but tended to return to the east. He was grateful; along its relatively clear way they made good time. As the shafts of sunlight that managed to penetrate the canopy slanted ever more and took on a deep rich gold, he began to consider where to stop for the night. A wide tree would offer cover against the rain. However, after a few more hours of walking they came to the perfect cover against the gathering dusk and its inevitable downpour, but Pon-lor did not know if he dared enter.

  It was a long-abandoned heap of stones that might have at one time been a temple or shrine, perhaps even a sort of border marker. Roots choked it now, and trees grew tall from its slanted sides. The questing roots had heaved aside the huge blocks of dressed limestone. Some had fallen away from the building. None of this gave Pon-lor pause. What troubled him were the heaped goat skulls. They lay in a great pile before the entrance: bleached white bone beneath black curved horns. Many had been set into the crotches of nearby trees. Some of these had since been overgrown and incorporated into the flesh of the tree. Trees with grinning dead animal faces. Why did this disturb him so?

  An old practice, he realized. All long ago.

  He waved Toru forward to examine the structure. After studying the ground and the interior, the guard returned. By now it was quite dark beneath the trees. ‘No one,’ Toru reported. ‘Only animal tracks.’

  ‘Very well. We’ll spend the night.’ His remaining guard was obviously reluctant but said nothing. ‘What is it?’ he invited.

  ‘An ill-omened place, Magister.’

  ‘This entire jungle is ill-omened, I fear, Toru. We’ll just have to make do, yes?’

  ‘Yes, Magister.’

  They climbed the stone stairs to the enclosure. Geckos scampered from Pon-lor’s path in bright olive streaks. Spiders the size of outstretched hands hung in thick webs about the abandoned shrine. Pon-lor brushed dirt and leaf litter from the stones, wrapped his robes about himself, and sat.

  Toru took first watch. ‘Magister …’ he asked after watching the darkening forest for a time. ‘Was this – do you think this was dedicated to … her?’

  Pon-lor raised his chin from his fists. ‘For a time, perhaps. However, originally, no. This dates back far before her. And what need has she for temples or shrines? The entire jungle of Himatan seems to be dedicated to her.’

  Toru grunted his understanding and was quiet after that. Thunder echoed and rumbled above. Then the rains began again. A spider that had been hunting among the stones padded up to Pon-lor’s side. As if curious it gently stroked his robes with its long hairy forelimbs. It was larger than Pon-lor’s hand. He edged it aside. Perhaps it was merely hoping to escape the rain.

  When Toru woke him for his watch the rains had long ceased. Fat drops now pattered down from the canopy as heavy as slingstones. He lowered himself to the stone lip of the small shrine’s entrance and wrapped his robes about himself for warmth. He sat hunched, watching the glittering wet wall of foliage. The cry of a hunting cat sounded through the night. Then the ghosts came.

  They arrived as a file of youths escorted by a priest in rags. They chivvied along a goat with them. The priest and many of the youths, male and female, carried suppurating sores on their limbs, faces and necks. Pon-lor recognized the symptoms of the Weeping Pestilence as recorded in Thaumaturg histories. It had struck centuries before. Named ‘Weeping’, it was thought, for the obvious reference to the constant drainage of the sores that erupted everywhere, and for the pain and misery it inflicted upon the entire society. Weeping indeed.

  Yet these ghastly wounds and scars were not the only marks they carried. The youths were emaciated, little more than walking skeletons. The priest’s ragged feathered robe hung from him loose and soiled. Pon-lor recognized the starvation – and desperation – that accompanied plague and the breakdown of social order.

  ‘Great Queen,’ the priest announced, falling to his knees, ‘we beg for your pity.’ He gestured curtly to the children, who knelt as well. The youngest held a crude twine rope tied about the goat’s neck. ‘Spare our village. Turn your hand of condemnation from us and our devotion will be without end.’ He waved the goat forward and the child, a boy of no more than perhaps five years, pulled it to the fore. It bleated, nervous and unhappy.

  ‘Please accept this offering and smile upon us, great Queen! Protect us. Turn aside your Avenger.’

  The priest drew a curved blade and rested a hand upon the goat’s side.

  Pon-lor jerked then, muffling a cry, as the blade flashed and sank into the chest of the boy.

  Toru leaped up drawing his sword at once. ‘What?’ he demanded, bleary, half-awake.

  Pon-lor could not take his eyes from the horrifying tableau. He swallowed the acid in his throat and managed to answer, his voice thick, ‘Nothing. A shadow. Just a shadow.’

  Toru grunted, a touch irritated, and lay down once more.

  The boy had clasped the priest’s wrist. His expression was one of startled surprise and hurt. The priest now hugged the child and, weeping silently, gently lowered him to the ground.

  The eldest youth present, a girl, held out a bowl to the priest. The children all gathered round, eager, their lean faces full of hunger.

  Pon-lor found himself slowly rising, a formless revulsion choking him, backing away. His gorge rose in his throat, his heart clenched so tight it could not beat, yet he could not pull his gaze away. Ancient Demon-King forgive them … not even you …

  To his relief, the priest yanked the blade free to slash the goat’s throat. The girl held the bowl to the neck while blood pumped and jetted, darkening her hands. The children pressed close, cupping their hands and hungrily licking. Meanwhile, the corpse of the boy lay unremarked as if forgotten.

  Pon-lor forced his eyes asi
de and wiped a cold wetness from his cheeks.

  Chopping sounded and Pon-lor glanced back to see the priest using a stone hatchet to cut the goat’s head free. This he set among the stones exactly where a bleached fleshless skull now rested. The youths picked up the goat carcass and hurried off with it. The priest reverently gathered up the boy. Turning, he gave one last bow to the shrine, and backed away into a screen of shimmering trees that no longer existed, a sort of orchard, well tended and maintained.

  Pon-lor watched the phantoms slip away then sat without moving, hugging himself, hands inside his robes for warmth. Never, even in the most rabid denunciations of the Queen of Monsters, was there any hint of human sacrifice. Could his forebears have been so ignorant of the degenerate practices hidden away here within this green abyss? Yet the priest had been weeping, a man close to breaking. All of them sick and starving. Histories told of plague sweeping though the jungles generations ago. Could it have been this appalling? Blind desperation. He had witnessed a people driven to the edge and it felt as if a hot knife had carved out his heart.

  He hugged himself tighter and leaned forward to rest his sweaty brow against his knees.

  The next thing he knew stirrings from behind woke him and he turned to see Toru searching among their meagre supplies. He cleared his throat. ‘Have we anything?’

  ‘Little enough,’ the man grunted. He lowered a pouch. ‘Magister, for a time I kept an eye on you. You … saw something in the night?’

  Pon-lor struggled to rise on legs numb and stiff. ‘A tragedy, Toru. I was allowed – or cursed with – a vision of tragedy.’

  The guard said nothing, merely handed over a few scraps of dried meat and a knot of stale rice wrapped in leaves. After this brief meal, Pon-lor taking tiny bites and chewing as long as possible, they took sips from the one remaining skin of water and resumed their march.