Blood and Bone

by Ian C. Esslemont

  ‘Master Golan,’ said Thorn, scribbling again, ‘gallantly allows his foreign allies the honour of leading the charge.’

  Golan ignored the man. New suspicions now nibbled at his mind. There they had been. All gathered together. Waiting. It was as if the foreign dog had anticipated his mind. Knew that he would be sent across early to endure the worst of any counter-attack. An unsettling thought. And pursuing that thought brought Golan to another, even more disturbing suspicion: what if the dog wanted to be sent over early? What if it served his black-hearted purpose?

  After all, given that the vast majority of the Thaumaturg forces still resided here on the near bank, it would now be easy for the man to simply walk away. Golan took hold of the Rod of Execution in his sash – almost raised it to order that they return – when a more cynical turn of mind suggested: Come now, man, they could have walked away at any time of their choosing.

  Golan relaxed his hand. And he had to admit, grudgingly, that he could not possibly have recalled them in any case.

  At that moment the raft carrying the Isturé reached the middle of the broad rippling breadth of the river and the surface seemed to explode.

  The gathered army reflexively shrank away from the shore in a collective gasp of wonder and horror as some huge thing emerged, writhing, from within the river to send the raft flying skyward as it shattered into individual logs, men and women flying like dolls. The ropes snapped in exploding reports. Golan could not be certain, but the thing resembled the descriptions he had read in travel accounts of an immense snake, or worm. He had dismissed such writings as nonsense, of course. A girth as great as any sea-going vessel! Ridiculous. Purported eyewitness accounts had such creatures pulling ships beneath the surface, even sweeping up entire armies into their great maws.

  Tall combers now crashed into the river’s edge, sending the troops scrambling from the shore. Up on his mud cliff Golan watched while the foam and flotsam washed close to the pointed silken tips of his slippers. Once the waves subsided, the river’s surface smoothed once more, flexing slightly, as if the beast yet shifted in the shallow muddy waters.

  Of the raft and its Isturé cargo, only a few isolated logs bobbing downriver remained to mark that they had ever existed.

  ‘The foreign dogs,’ Principal Scribe Thorn announced from his side, scribbling, ‘proved no match for Master Golan’s cunning stratagems.’

  Golan shifted his tired gaze to the gangly, thatch-haired old scribe. ‘Perhaps you would do better to note that the river itself has risen to challenge our advance.’

  The scribe’s head shot up, his tangled brows rising like twin hedges. ‘You are a wonder, Master. You anticipate my very thoughts!’ He jabbed the quill to his tongue to resume scribbling.

  Below, the second in command could actually be heard yelling orders. It is a day of wonders, Golan decided, rubbing his gritty eyes. ‘Resecure the ropes, Second!’ he ordered, his eyes pinched shut.

  While the troops waited, watching, squatting in the mud, labourers were pushed out into the shallows and encouraged through stiff beatings to grasp hold of poles or other pieces of floating detritus to kick their way across the river. Many set out clutching lengths of wood under their chins. Golan followed their bobbing black heads while the current swept them downstream. Eventually he lost sight of them.

  The afternoon waned; Golan tapped the Rod of Execution into a palm behind his back. The shadow of the western jungle verge crept out over the river. All manner of speculations – each more alarming than the one before – assailed him. Had a force been waiting there across the river? Was the foothold crushed? What of the damned Isturé? Had they reappeared? Had they perhaps taken this opportunity to turn upon him? Attacked the stranded force in an effort to weaken the army? Would this water beast return?

  Black-haired heads now appeared among the rippling waves. They came bobbing down from further up-current. Troopers waded out to pull them ashore where they knelt on all fours in the mud, naked and exhausted. Two had come kicking a long pole from which a rope now trailed leading back across the river in a long bow-shaped curve. The troopers reported to overseers, who, in turn, reported to cohort commanders, who then bowed to Second-in-Command Waris to offer the findings.

  Master Golan fidgeted throughout, clasping and reclasping the rod in his sweaty slick hands. Waris dismissed the officers then jogged up the mud cliff to bow before Golan. ‘You have news?’ Golan enquired, struggling to keep his voice mild, seemingly disinterested.

  On one knee, head down, Waris answered, ‘No hostilities. The Isturé emerged unhurt and marched away into the jungle. A new raft is being constructed. We are delayed one day, Master.’

  Golan took in this intelligence while nodding to himself. Not so bad as I had imagined. And the Isturé unhurt – a pity that. Abandoning us? Just as well, perhaps. ‘Thank you, Second. You are to be commended for your, ah, brevity.’

  The man merely bowed his head even lower, backed away, then jogged down to the shore. Golan cocked an eye to Principal Scribe Thorn. The scribe tapped the quill to his tongue in thought, then wrote, speaking aloud: ‘All the many disastrous setbacks are met with redoubled effort.’

  Master Golan winced.

  Two days later saw the majority of the army on the eastern shore. To the great relief of the army’s rank and file, the monstrous water beast had not returned to destroy any further rafts. For an idle moment Golan wondered how it had chanced that the raft carrying the Isturé should be the only one to suffer attack, but more pressing matters chased the speculation from his mind.

  Leading elements of the army had already set out to select and mark the best route through the dense growth. It was late on this second day that Golan’s new aide – whose name he could not remember since they now came and went so very quickly as illness took them – announced that the ranking army surgeon requested a hearing.

  Searching among his chests and boxes, Golan nodded a distracted affirmative. He was in his personal tent that was no longer a tent, not possessing sufficient cloth to merit the name. More of an awning. A personal awning. One that merely served to keep the sun off his head in the day and the rain in the night.

  He might be misremembering, but it seemed to him that he was missing one or two pieces of baggage. He was aware that there was always the chance of losses during river crossings, but still, it was quite irking. It would seem that he was without a camp stool.

  Turning, he found the tall lean figure of the ranking army surgeon – whose name he could not recall – awaiting him. He waved the man forward. ‘Yes? You have a report?’ The man bowed, stiff with exhaustion. He was without his stained leather apron of office. He appeared as worn as always, yet a new expression tightened the bruised flesh round his eyes. Golan thought he read suppressed despair. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘A new … illness … has come to my attention, Master. I believe it to be connected to the crossing.’

  ‘Yes? What of it? Sickness is rampant throughout the ranks, as you well know. There is the foot rot, the crotch rot, infections of all kinds, suppurating sores, debilitating heatstroke, poisoning from a multitude of stings and bites, general dehydration, the tremors, loss of teeth, loss of appetite, the runs, vomiting, lassitude and weakness from the thinning of the blood. Need I go on? Yes, no?’

  ‘I am well aware of the health of the army,’ the ranking surgeon answered in a slow dull tone. He was pale and swaying himself, appearing hardly able to stand. ‘This is a … parasitical … infestation.’

  Golan’s brows lifted in interest. ‘Oh?’ Parasites were a particular hobby of his. He’d quite enjoyed the classes on them at the Academy. ‘Which? Is it that awful fly that has been laying its eggs in everyone’s eyes? Does it have a water-borne stage?’

  ‘No, sir …’

  ‘This type of chigger whose larvae are gnawing everyone’s flesh? I understand they can be asphyxiated through the application of a compress.’

  ‘Yes, sir …’

  �
��The hookworm is worse now? The ringworm numbers? Surely not the tapeworms! Bad for morale, those. Especially when they’re vomited up during communal meals. Or is it that worm that you have to pull out of the flesh of the leg? One specimen was as long as the fellow carrying it was tall, if I remember correctly.’

  ‘Fascinating, I’m sure. If I may, sir …’

  ‘Yes? What is it?’

  ‘I suggest very strongly that you come and see for yourself …’

  Golan turned to the crowd of officers and staff waiting outside the awning. He gestured to them with both arms. ‘Seeing as I have nothing more pressing to attend to?’

  The ranking surgeon’s tongue emerged to lick his cracked lips. He swayed, something even more desperate, yet firmly suppressed, pinching his gaze. ‘Please … sir. It is really … quite … pressing.’

  Golan clasped his hands at his back. ‘Oh, very well!’ He glowered at the importuning surgeon. ‘Only out of scholarly interest, mind you.’

  The patient was a young lad on a table alone in a private tent. He was perhaps in his teens – it was hard for Golan to tell exactly, as early illnesses or starvation can blunt an individual’s development. Skinny, emaciated even, he was one of the labourers. A grimed rag wrapped his loins, but other than that he was naked. He appeared to be drugged into unconsciousness. Leather straps held his ankles and wrists. A leather gag covered his mouth. Golan raised his brows at the restraints.

  ‘He would have killed himself from the pain,’ the surgeon explained.

  ‘Pain?’

  By way of answer, the surgeon indicated that Golan should more closely examine the lad’s body. Frowning, Golan leaned closer. After a moment, what he discerned all over the lad’s limbs and torso made even him, a trained Thaumaturg, flinch away.

  Things writhed just beneath the lad’s skin. Long worm-like lengths twisted and squirmed all up and down his legs, arms, stomach and chest.

  ‘What is this?’ Golan breathed, impressed. Even a touch fearful.

  The ranking surgeon’s expression was flat and dull, as if the man had been driven beyond all feeling, all empathy. ‘They are as you suggested. A form of worm infestation. Similar, I believe, to the infamous Ganari-worm that has been eradicated from our lands, only a far more virulent offshoot. Unlike its cousins, this one does not spare its hosts. These worms are consuming the lad from the inside out.’

  At that moment Golan wanted nothing more than to flee the tent. He even felt his stomach tightening in nausea – a feeling he’d thought squeezed from him long ago. Pride in his position, however, demanded that he display nothing. Thus he simply nodded in what he hoped resembled scholarly appreciation of an interesting phenomenon. He clasped his hands at his back. ‘They were in the water, then?’ he asked, his voice a touch hoarse and faint.

  ‘I believe so. As far as I can establish, this lad was among those who assembled the rafts. He and his coworkers spent a great deal of time standing in the water.’

  Golan’s throat choked almost closed, and he grasped the table edge behind him to keep from falling. All the labourers. And the soldiers. Had they not all taken it in turns to wade in to help?

  The surgeon was studying Golan closely, a bloodied hand raised to help. He appeared to understand that his commander now grasped the severity of the situation and nodded, grimly. ‘Indeed.’

  ‘We must find the infected. Isolate them.’

  The surgeon’s face remained bleak. ‘I would think it more of a mercy if you would order the yakshaka to—’ The man gaped, his gaze fixed beyond Golan, his eyes growing huge.

  Golan heard wet things slipping and slithering to the ground behind him. The tiny hairs of his arms stood up straight and icy fingers traced their nails up his spine. His training took hold immediately and he turned, steadily, having withdrawn into Thaumaturg calmness of mind.

  The youth’s body was a horror of thousands of wriggling worms, all writhing free of his flesh from every inch of skin. They even emerged squirming and questing blindly from his eyes, ears, mouth and nostrils. They slithered free to tumble and fall and snake off under the lips of the tent.

  Golan heard the surgeon fall insensate behind him. Coolly, he raised a hand and the sagging shape of bones and limp skin amid its forest of twisting parasites burst into sizzling blue and white flames. It was the least he could do for the lad, though, in truth, it was more like housecleaning.

  He turned to the prone form of the surgeon, used his toe to flick aside a few of the worms nosing his body. ‘Get up, man,’ he urged. ‘We’ve work to do. We must segregate the infected. Come.’

  The surgeon groaned, flailing. Golan nudged him with his toe. ‘Come, man. We—’

  Golan broke off, for distantly, across the encampment, here and there, rose shrill screams of agony and uncomprehending terror – the shrieks of those being eaten alive from within.

  * * *

  In the quiet of the gloomy chamber Osserc blinked rapidly, coming to himself. He peered about quickly, a touch panicked. All was as before: the monkey creature lay asleep at the table, its head down, snoring contentedly, drool dripping from its open mouth. Across the gouged slats of the tabletop, Gothos still sat immobile. His knotted hands lay flat before him. His roped iron-grey hair hung like moss to his shoulders. It was as if the Jaghut was carved from granite.

  He’d been thinking of his youth among the Tiste and the halls of his father’s hold. All so different from now. So much lost. It was all he could do to hold on to even a fraction of it. He’d always been of the mind that one must look back to know how to proceed. Yet now this creature sitting opposite seemed to be suggesting that holding on to the past – being guided by the past – was wrong. A self-limiting trap.

  Odd to hear such things coming from a Jaghut, of all creatures. Though they always did have a pragmatic streak. For his part he never truly understood them. Perhaps there can be no true understanding between the races. A downturned smile pulled at his lips. The historical record attests that such relations hold little promise for understanding.

  Very well. The lesson is to be guided by the past without being trapped by it. A pithy homily. Why be guided by lessons of the past? For wisdom, of course. Ah. Here we approach the meat of the matter. Wisdom.

  Not something usually associated with his name.

  Anomander, now, that was another thing. Wise beyond his years, everyone thought him. The wisdom of Anomander. Whereas Osserc … well, few mentioned wisdom and Osserc in the same breath.

  What, then, had he gathered? Knowledge. A great deal of knowledge. He had wandered the very shores of creation. Tasted the blood of the Eleint. Plumbed the depths of the Abyss itself. Studied the verges of the Realms. He had questioned the Azathanai repeatedly – though he came away with little to show for it. And now he had even investigated the Azath. Few could boast of as thorough an interrogation of the underlying truths of existence.

  Yet what had all this study and probing and ruthless examination taught him? He considered his hands on the table before him. He turned them over to inspect the lined palms.

  Only his appalling ignorance.

  He might have assembled a truly impressive archive of facts, yet one area remained a dark chasm before him. Self-knowledge. The sort of exploration that inflicted true pain. Was this why he’d so … studiously … avoided it? And how then could he be puzzled as to why he did not understand anyone else when he did not know himself? Some would argue that was plainly obvious.

  He remembered, then, the time L’oric had been trapped within the shrinking fragment of a shattered realm. He’d had to rescue the fool. Then, he’d felt only anger at the lad’s stupidity, resentment at the intrusion and embarrassment that one of his should have been so careless. Of course he’d communicated none of this to L’oric.

  Now, reflecting back, it struck him that what the lad had been doing was in fact emulating him. That, if anyone was to blame, it was he for bringing into being such exploratory recklessness and pushing of boundaries
. For his utter neglect and lack of guidance.

  Osserc felt a hot sharp stabbing in his chest and his breath came short and tight. He clutched the wooden slats as if he would fall. Across the table Gothos’ gaze, hidden deep within his curtain of hair, shifted, glittering like sunken wells.

  If this be the price of self-knowledge I want none of it. It is just too much … Not the errors of the forefathers revisited. Not that. Too painful by far.

  So – is the judgement that I have learned nothing? That I stand now as an even poorer example than my own poor father? Perhaps so. Perhaps so.

  The eternal question then, that we return to once again, is how to proceed from this datum …

  The head of the monkey creature, the Nacht, popped up from the table. Blinking, it peered about suspiciously. Across the table Gothos’ hands drew in closer to his body. The talon-like nails raked lines in the wood.

  ‘What is it?’ Osserc asked. His voice sounded shockingly loud in the silence.

  The Jaghut turned his head to the hall leading to the front door. ‘Something …’

  Osserc then heard a sound. It appeared to be coming from the front – a scratching and tearing noise. It was oddly dim, or muted. He stood away from the table and headed up the hall. The sound, whatever it might be, was coming from outside. Osserc regarded the barrier of the thick planks of the front door, the beaten iron handle. He turned back to peer up the hall; Gothos had stood as well and now regarded him, his arms crossed.

  Osserc gestured to the door. ‘Shall I?’

  The Jaghut shrugged eloquently. ‘It is not up to me.’

  Very well. He tried the door: it opened, creaking loudly. Outside it was an overcast night. It had been raining. The glow of the moon and the Visitor behind the massed clouds gleamed from the wet slates of the walkway. Mist obscured the surrounding stone buildings. The sea broke surging against the nearby shore.

  A ragged human figure lay on the ground. A trail of churned-up dirt lay behind it. The trail ended at the steaming heap of a disturbed burial barrow.