The Warleader’s thick brows rose. ‘Ahh,’ he breathed. ‘I understand. All she gave me, you say. She gave me a great deal of her time, that is true.’ He pointed to the tall tankard of fluids the priests were mixing. ‘Now!’ he ordered. ‘We will do this now.’
‘But … my lord …’ one objected. ‘You must prepare further.’
‘Do you question me?’
The priest fell to his knees. ‘Forgive me, lord.’
The Warleader gestured impatiently for the drink. Another of the shaduwam handed it to him. He drank it in a long series of swallows, wiped the spilled thick dark fluids from his beard. He regarded Jatal once again with his dead flat eyes. ‘She encouraged me to talk – to tell stories. And I did. More than I ought to have. I was perhaps pleased by her attentions though I certainly knew better. And from listening to me all those evenings your princess came closest of anyone to grasping a certain secret. One not even she could believe. One she dared not pass on to anyone – not even to you. Especially not to you.’
He pointed to a lit candle and a priest brought it to him. The Warleader passed a hand through its smoke, wafting it to his face and inhaling deeply. This he did several times. Jatal assumed he was deadening the pain of the wound in his side, from which a great deal of blood had spilled to smear his armour.
‘And so, my prince,’ the man said, straightening, ‘I choose to give you something in her honour. Something which you do not want. Because, you see, I understand you now. You are just like me. You are a jealous man.’ He reached out and pulled a gripping tool from the table nearby. It was an instrument Jatal had seen physicians using in field infirmaries. ‘Now,’ he said through gritted teeth.
‘But, lord, who …?’
The Warleader cuffed the priest aside. ‘I shall. Now.’ He pressed the instrument into the wound at his side, turning it and gouging. He gasped at the agony of it, even mitigated by the drink and the fumes he’d inhaled.
He withdrew a blood-smeared object and extended it to Jatal who took it, wonderingly, in both hands. The arrow must have passed almost completely through the Warleader’s body, for the point and most of the shaft had been broken off, leaving perhaps two hand’s-breadths of wood, and the fletching, embedded in the wound. Jatal turned it over, wiped the blood from its slick surface. All the while, the Warleader watched, his eyes glittering with something that might have been cruel satisfaction.
Jatal pinched the wet feathers to let their colour come through – though he suspected he knew already what to expect.
‘She did choose to follow me, Prince Jatal,’ the Warleader said, his voice now relaxed, even content. ‘She had something to give me, you see.’
The colours of the fletching showed through as Vehajarwi.
‘She gave me that. Because, you see, she had given everything else she had to you.’
Rising, the man closed his hard hand over Jatal’s on the shaft. ‘And now I give it to you. The gift of pain. True soul-destroying anguish. It is yours now. Carry it in your heart.’ He waved Jatal off. Turning aside, he addressed the priest: ‘Let him live. Let him live long.’ The man’s words seemed to come from a great distance. A hand pushed Jatal away. ‘Go,’ the Warleader called. ‘Go with my blessing and with my curse.’
Aware of nothing, Jatal stumbled away. He found himself under open golden sky, on a set of stairs; it was late afternoon. He looked down: he still held the bloody shaft in both hands. His cheeks were cold and wet. Shaduwam priests shouldered him aside, ignoring him. They led prisoners up the stairs: some were from among the mercenaries who had followed the Warleader, others were of the Adwami. None he saw were of the Hafinaj.
Blinking, Jatal started forward once more, his eyes on the arrow shaft. When he looked up again, strangely dizzy, he found he walked a narrow alley that opened on to a broad main thoroughfare. This he entered. A party of shaduwam brushed past him; they paid him no more attention than if he’d been a shade.
The wide approach ended at tall double gates in the walls of the Inner City. Jatal passed through the open gates to enter the narrow ways of the city proper. Its peasant citizens stared from open doorways as he passed. He stepped over corpses, through the ashen remains of burned-down barriers, past the bodies of horses, the still-wet remains of Adwami troopers, torn into fragments.
Oh Andanii … I betrayed you even while you held true. I am not worthy of your sacrifice.
A few of the peasant inhabitants followed him now, at a distance, as he stumbled along. Some, he noted, stooped now and then to pick up rocks. Something struck his shoulder, hard. He blinked, confused. The words of the poet came to him: Blood is brightest / Against the purest snow …
A blow to his head spun him into a wall. He leaned against it, dazed. Stones smacked into the brick wall about him. The crowd of inhabitants closed now, emboldened. Frenzied enraged eyes glared their murder at him. Clawed hands reached for him. They tore the bloodied robes from him; their ragged nails gouged his flesh; they yanked his hair as if meaning to tear the top of his head off. Hands fought to unbuckle the straps of his armour. Men and women spat and screamed their rage at him. Thumbs jammed into his eyes. Fingers pulled and tore at his lips. Their press squeezed the breath from his lungs.
My love … I come to you … Please do not turn from me.
A petrifying bellowed roar shook the stones beneath him. Light reached his eyes as the piled-on bodies scattered. An immense figure was there, straddling him, throwing the peasants like children to smash into the walls. His armour hung from him in tattered links and hanging straps. He swung the broken haft of his axe, pulverizing heads with each blow: Scarza, bloodied yet whole.
The half-giant lifted Jatal to his feet. ‘You’ll live?’ he growled.
‘Yes – no.’
The lieutenant eyed him with a strange expression. ‘Well, this way. The bastard betrayed all of us but we can still get away.’
‘No.’
‘What?’
‘No.’ He peered down: he still held the shaft in both hands. The blood had dried, sticking his fingers closed.
‘Ah. I see.’ The fellow peered up and down the street, empty now that the mob had fled. ‘She’s gone then?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry, lad.’
‘Sorry?’
‘For this.’
Jatal frowned, blinking. The axe handle blurred for him and he knew nothing more.
Pain brought him to consciousness. He brought his hands to his head and held it; a great bump had swelled up on the side of his skull just behind the temple.
‘Not broken, is it?’ Scarza’s low voice enquired from the dark.
‘I wish it were.’
‘I understand.’
‘No, you don’t.’ They were in a copse next to fields. A distant yellow glow marked what Jatal imagined must be the fires of Anditi Pura.
‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that,’ Scarza answered from where he sat up against a tree.
Jatal simply waved to grant the man the point. He shifted over to lean against another trunk. ‘You shouldn’t have intervened.’
‘I was just happening by. Spur of the moment thing.’
Jatal eyed the dark hulking figure, half obscured by a shadow cast by the shafts of the Visitor. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Those were my men. Bastards, half of them. Murderers, rapists. But still, mine. Can’t let some jumped-up Warleader sell them out. Or me, to be honest.’
‘Do you know who he is?’
‘Him?’ The wide dark shoulders shrugged. ‘Does it matter? Some renegade general. Maybe years ago he tried to take over from these Thaumaturgs – fails. Flees abroad. Gathers himself a mercenary army. Makes a deal with the neighbouring country. Comes back and makes them pay. It’s an old story. Seen it a thousand times.’
‘I think there’s more to it than that.’
‘Think what you will. You can question him all you want after we catch him.’
Jatal studied the shaded figure. His
eyes gleamed hungrily in the dark. A spark of humour actually animated the man’s expression. Is he as mad as I should be? Am I mad? Am I imagining this? ‘What do you mean? He’s surrounded by his shaduwam pets.’
‘No, he isn’t. He rode off alone like the very fiends of the Abyss were after his spirit. Which they are, I’m sure.’
Jatal half rose, then fell back, slumping. ‘Then he’s gone. We’ve missed him. And …’ He stopped himself from going any further.
The half-Trell was silent for a time in the dark. At length he spoke, his voice gentle: ‘She was something, Prince of the Hafinaj. She truly was. I am sorry.’
Yes. Sorry. I am sorry. He is. Yet nothing will bring her back. And nothing can redeem me. Unless. Unless I finish her task for her. Then finish myself. Only that might serve to redress so great an injustice.
‘When did he leave?’
‘Half the night ago.’
Jatal gaped. ‘What? Then why … you are cruel. Is this your revenge? Tormenting me so?’
‘Not at all. You needed to recover. We will track him and ride even harder.’
Jatal snorted. ‘Ride? You?’
‘For this I will run.’ The half-Trell’s voice held an unfamiliar chilling resolve.
‘And me? Am I to run as well?’
Scarza tapped a finger to the side of his wide flattened nose. ‘There are horses nearby. I smell them.’
‘Then why aren’t we on our way?’
The dark glittering eyes regarded Jatal closely. ‘You are ready? You are resolved?’
‘To the end.’
The giant was on his feet in an instant. ‘Good. Let us collect as many horses as we can. I may even ride one for an hour or so! Just to catch my breath.’
Jatal stood as well. He felt rested; he was bruised and battered, but that was a minor matter. He hungered also but he would deal with that when he could stand it no longer. After all, what were such demands of the flesh compared to the task he had vowed to see through to the finish.
CHAPTER XII
After the storm passed we were in unfamiliar waters, irrevocably driven off course. We found ourselves within sight of an unknown coast. We put in for water but lost men to bizarre wild animals, poisonous plants, and other hazards of its inhospitable jungle and so we quit the coast in haste. Raising sails, we espied a simple dugout paddled by one occupant. We allowed the man to come aboard. He was painted and mostly naked after the barbarous fashion. He studied the vessel, its equipage, our dress and accoutrements, all in the most childlike curious wonder. Then, turning to me, tears welling from his eyes, he said in slanted Talian: ‘Thank the gods for my deliverance. For I am Whelhen Mariner, shipwrecked these last twelve years.’
Resenal D’Ord,
Master of the Lance
Excerpt from ship’s journal
THE LAND IS sinking. This was Shimmer’s conclusion after staring for interminable days and nights at a shore that hardly deserved the name. Or the waters are rising. Where the river ended and the land began appeared to be a debate this jungle was unable to resolve. Their route twisted and turned. Countless channels and streams led off from the main way only to reappear round the next tight bend.
To further muddy the situation the water itself was taking on the characteristics of the surrounding land. No current could be seen pulling on the thick layer of lilies and wide flat pads that utterly choked the surface. The rotting prow of the Serpent actually seemed to catch on the tough plants, tugging and ripping. Tall water birds flapped from their path looking like disgruntled priests wrapped in brown robes with long disapproving faces. They walked atop the pads on stilt-like legs and made better progress than the ship. It puzzled her that the channel could really be so shallow. Countless water snakes likewise slithered among the massed floating plants, fleeing the disturbance. Thick clouds of insects hovered above the fat pink and white blossoms of the lilies. Dragonflies the size of her fist stooped these dense clouds while birds chased them all, snapping everything up in their pointed beaks.
The scent of all those blossoms melded into an overpowering stink of corrupted sweetness, which combined with the rot of dead plant matter and the miasma of the standing water. She could almost see the fumes hanging like scarves in the dead air. Or perhaps it was the dust and pollen.
The sun beat down with a drowsy heat made far worse by the unbearable humidity. Merely bending her arm raised drops of sweat. She wore only a long undershirt now, over trousers and open sandals. Her long hair she tied up high with the aid of thin sticks. Her thoughts seemed to coil as turgid as the water itself. Where was this capital Rutana promised? She claimed they were close yet no towers or walls reared above the canopy.
Ruined foundations, stone stelae and tumbled carved blocks did stand here and there, vine-choked and eroded. But no sign of current occupation showed itself. They had better be close, because beneath her hands the wood railing felt spongy with rot. She couldn’t imagine what was keeping the vessel together. It ought to have disintegrated long ago.
The troop of longtail monkeys had returned – or another of the tribe. In any case, they travelled alongside their course, swinging from limb to limb. They had no trouble in keeping up with the ship’s sluggish progress. Their moustached, wise faces peered from among the boughs, eyes bright and black.
As the vessel pushed beneath overhanging branches, leaves and the luminous petals of countless blossoms rained down upon everyone. Shimmer brushed the gold and purple showers from her shoulders. The littered deck appeared as festive as if decorated for the parades of Fanderay’s revival.
They moved through an eerie half-light now. Neither day nor night. It seemed as if she was dreaming. A strange jade glow pervaded all the space beneath the thick canopy that extended above them from all sides. The light reminded her of that unearthly greenish luminosity that comes just before the clouds of a massive storm. Here, however, it never went away.
Then the Serpent rounded a bend in what now seemed nothing more than a stagnant swamp. Rutana, near the vine-draped bow, stiffened and pointed ahead. Her breath left her in a loud hiss. Something jutted out among the bobbing lilies and fat table-like leaves. It was just submerged, a stone ledge of some sort, algae-green, canted as if it had sunk into its foundation. The Serpent glided up to the ledge and came to a gentle halt.
‘We are arrived,’ the woman announced.
Shimmer scanned the jungle shore. She saw nothing but interminable trees, low brush and grass. Insects sent up a constant low buzz. ‘Arrived? There is nothing here!’
The woman’s harsh gaze sharpened even more and her lips pulled back from her teeth in her perpetual sneer. ‘Yes, there is.’
‘We are here,’ whispered a faint voice from beside her and she spun, jerking; K’azz had come up next to her. ‘I sense her. She is close.’
‘Where?’ Shimmer demanded of Rutana.
The woman shrugged, unconcerned. She waved a hand, all sinew and bone, to indicate the jungle. ‘About.’
Shimmer clenched her jaws until her teeth ached. Turgal, Cole and Amatt had joined them, as had Lor-sinn and Gwynn. They carried their gear, their armour and weapons, all rolled under their arms. Cole handed Shimmer’s over.
K’azz studied them. He motioned to the shore. ‘Disembark.’
Shimmer nodded her assent; how glad she was to finally be rid of this rotting hulk! And yet, at the same time, it had come to feel safe. As if all the potential dangers surrounding them couldn’t touch them while they occupied it. A kind of floating sanctuary where they were held inviolate. But held by whom?
The vessel was now so low she could let herself down over the side to touch the sunken wharf. Her sandals slipped and slid on the thick algae. The stone appeared to be granite. She carefully edged her way ashore. And what unusual land: ochre-stained sandy soil, soft and loamy to her feet. It felt strange to be off the vessel. Turgal, Cole and Amatt followed. On shore, they undid the belts binding up their gear and armoured themselves. Shimmer followed s
uit. Gwynn leaned upon his tall staff while Lor studied the surrounding jungle. She blew her hair from her face; catching Shimmer’s eye, she shook her head in obvious dismay. After private words with Rutana and Nagal, K’azz came ashore. He wore a plain thin shirt and trousers. A longsword hung from a belt slung over one shoulder. His emaciated form, all bones and ligaments, appalled Shimmer; had he been sick? With his long greying hair and beard the man resembled more a castaway than a mercenary commander. What would Ardata think of him?
And what will Skinner think? He won’t come quietly. Yet K’azz is not concerned.
Turgal pulled on his rusted helmet. He hefted his wide infantryman’s shield and a loud tearing noise pulled everyone’s attention to him. The shield fell from his arm, its leather straps rotted through. He drew his hand-and-a-half sword, brought it overhead, then smashed it down on the shield, which shattered as if it were made of paper. He picked up the remains and with a yell of fury tossed them into the channel. He yanked off his helmet and squeezed it in his gauntleted hands: its visor broke off and the shell creaked and deformed as he pressed upon it. Furious, his face flushed, the man tossed this too into the channel. Next went his gauntlets, the leather straps holding the various plates together also obviously rotten. He was in a quivering rage, gazing down at his hauberk of banded iron. He took hold of his weapon belt and yanked. It too ripped from him. ‘Dammit all to the Abyss!’ he yelled to everyone. ‘Are we to run around bare-arsed?’
‘Not me, thank you,’ answered Lor.
Cole laughed, as usual the one to find humour in the situation. ‘Too bad,’ he offered Lor, winking.
‘Skinner will laugh,’ Amatt observed darkly.
K’azz raised a hand for quiet. ‘We’re not here to fight,’ he said.
Amatt was unbuckling his armour. ‘Then why are we here?’ he demanded.
It struck Shimmer as no coincidence that now that they had left the river behind, together with the otherworldly glamour that suffused it, all the questions and fears that had somehow been suppressed were boiling over. She fingered her own suit of fine mail. The links were stiff and rusty. It was more of a danger to her than any weapon thrust: it would poison her blood. She began untying her belt. ‘Well?’ she added, eyeing K’azz.
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