Blood and Bone

by Ian C. Esslemont

  As the afternoon waned she became aware of a tingling pulling at her and she clambered to her feet. Petal, she noted, was headed in this direction. He lumbered heavily in his swinging gait as he worked his way round to her along the line of guardsmen.

  ‘You sense it as well?’ he said as he drew near.

  She nodded.

  He scanned the forest. ‘Some sort of manipulation.’

  ‘What kind? I do not recognize it.’

  ‘Elder. Animistic. Yet there is power there.’ He stroked his jowls. ‘They are preparing something.’

  ‘An attack?’ She scanned the edge of the trees; no shapes moved that she could see.

  ‘I do not think so.’

  Skinner climbed the slope to join them. ‘What is it?’ he asked. He still had his helm tucked under one arm. Only now did she notice that he carried no sword. ‘You sense something as well?’ she asked, surprised.

  ‘Aye.’

  She couldn’t understand how he, a plain swordsman, could have developed such sensitivity, but she set that aside for later consideration.

  Petal was tapping a finger to his thick lips. ‘It may be a ritual,’ he offered. ‘Has that feel.’

  ‘What sort?’ Skinner asked.

  ‘There’s no—’ He cut himself off, his gaze snapping to Mara as they both felt the tearing that the opening of a portal sends rippling through the surrounding mundane matter and all Warrens. Skinner spun as well.

  ‘A gate!’ Petal warned. ‘Someone or something has come through.’

  Mara threw up her Warren. The loose detritus of the slope vibrated beneath her feet as pulses of D’riss leaked from her in waves. Petal and Skinner were both physically pushed away from her; Skinner retreated down the slope.

  They waited. Mara noted the warm wet air smelled particularly strongly of the flower blossoms here; a cloying sweet stink that hardly disguised how they hung rotting on the creepers. The day threatened to slip into the twilight of evening that she found came so startlingly suddenly in this land.

  Two figures emerged from the shadows of the darkening jungle verge. Skinner turned and waved to Mara. She took a moment to ease her Warren and compose herself, then she carefully edged down the uneven dirt slope.

  She knew them both. One by description and reputation, his lean muscular build leading up to a head of loose tawny hair, a feline black nose, bright golden eyes, and the fangs of a hunting-cat: Citravaghra. The other she’d met more than once: Rutana, favoured of Ardata, greatest of her aberrant menagerie of followers and adherents. And an enemy from the very first days of their arrival in this land decades ago.

  ‘What is it you wish?’ Skinner asked, grasping the initiative as always.

  ‘Your death,’ Rutana answered, readily enough.

  Skinner shrugged, indifferent. ‘If you wish death, we will happily accommodate all of you.’

  Rutana just laughed her harsh cawing hack. ‘It is your bones that will add to this pile, Betrayer. All of you. We need only wait.’

  Mara studied her more closely. There was something different about her. She was perhaps even more dried and wiry than before – if it were possible for a human being to be nothing more than sinew and stretched ligament – but that was not it. There was an emotion playing about her slit mouth and narrow eyes while she stood grasping and kneading the many amulets hanging about her neck. It took Mara some time to identify it, for she had never seen it on the woman before: an almost bubbling humour. She actually appeared to be working hard to suppress a smile that kept her mouth quirking and twitching.

  Mara wondered whether the emotion was contagious, for at her side Citravaghra shared it. His flecked golden eyes held triumph and he seemed to almost purr.

  Skinner sensed the strangeness as well; he frowned as if disappointed. ‘You know we can wait until the jungle eventually succeeds in grinding this rise flat.’

  The twitching smile threatened to burst forth. ‘Normally, yes.’

  ‘Normally?’

  ‘You do not know, do you?’ Her laughing gaze shifted to Citravaghra. ‘He does not know.’

  Now Skinner checked an obvious rising anger. ‘Know what?’

  ‘They sense nothing of it,’ she continued to Citravaghra. ‘Isn’t that disappointing? Perhaps they truly are Disavowed.’

  ‘Perhaps it is Himatan itself. Or Ardata’s doing,’ he answered.

  Rutana nodded exaggerated thoughtfulness. ‘Ah. She has blocked him out. How does it feel,’ she asked Skinner, ‘being cast aside? Deliberately kept ignorant. Being treated as if you do not matter – at all?’

  Skinner crossed his arms. The mail of his armour slid and grated across itself. ‘That you are here belies that claim,’ he answered, sounding bored.

  Yes, Mara silently encouraged him. How Rutana would hate such a tone.

  ‘Should we tell him?’ the witch fairly growled.

  ‘He really ought to know …’ Citravaghra answered, and he smiled, revealing the rest of his jagged teeth.

  ‘You have been cast aside, Skinner,’ Rutana declared, triumphant. ‘She has found another to take your place. You have no hope of returning now.’

  Replaced? Return? Mara wondered. Has this been his plan all along?

  But Skinner laughed. He threw his head back and roared as if their situation, this discussion, everything, was a great joke upon them all. After he caught his breath he shook his head. ‘Rutana – you love your mistress too much. You cannot even conceive of someone not wanting to lie down before her, can you? Well, in any case, you do not know her mind. She has declared there is no one else who could possibly stand beside her.’

  Yet the woman’s taut smile broadened, satisfied, as if her own trap had been sprung. ‘But … there is one who might.’

  All the while Mara glimpsed more and more of the creatures gathering, crowding the verge. Their eyes gleamed with eager hunger. We are trapped. And their numbers seem inexhaustible. Do they plan to overrun us? Soon there may be enough. What is Skinner counting on? Does he not see the danger?

  Skinner waved a gauntleted hand. ‘Rutana – it does not matter.’

  ‘You do not care?’

  ‘Difficult as it obviously is for you to believe, I do not. However,’ and he gestured to the surrounding jungle, ‘as you have in us a captive audience, it would seem that I have no choice but to hear more of this.’

  ‘That is true. You do not. But I believe you will thank me.’

  ‘I will thank you to end the game.’

  The smile fell to a straight knife-thin slit. ‘That is why I am here, Betrayer. To end it.’

  ‘Rutana …’ Citravaghra murmured, warning. ‘We have them …’

  She snapped him a curt dismissive wave. ‘That is not good enough.’

  Mara glanced between Skinner and the woman. He’s baiting her – why? How will this help? Except to satisfy his personal feud? And she has waved off Citravaghra! The man-leopard. The Night Hunter. The most feared of them all. Who – what – is she?

  ‘Very well, Betrayer,’ Rutana continued. ‘I will give you this news and then I will slay you and then your failure will be utter and complete. Perhaps you would care about that?’

  ‘You have nothing to say that I could possibly care about.’

  She grasped hold of the many amulets and charms hung about her neck like a swimmer grasping at a rope and snarled: ‘K’azz has come! Ardata sent for him and he has come. He will stand in your place! What say you to that?’

  Mara stared, stunned and shaken. K’azz here? In truth? Why … She looked to Skinner: he was silent, immobile. His stillness shouted of danger to Mara. His blunt features had pulled down in a puzzled frown. ‘We would—’ he began, only to cut himself off.

  Yet we wouldn’t know, would we? We are Disavowed. The ghosts of our dead Crimson Guard brethren no longer serve us. And Himatan might disguise K’azz’s presence. Or Ardata …

  He gave an exaggerated shrug. ‘What of it? This is your news? You ought not to have bothe
red. But, now that you have delivered it, you may go.’ And he waved her off.

  The woman’s face paled to a sickly pallid ivory, as if all the blood had utterly drained from her flesh. She shifted a foot backwards, bracing herself.

  ‘Rutana …’ Citravaghra warned her once more.

  ‘Now I will slay you, Betrayer,’ she panted, her voice almost choked in passion. ‘As I should have done when you first arrived.’

  ‘Rutana – no!’ The man-leopard reached for her but she swatted his arm aside. She snatched at the countless leather loops hanging about her neck, snapping the cords. The amulets and charms fell to the ground, tinkling and bursting. Next she tore at the series of bands at her arms, each knotted in its own amulet. Citravaghra took her waist and steered her back down the slope. She weaved, drunkenly, hardly able to walk. They disappeared among the thick brush bordering the woods.

  Skinner motioned Mara back up the steep rise. ‘We do not have much time,’ he murmured.

  ‘Until what?’

  ‘I do not know what is to come. All I know are rumours. Some say that she emerged from the caves deep underground ages ago. Some say she once sat at the feet of D’rek herself.’ They reached the line of guardsmen where Petal awaited. ‘All I know is that she will come for me. When this happens you must all run. Head for Jakal Viharn.’

  ‘But K’azz—’

  ‘K’azz? What?’ Petal snapped.

  ‘Later,’ Mara answered.

  Skinner was peering back to the trees, his gaze slit. ‘Jacinth will command in my absence. When I return we will deal with K’azz.’

  ‘Return?’

  A scream arched out of the jungle and everyone froze, listening. It began as a woman’s shriek of agony only to transform in mid call into something deep and reverberating – something that could not have emerged from a human throat.

  ‘Yes …’ Skinner continued slowly. ‘When I return from covering your escape. Now,’ he looked past them, searching, ‘Black! Your sword, if I may.’

  Petal nodded to the woods. ‘They are fleeing.’

  Mara glanced over, scanned the forest. Shapes darted through the trees, all running away. ‘I have a bad feeling …’ she murmured.

  Black came and extended his two-handed bastard sword, grip first. Skinner drew it free of the sheath. ‘My thanks.’

  ‘Try not to break it.’

  Something thrashed hidden in the woods, shaking the ground and raising small avalanches of stones across the slope. Enormous emergent trees that towered over the surrounding canopy shook and wavered like saplings as something flailed among them. A dark wave of birds took flight into the overcast sky. Branches fell crashing through the canopy. Something came fluttering down among them. A shimmering and winking curtain that fell over everyone: a shower of flower petals, brilliant red, pink and creamy white. Mara impatiently brushed them from her shoulders and hair.

  ‘Perhaps we should begin the retreat now,’ Petal suggested.

  Skinner waved them off. ‘Go.’ He started down the slope. Black moved off. Petal edged back as well. But Mara hesitated. Something pulled at her; a fascination. What was this thing? And could Skinner truly face it down? Certainly his armour, the gift of Ardata, had been proof against everything so far. And they still did possess all the gifts of the Avowed … She caught Petal’s gaze. ‘I will stay. Someone has to.’

  The big man frowned as if pouting, glanced to the lines disappearing round the rear of the hillock. ‘You should not remain alone.’

  ‘I will watch from D’riss.’

  He rubbed his chin, clearly troubled. ‘Still … I should …’ His voice trailed off as his gaze left her to climb up to the canopy.

  Mara spun. Something was moving there. A pale enormous shape that could somehow rear that tall. A gigantic limb as white as snow and speckled with blotches of crimson rose to push against a tualang that fell, wood bursting and shattering, to cut a slash through the canopy. A wide flat head rose, utterly colourless, albino. Veins pulsed blue and carmine beneath the translucent flesh. Crimson eyes, large as shields and bright as fresh wet blood, blinked, searching.

  ‘Burn preserve us …’ Mara breathed. ‘What is that?’

  ‘A creature from the heart of the earth,’ Petal answered, grim.

  She sought out Skinner, standing alone close to the jungle verge, helm now secure on his head. This is absurd! What can one person possibly … He must flee with us. She started down.

  ‘Mara, no!’ Petal called.

  The monster cracked open its slit mouth and a great bellowing roar shook the trees and the ground beneath Mara’s feet. Stones the size of chariots came tumbling down the hillock. Ancient trees wavered, crashing down. The ground shook again beneath an awkward step from the beast that levelled a swathe of the forest. Tumbling, Mara raised her Warren to repel a wash of stones and gravel that would have buried her. She fended off a rolling tree as thick in girth as a man.

  Throughout, Skinner remained standing, apparently calmly awaiting the monster that was Rutana. Twin growths as large as sails now rose from either side of the creature’s neck. They flushed and pulsed with blood. Skinner raised the bastard sword in a two-handed ready stance.

  The head darted down, lunging. Skinner leaped aside. The slit mouth gaped as wide as any city gate. It hammered into the loose ground, sending Mara flying. The head twisted, gulping and flailing like a dog worrying a bone. Cascades of dirt and rock flew over Mara. She drove it aside with bursts of power. Through the clouds of dust and flying brush she glimpsed Skinner in his glittering black mail. The beast’s roar of rage stabbed Mara’s skull like a spike.

  Rain now came hammering down, settling the dust and dirt. It pattered like war drums on the wide leaves. Mara climbed to her feet, panting. Her Warren shimmered in the air about her. The creature reared once again and Mara glimpsed blood running down its clear pallid side. It twisted for Skinner, darting and lunging. Something came flailing from the jungle towards Mara. Tree trunks flew, cut off at the base, as a long low streak hammered her to tumble among fallen stones. She lay dazed.

  Roaring shook her from the muted noises and blurred shapes in her vision. She flailed to sit up. Rain still poured down, now even harder, in dense sheets that wavered like hangings. The entire nightmare scene glowed in the jade illumination where a gap in the cloud cover allowed the Visitor’s alien light to stream through.

  The creature, Rutana, still stalked Skinner. Its blunt forelimbs pawed at the rise while its head stood taller than the tumbled stones; the trees that once topped the hillock now lay trampled like so much rubbish beneath its feet. Somewhere Skinner must still stand as the beast sought him, roaring its shrieking bellow that shook the rain.

  Swordcuts marred Rutana’s chest, forelimbs and mouth, two-handed slices that would have severed a man in two yet only served to irritate this eldritch creature. How could she possibly be slain? Skinner had fought heroically, but surely there could be but one outcome.

  The evening’s downpour was passing, the cloud cover breaking up. Starlight shone down upon the wreckage. Rutana glowed a brilliant ghostly white in the cold harsh light. Her twin tall frills blazed, pulsing with blood as if they were aflame. A cut on one sprayed blood with every beat of the creature’s heart.

  Rutana’s wide spatulate head snapped round and Mara stood to look: Skinner had emerged to stand in the clear. He held his sword close to side. What was this? Surrender? An attempt at parley? She will not pause. Indeed, Rutana writhed her long torso across the broken trunks and tumbled stone blocks after him like a lizard chasing a meal. Her eyes blazed carmine into the night as if lit from within. Her head arched back, mouth opening, hissing like a waterfall. Still Skinner did not move. Dive! Mara urged. Can’t you see she will take you?

  The head snapped down, the mouth ploughing the ground to send up a great wash of stones and sand. Then it rose, gulping, the gullet working. Of Skinner there remained no sign. Mara stared, searching. He must have leaped. He must have. It was a t
rap – a ruse to draw her in for a thrust. It must have been. Yet still he did not show himself. And Rutana now slowly waddled away to return to the jungle. Her paws pushed awkwardly at the wet mud as she levered her immense bulk off the slope to enter the trees.

  Mara stood for some time searching the hillside. Her Warren faded as her concentration fell away. Her robes pulled at her, sodden and heavy. Raindrops still fell on to her nose and cheeks. At least she believed the drops to be rain. Footsteps came sliding heavily towards her and she turned, wooden, not even lifting her arms. It was Petal. His shirt, vest and trousers hung just as wet as her robes. He carefully edged his way down to stand next to her.

  ‘I am sorry, Mara,’ he offered.

  ‘This cannot be. How could … It’s not true.’

  ‘Ardata’s gift could be no defence against that.’

  ‘Shut up, Petal,’ she said wearily. ‘He stepped out deliberately. He saw he couldn’t …’ She trailed off. Something was happening far off in the depths of the trees.

  Some distance off, Rutana’s grating thunderous shriek sounded once more. A new note seemed to have entered it: alarm and pain. Mara’s gaze flew to Petal, eager and hopeful. The big mage just pulled at his lower lip, his expression doubtful.

  Further bellows sounded, each more panicked and ragged with agony than the one before. Mara now nodded to herself. She drew her robes tighter against the night’s cold. ‘Get a fire going,’ she told Petal.

  ‘Why is it always—’

  ‘Do it. Now. He’ll need to warm up.’

  ‘We don’t know …’

  She waved him off. ‘Go.’

  The mage looked at her for a time while her gaze searched the jungle’s edge. He drew a great heaving sigh that raised and dropped his layered shirts and vest like a vast tent. Then he went to collect dry wood.