‘Yes, Bainisk. I’m sorry.’
‘Why’d you sneak back into the tunnels?’
He could tell him everything. At this moment, it seemed like the right thing to do. But Harllo no longer trusted himself with such feelings. Explaining was dangerous. It could get them all into even more trouble.
‘You was carrying bones,’ said Bainisk. ‘Those bones, they’re cursed.’
‘Why?’
‘They just are.’
‘But why, Bainisk?’
‘Because they were found where no bones belong, that’s why. So far down it’s impossible that anybody buried them – and besides, who’d bury dead animals? No, those bones, they’re from demons that live in the rock and in the dark. Right down with the roots of the earth. You don’t touch them, Harllo, and you never ever try putting them back.’
So this was what Bainisk suspected him of doing, then? ‘I was . . . I was scared,’ Harllo said. ‘It was as if we were disturbing graves or something. And that’s why there’ve been so many accidents lately—’
‘Them accidents are because the new boss is pushing us too hard, into the tunnels with the cracked ceilings and the bad air – the kind of air that makes you see things that ain’t real.’
‘I think maybe that’s what happened to me.’
‘Maybe, but,’ and he rose, ‘I don’t think so.’
He walked away then. Tomorrow, Harllo was expected to return to work. He was frightened of that, since his back hurt so, but he would do it, because it would make things easier for Bainisk who’d been punished when he shouldn’t have been. Harllo would work extra hard, no matter the pain and all; he would work extra hard so Bainisk would like him again.
Because, in this place, with no one liking you, there didn’t seem much point in going on.
Lying on his stomach, fresh into another year of life, Harllo felt no ripples reach him from the outside world. Instead, he felt alone. Maybe he’d lost a friend for ever and that felt bad, too. Maybe his only friend was a giant skeleton in the depths of the mines – who with new legs might have walked away, disappeared into the dark, and all Harllo had to remember him by was a handful of tools hidden beneath his cot.
For a child, thinking of the future was a difficult thing, since most thoughts of the future built on memories of the past, whether in continuation or serving as contrast, and a child held few memories of his or her past. The world was truncated forward and back. Measure it from his toes to the top of his head, tousle the mop of hair in passing, and when nothing else is possible, hope for the best.
In the faint phosphor glow streaking the rock, a T’lan Imass climbed to his feet and stood like someone who had forgotten how to walk. The thick, curved femurs of the emlava forced him into a half-lean, as if he was about to launch himself forward, and the ridged ball of the long bones, where it rested in the socket of each hip, made grinding sounds as he fought for balance.
Unfamiliar sorcery, this. He had observed how connecting tissue had re-knitted, poorly at first, to these alien bones, and he had come to understand that such details were a kind of conceit. The Ritual forced animation with scant subtlety, and whatever physical adjustments occurred proceeded at a snail’s pace, although their present incompleteness seemed to have no effect on his ability to settle his weight on these new legs, even to move them into his first lurching step, then his second.
The grinding sounds would fade in time, he thought, as ball and socket were worn into a match, although he suspected he would never stand as erect as he once had.
No matter. Dev’ad Anan Tol was mobile once more. And as he stood, a flood of memories rose within him in a dark tide.
Leading to that last moment, with the Jaghut Tyrant, Raest, standing before him, blood-smeared mace in one hand, as Dev’ad writhed on the stone floor, legs for ever shattered.
No, he had not been flung from a ledge. Sometimes, it was necessary to lie.
He wondered if the weapons he had forged, so long ago now, still remained hidden in their secret place. Not far. After a moment, the T’lan Imass set out. Feet scraping, his entire body pitching from side to side.
Raest’s unhuman face twisted indignant. Outraged. Slaves were ever slaves. None could rise to challenge the master. None could dare plot the master’s downfall, none could get as close as Dev’ad had done. Yes, an outrage, a crime against the laws of nature itself.
‘I break you, T’lan. I leave you here, in this pit of eternal darkness. To die. To rot. None shall know a word of your mad ambition. All knowledge of you shall fade, shall vanish. Nothing of you shall remain. Know this, could I keep you alive down here for ever, I would – and even that torture would not suffice. In my enforced indifference, T’lan, lies mercy.’
See me now. I have outlived you, Raest. And there, old friend, lies my mercy.
He came to the secret place, a deep crack in the wall, into which he reached. His hand closed about a heavy, rippled blade, and Dev’ad dragged the weapon out.
The T’lan knew stone, stone that was water and water that was stone. Iron belonged to the Jaghut.
He held up the sword he had made countless thousands of years ago. Yes, it had the form of flint, the ridges encircling every flake struck from the edge, the undulating modulations of parallel flaking and the twin flutes running the length to either side of a wavy dorsal spine. The antler base that formed the grip was now mineralized, a most comforting and pleasing weight.
The form of flint indeed. And yet this sword was made of iron, tempered in the holy fires of Tellann. Impervious to rust, to decay, the huge weapon was the hue of first night, the deep blue sky once the final light of the drowned sun had faded. In the moment of the stars’ birth, yes, that was the colour of this blade.
He leaned it point down against the wall and reached into the crack again, drawing out a matching knife – hefty as a shortsword. The hide sheaths had long since rotted to dust, but he would make new ones soon.
The Tyrant of old was gone. Somewhere close, then, waited an empty throne.
Waiting for Dev’ad Anan Tol. Who had once been crippled but was crippled no longer.
He raised both weapons high, the dagger in his right hand, the sword in his left. Slashes of first night, in the moment of the stars’ birth. Iron in the guise of stone, iron in the guise of stone that is water and water that is stone and stone that is iron. Jaghut tyranny in the hands of a T’lan Imass.
The gods are fools, alas, in believing every piece in the game is known. That the rules are fixed and accepted by all; that every wager is counted and marked, exposed and glittering on the table. The gods lay out their perfect paths to the perfect thrones, each one representing perfect power.
The gods are fools because it never occurs to them that not everyone uses paths.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Beneath the battered shield of the sky
The man sits in a black saddle atop a black horse
His hair long and grey drifting out round his iron helm
Knowing nothing of how he came to be here
Only that where he has come to be is nowhere
And where he must go is perhaps near
His beard is the hue of dirty snow
His eyes are eyes that will never thaw
Beneath him the horse does not breathe
Nor does the man and the wind moans hollow
Along the dents of his rusty scaled hauberk
And it is too much to shift about to the approach
Of riders one from his right the other from his left
On dead horses with empty eyes they rein in
Settle silent with strange familiarity
Flanking easy his natural command
Beneath these three the ground is lifeless
And within each ashes are stirred in the dirge
Of grim recollections that slide seeping into regret
But all is past and the horses do not move
And so he glances rightward with jaw clenching
Answering the wry smile with sudden need
So he asks, ‘Are they waiting, Corporal?’
‘Bequeathed and loose on the dead plain, Sergeant,
And was this not what you wanted?’
To that he can but shrug and set gaze upon the other
‘I see your garb and know you, sir, yet do not.’
Black beard and visage dark, a brow like cracked basalt
A man heavy in armour few could stand in
And he meets the observance with a grimace
‘Then know, if you will, Brukhalian of the Grey Swords.’
Beneath these three thunder rides the unproven earth
Nothing sudden but growing like an awakening heart
And the echoes roll down from the shield overhead
As iron reverberates the charge of what must be
‘So once more, the Bridgeburners march to war.’
To which Brukhalian adds, ‘Too the Grey Swords who fell
And this you call Corporal was reborn only to die,
A new bridge forged between you and me, good sir.’
They turn then on their unbreathing mounts
To review the ranks arrayed in grainy mass on the plain
Onward to war from where and what they had once been
When all that was known is all that one knows again
And in this place the heather never blooms
The blood to be spilled never spills and never flows
Iskar Jarak, Bird That Steals, sits astride a black horse
And looks to command once more
Sword and Shield
Fisher kel Tath
Bliss on a sun-warmed sandy beach, on a remote island, proves tedious to souls habituated to stimulation and excitement. The smaller the island, the faster the scene palls. So Gruntle concluded after completing his thirtieth circle round the white rim of the shore, finding himself fascinated by his own footprints, especially when a new set arrived to track his path. Dulled and insensate as he had become, it was a moment before it occurred to him to halt and turn round, to see the one who now followed.
Master Quell was sweating, gasping, fighting through the soft sand as he probably fought through all of life, one wheezing step at a time. He was sunburned on one side of his body, face and neck, bared forearm, ankle and foot, the result of falling asleep in an unwise position. That he had been pursuing Gruntle for some time was clear in that his footprints completed an entire circumambulation, leaving Gruntle to wonder why the man had not simply called out to capture his attention. Indeed, if Gruntle had not noticed the new trail upon his own, they might well have gone round all day, one pursuing, the other simply walking at a pace the pursuer could not achieve.
‘A simple shout,’ he said as the man drew closer.
‘I did not, uh, want, uh, to call undue attention, uh, upon us.’
‘You do not sound well.’
‘I need to pee.’
‘Then—’
‘I can’t. Well, I can, but intermittently. Generally when I’m not, er, thinking about it.’
‘Ah. A healer could—’
‘Yes, yes, I know. Never mind that. Listen—’
‘Master Quell,’ said Gruntle, ‘this was not the way to avoid undue attention – everyone else is sitting right there in the shade of the carriage, and they have been watching us for some time. Me, at least. Why, the Bole brothers wave to me with every pass I make.’
They both glanced over and, sure enough, Jula and Amby waved.
Master Quell rubbed at his bicolour red and pasty face. ‘I need an escort.’
‘For what? To where?’
‘Back to the realm of the dead. No, not in the carriage. Just you and me, Gruntle. I need to get a sense of what’s going on. We need to just, er, slip in. A quick look round, then back out.’
‘And then?’
Quell’s brows lifted. ‘Then? Well, we resume our journey, of course.’
‘You want me to escort you into Hood’s realm, as what, your bodyguard?’
The man bristled slightly. ‘The shareholder agreement you have made with the Guild includes discretionary tasks as assigned by the Pilot.’
Gruntle shrugged. ‘I was but wondering, Master Quell, what possible use I could be, given that the realm is awash with rabid masses of miserable corpses.’
‘I said we’d go in quiet!’ ‘We could ask the passenger we picked up back there.’
‘What? Oh, is he still here?’
‘Under the palm trees.’
‘Under them? Only a dead man could be so stupid. Fine, let’s see what we can find out – but I still need to see some things for myself.’
The rest of the crew, along with Mappo, watched them walk over to the twin palm trees, edging into their shade to stand – nervously – before the gaunt, withered undead who was piling up coconuts into pyramids like catapult ammunition. Even as he worked, unmindful of his new guests, another nut thumped heavily on the sand nearby, making both Gruntle and Quell flinch.
‘You,’ said Quell.
The ghastly face peered up with shrunken eyes. ‘Do you like these? Patterns. I like patterns.’
‘Happy for you,’ Quell muttered. ‘How long have you been dead?’
‘How long is a taproot?’
‘What? Well, show it to me and I’ll guess.’
‘It’s three times the length of the above ground stalk. In the baraka shrub, anyway. Does the ratio hold for other plants? Should we find out?’
‘No. Later, I mean. Look, you were marching with all the rest in Hood’s realm. Why? Where were you all going? Or coming from? Was it Hood himself who summoned you? Does he command all the dead now?’
‘Hood never commands.’
‘That’s what I thought, but—’
‘Yet now he has.’
Quell’s eyes widened. ‘He has?’
‘How wide is the sky? How deep is the ocean? I think about these things, all the time.’
Gruntle noted the Master gaping, like a beached fish, and so he asked, ‘What was your name when you were alive, sir?’
‘My name? I don’t recall. Being alive, I mean. But I must have been, once. My name is Cartographer.’
‘That sounds more like a profession.’
The corpse scratched his forehead, flakes of skin fluttering down. ‘It does. An extraordinary coincidence. What were my parents thinking?’
‘Perhaps you are but confused. Perhaps you were a cartographer, trained in the making of maps and such.’
‘Then it was wise that they named me so, wasn’t it? Clever parents.’
‘What did Hood command of you, Cartographer?’
‘Well, he said “Come” and nothing more. It wasn’t a command to create confusion, or arguments regarding interpretation. A simple command. Even dogs understand it, I believe. Dogs and sharks. I have found seventeen species of shellfish on this beach. Proof that the world is round.’
Another nut thudded in the sand.
‘We are perturbing this island with our presence,’ said the cartographer. ‘The trees are so angry they’re trying to kill us. Of course, I am already dead.’ He climbed to his feet, bits falling away here and there, and brushed sand and skin from his hands. ‘Can we go now?’
‘Yes,’ said Master Quell, though his eyes were still a little wild. ‘We’re going back to Hood’s realm and we’re happy to take you with us.’
‘Oh, no, I’m not going back there. It’s not time.’
‘Yes it is and yes you are,’ said Master Quell.
‘No it isn’t and no I’m not. Hood issued a second command, one just to me. He said “Go” and so I did. It’s not time. Until it is, I’m staying with you.’
‘Everyone who rides the carriage,’ Quell said in a growl, ‘has to work for the privilege.’
‘Yes, and I have begun.’ And he gestured down at the coconut pyramids. ‘You have netting bundled to the
sides of the carriage, presumably to hold people on board. If we are to cross water, then we should place these nuts within said netting. As flotation devices, in case someone is washed overboard.’ He made a heaving motion with his emaciated arms. ‘With a line attached for retrieval.’
‘That might work,’ said Gruntle.
‘Gods below,’ Master Quell muttered. ‘Fine, I’m not arguing with a dead man. Gruntle, draw your weapons. We’re going now.’
‘My weapons?’
‘Just in case. And now, no more damned talking back!’
Quell fashioned a portal into Hood’s warren that was but a thin, elongated slice, like a parting of curtains, from which cool lifeless breath gusted out, sweeping the sand into the air. Eyes stinging, Gruntle glanced back just before following the mage into the rent. And saw Amby and Jula wave.
They emerged on the summit of a hill, one of a long spine of hills, each one so similar to the next that they might be enormous barrows – although why there would be barrows in the realm of death Gruntle could not imagine.
In the valley before them the broad basin was a solid river of grey figures, tens of thousands on the march. Ragged pennons hung from standards as if impervious to the moaning wind. Weapons glinted in muted flashes.
‘Gods below,’ muttered Quell. ‘He’s assembling the entire host.’
‘Looks that way,’ agreed Gruntle, feeling like an idiot with his cutlasses in his hands. He slid them back into the under-slung scabbards. ‘Do we make our way down?’
‘I’d rather not.’
‘Good. Seen enough? Can we go now, Master Quell?’
‘Look, a rider approaches.’
The horse was clearly as dead as the man who rode it, gaunt and withered, mottled where hair had worn off. Both wore armour, boiled leather tarnished and cracked, flapping on frayed leather thongs as they climbed the slope. A ragged cape lifted like a tattered wing behind the warrior. As they drew closer, Gruntle swore under his breath. ‘He’s wearing a mask – he’s a damned Seguleh!’ And he reached for his weapons—
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