Dust of Dreams

by Steven Erikson

  Pully was watching him. ‘Can’t ride through the wards!’

  ‘I don’t mean to,’ he replied, gathering the reins.

  The witch stared, baffled. ‘Then where?’

  Yedan chewed for a time, and then brought his horse round to face the nearest hills.

  Pully shrieked and then leapt to block his path. ‘Not off the road, ya fool!’

  ‘When I return,’ he said, ‘you will have her awake.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid! They might not find us at all!’

  He thought about dismounting, walking up and cuffing her. Instead, he simply stared down at her, and then said in a low voice, ‘Now who is being the fool, witch? I go to meet them, and if need be, I will slow them down. Long enough for you to get my sister back on her feet.’

  ‘And then we wait for you?’

  ‘No. As soon as she is able, you will leave this realm. This time,’ he added, ‘you will help her. You and Skwish.’

  ‘Of course! We was just careless.’

  ‘When my troop arrives, inform my sergeant that they are to defend the Queen. Detail them to surround the tent—do not overcrowd them with your wards, witch.’

  ‘Hold to yourself, Witchslayer,’ said Pully. ‘Hold tight—if your mind wanders, for e’en an instant—’

  ‘I know,’ Yedan replied.

  She moved to one side, then stepped close and set a hand upon the gelding’s head. ‘This one should do,’ she muttered with eyes closed. ‘Wilful, fearless. Keep it collected—’

  ‘Of that I know far more than you, witch.’

  Sighing, she edged back. ‘A commander does not leave his command. A prince does not leave his people.’

  ‘This one does.’

  He kicked his horse into motion. Hoofs thumped on to the hard-packed ground beyond the road.

  This was dependent on his sister reviving—enough to lead them away from this infernal place—a prince must choose when he is expendable. Yedan understood the risk. If she did not awaken. If she died, then well and truly his leaving had damned his people—but then, if his sister did not recover, and quickly, then the entire column was doomed anyway. Yes, he could let his own blood, and the witches could take hold of it and do what must be done—but they would also try to enslave him—they could not help it, he knew. He was a man and they were women. Such things simply were. The greater danger was that they would lose control of the power in their hands—two witches, even ancient, formidable ones, were not enough. Ten or twenty were needed in the absence of a Queen to fashion a simulacrum of the necessary focus demanded upon the Road of Gallan. No, he could not rely on Pully and Skwish.

  Skwish came up alongside her sister witch. They watched Yedan Derryg riding up the slope of the first hill. ‘That’s bad, Pully. A prince does not—’

  ‘This one does. Listen, Skwish, we got to be careful now.’

  Skwish held up the snake tube. ‘If we left her t’ jus live or die like we planned afirst—’

  ‘He’ll know—he will cut her open an check.’

  ‘He ain’t comin’ back—’

  ‘Then we do need ’er alive, don we? We can’t use ’im like we planned—he’s too ken—he won’t let us take ’im—I lookt up inta his eyes, him on that ’orse, Skwish. His eyes an his eyes, an so I tell ya, he’s gonna be bad turble if he comes back.’

  ‘He won’t. An’ we can keep ’er weak, weak enough, I mean—’

  ‘Too risky. She needs t’get us out. We can try something later, once we’re all safe—we can take ’em down then. The one left or e’en both. But not this time, Skwish. Now, best go an feed ’er something. Start with wine, that’ll loosen ’er throat.’

  ‘I know what I’m about, Pully, leave off.’

  The gelding had a broad back, making for a comfortable ride. Yedan rode at a canter. Ahead, the hills thickened with scrub, and beyond was a forest of white trees, branches like twisted bones, leaves so dark as to be almost black. Just before them and running the length of the wooded fringe rose dolmens of grey granite, their edges grooved and faces pitted with cup-shaped, ground-out depressions. Each stone was massive, twice the height of a grown man, and crowding the foot of each one that he could see were skulls.

  He slowed his mount, reined in a half-dozen paces from the nearest standing stone. Sat motionless, flies buzzing round the horse’s flickering ears, and studied those grisly offerings. Cold judgement was never short of pilgrims. Alas, true justice had no reason to respect secrets, as those close-fisted pilgrims had clearly discovered. A final and fatal revelation.

  Minute popping sounds in the air announced the approach of dread power, as the buzzing flies ignited in mid-flight, black bodies bursting like acorns in a fire. The horse shied slightly, muscles growing taut beneath Yedan, and then snorted in sudden fear.

  ‘Hold,’ Yedan murmured, his voice calming the beast.

  Those of the royal line among the Shake possessed ancient knowledge, memories thick as blood. Tales of ancient foes, sworn enemies of the uncertain Shore. More perhaps than most, the Shake rulers understood that a thing could be both one and the other, or indeed neither. Sides possessed undersides and even those terms were suspect. Language itself stuttered in the face of such complexities, such rampant subtleties of nature.

  In this place, however, the blended flavours of compassion were anathema to the powers that ruled.

  Yet the lone figure that strode out from the forest was so unexpected that Yedan Derryg grunted as if he had been punched in the chest. ‘This realm is not yours,’ he said, fighting to control his horse.

  ‘This land is consecrated for adjudication,’ the Forkrul Assail said. ‘I am named Repose. Give me your name, seeker, that I may know you—’

  ‘Before delivering judgement upon me?’

  The tall, ungainly creature, naked and weaponless, cocked his head. ‘You are not alone. You and your followers have brought discord to this land. Do not delay me—you cannot evade what hides within you. I shall be your truth.’

  ‘I am Yedan Derryg.’

  The Forkrul Assail frowned. ‘This yields me no ingress—why is that? How is it you block me, mortal?’

  ‘I will give you that answer,’ Yedan replied, slipping down from the horse. He drew his sword.

  Repose stared at him. ‘Your defiance is useless.’

  Yedan advanced on him. ‘Is it? But, how can you know for certain? My name yields you no purchase upon my soul. Why is that?’

  ‘Explain this, mortal.’

  ‘My name is meaningless. It is my title that holds my truth. My title, and my blood.’

  The Forkrul Assail shifted his stance, lifting his hands. ‘One way or another, I will know you, mortal.’

  ‘Yes, you will.’

  Repose attacked, his hands a blur. But those deadly weapons cut empty air, as Yedan was suddenly behind the Forkrul Assail, sword chopping into the back of the creature’s elongated legs, the iron edge cutting between each leg’s two hinged knees, severing the buried tendons—Repose toppled forward, arms flailing.

  Yedan chopped down a second time, cutting off the Assail’s left arm. Blue, thin blood sprayed on to the ground.

  ‘I am Shake,’ Yedan said, raising his sword once more. ‘I am the Watch.’

  The sudden hiss from Repose was shortlived, as Yedan’s sword took off the top of the Forkrul Assail’s head.

  He wasted little time. He could hear the pounding of hoofs. Vaulting on to his horse’s back, he collected the reins in one hand and, still, gripping his blue-stained sword, wheeled the beast round.

  Five Tiste Liosan were charging towards him, lances levelled.

  Yedan Derryg drove his horse straight for them.

  These were scouts, he knew. They would take him down and then send one rider back to gather a punitive army—they would then ride to the column. Where they would slaughter everyone. These were the ones he had been expecting.

  The line of standing stones lay to Yedan’s left. At the last moment before the
gap between him and the Tiste Liosan closed, Yedan dragged his horse in between two of the stones. He heard a lance shatter and then snarls of frustration as the troop thundered past. The gelding responded with alacrity as he guided it back through the line, wheeling to come up behind the nearest Tiste Liosan—the one who’d snapped his lance on one of the dolmens and who was now reaching for his sword even as he reined in.

  Yedan’s sword caught beneath the rim of his enamelled helm, slicing clean through his neck. The decapitated head spun to one side, cracking against a dolmen.

  The Watch slapped the flat of his blade on the white horse’s rump, launching it forward in a lunge, and then, driving his heels into his own horse’s flanks, he pulled into the other horse’s wake.

  The remaining four Liosan had wheeled in formation, out and away from the standing stones, and were now gathering for a second charge.

  Their fallen comrade’s horse galloped straight for them, forcing the riders to scatter once more.

  Yedan chose the Liosan nearest the dolmens, catching the man before he could right his lance. A crossways slash severed the scout’s right arm halfway between the shoulder and elbow, the edge cutting into and snapping ribs as Yedan’s horse carried him past the shrieking warrior.

  A savage yank on the reins brought him up alongside another scout. He saw the woman’s eyes as she twisted round in her saddle, heard her snarled curse, before he drove the point of his sword into the small of her back, punching between the armour’s plates along the laced seam.

  His arm was twisted painfully as in her death roll she momentarily trapped his sword, but he managed to tear the weapon free.

  The other two riders were shouting to each other, and one pulled hard away from the fight, setting heels to his horse. The last warrior brought his mount round and lowered his lance.

  Yedan urged his gelding into a thundering charge, but at an angle away from his attacker—in the direction of the fleeing scout. An instant’s assessment told him he would not catch the man. Instead he lifted himself upward, knees anchored tight to either side of the gelding’s spine. Drew back his arm and threw his sword.

  The point slammed up and under the rider’s right arm, driven a hand’s breadth between his ribs, deep enough to sink into the lung. He toppled from his horse.

  The last rider arrived, coming at Yedan from an angle. Yedan twisted to hammer aside the lashing blade of the lance, feeling it cleave through his vambrace and then score deep into the bones of his wrist. Pain seared up his arm.

  He dragged his horse into the rider’s wake—the Liosan was pulling up. A mistake. Yedan caught up to him and flung himself on to the man’s back, dragging him from the saddle.

  There was a satisfying snap of a bone as the Watch landed atop the warrior. He brought his good hand up and round to the Liosan’s face, thumb digging into one eye socket and fingers closing like talons on the upper lip and nose. He jammed his wounded arm with its loosened vambrace into the man’s mouth, forcing open the jaws.

  Hands tore at him, but feebly, as Yedan forced his thumb deeper, in as far as it could go, then angled it upwards—but he failed to reach the brain. He got on to his knees, lifting the Liosan’s head by hooking his embedded thumb under the ridge of the brow. And then he forced it round, twisting even as he pressed down with his bloodied, armoured arm jammed across the man’s mouth. Joints popped, the jaw swung loose, and then, as the Liosan’s body thrashed in a frenzy, the vertebrae parted and the warrior went limp beneath him.

  Yedan struggled to his feet.

  He saw the scout with the punctured lung attempting to clamber back on to his horse. Collecting a lance, Yedan strode over. He used the haft to knock the warrior away from the horse, sending the man sprawling, and then stepped up and set the point against the Liosan’s chest. Staring down into the man’s terror-filled eyes, he pushed down on the lance, using all his weight. The armour’s enamel surface crazed, and then the point punched through.

  Yedan pushed harder, twisting and grinding the serrated blade into the Liosan’s chest.

  Until he saw the light leave the warrior’s eyes.

  After making certain the others were dead, he bound his wounded arm, retrieved his sword and then the surviving lances and long-knives from the corpses, along with the helms. Rounding up the horses and tying them to a staggered lead, he set out at a canter back the way he had come.

  He was a prince of the Shake, with memories in the blood.

  Yan Tovis opened her eyes. Shadowed figures slid back and forth above her and to the sides—she could make no sense of them, nor of the muted voices surrounding her—voices that seemed to come from the still air itself. She was sheathed in sweat.

  Tent walls—ah, and the shadows were nothing more than silhouettes. The voices came from outside. She struggled to sit up, the wounds on her wrists stinging as the sutures stretched. She frowned down at them, trying to recall . . . things. Important things.

  The taste of blood, stale, the smell of fever—she was weak, lightheaded, and there was . . . danger.

  Heart thudding, she forced her way through the entrance, on her hands and knees, the world spinning round her. Bright, blinding sunlight, scorching fires in the sky—two, three, four—four suns!

  ‘Highness!’

  She sat back on her haunches, squinted up as a figure loomed close. ‘Who?’

  ‘Sergeant Trope, Highness, in Yedan’s company. Please, crawl no further, the witches—there’re wards, all round, Highness. All round you. A moment, the witches are on their way.’

  ‘Help me up. Where’s my brother?’

  ‘He rode out, Highness. Some time ago. Before the fourth sun rose—and now we’re burning alive—’

  She took his proffered arm and pulled herself on to her feet. ‘Not suns, Sergeant. Attacks.’

  He was a scarred man, face bludgeoned by decades of hard living. ‘Highness?’

  ‘We are under attack—we need to leave here. We need to leave now!’

  ‘O Queen!’ Pully was dancing her way closer, evading the scored lines of the wards encircling the tent. ‘He’s coming back! Witchslayer! We must ready ourselves—drip drip drip some blood, Highness. We brought ya back, me an Skwish an we did. Leave off her, you oaf, let ’er stand!’

  But Yan Tovis held on to the sergeant’s wrist—solid as a rooted tree, and she needed that. She glared at Pully. ‘Drank deep, I see.’

  The witch flinched. ‘Careless, an us all, Queen. But see, the Watch comes—with spare horses, white horses!’

  Yan Tovis said to Trope, ‘Guide me out of these wards, Sergeant.’ And get this pretty witch out of my face.

  She could hear the horses drawing closer, and, from the road, the suffering of thousands of people swept over her in an inundating tide—she almost gagged beneath that deluge.

  ‘Clear, Highness—’

  She straightened. A fifth sun was flaring to life on the horizon. The iron fastenings of Trope’s armour were searing hot and she winced at their touch, but still would not let go of his arm. She felt her skin tightening—We’re being roasted alive.

  Her brother, one arm bound in blood-soaked rags, reined in at the side of the road. Yan Tovis stared at the trailing horses. Liosan horses, yes. That clutch of lances, the sheathed long-knives and cluster of helms. Liosan.

  Skwish and Pully were suddenly there, on the very edge of the road. Pully cackled a laugh.

  Yan Tovis studied her brother’s face. ‘How soon?’ she asked.

  She watched his bearded jaw bunch as he chewed on his answer, before squinting and saying, ‘We have time, Queen.’

  ‘Good,’ she snapped. ‘Witches, attend to me. We begin—not in haste, but we begin.’

  Two young women, scampering and bobbing their heads like the hags they once were. New ambitions, yes, but old, old fears.

  Yan Tovis met Yedan’s eyes once more, and saw that he knew. And was prepared. Witchslayer, mayhap you’re not done with that, before this is all over.

  C
hapter Eleven

  In the first five years of King Tehol the Only’s reign, there were no assassination attempts, no insurrections, no conspiracies of such magnitude as to endanger the crown; no conflicts with neighbouring realms or border tribes. The kingdom was wealthy, justice prevailed, the common people found prosperity and unprecedented mobility.

  That all of this was achieved with but a handful of modest proclamations and edicts makes the situation all the more remarkable.

  Needless to say, dissatisfaction haunted Lether. Misery spread like a plague. No one was happy, the list of complaints as heard on the crowded, bustling streets grew longer with each day that passed.

  Clearly, something had to be done . . .

  LIFE OF TEHOL

  JANATH

  C

  learly,’ said King Tehol, ‘there’s nothing to be done.’ he held up the Akrynnai gift and peered at it for a time, and then sighed.

  ‘No suggestions, sire?’ Bugg asked.

  ‘I’m at a loss. I give up. I keep trying, but I must admit: it’s hopeless. Darling wife?’

  ‘Don’t ask me.’

  ‘Some help you are. Where’s Brys?’

  ‘With his legions, husband. Preparing to march.’

  ‘The man’s priorities are a mess. I remember how our mother despaired.’

  ‘Of Brys?’ Janath asked, surprised.

  ‘Well, no. Me, mostly. Never mind. The issue here is that we’re facing a disaster. One that could scar this nation for generations to come. I need help, and see how none of you here can manage a single useful suggestion. My advisors are even more pathetic than the man they purport to advise. The situation is intolerable.’ He paused, and then frowned over at Bugg. ‘What’s the protocol? Find me that diplomat so I can chase him out of here again—no, wait, send for the emissary.’

  ‘Are you sure, sire?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  Bugg gestured at the gift in the King’s hands. ‘Because we’re no closer to finding a suitable gift in reciprocation.’

  Tehol leaned forward. ‘And why, dear Chancellor, is that?’