She felt a casual shrug in his reply.
Anomander Rake, Draconus, Osric, a handful of others. And now you. Forgive me, Lady Envy, I have no wish to be a tyrant. My presence within the warrens has ever been passive—you are free to do as you choose, as is every other creature who swims my immortal blood. I have but one excuse, if you will. This Crippled God, this stranger from an unknown realm… Lady Envy, I am frightened.
A chill stole through her as the words sank into her mind.
K'rul continued after a moment. We have lost allies in our foolishness. Dassem Ultor, who was broken by Hood's taking of his daughter at the Time of the Chaining—this was a devastating blow. Dassem Ultor, the First Sword reborn—
'Do you think,' she asked slowly, 'that Hood would have taken her for the Chaining, had I answered the summons?' Am I, she wondered, to blame for Dassem Ultor's loss?
Hood alone could answer that question, Lady Envy. And he'd likely lie, in any case. Dassem, his Champion—Dessembrae—had grown to rival his power. There is little value in worrying such questions, beyond the obvious lesson that inaction is a deadly choice. Consider: from Dassem's fall, a mortal empire now totters on the edge of chaos. From Dassem's fall, the Shadow Throne found a new occupant. From Dassem's fall… ah, well, the tumbling dominoes are almost countless. It is done.
'What is it you wish of me, now, K'rul?'
There was need. To show you the vastness of the threat. This Pannion Domin is but a fragment of the whole, yet you must lead my chosen into its very heart.
'And once there? Am I a match for the power that resides there?' Perhaps, but that is a path it may prove unwise to take, Lady Envy. I shall trust in your judgement, and in that of others, unwitting and otherwise. Indeed, you may well choose to cut the knot that is at the heart of the Domin. Or, you may find a way to loosen it, to free all that has been bound for three hundred thousand years.
'Very well, we shall play it as it comes. What joy! I can leave now? I so long to return to the others, to Toc the Younger in particular. He's a darling, isn't he?'
Take great care of him, Lady. The scarred and the flawed are what the Crippled God seeks in his servants. I shall endeavour to keep Toc's soul from the Chained One's grasp, but, please, maintain your guard. Also… there is something else to that man, something… wild. We shall have to await its awakening before understanding comes to us, however. Oh, one last thing… 'Yes?'
Your party nears the Domin's territory. When you return to them, you must not attempt your warren in an effort to hasten your journey. 'Why?'
Within the Pannion Domin, Lady, my blood is poisoned. It is a poison you can defeat, but Toc the Younger cannot.
Garath awoke, rose and stretched before her. K'rul was gone.
'Oh my,' Lady Envy whispered, suddenly soaked in sweat. 'Poisoned. By the Abyss… I need a bath. Come, Garath, let us go collect the Third. Shall I awaken him with a kiss?'
The dog glanced over at her.
'Twin scars on his mask, and the imprint of painted lips! Would he be the Fourth, then, or the Fifth? How do they count lips, do you think? One upper, one lower, or both together? Let's find out.'
Dust and the dark swirl of sorcery rose beyond the hills directly ahead.
'Shield Anvil,' Farakalian said, 'have our allies already sprung a trap?'
Itkovian frowned. 'I do not know. No doubt we shall discover the truth when they elect to reappear and inform us.'
'Well,' the soldier muttered, 'that is a fight before us. An ugly one, by the looks of the magic unleashed.'
'I'll not argue that observation, sir,' the Shield Anvil replied. 'Riders, re-form as inverted crescent, hands to weapons. Slow trot to first line-of-sight.'
The decimated wing fell into formation, rode on.
They were close to the trader road, now, Itkovian judged. If a caravan had been hit by some of these K'Chain Che'Malle, the outcome was foregone. A caravan with an attendant mage or two might well make a fight of it, and from the brimstone stench that now wafted towards them, the latter circumstance seemed the likeliest.
As they approached a rise, a row of T'lan Imass emerged to stand along its crest, backs to Itkovian and his riders. The Shield Anvil counted a dozen. Perhaps the rest were busy with the battle—still beyond his line of sight. He saw the Bonecaster Pran Chole and angled his new horse in the undead shaman's direction.
They reached the rise. The sorcerous detonations had ceased, all sounds of battle fading away.
The trader road ran below. Two carriages had made up the caravan, one much larger than the other. Both had been destroyed, ripped apart. Splintered wood, plush padding and clothes lay strewn on all sides. On a low hill off to the right lay three figures, the ground blackened around them. None moved. Eight more bodies were visible around the wagons, only two conscious—black-chain-armoured men slowly regaining their feet.
These details registered only briefly on the Shield Anvil's senses. Wandering among the dismembered corpses of five K'Chain Che'Malle hunters were hundreds of huge, gaunt wolves—with pitted eyes that were a match to those of the T'lan Imass.
Studying the silent, terrifying creatures, Itkovian spoke to Pran Chole. 'Are these… yours, sir?'
The Bonecaster at his side shrugged. 'Gone from our company for a time. T'lan Ay often accompany us, but are not bound to us… beyond the Ritual itself.' He was silent for a long moment, then continued, 'We had thought them lost. But it seems that they too have heard the summons. Three thousand years since our eyes last rested upon the T'lan Ay.'
Itkovian finally looked down on the undead shaman. 'Is that a hint of pleasure in your voice, Pran Chole?'
'Yes. And sorrow.'
'Why sorrow? From the looks of it, these T'lan Ay took not a single loss against these K'Chain Che'Malle. Four, five hundred… against five. Swift destruction.'
The Bonecaster nodded. 'Their kind are skilled at defeating large beasts. My sorrow arises from a flawed mercy, mortal. At the First Gathering, our misplaced love for the ay—these few that remained—led us onto a cruel path. We chose to include them in the Ritual. Our selfish needs were a curse. All that made the flesh and blood ay honourable, proud creatures was taken away. Now, like us, they are husks, plagued by dead memories.'
'Even undead, they have majesty,' Itkovian acknowledged. 'As with you.'
'Majesty in the T'lan Ay, yes. Among the T'lan Imass? No, mortal. None.'
'We differ in opinion, then, Pran Chole.' Itkovian turned to address his soldiers. 'Check the fallen.'
The Shield Anvil rode down to the two chain-clad men, who now stood together beside the remnants of the larger of the two carriages. Their ringed armour was in tatters. Blood leaked from them, forming sodden pools at their feet. Something about the two men made Itkovian uneasy, but he pushed the emotion away.
The bearded one swung to face the Shield Anvil as he reined in before them. 'I bid you welcome, warrior,' he said, his accent strange to Itkovian's ears. 'Extraordinary events, just past.'
Despite his inner discipline, his unease deepened. None the less, he managed an even tone as he said, 'Indeed, sir. I am astonished, given the attention the K'ell Hunters evidently showed you two, that you are still standing.'
'We are resilient individuals, in truth.' His flat gaze scanned the ground beyond the Shield Anvil. 'Alas, our companions were found lacking in such resources.'
Farakalian, having conferred with the soldiers crouched among the fallen, now rode towards Itkovian.
'Shield Anvil. Of the three Barghast on the hill, one lies dead. The other two are injured, but will survive with proper ministration. Of the rest, only one breathes no more. An array of injuries to attend to. Two may yet die, sir. None of the survivors has yet regained consciousness. Indeed, each seems in unusually deep sleep.'
Itkovian glanced at the bearded man. 'Do you know more of this unnatural sleep, sir?'
'I am afraid not.' He faced Farakalian. 'Sir, among the survivors, can you include a tall, lean, somew
hat elderly man, and a shorter, much older one?'
'I can. The former, however, hovers at the gates.'
'We'd not lose him, if at all possible.'
Itkovian spoke, 'Soldiers of the Grey Swords are skilled in the art of healing, sir. They shall endeavour to the best of their abilities, and no more can be asked of them.'
'Of course. I am… distraught.'
'Understood.' The Shield Anvil addressed Farakalian: 'Draw on the Destriant's power if necessary.'
'Yes, sir.'
He watched the man ride off.
'Warrior,' the bearded man said, 'I am named Bauchelain, and my companion here is Korbal Broach. I must ask, these undead servants of yours—four-footed and otherwise—'
'Not servants, Bauchelain. Allies. These are T'lan Imass. The wolves, T'lan Ay.'
'T'lan Imass,' the one named Korbal Broach whispered in a reedy thin voice, his eyes suddenly bright as he stared at the figures on the ridge. 'Undead, born of the greatest necromantic ritual there has ever been! I would speak with them!' He swung to Bauchelain. 'May I? Please?'
'As you wish,' Bauchelain replied with an indifferent shrug.
'A moment,' Itkovian said. 'You both bear wounds that require attending to.'
'No need, Shield Anvil, though I thank you for your concern. We heal… swiftly. Please, concentrate on our companions. Now, that is odd—our beasts of burden and sundry horses are untouched—do you see? Fortunate indeed, once I complete my repairs to our carriage.'
Itkovian studied the wreckage to which Bauchelain now swung his attention.
Repairs? 'Sir, we return to Capustan immediately. There will be no time to spare effecting… repairs… to your carriage.'
'I shall not be long, I assure you.'
A shout from the ridge pulled the Shield Anvil round, in time to see Korbal Broach flying backwards from a backhanded blow—delivered by the Bonecaster Pran Chole. The man struck the slope, rolled down to its base.
Bauchelain sighed. 'He lacks manners, alas,' he said, eyes on his companion, who was slowly regaining his feet. 'The price of a sheltered, nay, isolated childhood. I hope the T'lan Imass are not too offended. Tell me, Shield Anvil, do these undead warriors hold grudges?'
Itkovian allowed himself a private smile. You can ask that of the next Jaghut we happen across. 'I wouldn't know, sir.'
From the ruins of the smaller carriage, three wide travois were cobbled together. The T'lan Imass fashioned leather harnesses for the undead ay chosen to pull them. The caravan's collection of horses went under the care of Farakalian and the recruit.
Itkovian watched Korbal Broach lead the oxen back to the rebuilt carriage. The Shield Anvil found his gaze avoiding the contraption; the details in the mending made his skin crawl. Bauchelain had elected to use the various bones of the dismembered K'Chain Che'Malle hunters in the reconstruction. Sorcerously melded into the carriage's frame, the bones formed a bizarre skeleton, which Bauchelain then covered with swathes of grey, pebbled skin. The effect was horrific.
Yet no more so than the carriage's owners, I suspect…
Pran Chole appeared at the Shield Anvil's side. 'Our preparations are complete, soldier.'
Itkovian nodded, then said in a low voice, 'Bonecaster, what do you make of these two sorcerers?'
'The unmanned one is insane, yet the other is the greater threat. They are not welcome company, Shield Anvil.'
'Unmanned?' Itkovian's eyes narrowed on Korbal Broach. 'A eunuch. Yes, of course. They are necromancers?'
'Yes. The unmanned one plies the chaos on the edge of Hood's realm. The other has more arcane interests—a summoner, of formidable power.'
'We cannot abandon them, none the less.'
'As you wish.' The Bonecaster hesitated, then said, 'Shield Anvil, the injured mortals are, one and all, dreaming.'
'Dreaming?'
'A familiar flavour,' the T'lan Imass said. 'They are being… protected. I look forward to their awakening, in particular the priest. Your soldiers displayed considerable skill in healing.'
'Our Destriant is High Denul—we are able to draw on his power in times of need, though I imagine his mood is dark at the moment. Exhausted, knowing that healing has occurred, but little else. Karnadas dislikes uncertainty. As does the Mortal Sword, Brukhalian.' He gathered his reins, straightened in the saddle. 'The eunuch has completed his task. We may now proceed. We shall ride through the night, sir, greeting the dawn at Capustan's gates.'
'And the presence of the T'lan Imass and T'lan Ay?' Pran Chole enquired.
'Hidden, if you please. Excepting those ay pulling the travois. They shall lead their charges through the city and into the compound in our barracks.'
'And you have reason for this, Shield Anvil?'
Itkovian nodded.
The sun low at their backs, the entourage set off.
Hands folded on his lap, the Destriant looked upon Prince Jelarkan with deep sympathy. No, more than that, given the man's obvious exhaustion… empathy. Karnadas's head pounded behind his eyes. His Denul warren felt hollow, coated with ash. Were he to have left his hands on the tabletop, their tremble would have been obvious.
Behind him, the Mortal Sword paced.
Itkovian and two wings rode the plain to the west, and something had happened. Concern echoed in every restless step at the Destriant's back.
The prince of Capustan's eyes were squeezed shut, fingers kneading his temples beneath the circlet of cold-hammered copper that was his crown. Twenty-two years old, his lined, drawn face could have belonged to a man of forty. His shaved pate revealed the scatter of moles that marked his royal line, as if he had been sprayed in blood that had since dried and grown dark. After a long sigh, the prince spoke. 'The Mask Council will not be swayed, Mortal Sword. They insist that their Gidrath occupy the outlying strongpoints.'
'Those fortifications will become isolated once the siege begins, Prince,' Brukhalian rumbled.
'I know. We both know. Isolated, dismantled, every soldier within slaughtered… then raped. The priests fancy themselves master strategists in warfare. A religious war, after all. The temples' own elite warriors must strike the first blows.'
'No doubt they will,' Brukhalian said. 'And little else.'
'And little else. Perhaps corridors, a series of sorties to effect a withdrawal—'
'Costing yet more lives, Prince, and likely to fail. My soldiers will not be party to suicide. And please, do not attempt to impose your will on me in this. We are contracted to hold the city. In our judgement, the best means of doing so are with maintaining the walls. The redoubts have always been a liability—they will serve the enemy better than they will serve us, as headquarters, defensible rallying positions. The Gidrath will be handing them fortifications in the killing ground. Once siege weapons are stationed there, we shall suffer ceaseless bombardment.'
'The Mask Council does not expect the strongpoints to fall, Mortal Sword. Nailed to that particular belief, all your stated fears are irrelevant, as far as they are concerned.'
There was silence, apart from Brukhalian's uncharacteristic pacing. The prince looked up finally, brown eyes following the Mortal Sword's catlike padding. Jelarkan frowned, then sighed and pushed himself to his feet. 'I need leverage, Mortal Sword. Find it for me, and quickly.' He swung about and strode to the chamber's doors, where waited his two bodyguards.
As soon as the massive doors closed behind the prince, Brukhalian spun to Karnadas. 'Do they continue to draw on your powers, sir?'
The Destriant shook his head. 'Not for some time, now, since shortly after the prince's unexpected visit. In any case, sir, they have taken all I possess, and it will be days before I fully recover.'
Brukhalian released a long, slow breath. 'Well, the risk of a skirmish was recognized. From this, we must conclude that the Pannion has sent forces across the river. The question is, how many?'
'Sufficient to maul two wings, it seems.'
'Then Itkovian should have avoided engagement.'
Karnadas studied the Mortal Sword. 'Unworthy, sir. The Shield Anvil understands caution. If avoidance was possible, he would have done so.'
'Aye,' Brukhalian growled. 'I know.'
Voices at the compound's outer gates reached through to the two men. Hooves clapped on the cobbles.
Sudden tension filled the chamber, yet neither man spoke.
The doors swung open and they turned to see Itkovian's outrider, Sidlis. The soldier took two steps into the room, then halted and tilted her head. 'Mortal Sword. Destriant. I bring word from the Shield Anvil.' 'You have seen battle, sir,' Brukhalian murmured.
'We have. A moment, sirs.' Sidlis swung about and softly shut the doors. She faced the commander and priest. 'Demonic servants of the Pannion Seer are present on the plain,' she said. 'We came upon one and closed with it. The tactics employed should have sufficed, and the damage we delivered was severe and flawlessly executed. The beast, however, was undead—an animated corpse, and this discovery came too late for disengagement. It was virtually impervious to the wounds we delivered. Nevertheless, we succeeded in destroying the demon, though at great cost.'
'Outrider Sidlis,' Karnadas said, 'the battle you describe must have occurred some time past—else you would not be here—yet the demands on my powers of healing have but just ended.'
Sidlis frowned. 'The survivors of the engagement did not require a drawing of your powers, sir. If I may, I will complete the tale, and perhaps further clarification will become… available.'
Raising an eyebrow at the awkward reply, Brukhalian rumbled, 'Proceed.'
'Upon the destruction of the demon, we regrouped, only to find that four additional demons had arrived.'
The Destriant winced. How, then, are any of you left breathing?
'At that moment, to our fortune,' Sidlis continued, 'unexpected allies arrived. The undead demons were one and all swiftly destroyed. The issue of said alliance of course needs formalization. For the moment, it is the recognition of a common enemy that yielded the combined efforts—which I believe continue at this moment, with the Shield Anvil and the troop riding in the company of our propitious companions, their intent to extend the hunt for more of these fell demons.'
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