CHAPTER IX

Of the semi-mythical lands some know as ‘Jacuruku’, accounts from returned shipwrecked sailors tell of great earthworks and large reservoirs within the boundless tracts of deadly jungle. Such claims, if true, lead one to wonder just who may have constructed such large edifices. Very probably they are the remnants of relatives of our own ancestors who themselves, according to legend, once migrated by ship across the waters in search of other lands. For who else could possess the intelligence, the drive and the determination to conquer such unmitigated wilds?

Authors Various, A History of Mare Shipwrecks and Wanderings


From Golan’s side, Principal Scribe Thorn announced loudly: ‘So, a great river blocks our advance, Magister.’ Golan’s fists, clasping the Rod of Execution behind his back, tightened until they tingled. He noted that he and the scribe stood not a pace from the mud shore of said great river that extended on and on before them as a gently rippling rust-red span many chains across. From the corner of his vision he studied the man for any sign of sarcasm or smirking mockery. Finding no such overt hints on the sallow features, he let go a heavy wondering sigh. ‘Indeed, Principal Scribe. Anything else new to report?’

Undeterred, the man consulted a rolled sheet of fibre paper. ‘Yes, Magister. Losses continue. Losses among the draught and food animals from sickness, wild animal attacks and desertions. Losses among the-’ He broke off as Golan had raised a hand to signal a query.

‘Excuse me, Principal Scribe. But did you say “desertions”?’

‘Yes, lord.’

‘Our draught oxen and mules and our feed cows are deserting us?’

‘Yes, lord.’

‘Our cause is hopeless indeed,’ Golan murmured aside.

Principal Scribe Thorn bowed, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing. ‘Magister, each animal is a member of this Righteous Army of Chastisement. Duly entered and so registered. Should they abandon the column for the wilds without permission or orders then we are required to record them as deserters.’

Golan tapped the blackwood rod in one palm. He raised his brows. ‘Do go on.’

Thorn returned to the scroll. He tapped his feather quill to his chin. ‘The last of the wagons and carts and other such means of transport have been abandoned as undesirable.’

‘Meaning there are not enough men and animals to continue to drag the useless things through the jungle.’

‘Quite so.’

Golan frowned in slight confusion. ‘Yet you say draught animals remain with us — the few who have not fallen to the foaming at the mouth, the walking in circles, these horrifying worm infestations, or this hoof-rot illness.’

‘All remaining animals are being transferred to feed stock.’

‘Ah, ergo the desertions,’ Golan muttered, enlightened.

‘I’m sorry, Magister. Was that new orders?’ Thorn enquired.

‘No. Please do continue.’

Thorn consulted the scroll. ‘Ah! Happily, stores and supplies have been reduced to such a point that all can easily be carried by the remaining bearers.’

‘Encouraging news indeed.’

‘I knew it would please you.’

‘And casualties?’

‘No casualties from enemy actions or resistance reported, Magister.’

‘No casualties? Excellent news.’

The scribe touched the point of his quill to his tongue, which was blackened by the habit. He scribbled on the sheet. ‘I did not say that, lord,’ he murmured into the limp dissolving papers.

‘No? You did not? Go on.’

‘Magister, should present rates of deaths from illness and infections continue, then I am saddened to report that we would all be dead within the month.’

‘Such a report would show admirable dedication given that we would all be dead.’

Principal Scribe Thorn did not raise his eyes from the sheet as he observed mildly, ‘My lord’s sophisticated banter is far beyond his humble servant.’

Damn. Thought I had him there. Point to him. Golan returned to tapping the Rod of Execution behind his back. ‘And no enemy actions whatsoever? Any reports?’

Thorn rummaged through the misshapen bulging bag at his side, withdrew a roll of parchment. ‘No enemy troops, scouts, personnel or forces sighted so far, Magister.’

‘Other than those monsters, who, I am given to understand, are known as her children.’

Thorn peered lower down the sheet. ‘I have them listed under free agents. Would you have me reassign them?’

‘I would not presume to be such a burden.’

The Principal Scribe blinked up at him innocently. ‘We all have our burdens to bear, Magister.’

By the ancients, I walked into that one. Today’s exchange to him. Golan pursed his lips as he studied the river’s sluggish course. ‘Your entry, then, for today?’

Principal Scribe Thorn thrust the scroll into the bag and slipped free another sheet. ‘The glorious Army of Righteous Chastisement continues its advance, crushing all enemies within its path,’ he read.

Golan’s brows rose even higher. ‘Indeed. Crushing them. Beneath the wheels of our immobilized wagons perhaps. Thorn, we have yet to meet any of the enemy.’

‘And are crushing them all the more easily for it.’

Golan tilted his head, considering. ‘True. Their oversight, then. This not showing up business.’

‘Quite.’

Golan slapped his hands together, the rod between. ‘Good. Glad to be informed of our glorious advance. Almost all our stores are rotted or abandoned. Our labour force is more than halved. The sick troops outnumber the hale and we have yet to even meet the enemy. All the while our useless Isturé allies merely wander alongside us. Our fate is obviously assured, Thorn.’

The Principal Scribe beamed. ‘Your unflagging resoluteness is an inspiration, Magister.’

‘An obligation of command, Scribe. Now, if you will excuse me, I really should go and order people about.’

‘The troops breathlessly await, I am sure.’

Golan half turned back, almost meaning to call the scribe on that last observation, but in the face of the man’s bowing and servile smiling he could only nod as if to agree with the sentiment — however it might have been intended. He headed back to the column. Must try another tack. Inscrutable obtuseness, perhaps. No, that would allow him full rein. Deliberate contrary misunderstanding then. Yes. That might gain me some ground.

He waved to waiting officers. ‘Start the labourers building rafts.’

The officers bowed. One dropped to a knee before him. ‘And the troops, Lord Thaumaturg?’

Golan paused, frowned his uncertainty. ‘Yes, what of them?’

Head still bowed, the officer continued, ‘Shall they lend a hand with the preparation of the rafts? It would speed construction greatly.’

‘By the Wise Ancients, no! They’re soldiers, not labourers. Really — ah …’ To his great discomfort Golan realized he had no idea whom he addressed.

‘Sub-commander Waris,’ the man supplied, intuiting Golan’s predicament.

‘Yes, Waris. Really, man. Simply because we are hard pressed here in this barbaric wasteland we mustn’t set aside the distinctions of civilized life.’

‘Of course, Master.’

Golan tapped the Rod of Execution while peering about. ‘Good. Now, set me on my way to the infirmary tents.’ The sub-commander urged forward a trooper.

The ranking surgeon was reluctant to direct Golan onward to where awnings hung over shapes laid side by side on the jungle floor. ‘There is not much time left him,’ the man observed as he wiped the excess blood and gore from his hands and shook them to spatter the trampled grasses and ferns. His apron hung wet with the fluids from his sawing and cutting and this too dripped to the ground. The instruments of his crude trade hung clanking from a belt over his leather apron and were likewise smeared in gore: knives, probes, awls, chisels, and saws of various sizes.

Golan understood that in other cultures these men and women, chirurgeons, doctors, mediciners, call them what you will, were often held in high regard for their knowledge and, presumably, concomitant wisdom. But among the Thaumaturgs they were simply considered skilled labourers, no more important than accomplished seamstresses or glaziers. They merely cut and sewed the flesh. They were no better than carpenters of muscle and bone.

‘All I could do was have him choke down a dose of the poppy and leave him to dream his last hours away in peace.’ The man took up a file that hung from a leather cord looped at his belt and began sharpening the teeth of one of the saws. He frowned at the short instrument, spat upon it, then rubbed it on his apron leaving it — in Golan’s estimation — no cleaner than before. His motions were tired and slow and his eyes were sunk in dark circles. He was clearly exhausted and buried in work.

‘Thank you, surgeon. That is all.’ The man bowed and turned away to return to the operating table where his assistants held the limbs of his current patient. ‘What was it, may I ask?’ Golan added.

‘Infection, blood-poisoning, gangrene,’ the surgeon said, and he gestured to the soldier on the table to indicate that it was all too common. Then he raised the saw and nodded to his assistants. They tensed and the soldier between them sent up a gurgling howl from behind the wide leather gag buckled over his mouth.

Golan headed off, tapping the Rod of Execution behind his back as he walked. Infection. How sad. That one aspect of the flesh that had so far eluded Thaumaturg control. Some theorized that contaminants transferred to the blood whenever it was exposed to the air, as from a wound or puncture. Others insisted that it was an imbalance within the fluids and humours of the body itself. And the human body was a bag of so many such various fluids sloshing and oozing about. Just look at the pancreas and the gall bladder: no one’s even certain what it is they do. The liver flushes the blood; that much has been established with reasonable certitude. But the pancreas? And why in the name of all ancients are there two kidneys? They really must be quite vital.

Yes, Golan reflected, in agreement with the main course of Thaumaturg thinking: the human body was a truly disorganized organism. A monkey assembled by a committee, as one of his instructors once put it in the Academy. Best to attempt to perfect it — as had been the driving purpose of their inquiry through all the ages.

He reached the most isolated of the awnings tied between the trees and knew then viscerally what he’d known intellectually: here was where the dying were sent. The stench of rotting flesh was indescribable. That and the reek of dressings heavy and sodden with pus, and of course the inevitable sewer stink of voided bowels. Fortunately for Golan, his training and conditioning rendered the fetid atmosphere completely irrelevant: one smell was as any other to him. And strikingly, thinking of scents, flower blossoms did lie tucked in here and there among the stricken in luminous splashes of orange and pink. The infirmary workers must be picking them and laying them here and Golan wondered: was it a gesture for the benefit of the dying, or the benefit of the workers?

The dying lay in well-organized files. Officers, troopers and camp followers, male and female, crammed side by side. Golan was disconcerted to find among their numbers here and there common labourers in their plain dirty loincloths, and he frowned, displeased. The surgeons and their assistants appeared to be taking far too egalitarian an approach to their work. He would have to have a word with them — even if he agreed intellectually with the gesture: in the end all men and women were mere bags of blood and bile no different from one another. It was the principle of rank and class that mattered here. Not the underlying truth of commonality, demonstrated so very, well … messily.

Walking the long files of dead and dying he found his man at last and knelt on his haunches next to him: U-Pre, Second in Command. He was pleased to see that the man still lived.

‘U-Pre?’ he urged, peering closer. The wet reek of gangrene hung as thick as cloth here but Golan was untroubled. ‘You are awake?’

The eyelids fluttered open. The head turned and the eyes searched blankly then found his face. Golan noted the pupil dilation of d’bayang poppy. ‘Magister,’ U-Pre breathed, confused. He suddenly appeared stricken and moved an arm weakly as if to rouse himself. ‘My pardon …’

Golan waved a hand. ‘Do not trouble yourself.’ He gave a heavy sigh, nodding at what he saw before him. ‘So … you are dying. I am saddened. I find I relied upon you a great deal.’

‘My apologies, lord,’ U-Pre responded, rather dreamily. ‘For the inconvenience.’

Golan continued his slow thoughtful nod. ‘Yes. This necessity of actually having to give my orders irks me no end. What shall I do?’

U-Pre whispered something too faint for Golan to decipher. ‘I’m sorry? What was that?’

The man’s brows clenched in concentration and he murmured, ‘Sub … commander … Waris …’

‘Of course! Yes. The man has already addressed me. Shows subtlety and anticipation. Excellent choice. My thanks, Second in Command. I knew I could rely upon you.’

U-Pre nodded, easing back in relaxation. Golan crouched, quite patient. He was no stranger to death and its stages. The man’s pulse at his neck and the strength of his inhalations indicated that he possessed some time yet. Ever the scholar of the body, Golan dispassionately noted movement among the far too old crusted dressings round the man’s thigh where one by one pale maggots wiggled free to drop to the ground. And so too shall we all go. Death is the true great leveller. We humans are perhaps no more than ambulant fertilizer due to deposit ourselves at some future unknown time and place.

Chilling thoughts for anyone but a Thaumaturg whose eyes have been opened to the deepest wisdom of the underlying truths of existence. Human so-called dignity, individual identity, achievements and accomplishments, all are as nothing. The present is no more than a sweeping eternal fall into a futurity that none can know. To grasp this is to know profound humility. And profound indifference to one’s fate.

Golan raised the blackwood Rod of Execution and pressed it to his brow. I salute you, good servant. The lesson of your life is … duty and equanimity.

He stood to go. At his feet U-Pre stirred as if alarmed. He plucked at his side with a hand. Golan frowned his puzzlement and crouched once more. ‘Yes? What is it?’

A corner of tattered parchment peeped out from beneath the man. Golan drew it free and recognized the expedition’s journal. He patted U-Pre’s shoulder, noted the searing fevered flesh. ‘Of course. Evidence. Without this it would be as if we never existed, yes? Very good.’ He tucked it under an arm. He touched the rod to his brow once more. ‘Farewell, friend.’

At the shore his yakshaka attendants surrounded him once again. Officers came running up, bowing on one knee. ‘Where is Sub-commander Waris?’ Golan called.

An officer straightened and approached. Golan recognized him as indeed the one who had addressed him earlier. He studied the man’s teakwood-dark face, his narrow eyes, now downturned in respect, the thin dusting of a moustache at his lips, and a mouth that appeared to never give anything away. He wore the standard officer’s leather banded armour, its fittings staining it in rust now. His dark green Thaumaturg surcoat hung in salt-crusted tatters — as did everyone’s.

‘You are now second in command, Waris. Congratulations.’ The man bowed, saying nothing, and thus confirming Golan’s impression of him. He extended the water-stained pages of the journal. ‘The Official Expeditionary Annals. For you to keep now.’ The man raised both hands to receive the string-bound sheets. ‘You spoke to me of the troops lending a hand with the labour. These are dangerous revolutionary ideas you have, Waris. Have a care. However, considering the unusual extremity of our plight, I will allow them to lend a hand. We are behind schedule, as you conscientiously point out.’ He nodded to his second in command. ‘Your proposal carries.’

The man bowed again and backed away, still bent. Five paces off he turned and walked quickly, beckoning the other officers to attend him.

A man of few words. Too few, perhaps.

Glancing about for his litter, Golan glimpsed Principal Scribe Thorn scribbling furiously on his curled sheets, his neck bent like a vulture’s, back hunched, blackened tongue clamped firmly between his crooked grey teeth.

Or perhaps not.

* * *

Every day’s ride brought Prince Jatal and the rag-tag army of the Adwami thrusting ever deeper into Thaumaturg lands, and sank the prince ever further into an uneasy dread. Surely they were fools to believe they could dominate an entire nation with their few thousand horse. Yet the Warleader’s arguments were compelling. Somehow the man swept every debate, seemed to have anticipated every objection. Jatal felt as he had as a youth when facing a master across the troughs table. The man was an extraordinarily gifted tactician. These Thaumaturgs were utterly centralized, he constantly assured the council. Control that centre, he told them, and you controlled the provinces.

Such political and strategic doubts were as nothing, however, compared to the searing agony he inflicted upon himself day and night when his thoughts turned to Andanii. Not since the sack of Isana Pura had she come to his tent and he wondered: was she done with him now that victory beckoned so close? Oh, once perhaps she had needed his cooperation to attain her goals. But now that he was no longer necessary, he was as nothing to her. With such jagged thoughts did he slash himself all through the day and on into the awful unbearable evenings while he thrashed and moaned amid his beddings.

And yet … what of her whispered words of love and devotion when they had lain wrapped in one another’s arms, slick with sweat and deliciously breathless? What of those? How could anyone be that false?

Fool! he berated himself. Look to your brothers! They rejected her. And rightly so. You are the weakling to have succumbed to her seductions. How she must have laughed at you. The eager puppy so easy to train!

Nearly blind to his surroundings, Jatal reeled in the saddle, and was almost unhorsed as his mount jumped to avoid a rut in the stone road. Ganell came abreast and peered closely from under the rim of his scarf-wrapped helmet. ‘You are unwell, Jatal?’ he enquired. ‘Perhaps it is the heat — this interminable ride?’

Sudden fury darkened Jatal’s vision. Does this fat oaf think me too soft? Scholar, he considers me? Philosopher? Unable to keep up?

‘I can ride as hard and long as anyone!’ he snapped.

The chief of the Awamir pulled his fingers through his thick curled beard, his brows rising.

Jatal pressed the sleeve of his robe to his sweaty heated brow. ‘No — my apologies, Ganell. Perhaps it is this quiet. I like it not.’

The big man nodded thoughtfully. ‘Aye. Yet our Warleader says we are moving faster than their armies — for now. If we seize Anditi Pura then they will not know what to do, shorn of their Thaumaturg masters.’

‘So he assures us.’

‘Everything he has predicted, so has it fallen out. Yet he is an outlander. I understand your doubts. And we far outnumber his men.’

Jatal gave his ally a reassuring nod. ‘Yes. Have you seen the princess?’

‘She rides with him now at the van. They are together much these days.’ He pulled at his beard. ‘You do not suspect connivance, do you?’ And he added, musing, ‘Yet with what would she bribe him?’

Ganell missed the sharp narrowed look Jatal shot him. ‘Indeed,’ the prince answered tartly.

‘Three days to Anditi Pura,’ Ganell continued, oblivious of his comrade’s mood. ‘So says our all too imperious Warleader. Then we-’ The big man squinted ahead, raising himself high in his stirrups. ‘What in the name of the Hearth-Goddess …’

Jatal broke off his musings to shade his gaze. Riders returning from far up the road — scouts by the look of them. He heeled Ash to surge ahead. When he arrived at the van the Warleader had already raised his hand for a halt. He joined the older man and the princess as the scouts babbled their reports, breathless and pointing ahead.

Frowning his disgust, the Warleader raised a gauntleted hand. ‘Silence!’ He pointed to one. ‘You. Report.’

This one drew a deep breath. ‘Many men, sir. Across a narrowed way ahead. Ordered for battle.’

Jatal tried to catch Andanii’s eyes but she kept her gaze fixed upon the foreign commander. His silvered brows rose. ‘Indeed. I am quite surprised. Someone in the capital has shown initiative.’

‘What do we do?’ Andanii breathed, sounding uncharacteristically nervous.

The Warleader shrugged his broad shoulders and signed the advance. ‘We take a look.’

They cantered down a gentle valley slope, Jatal and Andanii at the head of the Elites, together with the Warleader. A dark mass stirred on the slope opposite. It lay athwart the road, while to the south a dense wood extended between the two forces. To the north, dark fields lay glistening in the mid-afternoon sun. Again the foreigner raised his hand for a halt then eased forward on the creaking leather of his saddle, studying the vista. He gestured to the north. ‘They have flooded the fields.’

‘I thought you said they would marshal no army,’ Jatal accused, sounding far more petulant than he’d intended.

If the Warleader was offended, he showed none of it. ‘That is no army,’ he answered darkly.

‘What is it then?’ Andanii demanded, not to be put off.

‘A mob. Civilians. Farmers. City-dwellers. This only displays their desperation.’

‘Or determination?’ Jatal suggested. The Warleader turned a ferocious glare on him and for an instant Jatal experienced a startling sense of dislocation. He suddenly knew he’d seen the harsh graven lines of that disapproving face before. Exactly where, though, he could not place.

The Warleader waved for the advance.

‘We charge?’ Andanii gasped, shocked.

‘Of course. Are you not lancers? Ride the filth down!’ And the Warleader kneed his mount to gallop ahead.

Andanii urged her mount after him and Jatal, disbelieving, could only do the same. The two thousand Elites surged as well, followed by another five thousand mixed Adwami nobles, knights and lesser mounted retainers. The Warleader’s mercenaries, far poorer riders, brought up the rear.

As they closed upon the defenders, Jatal saw that the Warleader was correct. It was a rag-tag mob of men and women, mostly unarmoured, bearing a mismatched forest of weaponry varying from spears to rusted billhooks to farming implements and axes. They had been formed in tight ranks across the road and massed to each side. Clearly they hoped to dull the impetus of the Adwami charge then surround them and drag them down from all sides.

Even though their mounts were far from fresh, Jatal did not doubt that they would win through. There was no way these farmers could hold against a charge. They would break and scatter and the mounted ranks would simply continue on, leaving the trampled obstruction in their dust. All this, it seemed, the foreign Warleader had intuited in an instant. He had come to a decision and enacted his strategy while they still gaped, uncomprehending. A Lord of War indeed. Who was this man? And what would such a one truly want if not riches?

As he tucked the haft of his lance under his right arm, it occurred to him that the answer had lain before him all this time: power, dominion, rulership. A position they were in the process of winning for him.

And has Andanii grasped this already?

Luckily for Jatal they did not face experienced soldiers, for with his flinch at that agonizing thought his lance went wide. Yet Ash knew his work even though his master fumbled. The trained warhorse trampled and pushed aside all who faced him, rearing and kicking on all sides. Jatal threw the lance, as it was useless in such close quarters, and spurred Ash forward, for he knew that further waves were pushing in behind. He slashed with his sabre, a short dirk in his off hand. With no shield in this press he was at a fatal disadvantage and so he kept urging Ash onward. Incredibly, the horde had not broken. It had not given even a reflexive shudder as the long column of horseflesh ploughed into it and now Jatal saw the reason. It sickened him, but there was nothing he could do except continue slashing to either side.

These farmers, or labourers, or city-dwellers, poor men and women alike, were each shackled to their position, fettered to bronze pins hammered between the stones or into the dirt. Most, it was obvious now, cringed from him, shrieking not in battle rage but in abject terror. They waved and thrust their makeshift weapons uselessly and Jatal contemptuously brushed them aside.

What could be the purpose of such a hopeless demonstration?

Rear ranks, including the Warleader’s men, now charged ahead, pushing forward, trampling the fettered wretches who could not dodge aside. Jatal rose in his stirrups searching for any sign of Andanii. Then everything changed. The front coursers of the Adwami broke through the massed ranks only to suddenly fall as if scythed down by invisible blades taking their legs out from under them. Jatal heard the rattling and clanking of chain over stone as something quivered, spanning the road and stretching out across the dirt to either side.

Some sort of chain barrier! We are trapped!

Then screams from the forest edge behind him where the flanks of the mass now quivered, surging inward like some animal roused to flight. Jatal glimpsed there towering armoured figures bullying and thrusting, urging the horde inward. Yakshaka. A trap. A Sky-King damned trap! The urge overtook him to find that damned arrogant outlander and cut his head off. And where was Andanii!

He did not need to search far for the Warleader for he emerged from the wailing fettered infantry, hacking his way clear with great swings of his two-handed bastard sword. Blood webbed his mail coat and he pushed back his hooded coif to catch Jatal’s gaze. His iron-grey hair plastered his head, sweat-soaked. At that moment he appeared to Jatal as the very god of war.

‘Take your Elites and bring down those yakshaka scum!’ the Warleader commanded.

‘What?’ Jatal shouted, steadying Ash who fought and reared smelling so much blood.

‘Thaumaturgs must be here. Commanding. Leave them to me! Go!’ and he slapped Ash’s flank.

Jatal reared in his saddle raising the rally sign and shouting for the Elites, then hauled Ash round and headed for the rear. Line after line of the lancers curved off to follow. For a moment Jatal had despaired. He’d thought the day lost. But this was just their first brush with resistance — it would be absurd to think their goal of dominion could be accomplished without a fight. The Warleader, damn him, was right.

Jatal’s lance was gone but he had his sabre and this he waved high, encouraging the Elites. He swung Ash over, rounding the border of the infantry mass, and headed for the nearest giant yakshaka soldier. They could hardly be missed, rearing so tall above the horde, and glittering gold and pink in the late afternoon light.

Charging, he leaned as far forward over his saddle as he dared. He extended the sabre out before him, bearing down upon a giant who only now became aware of the threat. Its armoured helm turned slowly to track him. A huge two-handed yataghan rose like an executioner’s axe.

Jatal stormed abreast and swung his sabre, which rebounded ringing as if he’d hammered a stone pillar. Then he was past, his arm hanging utterly numb. His sabre swung dangling from its leather wrist-strap. He yanked one-handed on Ash’s reins to curve outward and away, meaning to come round for another pass. Behind came the smash of lances impacting. Wood snapped and burst as charges hit home on the armoured giants. Jatal straightened in his saddle to scan the jammed press of humanity that was the roadway. Some few lancers remained trapped within, but far fewer than before. Even as he watched, a number fell, dragged from their saddles by countless grasping hands to disappear screaming and flailing into the horde.

He glimpsed a Saar lancer charging a yakshaka and the giant’s broad yataghan striking the mount’s neck to nearly sever it in one massive blow. Rider and mount fell in a tangle of snapping bones and thrown dirt. Elsewhere the giants actually shouldered aside horses that came too close, or reached out and grasped legs or tack to tear riders from their mounts as they passed. But for all that, many now reeled impaled on hafts of wood that stood from them like bizarre decorations.

Yet are any down? I see none. But they are too few. Less than a hundred all told, I should guess. We will grind them down.

He circled his tingling and aching right arm above his head to encourage the column and continued on round to complete the flying circle. Ahead, a lance stood from the ground next to a fallen knight. Jatal leaned far over on his left and reached for it. He snatched it in passing and tucked it under his arm. The crash of hooves announced a rider closing with him: it was Ganell on a massive black stallion. The big man sported a shattered lance that, laughing his battle glee, he raised to salute Jatal.

‘They are impossible to miss!’ he bellowed, grinning.

Jatal waved him on. Ganell saluted again and charged off, his immense mount pounding the earth.

A great chorus of horrifying screams sounded then and Jatal peered round. It came from the throats of that surging mass of compressed humanity and so full of despair and terror was it that it turned his flesh cold. Even as he watched, a swath of the mass fell, mowed down by some unseen contagion that rolled on to strike a section of the Adwami column. These riders and their mounts fell as well: the horses threw back their heads and tumbled as if mattocked. Their riders rocked backwards as if struck, their robes and armour immediately stained red, and they fell limp.

A portion of the field had now been wiped empty of any standing living being but for one. This single figure sent an atavistic shiver down Jatal’s spine: he stood alone in his long blood-spattered mail, his bastard sword red to the hilts. The Warleader. He extended a mail-clad hand, pointing to some hidden foe. Then he charged.

Now Jatal had to know. Had to find out. Who was this man that the Thaumaturgs’ witchery should not affect him? And why was it that their curse should fall just where he was standing? Jatal urged Ash round the clamouring press to follow.

At the swath of fallen corpses Ash suddenly reared as if terrified. He snorted and shook his head, his eyes rolling whitely. He refused to advance despite Jatal’s commands. Not wanting to waste any more time fighting his mount, Jatal slid off the saddle and left him there, his reins hanging free. As a trained warhorse he could defend himself.

Some feeling had returned to his hand and he clenched it and shook it as he went. The fallen rabble infantry lay thick here, so thick it was hard to avoid them. The ground was wet and slick with fluids. When he did step on a corpse it gave sickeningly, like a yielding half-full sack of water. It was as if the flesh had been pulverized, reduced to spongy fat. From this cleared swath he had a good view of the battlefield. Ahead, a knot of resistance revealed an inner cordon of yakshaka guarding a circle of Thaumaturg mages at the centre of the formation. Some few Adwami lancers who had forged to the middle assaulted the yakshaka there. As did the Warleader. Somehow he had won through to the Thaumaturgs themselves and there he wreaked bloody slaughter. Jatal ran for him.

On his way he stepped over two fallen yakshaka warriors. Both had suffered astonishing wounds: an arm severed, a torso slashed through from collarbone to ribs revealing its layers of stone armour, bone and fibrous flesh oozing clear fluid. Who was this Warleader to deliver such blows?

He reached the knot of hacked and slaughtered Thaumaturgs even as the Warleader cleaved the last in a great sweep of his two-handed bastard sword. One wounded mage the man grasped by the throat in an armoured fist to raise up close to his face.

‘So perished your forebears,’ the Warleader snarled, his voice hoarse and quivering, almost inhuman.

The Thaumaturg’s eyes widened to huge circles of white all round and he gaped, choking. He raised a bloody shaking hand to point. ‘You …’ he half-gasped, half-mouthed. Then the fist closed with a popping of cartilage and tearing flesh and the mage spasmed, his body falling limp.

The Warleader’s gaze swung round straight into Jatal’s staring eyes. What Jatal caught for an instant in those unguarded depths froze him to the spot. Hot rapine and bloodshed blazed there, yes, but beneath this howled a hurricane of rage and a soul-destroying bottomless black despair. This mere glimpse sent him to his knees, almost faint. The Warleader closed over him, raising his gore-slick bastard sword as if he would strike — but hooves shook the ground announcing the arrival of lancers and the Warleader stepped away. His blazing eyes still lingered on Jatal, slit now in suspicion. Their weight seemed to rob him of the ability to speak.

‘The yakshaka fight on,’ announced Sher’ Tal, glowering down, his thick black beard braided now, and tied by leather lacing that hung like ribbons.

‘Destroy them,’ commanded the Warleader.

But Sher’ Tal ignored the order and the Warleader himself; he remained unmoving, his eyes on Jatal. Straightening, Jatal nodded. He drew a shuddering breath. ‘Yes. They must be destroyed.’

Sher’ Tal scowled but jerked a nod of assent. ‘Very well.’ He yanked his mount round, favoured the Warleader with one disapproving glare, then charged away.

The Warleader paced off a distance. He stooped to clean his blade on the robes of a dead Thaumaturg. ‘As you have no doubt guessed,’ he began, gesturing to the corpse, ‘they and I have had dealings in the past.’

‘Why conceal this?’

The Warleader straightened, turning, but would not meet his eye. ‘It was long ago — and I deem it my business.’

‘I should think it bears upon our contract.’

The foreigner — and now Jatal wondered, truly a foreigner? — waved a bloodied gauntleted hand in dismissal. ‘What care you? You shall have your conquered territory, while I shall have-’

‘Your revenge?’ Jatal suggested.

The Warleader was quiet for a time. Behind the iron-grey grizzled beard his mouth turned down as if in consideration. Sheathing his sword, he grunted his reluctant agreement. ‘Aye … my vengeance.’

It seemed to Jatal that he had just learned a fair bit about their mysterious Warleader. He would have to talk all this over-

He spun, searching the corpse-strewn battlefield. ‘Andanii!’

To his surprise, and deep annoyance, the Warleader also jerked as if stung. ‘This way,’ he said, and strode away. He led Jatal off the roadway. They stepped over the trampled fallen, some yet alive and cringing, towards the forest edge. Across the field two or three knots of remaining yakshaka still resisted the circling Adwami. All sported multiple shafts of shattered lances impaling torsos or limbs. Jatal could only wonder at their astounding vitality.

Ahead, a troop of Vehajarwi lancers stood guard in a tight group. Jatal recognized members of Andanii’s personal bodyguard. At their approach they parted, though a touch resentfully, at what they obviously judged an intrusion. Within, Andanii stood steadying herself with a hand tight on a horse’s tack. Ar-doard, an old family retainer and her general, knelt at her side busy wrapping her leg over her torn bloodied leathers.

Jatal almost lunged forward but managed to check himself. ‘Princess!’ he burst out, overly loud. ‘You are injured?’

Andanii laughed the comment aside and pushed the sweat-damp hair from her face, dragging a smear of blood across her cheek. ‘It is nothing.’

‘A fine charge,’ the Warleader announced, easing forward. ‘Bravely done.’

She inclined her head in pleased acknowledgement of the Warleader’s compliment. The man gestured to the saddle. ‘May I?’

‘Of course you may,’ she answered, her lips quirking up.

The Warleader took her into his arms and lifted her into the saddle with familiar ease. Something like an acid fist squeezed Jatal’s heart and his vision darkened for a moment; he took a step to steady himself.

‘I have studied alchemy and healing for many years, Princess,’ the Warleader said. ‘Perhaps I may be of assistance?’

Andanii slowly curled the leather reins round one fist. She inclined her head in agreement. ‘You may come to my tent.’ She gave Jatal a curt nod, ‘Prince,’ then urged her mount on.

Jatal watched her go. Around him the bodyguard scrambled to their mounts. It seemed to him that the Warleader might have cast him a sidelong glance but Jatal spared the man no attention. His eyes followed Andanii as she rode away. Look back, he urged her. You must. Send me a sign. A hint. Anything to grasp for I am a man drowning.

But she did not glance back and something broke in Jatal. Something that once broken can never be replaced.

So be it. The lines of an ancient Adwami poet came to him.

Love does blossom like the flower

and petals fall like tears.

*

That night the Adwami celebrated their victory. Jatal thought it would be a subdued affair yet it proved far from it. The cheering and laughter among the gathered hetmen, chieftains and their picked lieutenants in the main tent was as heady as the wine. This had been their first real confrontation with the Thaumaturg forces and they had emerged victorious. Triumph in a few days’ time at the capital now seemed certain. Jatal joined in with the toasts but not the cheering and certainly not the laughter. A rigid polite smile was fixed at his lips and his eyes kept returning to two empty positions: neither Andanii nor the Warleader was in attendance. And who is this Warleader? An old vassal of the Thaumaturgs, obviously. Perhaps decades ago he led one of their countless expeditions into Ardata’s jungle abyss. Or perhaps as a dissatisfied general he rose in revolt against them. In any case, that mage certainly recognized him. Shouldn’t he share what he now knew with Andanii?

As the evening lengthened, Jatal could stand it no longer. He rose to his feet, waved off Ganell’s entreaties to remain, bowed to his closest allies among the Lesser families, and pushed aside the hanging flap to step out into the cool air of the night. A light rain now fell. A storm rumbled and muttered far off to the east. The tents cast shadows through the fading emerald glow of the Stranger as it arced, now frighteningly dragging its long tail after it.

He headed for Andanii’s tent. Long before he reached it, a massive fist took hold of his arm and pulled him aside. Jatal went for his sword. Another large hand pushed the blade back down into its sheath.

‘Cool your blood now, Prince,’ a low voice rumbled, muted.

Jatal squinted up at the concerned face of the Warleader’s second, Scarza. He dropped his gaze to the man’s hand at his arm. The hand was removed. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he demanded.

‘I was thinking we could share a skin of wine and you could tell me all about the glorious victory which I was so negligent as to miss.’

Jatal peered past him to the alley between the tents leading off to the Vehajarwi encampment. Blinking, he squinted up at the half-Trell. ‘Where were you?’

‘Running and puffing along on my own two feet. I arrived after the battle. Convenient, wouldn’t you say?’

Jatal fought a smile, compressed his lips. ‘Another time, Scarza.’ He moved to pass but the big man interposed himself.

‘I did escort the Warleader to the princess’s tent,’ he said. ‘He brought his chest of phials and powders and exotic dusts. I’ve no doubt she’s dreaming pleasant dreams right now.’

‘And the Warleader?’

Scarza’s round face drew down. ‘Well, returned to his tent. Or watching over the progress of the patient.’

Jatal motioned up the lane. ‘Let me pass.’

‘Now, lad …’

‘Lad?’ Jatal sent his harshest glare.

Scarza scratched his unkempt mess of hair, sighing. ‘Ah, Prince,’ he sighed. ‘There’s no need …’

Jatal pushed past the man, who made no further effort to intervene. Jatal left him standing there, frowning down at the wineskin in his knotted hands, his thick brows crushed together and his lips pressed tight over his prominent tusks.

A picket of Vehajarwi knights stopped him before he reached the tent. Jatal recognized the captain of Andanii’s bodyguard. ‘What do you want, Hafinaj?’ this one demanded.

Jatal chose to overlook the failure to offer his full title. ‘I wish to offer my regards to the princess. And we have matters of command to discuss.’

The captain shook his head. ‘She left orders she wasn’t to be disturbed.’

‘She will receive me. Send word.’

‘No. Her orders were clear. No one.’

No one save the damned Warleader! Jatal gritted his teeth. ‘You cannot forestall me. As commander-’

The captain looked to the men and women of his contingent. His lips drew back in scorn. ‘You command none here among us Vehajarwi.’

Jatal had no idea what to do next. Such an insult demanded a challenge yet that would destroy the alliance. Here, on the very doorstep of their victory. The slap of the man’s disrespect was like ice down his back and he felt a strange calm descend upon him. He nodded thoughtfully. ‘I see. You are a loyal dog following your mistress’s command. I understand such devotion.’ He gave the faintest of bows. ‘Another time, then.’

The captain watched him narrowly now, uncertain. He glanced to his fellows as if searching for guidance. Jatal turned and walked away. After he had gone a few paces laughter rang through the night — mockery following some insulting murmured comment, no doubt. The iciness gave way to a burning furnace heat that started somewhere in Jatal’s belly and rose all the way to sear his face and brow. He continued on stiff legs, a strange blurriness to his vision.

They think I will swallow these insults because I am a weakling — scholar, philosopher and poet. Well, we shall see. There will come a time and I will show them who is weak.

* * *

It seemed to Shimmer that the strange creatures of the jungle had lost interest in them. Perhaps she and her companions had lost their novelty; or they had travelled beyond the creatures’ territory; or perhaps they were at last drawing near to Ardata and the hidden city of Jakal Viharn. In any case, when she studied the passing vine-hung jungle she glimpsed only mundane animals among the trees and stands of grasses at the shore.

One afternoon her breath caught as they glided noiselessly past a stand of dense brown grasses and there in the midst a great cat crouched at the shore lapping up a drink. It was fully the size of a pony, coloured tawny brown, with enormous fangs that curved down alongside its muzzle. The fanged cat Rutana had mentioned, she imagined. Such beauty and murderous grace bound together. It galled her, but she had to admit that it reminded her of Skinner.

For a time a troop of bearded monkeys shadowed their progress. They employed all their limbs — tails included — to hang from branches far out over the water to investigate the ship as it drifted by. The vessel’s ghostly silence must have emboldened them. She, K’azz, Amatt, and Cole watched without speaking or moving as the troop clambered down bent limbs to study them with their large liquid brown eyes.

When one reached out a delicate hand to touch the vessel’s side Rutana finally snarled and waved her arms, sending them scattering in a burst of howling shrieking panic. Blazingly bright parakeets and macaws erupted from the nearby cover. They swooped over the river as streaks of snow-white, flaming red and iridescent blue.

‘Damned animals,’ the woman grumbled. ‘I hate them.’

‘Animals in general, or monkeys in particular?’ Shimmer asked.

Rutana just turned away, muttering beneath her breath.

‘We almost had a new crew,’ K’azz commented to Shimmer, startling her: it had been so long since he spoke.

She nodded her agreement. ‘I’ve heard stories of vessels crewed by monkeys. A traveller told of how he’d met someone who swore seeing such a ship arrive in Darujhistan.’

K’azz leaned on the railing. ‘Seeing that would make me wonder more … wherever would such a ship set sail from?’

Shimmer crooked a smile. ‘Why, from the Land of the Monkey-King, of course.’

K’azz inclined his head to the jungle. ‘Something tells me we’re not so far from such a land.’

Shimmer lost her smile. ‘Perhaps not. Monkey-Queen, then?’

‘Queen, yes. Monkeys, no.’

The Serpent rocked then, quite gently, as if brushing over a sandbar, and Shimmer and K’azz shared alarmed glances. They peered over the edge to study the passing murky-ochre waters. Gwynn and Lor-sinn appeared from below. Shimmer noted how the old mage’s white hair had grown to a remarkable extent, hanging about his head and shoulders like a great mane, while Lor-sinn appeared to have lost almost all her plumpness and now stood lean and bony in her oversized robes.

A scouring and grating sounded from below and everyone was jerked forward as the bows jumped upwards and the Serpent came to a sudden halt in midriver. A rotted spar fell from the shard of the forward mast to crash to the deck. Turgal, Cole and Amatt did not even flinch though the wreckage missed them by a bare arm’s length.

‘We are run aground?’ Lor-sinn wondered aloud.

‘In the middle of the channel?’ Rutana answered, derisive.

Shimmer noticed that the jungle surrounding them was very quiet. The birds were silent, and no animal hooted or roared. It was as if everything that lived among the trees and shore was suddenly tensed, listening.

In the spell of suspended motion — Shimmer somehow feeling as if they were still moving — K’azz stepped quietly to Cole’s side. ‘Check the hull,’ he murmured.

The short barrel-shaped swordsman flashed a smile of assent and headed for the companionway. Rutana snapped her fingers for Nagal’s attention then waved to the bow. The unnaturally large man — perhaps, Shimmer speculated, carrying a touch of the ancient Thelomen blood — actually crouched and edged forward as if wary of attack. The sight of that wariness sent a thrill of fear down Shimmer’s spine. What is it they dread?

Cole emerged from below and Shimmer glanced to him then could not look away. The swordsman, almost always ready with a smile or a joke, now stood as if bewildered, confusion and unease wrinkling his face.

‘Yes?’ K’azz urged the man.

‘Hull’s gone in the bottom,’ he murmured, and he rubbed his brow. ‘Looks like it rotted away long ago.’

‘How then-’ Shimmer began but a hiss from Nagal silenced her. He then cast a scathing glare to Rutana who winced and clamped a hand on the amulets tied round her arm and squeezed there, as if massaging a wound. Shimmer dared a step towards the bow and Rutana let out a low snarl of warning: she ignored it and took one more. Closer to the pointed bow she could see that the Serpent had fetched up on some sort of sandbar or bank. Though what such a feature was doing here near the middle of the river she had no idea.

She blew out her breath in disgust. Gods! What are these two on about? She turned to K’azz. ‘It’s just a-’ she was silenced again, this time by Nagal snapping up a hand. He eased the hand down to the water as if inviting her to peer closer. Shimmer leaned out over the side. She squinted to see past the dazzling glimmer of the light on the waves and it seemed to her that the sandbar curved downward, disappearing into the darkness of the river rather than shallowing at its edges. In fact, the obstruction now struck her as the shape of a submerged cylinder, like an immense log of titanic scale, fully as large around as their ship itself. Yet pale as if carved of marble. More detail reached her and she backed away, her hand going to her throat. She turned a mute stare of awe on Rutana.

A smile of savage satisfaction crept up the woman’s lips and she nodded. Oh yes, fool! she seemed to gloat.

For the log or cylinder was not smooth. It was scaled in serried rows and those plate-sized scales pulsed opalescent. It was alive and it was easily of great enough girth to swallow the entire ship.

Slowly, step by step, she eased her way to K’azz’s side. They had all gathered around him. Gwynn’s white hair now stood up as if in utter fright and he carried his staff readied in both hands. Lor-sinn had thrown off her robes and now stood in a thin white silk blouse, the sleeves pushed up her arms. Her Warren was raised, for Shimmer could make out the aura of cobalt mage-fire dancing about her hands and in her eyes. Cole, Turgal and Amatt had ranged themselves before K’azz. Turgal had readied his broad infantryman’s shield. Amatt held his two-handed blade, sheathed, in one hand.

‘What is it?’ Shimmer asked of Gwynn.

‘It is a Worm of the Earth,’ he answered grimly. ‘A scion of D’rek.’

‘Older than D’rek,’ K’azz answered as if distracted, gazing over the river.

Gwynn frowned at this and eyed his commander as if troubled. Shimmer resolved to question the mage later as to why — should there be a later for any of them. For here was a foe before which even they, Avowed of the Crimson Guard, were helpless.

Nagal urged Rutana forward. Clutching at the mass of amulets that clacked and swung from her neck, she gingerly crossed the littered deck. The Serpent’s foredeck couldn’t really be called a forecastle in that it was quite low, rising less than Shimmer’s height. It narrowed to a long steeply raked bowsprit. Past this, Shimmer caught movement far upriver: a swelling bulge sweeping the waters as of something immense beneath shifting sluggishly. A sudden bizarre thought struck her then and she almost laughed aloud at its insanity. How long was this beast and did it follow the entire course of the river — or did the course of the river follow it?

Nagal, his long hair hanging free down nearly to his waist, grasped Rutana’s wrist and lowered her out over the side of the Serpent. The Avowed crowded the side as he did so. Shimmer could not speak for her fellow Guards, but she felt a sort of shamefaced embarrassment that this woman should be the one to have to act on their behalf. That, and enormous relief.

Leaning far out and showing almost inhuman strength, Nagal gingerly lowered the sinewy woman into the water until she came to rest upon the back of the colossal beast. Up to her waist in the waters she bent over, hands extended. She murmured and whispered as she rubbed the beast’s back.

Shimmer shared an awed glance with Lor-sinn who blew out a breath, suitably impressed. K’azz’s angular, bony face revealed only a calm detachment, as if he were merely a disinterested observer and none of this had any bearing upon them.

After a time Shimmer noted another of the unaccountably large waves disturb the surface of the river. It wove up and down towards them until it reached their position and Shimmer caught her breath as the monstrous girth shifted, rolling, and taking Rutana with it. She disappeared into the murky rust-hued waves. Shimmer looked to Nagal, but the man did not appear dismayed; rather, he scanned the waters as if confident of her reappearance.

A grating and scraping shook the decking beneath their feet. The Serpent shuddered. Shimmer imagined shield-sized scales gouging wood as they shifted. The bow fell, rocking, and it was apparent to her that the ship had sunk far lower in the water than before. They now had no more freeboard above the waves than the length of her arm.

A splash sounded followed by a gasp and there was Rutana. She threw back her head, her thick mane of kinky hair tossing spray. She swam for the Serpent. Nagal reached out again and they clasped wrists and he lifted her up on to the deck. She stood in her sodden layered dresses, water pouring from her. She lifted her chin to them as if in defiance. Her lips were tightly clenched, utterly colourless.

K’azz inclined his head as if to say, well done.

She tossed her hair again, her eyes flashing, and Shimmer’s disquiet grew. For the witch’s eyes had shone a golden yellow at that instant, and it seemed to her that the pupils were slit like those of a serpent as well.

‘And what was that?’ Shimmer asked, her voice hoarse with disuse.

The wiry woman shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘You could call it a guardian, I suppose. Some say they are drawn here by our mistress. Or perhaps they have merely been driven out of all other regions.’

Like you, Shimmer suddenly realized. Like these creatures, you and Nagal are worshippers of Ardata and no more human than they. You don’t want us, you said. Why do you resent K’azz? Is it because he is human? Are you afraid of losing your goddess, Rutana?

The woman clamped her lips tight once again, as if regretting even these few words. A shudder took her bony frame, perhaps from the cold, and she lifted her pointed chin upriver. ‘We are close now.’ She turned away.

Shimmer looked to her Avowed brethren. Cole blew out a breath as if to say, thank the gods! Amatt drew off his great helm revealing his scarred cheeks and ragged beard. He sent a scowl to the waters. Turgal likewise began unbuckling his rusted armour. The cerulean flickerings of Lor-sinn’s Warren energies died away and the woman sat heavily on a hatch-cover as if her legs could no longer support her weight. K’azz had already turned away and now stood facing the waters once more, his sinewy hands clasped behind his back. Gwynn met Shimmer’s gaze; somehow the man appeared even more unfriendly and gloomy than usual. She gestured him to her. He raised a snowy brow then came to her side.

‘Yes?’

She turned away to face the passing waters and reaching jungle branches. Shapes undulated just below the murky waves alongside the vessel. From their spiked back-ridges she knew them as giant sturgeon. ‘Good eating, those,’ she said, motioning to the fish.

The mage pursed his lips, his eyes questioning. ‘So I have heard.’

Shimmer tried to recall her last meal, failed. She spoke as if distracted. ‘You say you never came to the interior?’

He straightened, nodding. ‘Yes.’

‘You heard no rumours? No hints of what we might be facing?’

The older mage’s lips drew up as if the questioning amused him. ‘I heard many rumours.’

‘What were your duties, then, during the time you were here?’

‘As I said. We were in the south. Skinner ordered a port city built.’

‘So it was his plan to open the country to trade and travel?’

‘Yes … Eventually.’

‘Eventually?’

He shrugged his rounded shoulders. ‘The coast is a treacherous swamp. There are no suitable quarries. The fever of chilling-sweats is rampant — people died in droves. These beast Soletaken raided us, dragging men and women into the jungle. We lost many workers and constantly had to raid the villages to procure more.’

Shimmer stared despite herself. She had no idea Skinner’s rule had been that terrible. ‘I didn’t know,’ she breathed.

The old mage winced, hunching even more. ‘I’m not proud of it.’

‘You refused to return.’

‘Yes. I couldn’t go back.’

She then asked, swiftly, in an effort to catch an unguarded reaction, ‘What is it about K’azz that makes you uneasy?’ The man blinked, surprised. His gaze skittered aside. Too guarded, this one. Serves me right for trying to get the drop on a mage.

‘You have known him for longer than I,’ he began tentatively. ‘Did he ever show any, er, talent? Any access to the Warrens?’

‘No. None that I know of. Why?’

He frowned in thought. ‘I cannot place it. But I feel a dim aura around him. It is as if he were connected to a Warren, or a source of some sort. It is like a faint scent in the air. One I cannot identify. And he knows things. Things he shouldn’t know.’

‘Oh? Things you do not know, so how could he? Is that what you mean?’

A crooked twitch of a smile from the man. ‘You are too direct, Shimmer.’ He tilted his head as if reconsidering. ‘Still — a blustering reaction could have betrayed the truth. But no. Things he ought not to know.’

‘Such as?’

Again a shrug. ‘Many such instances. Just now, when he remarked that these Worms are far older than D’rek. As soon as he said it I recognized the truth of it. Yet it had never before occurred to me.’

Shimmer grunted, disappointed. She’d hoped for something more. Something pointing to an answer to the mystery that the man had become. ‘He has … changed,’ she remarked, her voice low.

‘Yes. He is now closed to me.’

Closed. Yes. He has walled himself off from the rest of us. Why? What is he afraid of? Or hiding? Or protecting us from?

‘Look there!’ Rutana called, pointing, her voice shrill.

Stone humps stood from the river ahead. As the Serpent drew closer they resolved into statues and architectural features — a bell-shaped stupa, a cyclopean lintel over a submerged entranceway. All were gripped in the fists of trees and hung with flowering lianas. All were eroded to shapeless forms. The statues might have once carried human, or even beast, characteristics. All elements of faces or forms had been scoured away. Time and the relentless probing tendrils and roots of the flowers had ground the rock away as if it were mere sand.

‘We are close,’ Rutana reaffirmed. ‘Very close now.’

Close to what? Shimmer wondered. All I see is a gulf of time. An immensity I cannot even begin to comprehend. Yet is it so? Perhaps it has been only a few brief centuries or decades and that is all that is required to wipe away all remnants and signs of human existence.

Perhaps this is the true lesson Himatan presents here.

* * *

The first hint Pon-lor had that something was going on was when the weasel-thin Thet-mun rushed to Jak’s side and whispered excitedly to him. The column had halted and Pon-lor stood breathing heavily, his legs leaden and aching — he wasn’t used to so much walking. His arms were tied tightly behind his back. His robes now hung from him sodden and torn, no better than rags. At night he was left lying in the rain. For food, scraps were thrown in the dirt before him; so far he’d refused them all.

It was, he decided, the harshest test yet of his Thaumaturg training in the denial and mastering of the demands of the flesh. Should he survive he might even suggest instituting it as a sort of final examination. Any normal man, he knew, would have succumbed long ago: to starvation, exposure, or any one of a number of sicknesses.

Jak snapped out a series of low orders then swaggered over to stand before him. As he always did, he reached up and made a show of running Pon-lor’s jade comb through his long hair. Finishing his ministrations, he knotted the hair through itself then looked him up and down and sniffed his disapproval. ‘You’re a mess, spoiled noble boy,’ he said. ‘Want a drink?’

Pon-lor knew a drink wouldn’t be forthcoming but his ferocious thirst demanded he nod the affirmative. Jak signed for a skin of water. He took a long drink then stoppered it and handed it off, all the while holding his laughing gaze on Pon-lor’s eyes. He edged a half-step closer.

‘I’m going to break you, noble brat,’ he purred, his voice silky with pleasure. ‘In a few days you’ll beg to drink my piss.’

‘I’ve had worse,’ Pon-lor managed to grate, barely.

The youth’s arrogant twist of the lips pulled back into rage and his right arm came up. His fist exploded against the side of Pon-lor’s head and sent him to the ground. Darkness and bursts of light warred in his vision. Myint’s hysterical hyena laugh sounded over him. Her knee pressed into his stomach, cutting off his breath. A gag was wrestled over his mouth. He was dragged through the mud and slammed against a tree. More ropes secured him to it.

When his vision cleared and he shook his loosened hair from before his face the troop had disappeared into the jungle. One guard remained. The least of them, a kid named Heng-lon whose appearance had so far evoked only sympathy from Pon-lor: beneath his bristling brush-cut hair the left side of his skull was flattened and pushed in, the eye on that side stared off permanently to the left, he breathed through his mouth, and he had the mental age of a five-year-old.

The youth clutched his spear in both hands, scanning the jungle, obviously terrified to be alone. Seeing Pon-lor awake he wet his lips and sidled over. Grinning, he set his spear against the tree then fumbled at the ties of his short trousers.

Pon-lor quickly lowered his head. A warm stream hissed against his crown then splashed over his shoulder and down into his lap. The kid giggled. ‘Always wanted to do that,’ he said. ‘No one c’n top this story!’

This is proving quite the test indeed …

I could give you a story no one could top. ‘How my head got to be on this shelf’ perhaps. Or ‘How I lost all my limbs’. But that would be too easy.

Pon-lor struggled instead with keeping his hands, tied behind him, in the meditative position of forefingers touching thumbs.

‘What’cha doin’?’ Heng-lon asked.

Pon-lor looked up, raising his chin and the gag tied there. The youth reached for the gag then stopped, thinking better of it. He took up his spear and backed away. While Pon-lor meditated, the youth set to starting a fire.

It took a great deal of effort to force himself to slow his breathing, but Pon-lor finally managed to isolate all the tension, locate the suppressed rage, and mentally uncoil it to ease his flesh into the requisite degree of relaxation. From this point he was able to concentrate upon separating his spirit — the Nak — from its fleshly housing.

What are they up to out there? Well, we shall soon see.

But he’d forgotten the psychic storm that was Ardata’s aura. The punishing stream snatched him and cast him spinning. He knew he was an instant from wandering lost forever when he remembered his lessons and forced himself to re-imagine his presence not as a solid entity but as downy fluff, as dust, as a handful of drifting motes. Now the storm raged on but passed through him, like wind through a tree.

He searched for Jak and his band of pathetic cast-off bandits.

Before he could track down their auras a blazing presence in the psychic landscape screamed for his attention. For an instant he felt himself shrinking in fear: was this her? The Queen of Monsters herself?

But the essence was entirely different. In fact, it was so entirely different it appeared almost alien. What was this thing? Was it a denizen of this jungle? Yet such awesome power. If he were a candle flame of presence flickering in the half-spirit realm then this thing’s projection here towered as a coruscating sky-high pillar. He dared to drift closer to the presence and cast a greeting.

‘Who are you?’

‘Who are you?’ a voice answered in his consciousness — a child’s voice, unbelievably.

‘What are you?’

‘I do not know. What are you?’

‘A mage. A traveller here.’

‘A mage? Ah — a manipulator of interdimensional leakage.’

A what? Pon-lor wondered.

‘The flavour of your art is oddly familiar to me. Why should this be? I must examine you.’

A bulge swelled the side of the towering white-argent pillar. A mountain of puissance descended towards him — enough to scatter his atoms.

Pon-lor snapped away. His chest swelled reflexively, drawing in a panicked breath. He opened his eyes expecting a firestorm about him, the trees drifting away in motes of soot. His palms tingled with sweat and his heart was pounding as if he’d just completed a full course of muscle isolation.

All was quiet. Heng-lon glanced back to him from where he sat poking at the fire, his spear across his lap. It was night. A light rain had begun. They were not alone; someone was approaching. A large party. He sensed them but the kid hadn’t yet. Presently, the lad sprang to his feet, spear levelled in both hands. He jerked the iron point left and right. It trembled in the firelight. The youth backed up until he stood level with Pon-lor. He drew a short-bladed knife from his sash.

Not so stupid after all, then, if his plan is to release me to help in any possible fight to come.

But it was a grinning Thet-mun who emerged from the dark. The firelight glimmered from his teeth and eyes. He looked immensely pleased and went straight to their heaped gear. ‘Where’s the palm wine?’ he demanded. ‘Ha! Here’s my beauty.’ He lifted a skin and took a long pull, wiped his mouth.

‘We have them, turtle-boy! Got them both. You should’ve seen it. It was laughable. They walked right in. Ha!’ He raised the skin and poured another stream into his mouth.

Heng-lon — turtle-boy, apparently — laughed as well, though he obviously had no idea why.

The rest of the bandit crew now came tumbling in from the dark. All were grinning and snorting laughs. Two carried a roped body between them that they threw down next to Pon-lor. A girl, or rather a young woman. She was unconscious.

By the Founders! Was this the witch? Could they have really …

Jak arrived to snatch the skin of palm wine from Thet-mun’s hand. He leaned over Pon-lor, took a sip, then stood staring down at him for some time. Finally, he pulled an exaggerated moue of disappointment. ‘You high and mighties. Look at you. Useless.’ He straightened to peer about, spread his arms wide. ‘I beat you! Me! A lowly cast-out nobody you sneered at! Well … look at you now!’

‘Coming!’ one of the bandits shouted from the jungle.

Coming? What could they …

Heavy measured steps sounded over the pattering of raindrops. They came from beyond the cover of thick wide leaves. Pon-lor straightened where he sat. They’ve done it! Brought it to me! Time to end this ridiculous charade.

A heavy curved blade flashed before his vision to press against his neck. Myint’s head rested on his shoulder from behind. ‘Don’t try anything, sweetie.’ And she blew a kiss into his ear.

Pon-lor let his shoulders drop. Why do I keep underestimating these wretches?

Jak snapped his fingers, gesturing. A spear was thrown to him and he spun it to rest its keen bright iron point against the unconscious woman’s side. The stand of tall ferns shook, tossing raindrops everywhere, then was thrust aside and an armoured giant strode through, a wide bright yataghan blade outstretched before it.

‘Hold!’ Jak called. ‘Or I thrust through your mistress.’

To Pon-lor’s utter astonishment the yakshaka froze.

‘Sheathe your weapon.’

The soldier complied.

Pon-lor stared, dumbfounded. How was this possible? How was its conditioning overcome? He had to discover how. This simply had to be reported to the ruling Circle of Masters.

Jak was nodding to himself and he shot Pon-lor a quick triumphant glance to make certain he was taking this in. ‘Your mistress will be under guard constantly. Someone will always be within sword’s reach. So behave.’ He pointed to a tree on the far side of the encampment. ‘Sit.’

The armoured giant’s helm turned aside as it regarded the tree. Then it lumbered heavily to the spot and put its back to the trunk to stand glittering in the shadows, arms crossed.

Jak shrugged. ‘Good enough.’ He looked to Pon-lor, jerked his head to the yakshaka. ‘I couldn’t believe it understood me.’ He frowned, lowered his voice. ‘Is there a man in there?’ Then, realizing, he waved the question aside.

‘What about you, sweetmeat?’ Myint breathed into his ear. ‘You gonna behave?’

Pon-lor gave a long slow nod. Yes, he would. At least until he had questioned this witch.

‘Aw.’ Myint pouted her disappointment. It was an awful twisting of her features, given her disfigured lip. She slit the gag, managing to slice his cheek and ear at the same time. ‘Sorry,’ she dropped, not sorry at all, as she walked away.

Pon-lor felt the warm blood drip down his neck while he sat cross-legged, staring straight ahead at the shadowed figure across the camp where the firelight winked and flashed from its mosaic inlay. Perhaps it was only his impression, but it seemed the creature dropped its helmed head as if unable to meet his gaze.

The next day Pon-lor was awake before everyone, as usual. He waited for the woman to rouse. Through the night the bandits had been trading off watches, keeping someone always close. Now it was Myint’s turn and she hauled the woman up and marched her off — perhaps to see to her morning toilet.

Pon-lor was disappointed by what he saw. She was just a local girl; a peasant from any one of their villages. For a time he’d played with the possibility that she was some sort of agent for Ardata and that by capturing her he could learn secrets of the Witch-Queen’s court in fabled Jakal Viharn. Now, however, he had to wrestle with the mystery of how this peasant could possibly have suborned a yakshaka soldier. The most likely answer was that she had not; that this soldier was flawed and had somehow fixated upon her. She probably had no idea why this thing was following her around, and had become terrified and run off.

Or had been run off by her terrified fellow villagers.

As the bandits broke camp Pon-lor sat, still tied up, and wondered why Jak had brought her back. If she really was an agent of Ardata then he ought to have killed her right away. That would have been the safest course. Like him, then, Jak must have realized that she was no servant of the Witch-Queen. She was merely his convenient guarantor of the yakshaka’s cooperation. Clearly, then, once Jak had delivered his prize, he would still have her for his revenge.

Very greedy is this Kenjak Ashevajak, the Bandit Lord.

And clearly it was about time to end this investigation. A word or two with the girl should settle things one way or the other and then he would be free to collect their wayward property for examination and dissection back in Anditi Pura. This particular soldier must possess some flaw that had allowed it to shake off its immediate orders. But there was no way it would be able to resist the deep-conditioned key command words that lay at the foundation of its reconstructed consciousness.

Pon-lor broke off his musing as he became aware of someone’s steady regard. He turned to see the villager, the young woman, frozen at the edge of camp, staring at him with ferocious intensity. He gave her a small nod that said: yes indeed, I am a Thaumaturg. Then he raised his brows to say: don’t you think we ought to have a chat?

Her reaction surprised him. Instead of deflating, terrified, she raised her chin and waved him off with the back of a hand as if to answer: I will accept no aid from a filthy wretch such as yourself.

Whence came such regal poise? Then he glanced to the silent waiting yakshaka and shook his head in sad regret. Ah, child, just because you may command such a thing for the moment does not mean you have conquered the world.

Myint jabbed with her spear none too gently, urging the young woman onward. Jak, wolfing down the last of his morning meal of rice and boiled plants, came to meet her. He was brushing his hands free of the sticky grains. ‘You surprised me once before, witch,’ he said. ‘But not again. Try anything and you’ll get run through before you can raise your spells. Understand?’

Though her hair was a dirty nest of twigs, her face smudged with dirt, and her skirts sodden and muddy, the young woman still managed to maintain her poise. The answering nod she bestowed upon the bandit was a sneer.

Pon-lor winced, for he knew this was precisely the wrong approach to take with Kenjak Ashevajak. The young man raised his hand to strike her across the face but the grating of stone and the hiss of steel on wood halted him. All eyes turned to the yakshaka; it had taken a step and half drawn its sword.

Jak slowly lowered his hand. ‘For now, bitch,’ he murmured, low. ‘For now.’

Throughout, the young woman hadn’t flinched, and Pon-lor felt a grudging admiration. He also saw now that the woman had adopted this attitude of scornful superiority precisely because it so enraged the bandit — just as he wielded it as well.

Jak turned to the camp where everyone stood or crouched, motionless, watching. ‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘What are you all standing around for? You lazy useless idiots!’ He swung a kick at Thet-mun. ‘Let’s get going!’

Through the last preparations of breaking camp, Pon-lor wondered which course he ought to pursue. Should he slay the lot of them? They were now leading him in entirely the wrong direction. Yet without their guidance he would be utterly lost in this dense green abyss. Coercion or bribery then. He would leave one alive and promise him or her a rich reward for guiding him back — or he would torture the outlaw into cooperation. So, which one?

A point jabbed him in the back and he flinched into motion while glaring over his shoulder. It was a grinning Thet-mun, his livid facial pocks and pimples even worse now, and his hair a matted glistening ropy cascade.

Pon-lor realized that he had his man. They marched through the thick undergrowth, shouldering aside hanging lianas dense with clinging blossoms and pushing through stands of razor-edged grasses. After the line of march had strung everyone out, Pon-lor cleared his throat and murmured, low, ‘That fool Jak treats you like a dog.’

The point jabbed him. ‘Quiet, you.’

‘You deserve better — you’re the best scout here. Where would they be without you?’

He was jabbed again. ‘ ’Strue,’ the youth snarled. ‘But Jak … He has the plans.’

‘You could too-’

‘Don’t listen to that one,’ a girl cut in from behind.

Pon-lor peered back over his shoulder. The witch paced behind Thet-mun. Myint walked behind her, laughing silently, spear in hand. ‘You should kill him right now,’ the witch continued. ‘His kind mean to bring the Visitor down upon us and wipe all of us from the face of the earth.’

Pon-lor stared back at the young peasant woman. Her answering gaze remained steady and defiant. ‘That’s nonsense. The ruling Circle of Masters would never do such a thing.’

‘How do you know this?’

Pon-lor drew breath to answer, clamped his mouth shut. Because … there are rumours … they’d tried it before. And it had been a disaster.

In the face of his silence Myint laughed her hyena scorn. She set her spearhead alongside the woman’s neck. ‘Speak again and it’ll be gags for both of you.’

Pon-lor turned away. Damn the witch. By the teachings of the ancients, I am now tired of this. I have quite demonstrated my denial of the flesh, my indifferent endurance of arduous conditions. The Masters cannot fault my assiduousness here! At the next stop, when everyone’s gathered together, I’ll put an end to it.

Towards midday the troop gathered for a break in the march. The sun stabbed down in a punishing blinding glare through gaps in the high canopy. The bird whistles and distant animal hoots and roars had died down with the heat of noon. The ground here was covered by an overlay of twisting knotted roots that supported the surrounding massive trunks, which were bulwarked by enormously wide bases, as large as buildings. Pon-lor made a show of throwing himself down to sit hunched. He drew in great shuddering breaths as if he were utterly spent.

Another of the troop guarded him now, a quiet oldster with a hard cold gaze. Probably a runaway petty criminal. Or maybe not. He mustn’t make the mistake of underestimating these outcasts again. Perhaps the man was a multiple murderer. Or a violent rapist. There was no way to know. He wasn’t certain of his name — not that it mattered. Weenas, perhaps. Something like that.

He turned his head to glance sideways up at the man. ‘Hey … you.’

The eyes snapped to his, then narrowed, calculating. Without a change of his indifferent expression he jabbed the glinting point of his spearhead into Pon-lor’s shoulder. The point withdrew smeared a bright crimson. Pon-lor clamped down on the pain and kept his face flat, determined to match the man’s impassiveness. The oldster, Weeras, studied the wound and licked his lips, smiling.

Sadist. Even worse than I’d imagined. The throat for this one, I think. So vital, that one slim locale. So much going on in such a narrow passage.

Pon-lor pitched his voice low: ‘How can you breathe with …’ then he trailed off as he realized something.

The old man’s face wrinkled up in annoyance. ‘What?’

Pon-lor searched the surrounding jungle. It was silent. The constant hum and susurration of insects had fallen away. No birds called from the canopy. Casting his awareness wide he now detected why: they were surrounded. The yakshaka, he noted, had turned its helmed head to stare off into the dense leaves as if at nothing. He stood, called out, ‘Jak!’

‘Shut the abyss up!’ Weeras snarled, and thrust at him.

He easily sidestepped the point and kicked the old man down. ‘Where are your scouts?’ he called to Jak who now stared, frozen, a handful of rice at his mouth.

Thet-mun, next to the bandit leader, was not so slow to understand. He threw himself flat, disappearing immediately between the thick snaking roots everyone sat upon.

I chose well in that one, Pon-lor congratulated himself.

A hissing like bees sounded all round. Leaves were flicked, then a storm of arrows punished the gathered bandits. Complete chaos engulfed the troop. Everyone scattered. Some even dropped their weapons to run, terrified.

‘Cannibals!’ someone screeched.

Cannibals? Pon-lor wondered, quite astonished. He shifted to put his back to one of the immense tree trunks. He edged his head aside as something darted towards him. A slim arrow slammed into the thick spongy bark next to his head. Paint and feathers decorated the deadly graceful object and he understood. Ah, these villagers are from the border region. They grew up hearing the stories of the natives of Himatan. Ardata’s Children, call them what you will. Cannibals, head-hunters. Of course such a reputation for ferocity serves these locals well — it keeps everyone away, doesn’t it?

A sudden wash of enormous power, like a huge wave, thrust him back into the tree. The witch was raising her aura. And what strength! He stared, stunned by the depth of it. How came she by such might? She screamed however, then, and her aura flickered, snapping away just as it burgeoned to life. She clutched her leg where an arrow now pierced her thigh.

Jak and Myint had pulled together a group and this knot now charged the jungle, probably meaning to break through the encirclement. Showing surprising speed, the yakshaka scooped up the witch and stormed off in the opposite direction, crashing through the undergrowth like an enraged elephant.

Pon-lor searched for, and found, Thet-mun’s frantic gaze where he peered out over the top of a root. Pon-lor motioned aside, after the fleeing yakshaka, and after scanning his fallen cohorts around him the lad gave a curt nod.

His arms still tied behind his back, Pon-lor ran after the yakshaka. Arrows hissed past him. One plucked his arm. As he ran he sensed a growing numbness in that arm — a toxin. He suppressed the blood flow to that limb and hoped to live long enough to deal with it later.

Lying among the dead leaves ahead was one of these Himatan locals. The warrior was painted head to foot and wore a kind of armour over his chest of bent bamboo and rattan strips lashed together. His head was crushed as from some terrific blow. The yakshaka. At least he was still on the right trail. Soon, however, he knew he would lose his way. He believed he could now sense this witch should he put his mind to it; but the question was how best to get from here to there, what to eat, and what not to step on.

He ran on then, not certain of his direction, but wanting to put some distance between himself and the ambush behind. After some time, pushing through hanging vines and tracing round the fallen rotting logs of these forest giants, he paused for breath, panting. This time he was not faking it; Thaumaturg training, it seemed, was perhaps negligent of raw physical endurance.

He flinched, then, jumping, as someone emerged from the thick dripping fronds next to him: Thet-mun. ‘You’re too loud,’ the youth growled, peering warily about.

‘Cut my bonds.’

‘What for? What will you do for me?’

‘Get me back and I’ll see to it that you’re richly rewarded.’

The youth grinned. ‘That’s more like it.’ He pulled out a large, wicked-looking curved knife.

After which I’ll see you executed as a criminal.

He sawed through Pon-lor’s bonds. ‘You’re wounded,’ he yelped, indicating his arm.

‘Yes.’

The youth stared, confused. ‘But … there’s poison on them arrows.’

‘Yes, there is.’

The youth’s face revealed unguarded wonder. He drew a small packet from within his shirt. He offered it to Pon-lor. ‘Well … try this.’

Pon-lor unwrapped it to reveal a whitish paste. ‘What is this?’

‘Should kill that poison.’

Kill it? Ah, an antidote of some kind. Perhaps an alkaline agent. I am impressed. He smeared some on the cut. Thet-mun tore a strip of cloth and bound it. ‘How did you learn this?’ Pon-lor asked.

‘My ol’ aunt taught me the recipe. Come to think of it, some called her a witch, too.’

‘Ah. So, which way now?’

The youth pointed the blade. ‘That way’s west.’

‘No. Which way to the yakshaka?’

The scout flinched, hunching. ‘Wha’? No one said anything about trackin’ him down.’

‘I have to return with it. That’s the only way I — we — can get our reward.’

Sheathing his blade, the pock-marked youth glanced away, frowning, sullen.

Pon-lor could see his mind working: how he was thinking that maybe he would have a better chance alone after all, and so he murmured, ‘What will you do when you run into those cannibals again?’ A shudder of terror rewarded him. ‘Or the Night Children? They say the man-leopard, that legendary killer, still haunts these forests. Tell me, Thet. What will you do if he comes for you in the night?’

The youth ground his teeth, almost whining in his frustration and fear. ‘You made yer damned point.’

‘Very good. Now, which way?’

He gestured onward. ‘Couldn’t miss it if you was blind.’

Pon-lor invited him to lead the way.

* * *

Alone in the jungle a woman knelt drinking water she cupped in a hand from a thin stream. She wore only a cloth wrapped about her loins. Her breasts were high and firm, the areolae a dark nut-brown. Sweat-caked dust and dirt smeared her limbs, face and torso. Her hair stood in all directions as a wet black nest. Hand at her mouth she paused. Her bright hazel eyes shifted aside and she smiled, humourlessly.

Straightening, Spite kept her arms loose at her sides. She cocked her head, scanning the bamboo thicket surrounding her. She called in a sing-song voice: ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are …’

The amber light of dawn fought the lingering emerald glow of the Visitor, which now bruised the sky all the night and the day. Mist coiled among bamboo shafts and through the vapours low hunched shapes slunk forward. Spite turned, scanning the grove; she was surrounded.

The nearest creature reared up on its hind legs, squat and wide, yet far taller than she. It was vaguely humanoid with thick muscular limbs bristling with hair, and a wide deep chest. It stood hunched as if unable to straighten fully. Its wide blunt head, likewise thick with bristling hair, boasting thrusting tusks and black glittering eyes, resembled more that of a giant wild boar than anything human.

Spite sneered her distaste. ‘Soletaken degenerates. Gone feral, I see. What would you have of me?’

The creature waved a wide, black-taloned hand. ‘Begone.’

‘Begone? How dare you? Do you know who I am? My lineage?’

‘Aye,’ the boar-beast growled deep in its throat. ‘We know you. Thus — we wish you gone.’

‘Well … no. I will not. I seek something stolen from me. This has nothing to do with you.’

‘We do not care. We want you gone.’

‘Sorry to disappoint.’

The boar-beast raised its gaze to indicate the way she had come. ‘There is a pit in the north that awaits you, Spite. Perhaps we shall shove you back in.’

Spite’s bright amber eyes hardened and her lips compressed. ‘Do not tempt my anger, you pathetic night-beasts. Slink away before I tire of you.’

The boar-beast drew itself up even taller. ‘We tire of you!’ And it leaped.

A blast of argent power met it in mid-leap. The creature spun away, crashing through the bamboo. Another beast slammed into Spite, sending her tumbling. Wide and far more burly than any human, it shambled off on all fours, its thick black hair all grey down its back.

Snarling her rage Spite climbed to her feet and wiped the mud from her face. ‘I’ll have all your heads for this!’

‘But the muck and mire is a fitting place for you, Spite,’ commented a new voice, one much more smooth and cultured. A man emerged from the mist. Lean and muscled, this one’s hair was a short tawny yellow, like a pelt, and his eyes glowed as brightly amber as Spite’s. The fangs of a hunting cat dominated his mouth.

Spite hunched, now wary. ‘You I know.’

The man inclined his head, acknowledging the compliment. ‘We have warned you, Spite. We ask that you go. Just leave and you will live.’

A scoffing laugh burst from her. ‘None of you are a threat to me.’

‘Not now, no. But who knows when — on some day or night to come — you will suddenly feel my teeth upon your neck.’ He raised a hand and snapped it shut into a fist. ‘Then, well … it will be too late and I will break your spine.’

‘Well. In that case. The prudent course for me would be … to kill you now.’ Her power flickered to life about her, licking in crimson and argent flames.

The man-leopard raised his eyes to the tops of the bamboo forest lost in the mist above her. ‘It is not I you must worry about today, Spite.’

Her mouth curled her annoyance and she turned, raising her gaze. ‘Oh, what now? Surely not your fabled bird-women.’ Seeing a hint of movement she squinted. The mist swirled, disturbed by the descent of a something massive. Darkness blossomed immediately above her; an immense yawning mouth, close to three fathoms across, set in a slim featureless albino head resembling that of a salamander.

Spite’s shoulders slumped. ‘Oh, shit.’

The titanic Worm of Autumn lunged, smashing into the muddy ground, snapping the rearing bamboo. The man-leopard leaped aside, running half on all fours. Of Spite, no sign remained. The monstrous beast writhed, flailing, its jaws working. Its length could not be guessed as its segmented mass disappeared into the murky distance.

The Worm’s thrashing reduced the grove to a wreckage of smashed and broken bamboo. It writhed and twisted, gouging great swaths of mud. Thumping blows shook the ground until it boomed and echoed. The battering raged on even as the sun broke the horizon to begin burning off the mist from the night’s rain.

An eruption of power shone blazing argent, for an instant brighter than the rising sun. A thunderclap followed, shuddering the distant standing trees. It blasted leaves from branches in all directions, sending them flying.

The Worm lay still. The gigantic body ended at a tattered stump of blackened smoking flesh. Gobbets of muscle and fat and skin littered the expanse of the flattened bamboo grove. A fresh mist rose from the steaming gore. Among the fat and segments of torn organs the size of a man, something shifted. A shape lurched erect: Spite, sheathed in mucus and pulped flesh.

She wiped the smeared gore from her. She retched and staggered upright. Her frenzied gaze raked the surroundings. ‘You see!’ she shrieked, transported in an ecstasy of rage. ‘You see! Nothing here is a match for me! I will destroy you all!’

A disembodied voice answered from the jungle depths: ‘Foolish girl … we could only lure here … the smallest of them.’

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