Blood and Bone

CHAPTER XII

The land is sinking. This was Shimmer’s conclusion after staring for interminable days and nights at a shore that hardly deserved the name. Or the waters are rising. Where the river ended and the land began appeared to be a debate this jungle was unable to resolve. Their route twisted and turned. Countless channels and streams led off from the main way only to reappear round the next tight bend.

To further muddy the situation the water itself was taking on the characteristics of the surrounding land. No current could be seen pulling on the thick layer of lilies and wide flat pads that utterly choked the surface. The rotting prow of the Serpent actually seemed to catch on the tough plants, tugging and ripping. Tall water birds flapped from their path looking like disgruntled priests wrapped in brown robes with long disapproving faces. They walked atop the pads on stilt-like legs and made better progress than the ship. It puzzled her that the channel could really be so shallow. Countless water snakes likewise slithered among the massed floating plants, fleeing the disturbance. Thick clouds of insects hovered above the fat pink and white blossoms of the lilies. Dragonflies the size of her fist stooped these dense clouds while birds chased them all, snapping everything up in their pointed beaks.

The scent of all those blossoms melded into an overpowering stink of corrupted sweetness, which combined with the rot of dead plant matter and the miasma of the standing water. She could almost see the fumes hanging like scarves in the dead air. Or perhaps it was the dust and pollen.

The sun beat down with a drowsy heat made far worse by the unbearable humidity. Merely bending her arm raised drops of sweat. She wore only a long undershirt now, over trousers and open sandals. Her long hair she tied up high with the aid of thin sticks. Her thoughts seemed to coil as turgid as the water itself. Where was this capital Rutana promised? She claimed they were close yet no towers or walls reared above the canopy.

Ruined foundations, stone stelae and tumbled carved blocks did stand here and there, vine-choked and eroded. But no sign of current occupation showed itself. They had better be close, because beneath her hands the wood railing felt spongy with rot. She couldn’t imagine what was keeping the vessel together. It ought to have disintegrated long ago.

The troop of longtail monkeys had returned — or another of the tribe. In any case, they travelled alongside their course, swinging from limb to limb. They had no trouble in keeping up with the ship’s sluggish progress. Their moustached, wise faces peered from among the boughs, eyes bright and black.

As the vessel pushed beneath overhanging branches, leaves and the luminous petals of countless blossoms rained down upon everyone. Shimmer brushed the gold and purple showers from her shoulders. The littered deck appeared as festive as if decorated for the parades of Fanderay’s revival.

They moved through an eerie half-light now. Neither day nor night. It seemed as if she was dreaming. A strange jade glow pervaded all the space beneath the thick canopy that extended above them from all sides. The light reminded her of that unearthly greenish luminosity that comes just before the clouds of a massive storm. Here, however, it never went away.

Then the Serpent rounded a bend in what now seemed nothing more than a stagnant swamp. Rutana, near the vine-draped bow, stiffened and pointed ahead. Her breath left her in a loud hiss. Something jutted out among the bobbing lilies and fat table-like leaves. It was just submerged, a stone ledge of some sort, algae-green, canted as if it had sunk into its foundation. The Serpent glided up to the ledge and came to a gentle halt.

‘We are arrived,’ the woman announced.

Shimmer scanned the jungle shore. She saw nothing but interminable trees, low brush and grass. Insects sent up a constant low buzz. ‘Arrived? There is nothing here!’

The woman’s harsh gaze sharpened even more and her lips pulled back from her teeth in her perpetual sneer. ‘Yes, there is.’

‘We are here,’ whispered a faint voice from beside her and she spun, jerking; K’azz had come up next to her. ‘I sense her. She is close.’

‘Where?’ Shimmer demanded of Rutana.

The woman shrugged, unconcerned. She waved a hand, all sinew and bone, to indicate the jungle. ‘About.’

Shimmer clenched her jaws until her teeth ached. Turgal, Cole and Amatt had joined them, as had Lor-sinn and Gwynn. They carried their gear, their armour and weapons, all rolled under their arms. Cole handed Shimmer’s over.

K’azz studied them. He motioned to the shore. ‘Disembark.’

Shimmer nodded her assent; how glad she was to finally be rid of this rotting hulk! And yet, at the same time, it had come to feel safe. As if all the potential dangers surrounding them couldn’t touch them while they occupied it. A kind of floating sanctuary where they were held inviolate. But held by whom?

The vessel was now so low she could let herself down over the side to touch the sunken wharf. Her sandals slipped and slid on the thick algae. The stone appeared to be granite. She carefully edged her way ashore. And what unusual land: ochre-stained sandy soil, soft and loamy to her feet. It felt strange to be off the vessel. Turgal, Cole and Amatt followed. On shore, they undid the belts binding up their gear and armoured themselves. Shimmer followed suit. Gwynn leaned upon his tall staff while Lor studied the surrounding jungle. She blew her hair from her face; catching Shimmer’s eye, she shook her head in obvious dismay. After private words with Rutana and Nagal, K’azz came ashore. He wore a plain thin shirt and trousers. A longsword hung from a belt slung over one shoulder. His emaciated form, all bones and ligaments, appalled Shimmer; had he been sick? With his long greying hair and beard the man resembled more a castaway than a mercenary commander. What would Ardata think of him?

And what will Skinner think? He won’t come quietly. Yet K’azz is not concerned.

Turgal pulled on his rusted helmet. He hefted his wide infantryman’s shield and a loud tearing noise pulled everyone’s attention to him. The shield fell from his arm, its leather straps rotted through. He drew his hand-and-a-half sword, brought it overhead, then smashed it down on the shield, which shattered as if it were made of paper. He picked up the remains and with a yell of fury tossed them into the channel. He yanked off his helmet and squeezed it in his gauntleted hands: its visor broke off and the shell creaked and deformed as he pressed upon it. Furious, his face flushed, the man tossed this too into the channel. Next went his gauntlets, the leather straps holding the various plates together also obviously rotten. He was in a quivering rage, gazing down at his hauberk of banded iron. He took hold of his weapon belt and yanked. It too ripped from him. ‘Dammit all to the Abyss!’ he yelled to everyone. ‘Are we to run around bare-arsed?’

‘Not me, thank you,’ answered Lor.

Cole laughed, as usual the one to find humour in the situation. ‘Too bad,’ he offered Lor, winking.

‘Skinner will laugh,’ Amatt observed darkly.

K’azz raised a hand for quiet. ‘We’re not here to fight,’ he said.

Amatt was unbuckling his armour. ‘Then why are we here?’ he demanded.

It struck Shimmer as no coincidence that now that they had left the river behind, together with the otherworldly glamour that suffused it, all the questions and fears that had somehow been suppressed were boiling over. She fingered her own suit of fine mail. The links were stiff and rusty. It was more of a danger to her than any weapon thrust: it would poison her blood. She began untying her belt. ‘Well?’ she added, eyeing K’azz.

Their commander scanned the nearby woods. What he saw there, or failed to see, made him wince. He scratched his scalp. ‘We’re here to try to bring as many as we can back into the fold. Remember that.’

‘What of Skinner?’ Gwynn asked.

‘We’ll see.’

Cole threw down his ruined gear and took up his two sheathed swords, which he swung together over a shoulder. ‘Fine. Now what?’ he asked.

K’azz scratched a cheek. ‘We’re on our own. Rutana made that plain. I suggest we find some shelter, or make it.’

Gwynn nodded, stroking his beard. ‘Very good. Let’s have a look round.’

Their commander started walking and they fell in behind. Shimmer chose to take the rear. She’d had no idea what awaited them of course, but this certainly was not what she’d expected. Where was the great sprawling urban centre? The great structures? Not even truncated ruins poked up here or there through the trees. What of the towers of gold? The pavement of gems? All figments of the imagination of the few survivors who managed to escape Ardata’s green abyss?

At least the jungle floor was clear. Trees stood as isolated emergents towering far into the sky. Their bases were as large round as huts, while their root systems sprawled across the surface like veins and arteries. They came to a broad open field bordered by tall trees. K’azz led them out on to it. The ground was beaten hard here, tufted by grass. It appeared to be a long concourse of some sort, extending further than many marshalling fields laid end to end. At its far edge lay a heap of dressed granite blocks that might have once formed a raised course but were now heaved and jumbled. K’azz paused before these. Among them lay tarnished bronze bowls and the remains of countless clay pots and cups, so many they formed heaps of their own. Faded flags and scarves draped the stones while drawings were scrawled over every open surface: the squares and circles of ritual protections. Over everything lay a dusting of flower petals all in iridescent blues, pinks and crimsons. Forests of incense sticks stood jammed into cracks and in the dirt. Smoke still curled from some.

Shimmer exchanged a look with everyone at that.

Turgal had salvaged one belt to wear over his padded, sweat-stained gambeson. His sword in its mildewed rotting sheath hung from it. He eased the blade free with his thumb. Shimmer wore her whipsword at her back.

After silently regarding the offerings for a time, K’azz led them aside and they re-entered the cathedral-like aisles of the trees. At length they came to a cluster of abandoned collapsed huts consisting of nothing more than bamboo poles and dried palm fronds.

So much for the legendary Jakal Viharn, shining city in the jungle, Shimmer reflected. Hovels where worshippers squatted in the dirt. Travellers who had survived such privation to reach here must have been driven mad by the discovery. All that suffering for naught! No wonder the exaggerations and reported marvels.

K’azz took hold of a pole and straightened it. He picked up a length of root used as lashing and began retying it. Amatt and Cole exchanged a look then went off into the woods, perhaps seeking fresh leaves or bamboo stalks. Gwynn and Lor-sinn followed. Turgal remained, a hand at his weapon.

Shimmer let out a long even breath, set her hands on her hips. The sun now glared down hot on the top of her head. Sweat ran down her neck and arms. ‘And what do we eat?’ she wearily asked K’azz while he rebuilt the hut.

‘There is much to eat here in Viharn,’ answered a voice from behind her.

Turgal cursed, spinning, his sword scraping free. Shimmer merely turned, one brow rising. She flinched at what she saw: it was a woman, but her shape was grotesque. Illness or disease had twisted and deformed half her body. One side of her face and skull was covered in coarse knobbled flesh. One arm hung swollen to three or four times the girth of the other. Its flesh was coarse and rough, as were her legs. As clothes she wore a plain pale wrap of some sort of woven plant fibre. ‘One merely has to know where to look,’ she continued, unabashed by their reactions.

K’azz lowered Turgal’s raised blade. ‘We are grateful for your advice,’ he said.

‘You are welcome.’ She seemed to study Shimmer very closely with her one good eye — the other was clouded white. Then she turned her attention to K’azz. ‘Why are you here?’

‘We are here to see Ardata.’

‘All seekers are welcome.’

‘Thank you. Where is she? We do not see her.’

‘She is here. Just because you do not see her does not mean she is not here.’

‘Wonderful,’ Turgal muttered and slammed his sword home.

‘We would like to meet her,’ K’azz continued.

‘That is entirely up to you.’

Shimmer blew out a breath and turned a quizzical look on K’azz. He raised his brows. ‘I … see. My thanks.’

The woman bowed and walked off. Her gait was agonizingly slow and awkward as she swung her deformed legs. Her swollen club feet dragged through the dirt.

‘How did she sneak up on us?’ Turgal wondered aloud, watching her go.

Shimmer moved to bring her head close to K’azz. She found she was unable to take her gaze from the retreating form. ‘Is that the disease that kills all feeling in the flesh?’ she asked, her voice low.

K’azz’s eyes also followed the woman as she went. It seemed to Shimmer that the figure projected a quiet dignity. ‘No,’ he said. ‘That is no disease. She was born that way. Caught halfway into a transformation from human into something else.’

‘Something else?’

He shrugged to say he knew not what. ‘She must have in her heritage the touch of a shapechanger. This is how it manifested itself.’

A shudder of horror took Shimmer. Gods! No wonder the old dread of shapechangers. Yet what an awful fate. And not of her choosing! Sympathy for the woman touched her. She’d probably been driven out of her community. Denounced as evil or corrupting simply because of her appearance. Cruelty and ignorance, it seemed, lay everywhere.

Turgal stood quietly for a time, arms crossed, watching K’azz struggle with assembling the bamboo poles. Finally, letting go an impatient curse, he joined him. ‘Start with the short pieces.’

‘I was thinking more of a lean-to.’

‘And when it rains? You’ll want a platform.’

‘Ah! No wonder. I see.’

Shaking her head, Shimmer left them to argue the niceties of hut construction. She walked among the immense grey-barked trees. She went without fear; after going to such trouble to bring them here, it seemed to her that Ardata would hardly allow them to be torn to pieces. Her wandering took her deep into the jungle. Something of the manicured nature of the land struck her. It was so flat — cultivated at one time, probably. Perhaps rice paddies. Yet these trees … so evenly spaced. Cultivated as well? A food source? Or some other resource?

Circling one giant emergent trunk, its base a series of arches taller than her, she suddenly came face to face with Rutana. The woman held her habitual scowl. She peered past Shimmer to make certain they were alone.

‘As you can see — there’s nothing here,’ she said.

Shimmer held her arms loose, ready to act. ‘There was. Once. I think.’

‘Perhaps. Long ago. But not now. You should go.’

‘I know. You don’t want us here.’

‘You mock but you have come for nothing. There is nothing here.’

‘I was just assured that there is.’

The woman advanced upon her. The forest of amulets about her neck rattled and swayed as she swung a leg over a root. An inhuman intensity shone in her eyes. ‘Do you think you are special?’ she hissed.

‘No.’

‘She won’t come to you.’

‘I was told that was up to me.’

Rutana snorted her scorn. ‘They wait. They pray. But she does not come. She cares nothing for their desires. Their demands.’

Shimmer was slowly backing away. ‘What does she care for?’

The woman pressed a fist to her bony chest. ‘Strength! Power!’

‘Was that why she came to Skinner?’

A cruel smile now crept up the witch’s lips and she chuffed a harsh laugh. ‘No, fool. Your Vow.’

‘What of the Vow?’

‘Ask your commander. You are all of you doomed. I would almost pity you if I did not loathe you so.’

‘Doomed? How?’

Rutana waved an arm as if casting her away. ‘Ask K’azz. Not me.’ She turned her back and walked off.

Shimmer stood still for some time. Leaves fell from on high. Birds whistled and shrieked far above. Distantly, like an echo of thunder, the roar of a hunting cat reverberated through the clearing. In that suspended moment she thought she’d come close to an answer — a hint of what the woman meant. But then it was gone in the wind brushing through the canopy and the rasping of the dead leaves as they swirled about her sandals.

She walked on, distracted. She hardly noticed her surroundings as she grasped after the hint that had touched her thoughts. After a time something blocked her way. Blinking, she became aware that she stood at the lip of a broad sheet of water. It was a reservoir wider than a city block. It ran north as long as a city’s main concourse. Lily pads dotted its glass-smooth surface. The sun was almost set now, the day having passed unnoticed. The shadows had gathered a deep mauve and edged closer. As she watched, entranced, the sun’s slanting amber rays lit upon the perfectly still surface of the artificial lake and the sheet seemed to erupt into molten gold that rippled and blazed with its own internal fires.

It suddenly struck her vision as an immense causeway paved in sheets of gold. And sparks flashed here and there as tiny waves from insects alighting, or fish feeding, gently rippled the surface. The gems, perhaps, glimmering and beckoning.

She stood utterly still for the time it took the setting sun’s rays to edge their way across the surface. When they slipped away, they disappeared all at once as if snuffed out. The reservoir’s west border was perfectly aligned for the effect.

She took a deep breath — had she even breathed the entire time? She felt so calm. All her worries struck her as trivial, completely unimportant. What mattered any of it in the face of such an immensity of time and space? She felt as if she could remain here for an eternity contemplating such questions. Perhaps, she reflected, the sensation derived from the satisfaction of having solved at least one of the mysteries of Jakal Viharn, city of gold.

* * *

It took some time, but eventually Pon-lor had to admit that he’d lost the trail of the yakshaka, Hanu. He’d backtracked a number of times searching for sign. Now the light was fading and the marks of his own passage helped obscure any certainty he might have felt regarding the trail. As night gathered he gave it up as worthless. He’d try again in the morning. The question, then, was what to do for the night.

Night in Himatan. Alone. Not a promising prospect. He’d got through last night by climbing a tree and tying himself in. Even so, he’d hardly slept. Large night hunters prowled all through the hours, chasing other things. Sudden bursts of calls or screeching announced close escapes, or panicked last struggles. His training might allow him to forgo sleep for some time, but there was no dire need to delve into that yet.

Off to one side the ground rose. He headed in that direction. Here he found a hillock of sloping talus and broken stone topped by a steeper rising cliff riddled in caves, now mostly choked by the accumulated detritus of centuries. Mature trees crowned the rise, gripping it in gnarled fists of roots. Underfoot hard talus shifted, grating, and he bent down to select one of the fragments. He brushed it off: it was flat and slightly curved. It was not stone. It was earthen pottery.

Startled by this he staggered slightly, backwards, to peer up and down along the slope, a good two man-heights above the surrounding plain. Great ancients! A garbage heap the size of a village! No, the remains of a village. Generation after generation squatting in the same spot, dropping their litter and tamping it into the ground. Simply astounding. And now, the slow work of the ages conspired to wipe from the surface even these last vestiges of humanity’s presence.

He crouched down before the largest cave. It actually had the look of an animal burrow but he could not be sure. He brought out a cloth bag containing the bulbs and fruit he’d collected through the day. One by one he inspected his finds. Some he rejected, not certain they conformed to Thet-mun’s descriptions of safe foods. The rest he replaced in the bag then brushed the dirt from his hands. Now for a fire. Humanity’s best defence against the chills and the horrors of the night. Yet was it not also humanity’s challenge, as well? The unmistakable brazen shout to the night: come and get me? Something to consider into the long hours.

He went to collect firewood. Once he’d assembled a pile great enough to last the night he set to priming the fire. Not a skill high on the Thaumaturg curriculum. Dry tinder he clumped together, along with a strip of cloth torn from the edge of his robes. Now for the application of his true training: the focusing of power on to one tiny point, thereby agitating the particles of the field of Aether that pervaded all creation. This in turn should bring into being … he turned all his mental energy upon the task, easing out his breath in a long soft hiss, his hands hovering just above the tinder … a spark.

A tendril of smoke climbed into the air. He blew, lightly, teasing the tiny ember to life. It caught and soon he had a proper fire blazing. And just in time, as thunder crashed overhead and the night’s rain came pattering down upon him. He used larger branches to push the fire in towards the shallow cave’s mouth. Here he sat under the cover of the curved wall of pressed litter, cross-legged, his back to the dirt, the fire just before him. Vines hung about him, running now with the rain. The petals of a clinging orchid brushed his hair like the lightest of kisses.

He pushed a bulb on to a stick and extended it over the fire.

Tomorrow. He mustn’t lose the trail. She must come to see reason tomorrow. How many days did she think she could just wander blindly about? It was ridiculous. Worse, it was the petulance of a child who would not admit she was wrong.

After he ate, he eased himself into the position of recuperation, hands on his lap, fingertips touching to channel his energy, and closed his eyes.

Late in the night, a huge hunting cat approached. It lay on its stomach hidden among the cover at the bottom of the hillock. Through slit eyes Pon-lor watched the flames reflected in its luminous pupils. After a time a noise sounded from the night: a crash as of wood breaking. The cat chuffed a cough and eased itself to its feet. Long curved fangs caught the light as it turned and glided away.

The crash was followed by another, and another, each closer. Soon an even more massive beast came lumbering up on to the slope of the hillock. It walked on two legs but was barely humanoid. Colossal, it was, with tough plated skin the hue of ash. Its legs were thick trunks ending in great splayed feet. Its head was a hairless stump. Two tiny eyes no larger than pinheads regarded him from atop a mouth that sported broken and misaligned jutting teeth.

‘Who are you,’ it boomed, ‘to light a fire here in the depths of Himatan?’

Wisdom of the ancients, what was this thing? One of the Night-Queen’s monstrosities, of course. But beast, man, or other? Was it, as his teachers insisted in the Thaumaturg Academy, the degenerate offspring of centuries of indiscriminate miscegenation — or, perhaps, as he was beginning to suspect, the product of a lineage of survivors adapted and attuned to this region’s peculiar demands?

‘Someone who would dare to do so,’ Pon-lor shouted down. ‘Think you on that.’

In what Pon-lor took as a hideous attempt at a grin, the creature’s lips drew back even further from its forest of jutting teeth. It waved him down with a trunk-like arm. ‘I believe you are a poor lost fellow. Come here and let us discuss this. You can even bring your bright licking friend.’

‘The rules of the jungle dictate that I decline your kind invitation. Especially when we have not been introduced.’

The thick ledge of brow above its eyes rose in surprise. ‘You do not know who I am? Easily put to rest.’ It thumped its chest. ‘I am Anmathana. Earth-shaker!’

‘Good for you. I am Pon-lor, master of flesh.’

The monster frowned as if bemused. ‘Master of flesh? Ah, I see you are one of those invaders. Come down and I will show you the way, little lost magus.’

‘Thank you but I am quite comfortable here. Do not trouble yourself.’

‘No? You will not descend? This is not a difficulty. I will come up.’ He raised a sledge-like foot and jammed it into the slope. He grabbed hold of a nearby tree but in a groaning crash the entire thing tore out of the ground. He angrily threw aside the trunk, began kicking his next foothold.

Unease took hold of Pon-lor’s chest but he strove to keep his voice level. He focused his concentration upon the creature. ‘How can you climb when you are so short of breath?’ he called.

Anmathana paused, reared his bullet-head. ‘What’s that? Short of breath? I am not-’ He pressed a spatulate hand to his chest, frowned.

‘Your lungs are full of tiny globes, my friend,’ Pon-lor said. ‘These distil the life-essence from the air when you inhale. But they cannot do so when they are full of fluid.’

The giant coughed, his eyes rolling wildly. ‘What-’ he managed, gurgling and choking. He clutched at his throat.

‘Retreat and you will breathe again!’

Glaring impotent rage, Anmathana took one step backwards.

‘Very good. Keep going.’

He took another step, fell to one knee, his chest working. Pon-lor eased his concentration. The creature drew a ragged hoarse breath. He raised his blunt head. ‘I will crush you for this,’ he gasped.

‘It is foolish to be angry with some one or thing for merely defending itself.’

Anmathana waved a snarling dismissal, turned and stamped off into the jungle. Pon-lor heard the diminishing reports of fists smashing like battering rams into trees as it went.

After a time the jungle was quiet again — as quiet as it ever was as the calls of night hunters rose once more to the moon, insects hissed and chirped, and bats flitted overhead.

‘Well done!’ another voice called, this one from above. Pon-lor scanned the darkened treetops. ‘Can’t have the fellow dragging us all down, can we?’ Pon-lor spotted the source: a blob of night, all shaggy round the edge, at the notch of a thick branch.

‘And you are?’

‘Varakapi is the name.’

‘Brother to our friend?’

‘Only very distantly,’ the creature answered, not at all amused. ‘I have been watching you.’

‘To what end?’

‘To pose a question.’

‘Oh?’ Pon-lor heightened his concentration once more, though he sensed nothing inimical for the moment. ‘And that is?’

‘What is Himatan?’

Pon-lor blinked, rather startled by such simplicity. ‘That’s it?’

‘Yes. That is all. You could say the question is nothing — yet everything.’

‘How very … philosophical,’ Pon-lor answered drily.

‘As a trained Thaumaturg, I thought you would appreciate that.’

Pon-lor narrowed his gaze upon the shaggy blotch. Long pointed elbows stuck out. The shape reminded him of a huge ape or monkey. ‘And the purpose behind this question?’

‘It is for you to muse upon. I hope you will find in it fertile ground for speculation.’

Frowning now, Pon-lor turned his attention to the dying fire. He pushed more of the dry brush in upon it. Speculation? What speculation could such a question evoke? When he looked up once more the beast was gone. Well. That is one thing Himatan is: very odd. One might find oneself nearly pushed into a monster’s mouth at one moment, then challenged to philosophical debate at the next! He hoped this was the last of his visitors; he’d been planning to get some rest. Leaning back, he shut his eyes. He tried to calm his mind, but the simple plain question kept circling there round and round.

What is Himatan?

* * *

Okay, Murken Warrow, it’s time to get a grip on the situation. Everyone’s countin’ on us to get their puckered sphincters out of here. And who am I lookin’ at to pull that off? Fuckin’ useless Sour! We’re sunk. Absolutely had it. Might as well slit our own throats.

‘So, Mage — what now?’

Murk flinched, almost tottering over from where he crouched studying the jungle. He peered up, squinting in the blinding sunlight, to Burastan glowering down. He straightened and as he did so darkness gathered in his vision. Gotta get some food in me. ‘What do you mean?’ His answer sounded defensive even to his ears.

The tall Seven Cities woman rolled her eyes. ‘Which way now?’

‘East.’

Burastan leaned forward to bring her sweaty grimed face closer to his. Speaking very slowly, she asked: ‘Which way east?’

Murk looked away. He swallowed though no spit would come. ‘Have to talk that over with the scouts.’

‘You do that.’

‘If you’re all done …’

She waved him away. He went to find the scouts — and Sour.

These days the Thyr mage was spending all his time with the scouts. Murk had come across him actually teaching them how to pick flowers! Could you believe it? And these hardened veterans of Seven Cities and the Quon Insurgency campaigns. Murk couldn’t credit it. When did this happen?

It all started going haywire after they spent time with Oroth-en and his people. Sour took to it like a fish to water an’ now he’s runnin’ around wearing leaves and preachin’ all this living off the land crap. Well, as far as Murk was concerned it was all going to end badly for them. A pig can’t be a tiger no matter how hard it tries, as his old pa used to say.

He found his goggle-eyed partner showing a plant to four scouts. He was explaining something about the roots being edible at one time of year, the leaves at another, and the berries fine so long as you boiled them.

‘Boil them in what?’ Murk asked.

His partner blinked up at him, one bulging eye higher than the other. ‘Well … you could use a helmet, I s’pose. If you had to. Fill it with water and drop in heated stones.’

‘An’ who’s going to do that?’

The fellow shrugged. ‘Better than starvin’.’

Was it really, though? Eating grasshoppers and beetles and such? There was no way he’d do that.

Sour nodded to the scouts and they melted away among the broad drooping leaves. Droplets of rainwater pelted down in loud explosions all round them.

‘Which way?’ Murk asked.

‘I’m thinkin’ on it.’

‘Thinking,’ Murk repeated sceptically. ‘You’re thinking. Well … time’s passing, you know.’

‘I know.’

Murk studied him. There was something new about the man — beyond the natural colouring and dirt powders he’d painted himself in. He wore leather sandals that appeared to have been cut from someone’s cast-off armour. His only other covering was a loin wrap of ratty old cloth. The paints had smeared and faded and become mixed with sweat to a smooth layer over his limbs, chest and face. His hair was a greasy mat that was so muddy he looked as if he’d stuck his head into a hole in the ground.

Murk gestured helplessly to the man’s head. ‘What’s with all this …?’

Sour blinked at him, innocently. ‘This?’

Murk flapped his hands. ‘The hair — the mud!’

The mage’s brows shot up. ‘Ah! Keeps away the crabs and lice an’ scalp-rot ’n’ such.’

‘An’ all this crap you’ve smeared yourself in? Can’t be healthy.’

The man shrank, examined his hands. ‘Well … the dirt keeps the bugs off. No bites from the chiggers or flies or midges or mites. The layer keeps the sun off too, so no sunburn. An’ it helps keep you cool so that keeps down on the sweating too.’ He tapped a dirty finger to his chin. His nails were blackened and broken from all the digging he’d been doing. ‘That’s about it.’

Murk kept his scowl. ‘Well … you smell like a damned privy.’

Sour snapped his fingers. ‘That’s right! Yeah, an’ the animals can’t smell you so it’s easer to hunt. You smell just like the jungle … you see?’

Murk glared his hardest. ‘You smell all right. I can attest to that!’ He waved his hand in front of his nose.

Sour’s face fell. He kicked at the ground, his shoulders hunching. ‘Sorry. But … you know … you could maybe … it keeps the bugs off.’

Murk just glared. ‘Which way?’

Sour rubbed a hand on his head, smearing his hair all about. He winced as if contemplating something painful. ‘Don’t know. Can’t choose! There’re so many choices — so many ways things could go south round here. Don’cha sense it all?’

‘No, I don’t. Shadow’s no help.’ Murk glared now at the gloom of the thick brush. ‘It’s like all its attention’s elsewhere, you know? It’s like the shadows are all standing still, afraid to move.’

Sour was nodding eagerly. ‘Yeah! I know what you mean.’ He pointed to the lurid jade star that was the Visitor clearly visible in the full daylight. ‘It’s that. It’s so close now. I feel like it’s hangin’ right over my head. Like it was gonna fall right-’ He covered his mouth and staggered as if punched, his eyes huge above his hand. ‘Burn forgive us!’ he murmured into his fingers.

Murk had seen his partner like this before and each time it had saved a lot of lives during the campaign in north Genabackis. ‘What is it?’ he asked, reaching out to steady him, then pulling his hand away as he remembered he had no shirt. ‘What’d you see?’

Sour was gazing off into the distance. ‘It could happen,’ he breathed, awed by what he’d glimpsed.

‘What?’

Sour’s gaze snapped to him as if just noticing he was there. He edged close and lowered his voice. ‘There’s a chance it could fall right here on us,’ he whispered. ‘I saw it.’

Murk immediately glanced about to see if anyone was within hearing. ‘Don’t start talk like that.’

‘I know,’ Sour answered, fierce. ‘But it’s real.’

‘We have to run this by the captain.’

Sour blinked, quite startled. ‘Really? I thought you was just gonna tell me to shut the Abyss up.’

Murk glanced back towards camp and froze. ‘Naw,’ he murmured, ‘if there’s a chance …’ He tilted his head in that direction and Sour glanced over, grunted.

Burastan was headed their way. She halted, set her fists on her hips — wide and muscular ones beneath her tattered and frayed trousers that Murk didn’t mind resting his eyes on. She gave them a withering glare up and down. ‘What’re you two whispering on about like a couple of kids?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ Murk replied, all airily. The woman’s presence quite tied Sour’s tongue.

She rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t try that mysterious mage act on me. I know you’re nothing but a village wart-healer.’

‘Got any?’

She frowned warily. ‘What?’

‘Warts.’

Her lips tightened to colourless and her hand went to the wire-wrapped grip of her curved Seven Cities blade. ‘You’re wanted,’ she hissed through rigid jaws.

‘Okay,’ Murk answered.

‘Not you,’ she snarled, dismissing him. She raised her chin to Sour. ‘You.’

Sour pointed to his own chest in disbelief. ‘Me?’

She rolled her eyes once more. ‘Yeah you — gods help us. C’mon.’

Burastan led them to a trooper leaning up against a tree, one unshod foot crossed over the other. ‘He can’t walk,’ she told them.

Sour knelt before the man. He unceremoniously took hold of an ankle to study one foot. The man tensed in pain. Sour waved Murk in for a closer look. He indicated the sole. ‘See?’

The skin of the sole was an angry engorged red. The skin was covered in blisters and was peeling in thick layers as if it had been boiled. ‘What happened?’ Murk asked.

‘Poisonous plant.’ He regarded the man, shook his head. ‘Walked round in your bare feet, didn’t you?’

‘Just to take a piss,’ the man answered, his voice whip tight.

‘Well don’t — walk round in bare feet, I mean. Ever. Until you know what plants to touch and which to stay away from.’

‘How am I to know that? We’re surrounded by damned plants everywhere!’

‘Then keep your sandals on.’

The trooper gestured helplessly. ‘The damned things is all rotted away and won’t stay on, will they!’

‘Watch your tone, Manat,’ Burastan growled.

Murk looked to the scowling woman, rather bemused by this defence of Sour. Order among the ranks, he supposed. Sour just bobbed his head. ‘Fair enough.’ He tapped a knuckle to the trooper’s hauberk of layered leather bands. ‘Cut that up for sandals and tie them on.’

The infantryman, Manat, stared at Sour as if he’d gone mad. ‘Cut up good armour to make sandals?’ he repeated in wonder, too stunned by the idea to be scornful. He sent an entreating look to Burastan. ‘I’ll keep my armour, thank you very much.’

‘Oh yeah.’ Sour rummaged in the large shoulder bag at his side. He drew out a flattened and bruised blossom of large sky-blue petals. The blue orchid that he had been going on about for days now. He took the trooper’s hand and pressed the flower into it. ‘There you go. You won’t be attacked now. Not unless you stick your finger into a leopard’s eye, or somethin’ dumb like that.’

Manat shot another look of disbelief to Burastan. He pointed to Sour. ‘What fucking mumbo-jumbo is this?’

The lieutenant lunged forward to lean over the man. ‘You’ll fucking do what you’re told,’ she hissed, ‘or I’ll cut the skin from your damned feet and make you walk point! Am I understood?’

Manat shrank under the lieutenant’s fury. ‘Okay — sir. If you say so. But … I’m not walkin’ anywhere right now.’

‘I’ll go get something for that,’ Sour said. ‘Don’t you worry. There’s an easy cure for that — you just have ta know where to look, that’s all.’

Manat’s brows rose. ‘Really? You c’n cure this? Man — you do that and I’ll eat your Burn-damned flowers.’

Sour straightened, laughing. ‘Don’t eat that one. Wear it next to your skin. In your shirt, maybe. And when you see a fresh one, pick it and replace the old one. Yes?’

The trooper studied the flattened blossom, still dubious. ‘If you say so … sir.’

‘Okay. I’ll have a look. You rest here.’ Sour looked to Murk as if seeking his permission, or approval. Murk waved him towards the woods; Sour grinned and headed off. Murk followed. Burastan also came along.

Some distance into the dense undergrowth of a grove of young bamboo, Burastan cleared her throat to call a halt. Sour turned to her; Murk found himself standing aligned with the lieutenant, facing his partner, arms crossed.

‘All right. What was that all about?’ the Seven Cities woman demanded.

‘What?’

The woman reached out as if she would snatch hold of the man’s shirtfront, if he had one to grab. ‘The Hood-damned flower nonsense. I don’t approve of lying to the troops. Even if it’s to a good end.’

Confusion wrinkled the man’s brow and around his eyes and from long association Murk recognized honest puzzlement. ‘She means that fairy tale about the stupid magic flower. Things aren’t that bad yet.’

The puzzlement remained in the mage’s lined brow and his bulging misaligned dark brown eyes as they flicked from Murk to Burastan. The woman kicked the ground with one rotting boot. ‘Look,’ she began, exhaling, ‘I understand. The men and women are starting to wonder whether any of them are going to make it out. But you should’ve cleared it with the captain before you started some damned fool story like that.’ She raised a warning finger. ‘I know this crew. They’ll give you the chance. But when you’re proved wrong — you’re out. Like a pariah dog, you’ll be out.’

The little man’s brows now climbed his lined and seamed forehead in growing comprehension. ‘But it’s true! I think I’ve got a handle on this place. It’s got its own rules. You just have to hunt them out.’

Murk exchanged a frustrated glance with Burastan. ‘So, the flower?’

The crab-like fellow gave a sharp nod. ‘Right. I think I’ve figured somethin’ out. Here, in this jungle, it doesn’t matter what you look like or how you crash about making noise or whatnot. What really matters,’ and he took a deep breath before plunging on any further, ‘what really matters … is what you smell like.’

‘What? Smell?’ Murk blurted out.

Sour flinched, but nodded firmly.

Burastan let out a long breath, obviously disappointed. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to talk to the captain about this.’

Sour raised his chin, defiant. ‘Fine! ’Cause I want to too. I just decided which way we should go.’

Murk wouldn’t meet Burastan’s searching gaze; it was a hard thing to witness. The poor guy. Just has to dig a hole for hisself.

They found Yusen with group of resting troops, talking. Burastan approached and cleared her throat. Yusen gave her a nod then exchanged a few last words with the soldiers. Straightening, he signed for them to move off.

He stopped next to a fat tree Oroth-en had told them was called a Golden Shower. It was not as broad about at the base as many others, but carried a very wide spread of hanging branches. Murk realized they must be near another village as this giant’s trunk was festooned with faded garlands of flowers, lengths of woven hair, ribbons, and other bits and pieces such as stones and shapes moulded of clay set here and there as votive offerings. What were they worshipping here, he wondered. This particular tree itself? Or was it merely the altar, or representative, of the forest at large?

Yusen, he noted, now wore merely a long gambeson shirt, belted, with trousers tucked into tall moccasins. He was without a helmet over his brush-cut, retreating greying hair. His scalp showed through red and raw beneath, but his eyes glowed just as bright and sharp as ever. Like sapphires, Murk thought them. Cut gemstones.

‘What is it?’ the captain said, crossing his arms. His gaze was steady on Burastan.

She indicated Sour. ‘This one’s laying a line of shit on the troops. He’s taking advantage of their trust of the cadre mages. Handing out flowers and claiming they’re safe if they wear them. Claims he can’t keep.’

The steady gaze shifted to Sour. ‘Is that true, soldier?’

Murk felt for the poor guy but he couldn’t step in. This was a hole his naivety had spilled him into. His partner squirmed and rubbed a hand over his head, his odd eyes seeming to look in two directions at once, but he was nodding firmly. ‘Yes, sir, Cap’n sir. It’s true. You wear that flower and you’re safe from the jungle. I believe that completely.’

Yusen returned his piercing gaze to Burastan. ‘There you are, Lieutenant. The man stands behind his claim. Has it been disproved?’

The woman almost gaped but caught herself. ‘Well. No — that is, no, sir.’ She waved at Sour. ‘But he’s not even cadre! Spite told us she pulled them out of prison! Why should we-’

‘Hey now!’ Sour cut in. He motioned to Murk. ‘We’re cadre! We even served with-’

Murk loudly cleared his throat and Sour clamped his mouth shut, hunching.

Yusen’s glittering gaze shifted between the two of them, settled on Murk. ‘You have something to add, soldier?’

Murk raised his open hands. ‘No sir. Nothing at all.’

The mercenary captain looked as if he was about to press for more, but something stopped him and he drew a heavy breath instead. His sharp gaze moved to the tree and roved among its clutter of offerings. Murk studied the man. Why won’t you press? Ah, because then we’d push back asking about your past, yes? And just what is that past, Captain Yusen? Seven Cities, wasn’t it? Were you a green lieutenant then? Did you side with the damned Insurgency?

Burastan recovered enough to shake her head. ‘Talk. All talk.’ She turned to Yusen. ‘Sir, the men and women don’t deserve this. Order these two to keep to their place.’

‘Lieutenant,’ Yusen said, his eyes still on the many garlands and lengths of string woven from human hair. ‘Might I remind you that we’ve crossed nearly half of Himatan. Been chased by damned Disavowed of the Crimson Guard. Are escorting a fragment of the Crippled God. And we’re still alive?’ He drew a heavy breath. ‘I suggest we listen to our hired mages on these matters. If I don’t miss my guess is they saw action in Genabackis. Fifth or Sixth Army.’ The blue eyes swung to Murk and Sour, and Murk thought them as bright as the deep ice he’d seen in the Northern Range.

‘Genabackis?’ Burastan repeated wonderingly. ‘But that was One Arm …’ She peered at them more closely now, her gaze sceptical. ‘You served with Fist Dujek?’

Murk didn’t answer at first; he thought it irrelevant, but Sour knuckled his brow, saying, ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Murk could almost see the speculations now circulating through the woman’s mind: just who else might these two have served beside?

For some reason the old empire carried a lot of weight with this woman for she nodded then, and saluted Yusen, murmuring, ‘Very good, Captain.’

But Murk wasn’t happy: here he’d wanted to learn more about Yusen’s history yet the man had managed to wring theirs out of them instead. Neatly done, that, he had to admit.

Yusen now eyed Sour. Murk thought he read a strange sort of affection in the man’s expression. ‘So, cadre. You have a recommendation?’

Sour straightened, pushed out his chest. ‘Yessir. Scouts report a stream to the southeast. I suggest we march in its bed. That’ll keep the troops out of all these poisonous plants and it’ll disguise our trail.’

‘What about them swarming biting fish?’ Murk objected. ‘They nearly took that trooper’s hand right off! What was his name, anyway?’

‘His name’s Bait now,’ Sour answered. ‘Anyways, they only like the shallows and the shores. We keep to the middle and we’ll be fine.’

Yusen was frowning his consideration, thinking it through. ‘Yet you didn’t like the river …’

Sour nodded eagerly. ‘Yeah. That was cloudy water. Clear water’s fine. You keep away from cloudy water. Ain’t healthy.’

The captain studied Sour for a time longer, his lips pursed. Then he nodded, slowly and thoughtfully. ‘Very good. Lieutenant?’

‘Sir?’

‘We have our marching orders. See to it.’

To her credit, the woman saluted quickly and smartly. ‘Sir.’ Seemed an order was an order, no matter what. She waved for Murk and Sour to follow her. They walked away together.

Yusen watched them go. Then, once he was alone, he reached into his gambeson, where the loops and horn catches tied the front, and gently drew a small object from under the shirt. It was a flattened and bruised blue blossom. He held it cradled in the palm of one hand. His gaze went to where the mages and the lieutenant had disappeared among the thick stands of drooping fronds.

He shook his head, snorting lightly. ‘Wondered why he gave me the silly thing …’

* * *

They came to a river and so abrupt was its appearance, so silently did it course, that Ina thought it some sort of a conjuration. She let fall the frayed switch she’d been using to beat a path through the leaves and fronds — some as tall as she — and wiped her hands over the bark of a thick curving root to remove the worst of the sticky sap.

The Enchantress had asked only once why she did not employ her sword to hack her way through the undergrowth. That day she’d been particularly vexed by the hanging lianas, while the dry scimitar-like grasses had cut the back of her hand to bloody ribbons and she had snapped, ‘Why don’t you use your powers to blast us a route?’

T’riss had been quiet after that. Ina mentally castigated herself for her failure of patience and composure — not to mention any possible blasphemy.

Now she faced a river. A wide ribbon of muddy reddish water moving so smoothly it was almost impossible to detect any flow. Her first thought was to throw herself in and luxuriate in the washing away of the layer of sweat-adhered dust and dirt that she could scrape from her arms with a fingernail. In fact, it appeared as if she could jump right in from the undercut slope she stood on overlooking the river’s edge.

A hand took her arm from behind and so startled was she that she reacted automatically: instead of yanking forwards to free herself — as any untrained person would do — she shot her elbow backwards and up, straight towards the throat or face of the attacker.

A meaty crack rewarded her, and the hand slipped from her arm. She spun, blade emerging at the same instant ready to thrust or block, only for it to fall from her hand as she saw the Enchantress lying sprawled unconscious behind her.

‘Good gods!’ she cried. She fell to her knees to scoop the woman up, intending to take her to the river’s edge to resuscitate her. Grunting with the effort — for T’riss was a solid woman — she rose. Then she remembered her blade. How could she abandon her blade?

But the Enchantress was a more pressing matter so she carried her to where she could bull her way through the brush down the slope to the shore. Here she laid her burden in the grass then padded out into the river to wet her robes. She returned to squeeze the cloth over the woman’s face.

T’riss coughed and spluttered, then turned her head aside.

Ina found she could breathe deeply once more as a great pressure eased itself within her chest. Thank the First! To think I’d almost concussed the Queen of Dreams! Yet … how could I have done so?

She watched the woman sit up and press both hands to her head as if testing its soundness, then she went to retrieve her sword. When she returned T’riss was still sitting, but had a wet fold of cloth pressed to her forehead. When Ina went to her knees before her she raised a hand to forestall any protestations.

‘I should have known better than to lay hands on a Seguleh,’ she said.

‘M’lady — I am stricken. Name your punishment.’

T’riss held the cloth to her brow while nodding thoughtfully. ‘Your punishment is to continue to accompany me.’

‘M’lady mocks.’

‘I hope that I do.’

Ina was quiet for a time. Has she foreseen my death?

The Enchantress attempted to rise, unsteadily. Ina offered an arm. The woman straightened carefully. Close now she peered up at Ina’s masked face. ‘You are wondering how it was you could strike me?’

Ina gave a curt answering nod. ‘Yes. I was … startled.’

‘You were startled,’ the woman muttered, rubbing her forehead. ‘Well. I come to Ardata completely unguarded and open. It is the only way. She would not have accepted me otherwise.’

Ina frowned behind her mask. ‘Unguarded?’

‘Ah. I speak of my own powers, of course. I do not know what you would name it. My aspect. My manifestation. My territory. An area of concern that, through general neglect and laziness, has become my responsibility.’

‘I am sorry, m’lady … but you have lost me.’

The Enchantress smiled. ‘Of course. I am thinking aloud — to the jungle. Now,’ and she let go of Ina’s arm, ‘a river. Good. We are moving far too slowly while events elsewhere overtake us. Clearly the best way to move through this region is by water. Let us do so.’

She gestured. Off through the surrounding bush there came a noise as of branches snapping, or dragging, brushing against one another in a rising storm of noise. Bits and pieces of driftwood and fallen branches cast up along the shore came sliding towards them. They ranged in size from sticks and branches all the way up to medium-sized logs. They came grating and slithering together into a heap. They twined, moulded and flattened, and before Ina’s amazed vision there took form a long slim open hull of woven wood.

‘I thought you said you had abandoned your powers,’ Ina said, without thinking.

‘I did not say I had abandoned them,’ the Enchantress objected, a touch impatient. ‘I only said that I was unguarded.’

She waved to invite Ina to go first. Still rather dazed by the demonstration, Ina awkwardly stepped on to the slim craft and edged forward towards the bow. Her patron took the stern. Then the Queen of Dreams gently pushed her hands forward, as if parting a cloth, and the vessel slid off the mud into the current. She directed it downstream. The craft sliced through the water at what to Ina was a rather alarming rate. But the Enchantress had said they’d been making slow progress and that events were moving ahead of them; the Queen of Dreams, it seemed, was in a hurry.

They raced for days and nights continuously along the river. Ina slept through the nights while the Enchantress appeared to need no rest. This amused Ina — the Queen of Dreams never slept. It seemed somehow appropriate. When she hungered, Ina had a small nibble from the bag of dried stores that remained. Her lifelong training in privation and restraint served her well here. Water was their sole problem. The Enchantress forbade her to touch the river. Occasionally they passed small clear rivulets draining into the main channel. The Enchantress would direct the craft to the shore here and Ina would collect what she could in the one waterskin that had yet to rot away.

Now that they were without the constant shade from the jungle’s canopy the new problem Ina had to deal with was sunstroke. During the day no cloud cover softened the sun’s driving rays. She draped her robes over her like a blanket but to begin with neglected her head, and now peeling burnt skin came off in her nails when she probed her scalp.

So great was their speed that when they swept round a river bend they sometimes startled flocks of tall wading birds that swept skyward in great swaths of white and brilliant yellow. The gangly birds cawed their raucous complaints and found temporary perches in the trees along the shore until the branches bowed down almost to the murky surface of the water, festooned with what resembled tall slim flowers.

Ina spent much of her time treating her blade against the constant bite of the humidity. Long ago the Seguleh smiths had found that adding charcoal to their furnaces yielded an iron that was superior in flexibility, while also being particularly resistant to corrosion. Yet it remained an uncertain process and no blade was perfectly impervious. She had run out of the plant oils she usually carried and was now reduced to smearing her own skin’s sweat and secretions on to the blade, which, though harmful, were better than nothing.

They raced on, careering round the twisting bends. The river appeared to be widening as they went, gathering tributaries and creeks at every snaking curve.

Then one day Ina was adjusting the cloth of the robe draped over her head when something came screaming down from the sky above. She had one stunning glimpse of a great draconic shape, golden-red, claws extended, stooping, snarling teeth agape, before those claws clamped on to the craft and she was plunged beneath the clouded ochre-hued water.

She came up, gasping and thrashing, yet gripping the hilt of her sheathed sword to make certain it was safe. She swam one-handed for shore. Here she found a woman in nothing more than a ragged loincloth standing over her mistress. She drew immediately.

‘Stand aside.’

The woman turned on her and Ina was shaken to see that her eyes churned like twin furnaces of molten gold. ‘And what is this?’ she asked. ‘A Seguleh?’ She pointed to Ina’s face. ‘Your mask is sorely in need of repainting.’

‘Please let us go,’ the Enchantress said from where she lay sodden and muddy on the shore. ‘We are no threat to you.’

‘I will be the judge of that,’ the woman answered, though she did seem to relax somewhat, lowering her arms. ‘Just what are you then?’

The Enchantress shrugged. She wiped her mouth, leaving a smear of blood-red mud across her face. ‘I am a sorceress,’ she said. ‘Out of Tali. Quon Tali.’

‘I know Tali,’ the woman snarled impatiently. ‘More to the point — what are you doing here?’

Again an easy shrug from the Enchantress. ‘The power and wisdom of the Queen of Witches is legendary. I would seek her out.’

The woman actually laughed aloud at that. It was a very cruel and scornful laugh. ‘For a sorceress, your foresight is remarkably poor.’

‘And you?’ the Enchantress challenged, quite unintimidated. ‘Why attack us?’

The woman snarled anew. Her hands worked as if eager to tear and rend. ‘That is my business.’

‘It would seem you have made it our business as well. Spite, daughter of Draconus, sister to-’

The woman threw a hand up. ‘Not that name! If you wish to live.’

The Enchantress inclined her head, acquiescing.

Spite seemed to think on the Enchantress’s words, for she waved a hand dismissively. ‘If you must know … I am seeking something. Something stolen. You must have a presence, sorceress, for I sensed you and I thought I glimpsed … well, I was mistaken.’ She turned and walked off, then stopped, facing them once more. ‘Take my advice, sorceress. Go back home. Do not seek out Ardata. Only death resides in Jakal Viharn.’

‘I hear that Ardata kills no one.’

‘That is true. For that she has Himatan.’

Spite then leaped into the air and before falling she transformed into the great terrifying shape Ina had glimpsed. Wide massive wings elongated above them to blot out the sun’s rays. They flapped once, heavily and powerfully, propelling Spite skyward and casting up a storm of dust, leaves and twigs that drove Ina to turn her face away. When she looked back, blinking, her gaze shaded, she glimpsed a russet writhing shape disappearing into the distance over the tree-tops.

Ina turned to the Enchantress. She extended an arm to grasp the woman’s hand and pull her up. Red and grey mud smeared the woman’s robes. ‘She did not know who you are?’ Ina asked.

‘No. As I said, I have lowered my, ah, manifestation. It would appear that without it I am nothing more than an ageing sorceress.’

Sighing, the Enchantress eyed the wreckage of their vessel.

Her own uselessness in the encounter drove Ina to murmur, ‘And I am hardly a bodyguard.’

The Enchantress raised a finger. ‘Oh, but you are, my dear. You are vitally important. You have no idea what pause that mask of yours gives people. That you are here accompanying me is quite necessary. Spite would never have believed a sorceress alone. While you, a Seguleh, are the perfect guard.’

So — I am nothing more than the perfect accessory. So much for my vaunted ambitions. Rightly is she named the Queen of Dreams. One further question plagued her, yet she did not know whether it mattered now at all. In the end, her role as bodyguard — if humiliatingly illusory — demanded that she broach the subject.

‘Is she your enemy?’

‘My enemy?’ The woman’s thick brows rose. She nodded thoughtfully for a time. ‘Well … let us just say that she has grounds for resentment.’ She gestured. ‘This way. One good thing has come of this interruption, Ina.’

‘Yes?’

‘I do believe that we are close now. Very close.’

* * *

They pursued for four days, Jatal stopping only to throw himself down to attempt to catch a few hours of sleep before the dawn — though what he experienced could hardly be called sleep: his haze of exhaustion was more a delirium of nightmare images that flayed him worse than the agony of his lingering wounds. He often awoke feeling more tortured than when he threw himself to the ground.

Two days before, they had passed the corpse of a horse beside the jungle trail; it had been scavenged by predators but the majority of the carcass remained. The locals, it seemed, were unwilling to touch it. It was an Adwami mount. If the men and women they’d questioned along the way were accurate, the Warleader now had only two mounts remaining. Jatal led a string of four; he was confident they would overtake the man soon.

Scarza, of course, did not ride. Instead, he loped next to a mount, a hand on its cantle to help pull himself along. The half-Trell’s iron endurance was a wonder to Jatal.

They did not talk. Jatal had nothing more to talk about. Occasionally, as they rested their few hours in the predawn light, he thought he caught Scarza watching him with a worried look.

But he would shut his eyes. It was too late for talk. It was too late for everything. He was already a dead man. Through his weakness, his envy, childishness and petulance, he’d killed himself. He was dead inside.

The next dawn, when the light streamed down through the canopy in a dappled greenish glow, they were off once more. This day they passed close to a village, a small collection of bamboo, grass and palm frond huts standing on tall legs. Here, Jatal dismounted stiffly and waved the nearest villager to him. The old woman, almost black from her decades beneath the sun, all bones and sinew in a cloth wrap, approached and bowed.

‘Yes, noble born?’ she asked in a quavering voice, her head lowered.

In the Thaumaturg tongue, a dialect not too dissimilar to the Adwami, Jatal said: ‘We seek word of a man who may have ridden through here ahead of us. Has anyone seen such?’

The old woman shook her head. ‘No, noble born. No one has ridden past us here.’

Jatal cursed his luck. Had the Warleader turned off somewhere? Yet this was the most direct track east.

‘That is, no man, noble born,’ the woman added; then she paused as if thinking better of continuing.

‘Yes? Go on.’

The old woman bowed even lower. ‘Forgive us our ignorant superstitions, great one, but some nights ago one of our children claimed to have seen on this very trail a … a portent of death. Perhaps even — so the child claimed — death itself.’

‘Riding east?’

‘Yes, m’lord. A ghost, she thought it. A vision of her own death. A shade riding a horse that steamed like smoke in the night.’

‘Thank you, woman.’ Jatal tossed a coin into the dirt before her.

By this time Scarza had caught up. He ambled over, rubbing his legs and breathing heavily.

‘Still has a good lead on us,’ Jatal said. ‘Can’t understand it. He may be down to only one mount.’

Puffing, Scarza straightened to his full inhuman height, stretching his back. He blew out a great breath. ‘The man has strange elixirs and potions. Perhaps he is doping the animals so that they run on past their exhaustion and know no pain.’

‘Perhaps,’ Jatal grudgingly allowed. He gestured ahead. ‘See there, through the trees? The mountains?’

Still drawing in great lungfuls of air, the giant squinted. ‘Call those mountains? Those would be regarded as no more than pimples back where I come from. Boils, perhaps, those taller ones.’

Jatal almost ventured a smile, but did not. He frowned instead, and his jaws clenched. ‘Well, that is his destination for certain. The Gangrek Mounts. He is fleeing to Himatan. He cannot know we are after him.’

‘He would not care,’ the giant said. ‘No, he must be in a rush to get somewhere — or reach someone. Remember what these villagers are saying. After the army of the Thaumaturgs passed there came a train of wagons. Huge wagons. Each pulled by eight oxen. The train guarded by fifty yakshaka. That is what he pursues. That I swear by my mother’s remaining teeth.’

‘Alone? What could he hope to accomplish?’

The half-Trell gave an indifferent shrug. ‘Perhaps he thinks himself their match? Who knows. It matters not if we catch him first.’

Jatal nodded. ‘Indeed. It matters not, as you say.’ And he added, more to himself, ‘Nothing matters any more.’ He threw himself back up on his mount though foaming sweat streaked its sides and its muscles still quivered and jumped. He slapped his blade to its wet flank to set onward once again.

Scarza watched him gallop off and shook his head, frowning. ‘Ah, lad. It hurts now, I know it. But don’t go throwing yourself away.’ He drew in a great breath and hacked up a mouthful of phlegm, spat, then took hold of the cantle of his horse and set off in the prince’s wake.

After the foreigners had gone the rest of the nearby villagers gathered round the old woman.

‘What were they?’ one asked.

‘What did they want of us?’ another demanded.

‘The first was a noble,’ she answered. ‘From the south, I believe, if tales be true. The other was his monster servant. Summoned perhaps by the shamans of the south.’

The villagers were silent in wonder at this news. They knew it must be so, for Rhyu was their birthing-woman, their healer and fortune-teller.

‘They pursue death,’ she continued, peering after them with her milky half-blind gaze. ‘And will meet him soon.’

* * *

Scarves of mist coiled among the trees and stands of ferns and brush and for this Golan was grateful. Unfortunately, the day’s gathering heat would soon burn it all off. Then little would be left to disguise the shattered and trampled wreckage that used to be the encampment of the Thaumaturg Army of Righteous Chastisement.

Golan stood beneath his canted awning surrounded by his guard of yakshaka. It had been a night of complete and utter terror and chaos — terror for his troops and labourers, gut-twisting shame for himself. What would he tell the Circle of Masters now? How could he continue the march? And yet … what other option was there? Turn round? The river was behind them now. Not at sword-point did he think he could force the troops back over that river.

No. They were trapped. They-

The truth of what he’d just realized struck him with the clarity of a mathematical solution and he was stunned by its simplicity and its beauty. Elegant. So very elegant. It was a trap. The entire jungle, all Himatan, was a trap for all those who would seek to invade. The jungle naturally defends itself.

There was more to this as well — he was certain of it. A deeper truth. Yet he could not quite reach it. His mind was dulled by his fatigue. His thoughts tramped heavy and laboured. He refocused his attention outwards, rubbed his gritty aching eyes, and took a deep breath of the warm close air.

The last of the rain was drifting down as the clouds moved off to the southwest. Shafts of gold sunlight stabbed through the canopy. The cries of the wounded had diminished through the night. Now, only a low constant moaning sounded over the field that had been a scene of insane slaughter, suicide, horror and sick revulsion. Strangely enough, though they had been rained on all through the night, the surviving wounded now called for water. Low slinking shapes still haunted the verges of the surrounding jungle. The screams and the stink of blood had drawn every night hunter for leagues around. They had gorged themselves on choice viscera — sometimes while the victims still lived. What few cohorts and phalams could be organized had done their best to chase them off. The wreckage of the encampment was emerging now through the dissolving mist and Golan looked away.

He awaited the awful news. The butcher’s bill. He steeled himself to expect the worst — all the while suspecting that even that would come nowhere near the truth of it. First to dare approach was Second-in-Command Waris. The man came dragging himself up the slight rise, quite obviously exhausted and no doubt rather traumatized by all they had gone through.

The yakshaka allowed him entrance — over the course of the last day and night they’d had to cut down several soldiers who, in their agony, panic, or plain rage, had thrown themselves at Golan. Waris knelt to one knee.

‘I offer my head, Master,’ he began.

Golan cleared his throat of the thick sticky coating of catarrh that had gathered there. He spat aside. ‘No need for that as yet, Second. This is not of your making. I take full responsibility. Your report, please.’

Waris bowed even further. ‘A portion of those troops that fled into the woods are returning even as we speak — though much diminished. Creatures attacked them there. Yet ranks are being reordered. Surviving labourers are being put to work salvaging equipment. I estimate that we will be ready to march by noon.’

Golan found himself breathing more easily. ‘Well done, Second. Well done. You have my compliments. So enter it into the records.’

‘Yes, Master.’ He remained bowed, silent.

Golan felt his chest tightening once again. ‘Yes? What else?’

‘The bodies, Master. It would take a great deal of time to bury them all. And … well, the men may refuse to touch them.’

‘Ah. I see. Well?’

‘Might I suggest we dispose of them in the river?’

Relieved that the matter was so trivial, Golan waved his switch. ‘Yes, of course. Proceed, Second.’ Waris backed away, still bowed, until clear of the circle of yakshaka, when he turned and jogged off. Good, Golan congratulated himself. The army reconstitutes itself. Shaken and much diminished, yes. But not shattered. We march on. We must. There is no alternative.

Golan’s improved mood was short-lived. Another figure approached, this one gangly and stick-thin, with a long curved neck that somehow managed to support an improbably oversized head. Golan drew a deep steadying breath and awaited the arrival of Principal Scribe Thorn.

‘You live still, Master!’ Thorn announced as he closed, a quill tucked behind one ear, the heavy bag of papers swinging at his side. ‘I rejoice. Here so many you lead have passed on yet still you remain! Thank the fates.’

‘Your joy is noted, Principal Scribe. Have you an accounting?’

The scribe drew a sheet from his shoulder bag, squinted low over it. ‘I am hardly done, of course. It will take a long time to count all those fallen. So many! Such a catastrophe. Yet you have emerged unhurt, I see. That alone makes a victory of the night, yes?’

False gods! This man does not spare me. Golan pinched the bridge of his nose and rested his gritty eyes. ‘You do have an estimate?’

‘Yes, Master.’

‘Well?’

As he studied the sheet, the man’s black tongue poked out as if it too was curious. ‘I estimate a force of some three thousand remaining serviceable labourers. Of the troops, eighteen hundred are able to march.’

Golan’s breath fled him. Their remaining labour force had been halved again. Who would carry all the stores? Cook and break camp? How could they advance?

‘Sobering numbers indeed,’ Thorn continued, peering further down the sheet. ‘Yet encouraging news exists.’

Golan could hardly credit his ears. Encouraging news? ‘What possible good news could emerge from this disaster?’

‘There are now more than enough stores for those surviving!’

‘Yet none to carry them.’

Thorn did not miss a beat: ‘You anticipate me.’

‘I believe I am beginning to, Principal Scribe. You have a report?’

‘Quite.’ Thorn replaced the sheet and withdrew another. He peered at it myopically, pronounced: ‘Once again the Army of Righteous Chastisement emerges victorious.’

Golan found that he had to turn away, his fists clenched rigidly round the Rod of Execution. A long low breath summoned the proper Thaumaturg-taught calm. ‘At the rate of these victories we shall soon have the entire jungle conquered,’ he remarked aloud, acidly.

He heard the scraping of the quill on paper and he spun. Thorn peered up from the sheet, quill poised, mild innocence upon his narrow pinched features. ‘You have more to add, Glorious Leader?’

Through clenched teeth Golan ground out, ‘That is more than enough, I am sure.’

Thorn shrugged indifferently. ‘We are all at your mercy, Master. What are your orders?’

That you throw yourself into the river. But no, that is unfair. The fault is mine. The responsibility mine and mine alone. He drew another steadying breath, peered down at the blackwood rod with its silver chasing. He tapped it into one palm. ‘Record this, Scribe — Master Golan orders that what surplus stores and gear the bearers cannot manage be divided up among the troopers and that the army advance onward into the jungle of Himatan. So it is ordered, so it shall be.’

Thorn’s shaggy brows rose while he wrote. He finished with a firm tap to end the entry, and bowed. ‘So it shall be, Master.’