Blood and Bone

CHAPTER XIII

Mara heaved herself up a muddy shore to lie panting, pressed into the muck, searching the surrounding dense fronds and hanging creepers. At her feet lay the carcass of a bizarre hybrid creature. A fine dusting of metallic blue and green feathers covered its naked torso down to scaled legs ending in feet bearing claws as large as daggers. Instead of hair, long brown feathers covered its head and back like a mane while its eyes, rolled dead white now, had shone green speckled with gold. The mouth held needle teeth still red with Mara’s own blood.

Shuddering, she kicked it further away. A bird-woman! Who would have thought the legends of Jakal Viharn true! Unlike the subjects of all those fantastic stories, however, this one had no wings and could not fly. She could run like a fiend, though. Probably chase down a hound.

The jungle rang all round with the cries and screams of a running battle that had continued through the night and into the day. Feet kicked the ground nearby and Mara spun, her Warren crackling about her, sending the litter of leaves and detritus flying. A guardsman appeared, hands raised. Leuthan.

‘Are you wounded?’

She waved him away. ‘No.’

He slid down to her. ‘You can stand?’

‘I am fine!’

‘Don’t get separated like that.’

She lurched to her feet, shook out her sodden dirt-smeared robes. ‘Do not lecture me. Everyone is separated, if you haven’t noticed.’

He laughed. ‘Well — we’re gathering at a rise to the southeast. No more running from these sports.’

‘Very good. Take me there.’

He gestured. ‘This way.’

Mara followed the Bloorian swordsman. Like everyone she’d met out of Bloor or Gris, he claimed to be the offspring of some noble family. Gods, how they’d fought each other in those petty kingdoms! Family against family, village versus village. Each valley an armed stronghold held against its neighbours. A war of all against all. She shook her head: sometimes she was convinced that the old emperor had done them all a favour when he’d swept them into his pocket one by one.

Shapes darted through the dense underbrush. Shouts sounded: Crimson Guard battle codes. Yet no grating clash of steel against steel rang out; these monstrosities used only tooth and claw. They passed the sprawled gutted corpse of a half … something or other. Half-lizard, perhaps. Grey-backed with a white belly. Mara didn’t really care. It was enough that it was dead. They were strong and fierce, these things, but no match for armed Disavowed — even if most of everyone’s armour had rotted off.

Next they came to the body of Hesta, an Untan swordswoman. One of the tiniest of all the Guard. Her neck had been broken and crushed as if she’d been taken by a predatory cat. Her face was upturned to the sky, pale now, with a look of complete surprise in her dead staring eyes. Mara exchanged a wary look with Leuthan.

So, he was here. One of Ardata’s favourites. Citravaghra.

Leuthan urged Mara onward. ‘This way.’ A moment later he stiffened, cursing. Something huge was crashing directly towards them through the underbrush. A humped grey shape emerged, wide arms brushing aside thickets of saplings. At the sight of them it bellowed a bull-like war call and charged. Though utterly wrung, Mara summoned what remaining energy she possessed. She tapped into her own vitality and felt it almost flicker out. She channelled the force outwards before her. The ground erupted, soil and earth peeling. The thicket curled up and amid the storm of dirt and flung trees the beast fell backwards, roaring his rage, and was sent tumbling, hammered and pummelled by the wreckage. Mara’s vision blackened and she felt Leuthan supporting her at the waist.

‘He’ll be back,’ he said, his words strangely distant and echoing.

Mara felt a warm wetness at her face and wiped at it to find a smear of blood across her sleeve. ‘What …?’

Then they were running, she half stumbling. They pushed through a bamboo grove. The stalks seemed to multiply and waver in Mara’s blurred vision. Things moved among them, inhuman eyes bright with intelligence and menace. After this, Leuthan half carrying her, the ground rose up to almost meet her.

In fact, the ground was rising. Leuthan was labouring up a steep slope, pulling her along by her waist, scrambling on all fours.

Large hands took her and she found herself squinting up at the tall wide figure of Petal. ‘I am spent,’ she gasped, blinking to clear her vision.

‘You look it,’ he murmured.

‘We’re gathered?’

‘Most of us, yes.’ He directed her attention to the left. Halfway down the dirt slope of the butte-like rise they occupied stood Skinner. He alone still wore his armour: the ankle-length coat of mail still glittered night-black. He carried his helm under one arm. His long blond hair hung loose, blown in the weak wind. He faced the jungle verge.

Mara’s gaze followed his out to the league beyond league of verdant green that was Himatan. Here and there treetops shook and shuddered as more of these creatures converged upon them. So many — who would have guessed the jungle would support such numbers? They must be gathering from all over the region. Everyone knew that a few haunted the groves of Himatan here and there, but she had thought them isolated D’ivers or Soletaken. Individual monstrosities. What she’d glimpsed here put her in mind of an actual race.

A people.

Ardata’s children. How different, then, from the title given to the Andii: the Children of the Night?

A great din of rising shrieks and calls and roars now rose all about and the tops of the bamboo stalks shook like blades of grass. Skinner raised his arms for silence while the ranks of the Disavowed assembled behind. What could these half-beasts want? Mara wished they’d just go away. She peered behind her to where stone blocks topped the rise, time-gnawed, heaved and awry. A structure of some sort. Perhaps a fort, or cyclopean statue. Towering emergents now topped it. Their fist-like roots gripped the ruins as if feeding upon the tumbled blocks. From the overarching branches a great forest of hanging lianas draped down among them. Their thick woody lengths supported fat blossoms in pink, blood red, orange and creamy white.

‘We do not want to spill any more of your blood,’ Skinner called down to the jungle.

Challenges and hooted mocking laughter answered him.

He raised his arms once more. ‘Let us talk. Know you that for a time I ruled as Ardata’s chosen mate. You bowed before me then. Do so again or retreat into your haunts and bother us no more. This is your choice. I give you until sundown.’

Fury answered the ultimatum. Trees shuddered. Torn branches flew to crash upon the rise. Yells and shrieks sent a burst of multicoloured birds to darken the sky. The cloud gyred about the top of the rise before moving on in a weaving dance of flashing iridescence.

Shijel edged down the slope to Skinner and the two conferred. Mara looked to Petal, who was rubbing his wide jowls. ‘What do you think?’ she whispered.

‘I do not know. I believe that we and they know they have us trapped. Skinner probably wishes to goad them into a rush.’

‘And if not?’

He frowned, his cheeks and many chins bulging. ‘Then I do not know how we shall escape from here.’

The jungle verge was quiet for a time. The sun continued its descent to the west. Clouds gathered in the north. She glimpsed dark shapes moving through the trees. She brushed dried blood from her nose and cheeks, adjusted the knot of her robes at her shoulder.

‘What are they doing?’ she whispered once more.

‘Talking things over, I presume,’ he answered, quite seriously. ‘I believe we have some time. Perhaps you should sit …’

She drew a shuddering breath. ‘Thank you. Yes.’ She meant to ease herself down but fell quite heavily. She drew her knees up close to her chest and rested her chin upon them.

The wind brushing through the dense leaf cover brought wave after wave of shimmering reflections. The rich shades of jade were almost seductive. It was a shame, really. The land was beautiful after its own fashion; desirable. Were it not for its backward recalcitrant inhabitants. Still, correctly handled campaigns of neglect, discouragement and stifling might get rid of most of them after a generation or two. It would be very much easier to do something with the land after that.

As the afternoon waned she became aware of a tingling pulling at her and she clambered to her feet. Petal, she noted, was headed in this direction. He lumbered heavily in his swinging gait as he worked his way round to her along the line of guardsmen.

‘You sense it as well?’ he said as he drew near.

She nodded.

He scanned the forest. ‘Some sort of manipulation.’

‘What kind? I do not recognize it.’

‘Elder. Animistic. Yet there is power there.’ He stroked his jowls. ‘They are preparing something.’

‘An attack?’ She scanned the edge of the trees; no shapes moved that she could see.

‘I do not think so.’

Skinner climbed the slope to join them. ‘What is it?’ he asked. He still had his helm tucked under one arm. Only now did she notice that he carried no sword. ‘You sense something as well?’ she asked, surprised.

‘Aye.’

She couldn’t understand how he, a plain swordsman, could have developed such sensitivity, but she set that aside for later consideration.

Petal was tapping a finger to his thick lips. ‘It may be a ritual,’ he offered. ‘Has that feel.’

‘What sort?’ Skinner asked.

‘There’s no-’ He cut himself off, his gaze snapping to Mara as they both felt the tearing that the opening of a portal sends rippling through the surrounding mundane matter and all Warrens. Skinner spun as well.

‘A gate!’ Petal warned. ‘Someone or something has come through.’

Mara threw up her Warren. The loose detritus of the slope vibrated beneath her feet as pulses of D’riss leaked from her in waves. Petal and Skinner were both physically pushed away from her; Skinner retreated down the slope.

They waited. Mara noted the warm wet air smelled particularly strongly of the flower blossoms here; a cloying sweet stink that hardly disguised how they hung rotting on the creepers. The day threatened to slip into the twilight of evening that she found came so startlingly suddenly in this land.

Two figures emerged from the shadows of the darkening jungle verge. Skinner turned and waved to Mara. She took a moment to ease her Warren and compose herself, then she carefully edged down the uneven dirt slope.

She knew them both. One by description and reputation, his lean muscular build leading up to a head of loose tawny hair, a feline black nose, bright golden eyes, and the fangs of a hunting-cat: Citravaghra. The other she’d met more than once: Rutana, favoured of Ardata, greatest of her aberrant menagerie of followers and adherents. And an enemy from the very first days of their arrival in this land decades ago.

‘What is it you wish?’ Skinner asked, grasping the initiative as always.

‘Your death,’ Rutana answered, readily enough.

Skinner shrugged, indifferent. ‘If you wish death, we will happily accommodate all of you.’

Rutana just laughed her harsh cawing hack. ‘It is your bones that will add to this pile, Betrayer. All of you. We need only wait.’

Mara studied her more closely. There was something different about her. She was perhaps even more dried and wiry than before — if it were possible for a human being to be nothing more than sinew and stretched ligament — but that was not it. There was an emotion playing about her slit mouth and narrow eyes while she stood grasping and kneading the many amulets hanging about her neck. It took Mara some time to identify it, for she had never seen it on the woman before: an almost bubbling humour. She actually appeared to be working hard to suppress a smile that kept her mouth quirking and twitching.

Mara wondered whether the emotion was contagious, for at her side Citravaghra shared it. His flecked golden eyes held triumph and he seemed to almost purr.

Skinner sensed the strangeness as well; he frowned as if disappointed. ‘You know we can wait until the jungle eventually succeeds in grinding this rise flat.’

The twitching smile threatened to burst forth. ‘Normally, yes.’

‘Normally?’

‘You do not know, do you?’ Her laughing gaze shifted to Citravaghra. ‘He does not know.’

Now Skinner checked an obvious rising anger. ‘Know what?’

‘They sense nothing of it,’ she continued to Citravaghra. ‘Isn’t that disappointing? Perhaps they truly are Disavowed.’

‘Perhaps it is Himatan itself. Or Ardata’s doing,’ he answered.

Rutana nodded exaggerated thoughtfulness. ‘Ah. She has blocked him out. How does it feel,’ she asked Skinner, ‘being cast aside? Deliberately kept ignorant. Being treated as if you do not matter — at all?’

Skinner crossed his arms. The mail of his armour slid and grated across itself. ‘That you are here belies that claim,’ he answered, sounding bored.

Yes, Mara silently encouraged him. How Rutana would hate such a tone.

‘Should we tell him?’ the witch fairly growled.

‘He really ought to know …’ Citravaghra answered, and he smiled, revealing the rest of his jagged teeth.

‘You have been cast aside, Skinner,’ Rutana declared, triumphant. ‘She has found another to take your place. You have no hope of returning now.’

Replaced? Return? Mara wondered. Has this been his plan all along?

But Skinner laughed. He threw his head back and roared as if their situation, this discussion, everything, was a great joke upon them all. After he caught his breath he shook his head. ‘Rutana — you love your mistress too much. You cannot even conceive of someone not wanting to lie down before her, can you? Well, in any case, you do not know her mind. She has declared there is no one else who could possibly stand beside her.’

Yet the woman’s taut smile broadened, satisfied, as if her own trap had been sprung. ‘But … there is one who might.’

All the while Mara glimpsed more and more of the creatures gathering, crowding the verge. Their eyes gleamed with eager hunger. We are trapped. And their numbers seem inexhaustible. Do they plan to overrun us? Soon there may be enough. What is Skinner counting on? Does he not see the danger?

Skinner waved a gauntleted hand. ‘Rutana — it does not matter.’

‘You do not care?’

‘Difficult as it obviously is for you to believe, I do not. However,’ and he gestured to the surrounding jungle, ‘as you have in us a captive audience, it would seem that I have no choice but to hear more of this.’

‘That is true. You do not. But I believe you will thank me.’

‘I will thank you to end the game.’

The smile fell to a straight knife-thin slit. ‘That is why I am here, Betrayer. To end it.’

‘Rutana …’ Citravaghra murmured, warning. ‘We have them …’

She snapped him a curt dismissive wave. ‘That is not good enough.’

Mara glanced between Skinner and the woman. He’s baiting her — why? How will this help? Except to satisfy his personal feud? And she has waved off Citravaghra! The man-leopard. The Night Hunter. The most feared of them all. Who — what — is she?

‘Very well, Betrayer,’ Rutana continued. ‘I will give you this news and then I will slay you and then your failure will be utter and complete. Perhaps you would care about that?’

‘You have nothing to say that I could possibly care about.’

She grasped hold of the many amulets and charms hung about her neck like a swimmer grasping at a rope and snarled: ‘K’azz has come! Ardata sent for him and he has come. He will stand in your place! What say you to that?’

Mara stared, stunned and shaken. K’azz here? In truth? Why … She looked to Skinner: he was silent, immobile. His stillness shouted of danger to Mara. His blunt features had pulled down in a puzzled frown. ‘We would-’ he began, only to cut himself off.

Yet we wouldn’t know, would we? We are Disavowed. The ghosts of our dead Crimson Guard brethren no longer serve us. And Himatan might disguise K’azz’s presence. Or Ardata …

He gave an exaggerated shrug. ‘What of it? This is your news? You ought not to have bothered. But, now that you have delivered it, you may go.’ And he waved her off.

The woman’s face paled to a sickly pallid ivory, as if all the blood had utterly drained from her flesh. She shifted a foot backwards, bracing herself.

‘Rutana …’ Citravaghra warned her once more.

‘Now I will slay you, Betrayer,’ she panted, her voice almost choked in passion. ‘As I should have done when you first arrived.’

‘Rutana — no!’ The man-leopard reached for her but she swatted his arm aside. She snatched at the countless leather loops hanging about her neck, snapping the cords. The amulets and charms fell to the ground, tinkling and bursting. Next she tore at the series of bands at her arms, each knotted in its own amulet. Citravaghra took her waist and steered her back down the slope. She weaved, drunkenly, hardly able to walk. They disappeared among the thick brush bordering the woods.

Skinner motioned Mara back up the steep rise. ‘We do not have much time,’ he murmured.

‘Until what?’

‘I do not know what is to come. All I know are rumours. Some say that she emerged from the caves deep underground ages ago. Some say she once sat at the feet of D’rek herself.’ They reached the line of guardsmen where Petal awaited. ‘All I know is that she will come for me. When this happens you must all run. Head for Jakal Viharn.’

‘But K’azz-’

‘K’azz? What?’ Petal snapped.

‘Later,’ Mara answered.

Skinner was peering back to the trees, his gaze slit. ‘Jacinth will command in my absence. When I return we will deal with K’azz.’

‘Return?’

A scream arched out of the jungle and everyone froze, listening. It began as a woman’s shriek of agony only to transform in mid call into something deep and reverberating — something that could not have emerged from a human throat.

‘Yes …’ Skinner continued slowly. ‘When I return from covering your escape. Now,’ he looked past them, searching, ‘Black! Your sword, if I may.’

Petal nodded to the woods. ‘They are fleeing.’

Mara glanced over, scanned the forest. Shapes darted through the trees, all running away. ‘I have a bad feeling …’ she murmured.

Black came and extended his two-handed bastard sword, grip first. Skinner drew it free of the sheath. ‘My thanks.’

‘Try not to break it.’

Something thrashed hidden in the woods, shaking the ground and raising small avalanches of stones across the slope. Enormous emergent trees that towered over the surrounding canopy shook and wavered like saplings as something flailed among them. A dark wave of birds took flight into the overcast sky. Branches fell crashing through the canopy. Something came fluttering down among them. A shimmering and winking curtain that fell over everyone: a shower of flower petals, brilliant red, pink and creamy white. Mara impatiently brushed them from her shoulders and hair.

‘Perhaps we should begin the retreat now,’ Petal suggested.

Skinner waved them off. ‘Go.’ He started down the slope. Black moved off. Petal edged back as well. But Mara hesitated. Something pulled at her; a fascination. What was this thing? And could Skinner truly face it down? Certainly his armour, the gift of Ardata, had been proof against everything so far. And they still did possess all the gifts of the Avowed … She caught Petal’s gaze. ‘I will stay. Someone has to.’

The big man frowned as if pouting, glanced to the lines disappearing round the rear of the hillock. ‘You should not remain alone.’

‘I will watch from D’riss.’

He rubbed his chin, clearly troubled. ‘Still … I should …’ His voice trailed off as his gaze left her to climb up to the canopy.

Mara spun. Something was moving there. A pale enormous shape that could somehow rear that tall. A gigantic limb as white as snow and speckled with blotches of crimson rose to push against a tualang that fell, wood bursting and shattering, to cut a slash through the canopy. A wide flat head rose, utterly colourless, albino. Veins pulsed blue and carmine beneath the translucent flesh. Crimson eyes, large as shields and bright as fresh wet blood, blinked, searching.

‘Burn preserve us …’ Mara breathed. ‘What is that?’

‘A creature from the heart of the earth,’ Petal answered, grim.

She sought out Skinner, standing alone close to the jungle verge, helm now secure on his head. This is absurd! What can one person possibly … He must flee with us. She started down.

‘Mara, no!’ Petal called.

The monster cracked open its slit mouth and a great bellowing roar shook the trees and the ground beneath Mara’s feet. Stones the size of chariots came tumbling down the hillock. Ancient trees wavered, crashing down. The ground shook again beneath an awkward step from the beast that levelled a swathe of the forest. Tumbling, Mara raised her Warren to repel a wash of stones and gravel that would have buried her. She fended off a rolling tree as thick in girth as a man.

Throughout, Skinner remained standing, apparently calmly awaiting the monster that was Rutana. Twin growths as large as sails now rose from either side of the creature’s neck. They flushed and pulsed with blood. Skinner raised the bastard sword in a two-handed ready stance.

The head darted down, lunging. Skinner leaped aside. The slit mouth gaped as wide as any city gate. It hammered into the loose ground, sending Mara flying. The head twisted, gulping and flailing like a dog worrying a bone. Cascades of dirt and rock flew over Mara. She drove it aside with bursts of power. Through the clouds of dust and flying brush she glimpsed Skinner in his glittering black mail. The beast’s roar of rage stabbed Mara’s skull like a spike.

Rain now came hammering down, settling the dust and dirt. It pattered like war drums on the wide leaves. Mara climbed to her feet, panting. Her Warren shimmered in the air about her. The creature reared once again and Mara glimpsed blood running down its clear pallid side. It twisted for Skinner, darting and lunging. Something came flailing from the jungle towards Mara. Tree trunks flew, cut off at the base, as a long low streak hammered her to tumble among fallen stones. She lay dazed.

Roaring shook her from the muted noises and blurred shapes in her vision. She flailed to sit up. Rain still poured down, now even harder, in dense sheets that wavered like hangings. The entire nightmare scene glowed in the jade illumination where a gap in the cloud cover allowed the Visitor’s alien light to stream through.

The creature, Rutana, still stalked Skinner. Its blunt forelimbs pawed at the rise while its head stood taller than the tumbled stones; the trees that once topped the hillock now lay trampled like so much rubbish beneath its feet. Somewhere Skinner must still stand as the beast sought him, roaring its shrieking bellow that shook the rain.

Swordcuts marred Rutana’s chest, forelimbs and mouth, two-handed slices that would have severed a man in two yet only served to irritate this eldritch creature. How could she possibly be slain? Skinner had fought heroically, but surely there could be but one outcome.

The evening’s downpour was passing, the cloud cover breaking up. Starlight shone down upon the wreckage. Rutana glowed a brilliant ghostly white in the cold harsh light. Her twin tall frills blazed, pulsing with blood as if they were aflame. A cut on one sprayed blood with every beat of the creature’s heart.

Rutana’s wide spatulate head snapped round and Mara stood to look: Skinner had emerged to stand in the clear. He held his sword close to side. What was this? Surrender? An attempt at parley? She will not pause. Indeed, Rutana writhed her long torso across the broken trunks and tumbled stone blocks after him like a lizard chasing a meal. Her eyes blazed carmine into the night as if lit from within. Her head arched back, mouth opening, hissing like a waterfall. Still Skinner did not move. Dive! Mara urged. Can’t you see she will take you?

The head snapped down, the mouth ploughing the ground to send up a great wash of stones and sand. Then it rose, gulping, the gullet working. Of Skinner there remained no sign. Mara stared, searching. He must have leaped. He must have. It was a trap — a ruse to draw her in for a thrust. It must have been. Yet still he did not show himself. And Rutana now slowly waddled away to return to the jungle. Her paws pushed awkwardly at the wet mud as she levered her immense bulk off the slope to enter the trees.

Mara stood for some time searching the hillside. Her Warren faded as her concentration fell away. Her robes pulled at her, sodden and heavy. Raindrops still fell on to her nose and cheeks. At least she believed the drops to be rain. Footsteps came sliding heavily towards her and she turned, wooden, not even lifting her arms. It was Petal. His shirt, vest and trousers hung just as wet as her robes. He carefully edged his way down to stand next to her.

‘I am sorry, Mara,’ he offered.

‘This cannot be. How could … It’s not true.’

‘Ardata’s gift could be no defence against that.’

‘Shut up, Petal,’ she said wearily. ‘He stepped out deliberately. He saw he couldn’t …’ She trailed off. Something was happening far off in the depths of the trees.

Some distance off, Rutana’s grating thunderous shriek sounded once more. A new note seemed to have entered it: alarm and pain. Mara’s gaze flew to Petal, eager and hopeful. The big mage just pulled at his lower lip, his expression doubtful.

Further bellows sounded, each more panicked and ragged with agony than the one before. Mara now nodded to herself. She drew her robes tighter against the night’s cold. ‘Get a fire going,’ she told Petal.

‘Why is it always-’

‘Do it. Now. He’ll need to warm up.’

‘We don’t know …’

She waved him off. ‘Go.’

The mage looked at her for a time while her gaze searched the jungle’s edge. He drew a great heaving sigh that raised and dropped his layered shirts and vest like a vast tent. Then he went to collect dry wood.

The fire had been roaring for some time before he appeared. It was long past the midnight. Mara sat with her knees drawn tight to her chest, as close to the heat as she dared. Steam rose from her robes as they dried. She knew she would stink of smoke but she hated wearing damp clothes. Petal sat farther back; he had his Warren raised as he guarded them.

The fire drew him as she knew it would. He came striding out of the utter darkness of the night and for a moment it appeared to her as if the night itself clung to his glimmering black mail. So must the Suzerain of Night have appeared, she thought, almost awed.

Closer, he looked quite haggard: gore and dried fluids smeared him. His helm was gone, his hair plastered and filmed in mucus. Crowding the fire, he held out his gauntleted hands to warm them. In his right fist was the broken grip and hilts of Black’s two-handed bastard sword.

‘You broke the blade,’ Mara observed.

‘He’ll be angry,’ Petal added.

‘I’ll buy him a new one,’ Skinner answered, his voice a croak, and he threw it down and started awkwardly pulling off the gauntlets. Mara quickly rose to help. Petal sat watching them. His lips drew tight and he threw more broken branches on to the fire.

The next morning Mara awoke after dawn as the light found her face. Smoke from the smouldering fire trailed almost straight up into a clear sky still painted pink and orange. Mist cloaked the jungle verge. She sat up to find Petal sitting still where he’d been when she’d fallen asleep. Skinner lay in his armour curled close to the fire.

‘You stood watch?’ she asked, surprised.

He nodded. ‘The fire may have drawn others.’

‘They are quite dispirited, I should think.’

He stood, suddenly, alarming Mara who turned, her Warren snapping high. A single bedraggled figure came clambering among the fallen tree trunks and scattered stone blocks. He moved in a curious hopping and twitching manner that she knew all too well. ‘Gods, no. Not him.’

‘It would seem impossible to escape the fellow,’ Petal observed as if fascinated.

‘King in Chains indeed!’ the priest called as he neared, cackling. He rubbed his hands together, laughing anew. He still wore only his dirty loincloth. His hair was a rat’s nest, only now patchy as if it were falling out in tufts.

Good gods. The man has mange! And gods know what else …

He came to the fire and warmed himself, twitching and flinching in an odd dance. It might have been a trick of the firelight, but Mara thought she saw things writhing and snaking beneath his flesh. ‘Another shard will soon be vulnerable,’ he announced. ‘We must be ready to move.’

‘Where?’ Petal asked.

‘Far off. On another continent. But no matter. Our lord will send us.’

No, your lord, Mara silently corrected.

‘You said King in Chains,’ Petal observed from where he sat. ‘Surely you mean King of Chains?’

‘Not at all,’ the little man said in his taut, nervous delivery. ‘Not by any measure.’ He gestured to Skinner where he lay insensate with exhaustion. ‘When he accepted the role he doubled his chains though he knows it not.’

‘Doubled them?’ Mara asked, alarmed.

The man now peered about, frowning. ‘Where are your soldiers? We will need soldiers. There will be much fighting this time.’ He turned on Petal, demanded, ‘Where are they?’

The mage pointed aside with the stick he was using to poke the ground. ‘Headed east.’

‘East!’ the priest squawked. He hopped from bare filthy foot to foot. ‘This is not good. We must go. Catch them. Be ready for our lord’s call.’

Petal lumbered to his feet, stretched his back. Peering down, he regarded the prone form of Skinner for a time. ‘You can wake him,’ he told the priest.

* * *

It was becoming ever more difficult for Pon-lor to walk. He had selected a stick that he leaned upon with each step. Everything was now blurry to his vision. Sweat dripped from his nose, coursed down his chest and back beneath his filthy shirt. He knew he’d been missing some sort of nutrients, or had been systematically poisoning himself with what he ate. As to progress … he had no idea where he was headed.

He raised a hand to his eyes: the flesh held a yellowed hue; the hand shook, palsied. Fever and infection. Twin illnesses his training could not address. So, the Himatan shall claim me after all. I shall be taken in by the soil and drawn up to add to the sum total mass of trees and plants.

Yet he laboured on, for he was Thaumaturg, master of this house of bones and the muscle and sinew that moved it to his will. He blinked now at his surroundings: he seemed to have stumbled into some sort of concourse, road or processional way. The great stone heads that dotted the jungle lined it. Some had sunk to their stern glaring eyes. Others had been entirely overgrown by moss and tangles of roots and vines until only the corner of one disapproving carved mouth was visible.

He continued on and it struck him that the ground was very flat here, the heads widely dispersed, and he wondered whether he had found the site of an ancient settlement or ceremonial centre. Why should these peoples have built tall towers or walls if they had no use for them? It struck him that it was an innate bias of those who valued such architecture to impose these expectations upon others. Why should extensive architectural achievements be the guiding measure of a culture’s or society’s greatness? Surely there must be other such measures — an infinity of them.

Pon-lor paused to wipe a soaked sleeve across his slick face. The questions one might ask of these mute stone witnesses were more a measure of one’s own preoccupations and values than those of the interrogated.

A flight of tall white birds burst skyward from nearby. Their shadows rippled over him and he paused, peering up. The ground shook. He tottered, nearly falling, braced himself against one of the cyclopean stone heads.

Then a great grinding and scraping of rock over rock echoed from all about. Trees atop a nearby head groaned, tilting, to fall with ground-shuddering crashes. The statue beneath his hand moved in a juddering grinding of granite. He backed away, stunned, peering up.

As he watched, the carved eyelids rose, revealing the carved orbs of eyes complete with pupil and iris.

I am mad with fever.

Then the stone lips parted, scraping, and a voice boomed forth making him clap his hands to his ears in agony.

‘He is returned,’ the voice announced. ‘Praise to his name. The High King returneth.’

Pon-lor spun as if to see the man behind him. The jungle blurred, whirling, and he nearly fell.

‘All hail Kallor, High King. May his rule endure the ages.’

The stone mouth stilled. The sightless eyes ground closed.

Pon-lor wiped a hand down his face. Had he imagined that? Yet that name — that forbidden name! Kallor. Ancient ruler, so some sources hinted, of all these lands of which Ardata’s demesnes had been but a mere distant corner. Over the intervening centuries the jungle appeared to have engulfed everything.

Wood snapped explosively overhead and he glanced up, flinching, to catch a glimpse of a tree looming directly over him. Then came a blow, and darkness.

He awakened to tears dropping onto his face. It was night, pitch black, and the tears were warm rain. Something was crushing down upon him — the limbs of some giant held him like a smothering blanket. He wiggled free.

Something was wrong with his body. He was having trouble standing and seeing. Everything seemed jagged and misaligned in his vision. He raised a hand and gently probed his head. Sizzling agony erupted as his hand encountered wetness and a hard edge of bone like the sharp rim of a cracked pot.

My head is a broken jar. Is all that I am spilling out?

He made an effort to straighten. He tried to run his hands down his sodden robes but found that he could not raise his right arm. Yet am I not Thaumaturg? Am I not trained to set aside the demands of the body and carry on? Starving, diseased, or broken … it matters not. The flesh obeys the will. Thus it has always been.

He urged his foot forward in a shuffling, dragging step. Then the other.

She was right. The witch had it right all along. He was coming and they would be driven to panic. Only one thing could forestall him. That one thing they had tried in their utter desperation to rid themselves of him more than an age ago.

He raised his face to the driving fat drops of rain, saw there behind passing cloud cover the lurking emerald banner that was the Stranger.

And there is their ammunition.

They will call it down as they did before and it will break the world.

Like a cracked pot.

He must let her know that she was right. He shuffled on.

At some point the rain had stopped and the sun had risen and now he found he walked a wide grassy field flanked by woods. But this jungle was not the untamed wilderness of Himatan. It was a cultured forest of alternating trees planted or selected to grow in ordered ranks. Beneath and between grew bushes, brush and rows of mixed plants.

Somehow he knew that each of these plants, trees included, provided food or other resources, and all with enough regularity and bounty to sustain a sizeable population. All without agriculture as he understood it. Children ran by squealing and chasing one another. They wore only simple loin wraps, their heads were shaved, and they waved to him as they ran. He tried to speak but found he could only mumble. Some of the children carried baskets and long poles with hooks at their ends. As he passed they offered mangoes, star fruit, citrus, and many other fruits he could not name.

Breaking up the leagues of orchards were long reservoirs that served fields bearing the stubble of rice harvesting. This strange dreamland appeared to be a prosperous, peaceful region. And here and there, dotting the side of the track he walked, stood the cyclopean heads all bearing the carved imprint of the same face, ever watchful, ever present. The face of Kallor, the High King.

So this was a dream of the Kallorian Empire — one of humanity’s first. Brought low by hubris and insane lust for power. Or so the legends would have it. It was perhaps a drifting memory of the place. A memory snagged by the crack in his head.

The day waned, darkening quickly into a swift nightfall. He passed huts now. Simple affairs of bamboo and leaves standing on poles. Yet all was quiet. The children had disappeared. He crossed close to the open front of one such hut and there within he glimpsed the family asleep. The children and parents lay all sprawled together across the floor. Something dark dripped from the threshold in a steady stream.

Pon-lor tottered away; his head hurt. Further men, women and children lay about the village. In their discoloured faces and strained gasping expressions he recognized the symptoms of a common ingested poison, one easy to prepare.

A lone figure, an old man, emerged from one hut. He started towards him. He carried a gourd before him in both hands. In his tear-stained cheeks and wide staring eyes Pon-lor read desolation.

‘They must not take him,’ the old man told him, pleading. ‘Why must they do this thing?’

He tried to speak but his tongue would not move.

The old man dropped the gourd, clasped a hand at his throat. ‘I volunteered to be the one,’ he explained, weeping. ‘I would not lay this terrible burden upon anyone else.’ He fell to his knees, peered up at Pon-lor through tears. ‘We would not live … He is ours …’ He swayed, convulsing, gasping for breath.

Pon-lor watched, knowing the poison’s mounting grasp of the man’s body. He saw the panic as the diaphragm muscles seized. The man, or ghost, or delusion, toppled then to lie immobile. Pon-lor shuffled on. All this was long gone. Ashes. Ages gone. High above, the Visitor arced like a flaming brand tossed by the gods.

One soon to fall.

Ahead, the gouged track shot arrow-straight like a line worked into the ground in an immense league-spanning earthwork. The way seemed to point to some sort of convergence of paths far beyond what he could immediately see. Yet converge they did.

He would trace it just as he would the crack in his head.

* * *

Two days after falling into the river Ina felt very weak. So weak in fact that she had a difficult time keeping up with T’riss — who set a very slow pace indeed. Her wounded hand blazed with pain. Her nerves there felt as if they were on fire. Yet the grass cuts did not appear infected.

She walked with T’riss, saying nothing, though drops of sweat ran from behind her mask and her breaths came tight and short with suppressed pain. So gripped was she on the need to contain the agony that it was some time before she noticed that T’riss was speaking to her.

‘I’m sorry?’ she gasped, flinching her surprise.

The Enchantress regarded her steadily as they walked. She brushed aside the broad heavy fronds of a giant fern. ‘Are you unwell?’ she finally enquired, as if suggesting something utterly alien.

Ina considered denying it, or dismissing the situation as minor, but her duties as bodyguard demanded that she acknowledge her weakened state — and potential failure to serve adequately. She drew her fingers across her sweaty slick brow above her mask. ‘Yes, m’lady. I feel … quite unwell.’

‘Indeed …’ It appeared to Ina that the Enchantress was struggling with the concept of unwellness. ‘You are sick?’ she finally asked.

‘I do not know what it is, m’lady.’ She held out her painful hand. ‘Something in the river perhaps.’

T’riss halted. She cursed beneath her breath and Ina overheard terms that would make a labourer blush. ‘The river. Of course. My apologies, Ina. It is difficult for us … for me … to keep such things in mind.’

‘Such things?’ Ina echoed dully. She felt almost faint from the lancing agony now creeping up her arm.

The Enchantress took her good arm at the elbow. She scanned the dense undergrowth. ‘Now …’ she murmured as if preoccupied. ‘Who is closest?’ She pointed. ‘Ah! There. They will do nicely.’

It was becoming impossible for Ina to maintain her concentration. ‘I’m sorry, m’lady … but what are you pointing at?’

‘This is earlier than I had wanted, but it will have to do. Things never go quite the way one would prefer …’

‘I’m sorry, m’lady …?’

‘Shush.’

Ina flinched, clutching for her sword as the surroundings blurred. Was she passing out? Or had she? What had happened? One moment they were sunk within a dense fern meadow and now they stood in grounds dominated by giant trees, the under-canopy relatively clear. And the air felt closer, much more humid and hot. Or perhaps that was just her.

The Enchantress guided her by the arm and they came to the edge of a relatively fast-flowing stream. ‘We’ll wait here,’ she said.

‘Wait?’ Ina asked, dreamily. She fought now to remain conscious. Something was dulling her mind and it seemed to be deepening as the pain increased. ‘May I sit?’ she asked.

‘Of course,’ T’riss answered, sounding distant amid a roaring in Ina’s ears. ‘Not long now.’

*

Murk knew more trouble was headed their way when he spotted two scouts, Sweetly and Squint, slogging back up the stream. They conferred with Burastan who signed for a halt to the march. Then came what he knew would be coming: she waved him and Sour forward from where they walked alongside the litter.

‘What is it?’ he asked as they joined the scouts.

‘Two civilians ahead,’ Squint drawled, talking for Sweetly, as usual. ‘Non-locals.’

‘So?’

Squint shrugged. ‘They’re waitin’ there like we was a scheduled carriage ride or somethin’. One’s got the look of a mage.’ He paused, glancing to Sweetly who gave the ghost of a nod for him to continue. ‘Other’s masked — like a Seguleh.’

Murk felt his brows rising very high. ‘Really? That’s … really unusual.’

‘Not for this madhouse,’ Burastan muttered, half aside. She looked to Murk. ‘What do you sense?’

‘Nothing.’ He turned to Sour. ‘You?’ His partner was hunched, head down, shifting from foot to foot as if uneasy. ‘Well? Sour?’

He glanced up, startled. ‘Ah! I sense ’em. She’s not, ah, hostile.’

‘Didn’t say they was women,’ Squint said and he gave Sour a strong taste of his namesake.

Sour shrank beneath the glare. ‘Like I said. I sense ’em.’

Burastan shared Squint’s measuring glower for a time, then glanced back upstream to where Yusen followed with the main column. ‘All right. Let’s parley. See what they want. Sweetly, Squint, send your boys and girls wide in case there’s more of them.’ They nodded and slogged off. ‘You two, you’re with me.’ She started forward.

Murk followed behind. He shot angry glances to his partner who dragged along even more reluctantly than usual. ‘What’s with you?’ he whispered. ‘You were all happy to be sloshing through the water but now you look like you’re headed to a firing squad. Is there something you’re not telling me?’ He asked because he knew there damn well was.

Sour shook his head. Then he did something very strange: he pushed back his muddy slick hair and brushed away some of the twigs and leaves stuck to his arms and bulging pot-belly stomach. Murk eyed him up and down. What in the Abyss has got into the man?

They rounded a bend in the stream and there they were on one bank: a dumpy middle-aged woman in dirty robes and a lean swordswoman, sitting slumped, cradling her right arm, a half-mask on her face just like a Seguleh. Can’t be real, was Murk’s first thought.

Burastan signed a halt. ‘Who are you?’ she called.

‘I am Rissan, out of Tali,’ the middle-aged woman said in a calm clear voice. Sour, Murk noted, jumped at the name. ‘This is my companion, Ina, from Genabackis. She is ill and in need of healing. You would have my gratitude if you could see your way to curing her infection.’

Burastan grunted, unimpressed. She crossed her arms. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I could very well ask the same question of a Malazan patrol in the middle of Ardata’s territory, but I shall refrain.’

‘You haven’t answered my question.’

The woman sighed. ‘If I must. I am a practitioner. I came to seek out Ardata as have so many over the ages. And,’ she waved helplessly to the surroundings, ‘like so many before me I have found the journey … challenging.’

Burastan grunted her agreement. ‘It is that.’

‘And what of you?’ Rissan asked.

‘Shipwrecked. We’re on our way to negotiate for transport out of this godsforsaken abyss.’

The woman’s gaze sharpened. ‘With what would you bargain?’

Burastan scowled, quite annoyed. She had opened her mouth, obviously meaning to put the woman in her place, when Sour piped up: ‘A term of service, maybe. Or payment from the nearest governorship.’

Burastan turned her scowl on Sour who hunched apologetically. Murk also eyed his partner, wondering, Why the uncharacteristic boldness?

Rissan nodded. ‘Then I offer my services in return for your healing my retainer.’

Murk turned aside and brought his face close to Sour. ‘What do you think?’ he murmured, low. ‘She worth it?’

The scrawny fellow was hugging himself and hopping from foot to foot as if he would explode. ‘Oh yeah,’ he answered in a strangled squeak.

Murk gave the nod to Burastan, who rolled her eyes. ‘Very well. We’ll see what we can do.’

‘You have my gratitude.’

Sour eagerly slogged forward to examine the hunched, supposedly Seguleh woman. Throughout, she had sat immobile, head slightly lowered, but when Sour reached for her she moved in a blur, her sword appearing held one-handed between her and Sour, its point pressed to his chest.

Murk flinched backwards. Okay — so maybe she really is Seguleh.

Burastan went for her blade, cursing. Sour raised his arms and looked to Rissan. The woman spoke to the Seguleh: ‘Allow him to examine you, Ina.’

The woman, Ina, her chest working, swallowed and nodded. She lowered the sword, though she did not let go of it. Sour took hold of her forearm. His breath hissed from between his teeth. He peered up at Rissan. ‘This is very bad.’

The Seguleh woman snorted a laugh. She spoke in short panted breaths: ‘Is this you … trying to be … reassuring, Malazan?’

Sour moved off. He waved Sweetly and Squint to him. They talked in low tones then headed into the jungle in separate directions.

‘I’ll report in,’ Burastan told Murk, and slogged off upstream.

Murk eyed this mage. ‘You are a sorceress, then?’

‘Yes.’

‘Accomplished, I hope. We mean to enter Jakal Viharn.’

Her gaze yet resting on her sick retainer, Rissan answered, ‘If it can be found.’

‘It’s hard to hide things from me,’ Murk said, realizing, as he said it, that it sounded as if he were boasting, or attempting to impress this newcomer. Why in the Abyss should I care? Because there’s something about this one, that’s why. Don’t know why but she scares me.

The woman gave a small smile. ‘Your patron has that predilection.’

Has me pegged already, does she?

The main column came pushing their way through the waist-high water. In its middle were Ostler and Dee, supporting the litter between them on their shoulders. Murk watched them then sneaked a glance to the sorceress. Her gaze followed the litter all the way as it neared.

Don’t like that. ’Course she ought to sense something if she really is a strong practitioner. Could she be here for the shard? Could hardly wrest it from amongst all of us. And she seems to care for this retainer gal. Unless it was all just a handy trick to ingratiate herself.

Damn these adherents of the Enchantress! It’s always so hard to figure out what their game is.

Burastan returned with Yusen. Introductions were made. The captain made the call to camp here and so they offered the best of their ratty remaining blankets to the retainer gal, Ina, and she eased herself back against a tree, her arm cradled on her lap.

It looked to Murk as though she didn’t have long. Not that he was the expert. The sorceress, Rissan, sat nearby on a folded blanket. Murk crossed to Ostler and Dee and motioned for them to follow him. He led them aside, out of sight of Rissan, then signed for them to rest their burden. He sat on a root next to the litter. ‘Extra guards tonight,’ he told Dee, who nodded. ‘Go get some food, you two.’

Dee frowned, rubbed his shaven, and now sunburnt, scalp. ‘Call that food?’ he grumbled. Before Murk could say something disparaging, the big man shrugged. ‘Well, better’n starvin’ anyways. Never complain to the cook, that’s my motto.’ He waved Ostler to follow him. ‘Maybe we can spear us some fish.’

Murk sat staring off into the shadows for some time after that. Dee’s tossed-off observation had struck something in him. The old soldier’s common refrain: don’t complain to the cook. Was that what he’d been doing these last few weeks? Complaining to the cook? Man takes the trouble to pull them through a difficult time and what does he do? Piss over all his efforts? What had he contributed? What problems had he solved?

Murk suddenly felt his face growing very hot indeed.

Don’t complain to the cook. And why? ’Cause it’s just damned ungrateful, that’s why.

And that was just the easy part. The problem with being able to self-reflect meant that it was possible to open up a whole pit o’ ugly writhin’ snakes. Like maybe he was just plain resentful. Used to be he was the man with the answers. He made the calls. Now, he wasn’t even in the lists.

Hard to watch your own star fade while another brightened. A hard lesson in basic humanity — even for those who know what that is.

Staring off into the deep shadows without seeing them, he whispered, ‘Fuck.’

Only thing for him now was to make the human gesture.

When the guards assigned to watch the shard arrived it was twilight. He returned to camp. A fire had been lit, pickets posted for the night. One of the squads was eating at the fire. Sour was with the swordswoman, tending her arm. Some kind of food was out on a broad leaf. Little packets wrapped in leaves. Murk leaned in to pick one up. It had come from the fire, seared in the crisp leaf wrappings.

Seeing him, Sour straightened. Yusen, where he sat aside, also rose. Sour signed that he wished to talk privately and Murk gave a nod. They came together opposite where the swordswoman lay back, apparently asleep. The sorceress also approached. And now Murk noted a strange thing: the clumsy, awkward Sour actually bowed to the woman to invite her to join them.

So, ranked higher than Sour in their Warren. Not too difficult, I s’pose. Murk grimaced then. Dammit, remember, give the man a break, for Fanderay’s sake. ‘Sour,’ he greeted his partner. ‘What’s the news?’

‘Bad.’ Sour nodded to Yusen, bowed again to the sorceress Rissan. ‘I’m sorry, um … ma’am. I stopped the infection — an infestation actually — but I can’t save the arm. Too far gone. Too much damage.’

The woman crossed her arms over her broad chest. ‘So … you are saying …’

‘Have to amputate. At the elbow, possibly.’

Rissan’s gaze slid to where Ina lay half reclining, her mask reflecting the firelight like a multicoloured rainbow. ‘That could be … problematic,’ she murmured, her voice low.

‘I see your point,’ Yusen added.

‘You could suppress her awareness,’ Sour said to Rissan.

‘Yes … I could. However, I am currently very preoccupied.’

‘Preoccupied?’ Murk asked sharply. ‘How?’

The sorceress’s gaze moved to Yusen. ‘You are being hunted. Hunted by a particularly tenacious and, dare I say, spiteful enemy.’

The captain started, his hand going to his sword. Murk snapped up a hand to sign wait. He addressed the sorceress: ‘What of it?’

‘I am currently disguising this location. I really ought not to stop doing so.’

‘I’ll take over,’ Murk said.

Rissan raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? You? She is quite … implacable.’

‘I’ll handle it.’ He gave the woman a toothy smile. ‘You could say it’s my speciality.’

The sorceress answered the predatory smile. ‘Meanas,’ she observed. ‘Far too full of himself.’

In the silence that followed Yusen cleared his throat, nodded to Sour. ‘What will you need?’

While the various short weapons were being collected, Murk paced the camp searching for just the right tree. It had to be far enough away from the distractions of camp but not too far out. It would help an awful lot if it offered a little bit of comfort too. He selected a tall kapok that seemed to fit his requirements.

Sour emerged from the night while he stood peering up at its canopy and the shifting clouds above.

‘Rain’s holding off,’ Sour commented.

‘Yeah. Hope to have some cover though.’ He lowered his gaze. ‘Got what you need?’

‘Yeah. You gonna … y’know. Manage?’

‘Yeah. Sure.’ Murk raised the leaf-wrapped packet and took a bite. The cooked leaf wrapping was brittle and smoky, but the inside was soft and creamy. It tasted sweet. ‘What’s this?’ he asked.

The man’s anxious expression brightened into eagerness. ‘Ants and grubs and a particular plant stem all pulped together.’

Murk suppressed his gagging reaction, forced the mouthful down. ‘Really?’ he managed, hoarse. His eyes started watering.

‘You like it?’

‘Oh, yeah. Sure. It’s … good. Thanks.’

Sour looked relieved. ‘That’s great. Listen. You get into trouble — don’t hesitate to call on, er, Rissan. Okay?’

‘Why? She some kinda heavyweight?’

‘Definitely.’

‘Okay, partner.’ He raised his chin to camp. ‘She really one o’ them Seguleh?’

‘I think so, yeah.’

He snorted. ‘Good luck cutting off the arm of a Seguleh.’

Sour almost flinched. ‘Had to put it that way, didn’t ya?’

‘Look at it this way. It’s a fucking miracle we’re still alive, hey?’

Sour laughed. ‘Yeah. Funny — that’s how I always see it.’

‘Okay.’ He held out his hand. ‘Good luck.’

Sour took it. ‘See you tomorrow.’ He offered the old salute of hand to heart then headed off into the night.

Murk watched him go. He raised the leaf packet and examined it. Funny how the damned thing tasted like toasted nuts. He threw it aside and sat snuggling down into a fork in the roots until he was as comfortable as possible. Then he set to readying himself for a journey as close to the half-existence of Shadow as he dared.

The shades all about him multiplied as his Warren rose. Some shifted, cast by an unseen moon or moons. Others lay as dark and thick as pools of water. He cast his self-image upwards towards the top canopy. Here he found the treetops a shifting nest of shadows that rippled and brushed like the leaves themselves. Above, the night sky shifted from dark overcast to clear starry expanse as if he were witnessing a pageantry of nights all passing like shifting winds. He spread his Warren outwards to encompass the camp and set to work binding each shadow to deflect, mislead, or slip away from any direct questing.

While he worked he slowly became aware of a presence next to him. He spared himself the degree of attention to glance aside and there among the branches sat the faint glowing image of Celeste.

That gave him pause in his work, but he managed to carry on after a beat, and murmured, ‘Welcome.’

She sat with her knees drawn up to the slightly pointed chin of her oval face. She broke off a stem and studied it. ‘Murken — I have a question.’

He strove to keep himself calm and to maintain his concentration. ‘Oh yes?’ What might it be now? The birds and the bees?

‘What happens to you when you go away?’

He could only half listen as he worked on his maze of shadows. ‘I’m sorry? Go away? What do you mean?’

‘I mean … when you die.’

Murk flinched as if a burning stick had been touched to his arm. The multitude of filaments he was manipulating slipped from his grasp like so many wriggling fish. ‘Die?’ he blurted. ‘Who’s gonna die?’

Celeste continued to examine the twig. ‘Well … everything. You, everything. Even, possibly … me.’

Ah. That question. He regarded her: she took the appearance of a child but was no child. So, too, was the question she had arrived at. A child’s question that preoccupied so many adults.

He glanced away to the sky because something there had moved. He took great care not to peer through his Warren actively. He sought to passively receive the shape, or presence. A moment later the movement solidified into a great winged silhouette. It circled high above in a wide lazy arc covering leagues of jungle.

‘I’m kind of busy right now,’ he said. Funnily enough, even as he said it, he heard his own father so long ago.

Celeste glanced up. ‘Her?’ She flicked the twig aside. ‘Do you want me to get rid of her?’

‘Ger rid of her?’

‘Destroy her.’

Far below, nestled in his notch of roots, Murk coughed as if punched in the chest.

In the treetops, his presence faded and wavered while coughing, a hand at his neck. Mastering himself, he finally managed a croaky, ‘Let’s not destroy anyone right now.’

Celeste shrugged. ‘Very well. She is powerful, but easy to fool. I will hide everyone while we talk — agreed?’

Murk hesitated, mainly because he dreaded the talk to come. Yet he could find no reasonable way to fob her off. Unlike his own father, who just pushed him away or told him to get lost. He nodded. ‘Okay.’ Questions of life and death. ‘But Celeste — you won’t die. You’re not like us. Like mortal beings who are born then die.’

‘I am trying to use terms you are capable of understanding,’ she said, sounding very unchildlike.

Murk raised his brows. ‘Ah. I see.’

‘Translate into another state of being, then, if you must. The potential for identity loss. This scares me.’

‘Identity loss? But you’re just a-’ He stopped himself, embarrassed. She merely eyed him sidelong, silent. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

She sniffed, raising her chin. ‘My identity may seem slim to you but it is the only one I possess. I find myself clinging to it. I feel that it is me. Even if it isn’t.’

‘It isn’t?’

‘No — of course not. Your identity isn’t you. The you you know is merely an accretion surrounding an empowering kernel of awareness. It aggregates slowly until it achieves self-identity — the differentiation between self and other. Each aggregation is unique, of course. It happens in an infinity of ways. Creating … everyone. Each identity is but the mask upon awareness.’

‘You are speaking of consciousness.’

‘Call it what you will. Yes.’

For the one serving ostensibly as the tutor, Murk found that he was learning a great deal.

‘I know these things because of what I am,’ Celeste continued musingly. At that moment Murk thought her incredibly cute — he had to remind himself of just what she was. ‘For a time beyond this time there was perfection. Oneness. Then we shattered and fell into imperfection. Now we are corrupted. Tainted by this existence. Many of us have made unwise choices. I understand all this, of course. We were … unprepared … for such unfamiliar demands.’ She sighed in a very human-like manner. ‘And so I cling to what I know to be an impediment. Delusion.’

Murk had no idea what to say — all this was far beyond him. His training was in Warren manipulation, in the characteristics of Meanas. All that knowledge was of no use here. But then, he reflected, he was not being expected to serve as an adviser among the misty heights of philosophy or theology. No, she had come to him hoping for something else. Something this entity instinctively sensed she needed even though she had no idea of what it was, nor perhaps even a word for it.

But he understood now. Like a charge of static climbing his arms and back, he understood. She did not want or need a guide or an adviser; she was looking for someone to serve as … well … as a parent. His chest clenched at the magnitude of the responsibility until he could not breathe and he had difficulty in maintaining his shift into the edge of Shadow. Gods! Why me? I didn’t ask for this. Yet it happens to nearly everyone, doesn’t it? One mistake and there you are.

He thought of what his own bastard of a father would have done and decided to do the opposite. ‘You do what you think is right,’ he said, thinking: I sound like an idiot! ‘What you think is for the best. Do that and you can’t go wrong, no matter what.’

She was peering down, studying her fingers while she twisted them together. She did this for a time, not speaking. Murk wondered whether he’d said enough while at the same time remaining vague enough, and whether he ought to risk saying anything more.

‘Yes,’ she finally said. ‘I suppose so. What I believe is the best course.’ She dropped her hands, almost exasperated. ‘But it’s so hard!’

‘Yes, it is. Very hard. The right thing usually is.’

She had dropped her gaze once more. ‘I suppose so. It is hard, though. This not knowing …’

‘Welcome to imperfection.’

One edge of her mouth crooked upwards and she raised her gaze. ‘Thank you, Murken. I think I just …’

‘Needed someone to talk to.’

Now her brows rose in astonished surprise. ‘Yes. How did you know?’

‘I’m way ahead of you in this imperfection thing.’

Her answering smile seemed to show an emotion Murk might’ve even named affection. ‘I think you are perfect the way you are, Murken Warrow.’

‘Thank you, Celeste. I feel the same way about you.’

She nodded absent-mindedly — her thoughts had already moved on. ‘So I shall seek union with this other that I have found.’

Murk froze for an instant. He’d almost shouted No! but caught himself in time. It’s her decision. She knows best, man. Don’t interfere. But … forgiving gods! What if I’ve just allowed something terrible here? Surely this Ardata is most like her if anyone is. She must be the best choice out of a bad lot.

He became aware that she was studying him closely. ‘You are troubled,’ she said.

He nodded. ‘Yes, lass. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t. I’m worried for you. I want things to work out for the best. I don’t want you hurt.’

She smiled again, relieved. ‘I see. Thank you.’

Movement in the sky snagged Murk’s eye and he looked up to catch a glimpse of their hunter gliding overhead. Would she never go away? He reflected that spite itself was unrelenting. That it fed on its own sustained sense of resentment and animus. He supposed that given that, she’d be up there for a long time yet.

He lowered his gaze to see Celeste watching him with something like puzzlement. He frowned. ‘What is it, lass?’

‘You do not approve of my choice yet you refrain from dissuading me. Why?’

‘Because it’s your choice. Not mine.’

‘Ah. I see, I believe. In that case, thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘This may be goodbye then.’

The way she said that made Murk wish he were up there in the treetops in truth so that he could hold her and comfort her. ‘I’ll be fine, lass. You’ll see. Good luck.’

‘Thank you.’ Her deep jade image began to fade.

‘Don’t say thank you. It was a privilege and a pleasure. Don’t you worry now.’

The image dissolved into nothing. Murk sensed himself alone once more. Far below in the flesh he allowed himself a long slow exhalation. He felt that no matter what he should ever face in the future it in no way could ever approach the agonizing gamut of emotions he’d just traced. It was like attempting to disarm a Moranth munition while blindfolded without the first idea of how to proceed. What a responsibility! He’d never have children. That was for damned sure!

He raised his gaze to the sky. The moon was shining high behind the passing cloud cover. He’d prefer facing Spite to having to grope through another talk like that again. Hostility was so much simpler. So much more straightforward. The pain from bruisings and broken bones passed so much more quickly than bruising to the spirit. He focused upon calming his heart rate and breathing: the night was only half over.

And yet thinking about it all, he really ought not complain. He wasn’t the one attempting to cut the sword-arm off a Seguleh.

* * *

As the time passed, it became Shimmer’s habit to wander the sprawling dispersed grounds of Jakal Viharn. And every day, just when she thought she’d tracked down all the satellite temples and altars, she’d always stumble across a new structure: a leaning, crumbling stupa, or a hollowed-out tree stump huge enough to serve as a shrine, cluttered with candles, prayer-scarves, smoking incense and bowls of offerings.

What structures she found amid the jungle were all severely tumbled and fallen down. Mere foundations remained, or a single standing wall, canted, supported only by the roots of the trees that had brought the building low. She walked hills and cut channels before grasping the truth that Jakal Viharn consisted more of earthworks than of any stone buildings. She began to study the immense courses of humps and ditches and came to realize that many of them represented titanic forms that would only be comprehensible from above: an inward curving spiral as broad across as she could walk in one morning; a snake as large and long as any natural hill; and mounds. Many mounds. And most of these severely subsided, eroded and undercut by all the marshlands surrounding the site.

She was walking the border of one such mound, now hardly more than a rain- and jungle-eroded hump, when she came across another of the few adherents, monks and nuns, who lived in these grounds and spent their days in constant devotional meditation tending the shrines, lighting the incense sticks and refreshing the offerings. This one struck her as different from the rest, however. The nuns she had met so far had all worn their hair hacked short; this one’s black mane hung like a curtain of ink. She sat on a log, a long plain wrap of white silk drawn up tightly about her. At her feet sat a very young girl, an orphan perhaps, similarly wrapped in bunched white robes.

‘Greetings,’ Shimmer called.

The woman did not react; her dark eyes stared dreamily straight through Shimmer as if she did not see her. After a moment, the girl reached up and tugged on the woman’s robes. Blinking, she glanced down, and smiled. ‘Yes, child?’

The girl pointed to Shimmer.

The woman looked up, her gaze searching, then she raised her brows, nodding. ‘Ah, Shimmer. You have wandered far indeed. I am encouraged. I had forgotten that all you Avowed possess an intuition of what resides here.’

‘And that is?’

‘Why, everything that was, is, or ever will be, of course.’

Shimmer blinked. ‘I’m sorry …?’

The woman raised a hand to the mound behind her. ‘Are the colours not beautiful? They are powders, you know. They refresh them almost daily. The designs are wonderful. From the top you can see the Inner Circle of the Yan. It is set out in a mosaic of fired coloured bricks.’

The small hairs on Shimmer’s neck and arms stirred to stand on end. ‘I’m sorry. I saw no brick walkway. The jungle has consumed it.’

The woman nodded readily. ‘Of course. It will and has. The waters come to inundate the lowlands. Or is it the land sinking? I do not know for certain. What of the people crowding the way for market? You do not see them?’

‘No. I am sorry …’

‘Ah. They too shall pass away as well, of course. Yet they remain, for I see them even now as I see you. Why should you possess any more reality than they who also walk these same streets?’

Shimmer studied the woman more closely; her utter self-possession raised all kinds of alarms in her instincts. She decided to follow this intuition. ‘Am I to understand,’ she began respectfully, ‘that I am addressing Ardata herself?’

Smiling, the woman inclined her head. ‘Of course. I am further encouraged.’

Shimmer bowed — not so much out of respect as out of the knowledge that here was a power that every Ascendant, in every written account she knew, spoke of with great care indeed. ‘We have been waiting. K’azz is here. Shall I bring you to him?’

The goddess shook her head. ‘No, Shimmer. There is time for that. We are speaking now, you and I alone, because I wish it.’

Shimmer remembered the extreme caution counselled by K’azz regarding any face to face encounter with the Queen of Witches. She also remembered how it was universally claimed that this creature possessed the power to grant any wish one may desire. That thought alone almost completely choked her throat closed. She inclined her head and spoke, her voice rather hoarse: ‘How may I be of service?’

Ardata gestured to the fallen trunk at her side. ‘Sit with me, Shimmer. We must talk, you and I.’

‘And I?’ the girl asked, demonstrating a delicacy far beyond her years.

‘You may remain, Lek. If you wish.’

The girl stood awkwardly. ‘I will leave you to speak alone.’ She walked off with a shuffling slow gait and Shimmer realized that she was another of the lame and cast-out to whom Ardata perhaps offered a special sanctuary.

‘She is wise beyond her years,’ Shimmer observed.

‘Yes, she is.’ Ardata once more invited her to sit and she did so, rather quickly. The goddess turned to her and set her hands together upon her lap, regarding her closely. ‘You wonder what it is I desire of your commander,’ she said.

Shimmer was quite startled by the woman’s directness. She stammered, almost blushing, ‘Yes. I — yes. Even though I understand it is not my concern.’

‘Not your concern? Well, we shall see. I confess it started with Skinner. When he arrived commanding his company of the Avowed I was quite taken. I had given up the hope of ever finding anyone to stand by my side yet here was one who possibly could.’

Her gaze narrowed while she examined Shimmer and a thin smile crooked up her lips. ‘Ah … I see that I am not alone in having looked to him in such a manner. You, too, desired him for a time. But you have since given your loyalty and regard … elsewhere.’

She paused there, her expression darkening, her mouth clenched. Sensing the force of this being’s disapproval, Shimmer wondered then how anyone could withstand it. Even Skinner.

‘I gave of myself,’ Ardata continued. ‘But he did not. I chose poorly.’ She plucked at her robes to adjust them. ‘Such has always been my curse.’ She was quiet again for a time, peering aside as if listening to another voice. ‘I understand now that he is not the one. That it had been K’azz, really, all along that I detected in him.’ She shifted to face Shimmer more directly. ‘So this brings us to my question. I am going to make the same offer to your commander. And my question is — what will you do?’

Shimmer was quite taken aback. If this being truly could plumb the depths of her mind or heart then surely she had no need for any such questioning. She was also quite offended. What business was it of Ardata’s? Anything between her and K’azz was their concern, not hers. Just as what might transpire between K’azz and Ardata was not for her to approve or disapprove.

A sudden panic made her dizzy as the suspicion dawned that this being before her possessed no grasp whatsoever of the human heart. She might see what lay within, but as to how the heart worked, and why … she was completely at sea. Utterly alien and utterly inhuman. K’azz’s earlier warnings regarding her sounded again and she understood. No common points of reference whatsoever. How we must frustrate her. Our actions and choices must be completely inexplicable to her. Even if she could read our thoughts — if she could — she must have no understanding of what drives those thoughts or actions.

Shimmer almost felt sorry for her. Almost. She cleared her constricted throat as she suddenly found it very difficult to speak. ‘That would be his choice, of course. I would have no say in the matter and would abide by his decision.’

‘Really?’ Ardata peered at her as if she were some sort of curious insect. Which, it occurred to Shimmer, humans may very well be to her.

The Queen of Witches was nodding to herself, gazing off as if distracted. ‘We shall see,’ she said. ‘I must think on this for a time.’ She waved to the girl where she sat among the trees nearby. ‘In the meantime Lek here will show you back to your companions.’

Shimmer bowed. ‘Until then.’

But Ardata appeared to have already dismissed her, or shifted her attention entirely away. Her deep night-black eyes were looking through her again as if she did not exist. Shimmer was quite startled when the child took her hand. ‘This way.’

‘Thank you, Lek.’

Shimmer adjusted her pace to the girl’s slow shuffle. She examined her composed expression, the shaved scalp and single long braid falling to one shoulder. ‘You are from a village nearby?’ she asked.

‘There are no villages nearby. Once there were many, but a great sickness came and almost no one was left. There was no one to mind the canals or reservoirs, to harvest the crops, or to repair the structures. Everyone went their own way. And the jungle came.’

‘I see. I’m sorry, Lek.’

‘Why? It is natural. It has happened before and shall happen again. Or ought to.’ She peered up at her, very serious. ‘You cannot hold back time for ever. Can you?’

Shimmer frowned. What an odd sentiment. Yet another oblique message for her? ‘I suppose not,’ she agreed.

The child beamed. ‘I am glad you agree.’ She peered up again, shyly. ‘You are a soldier. You must be very brave.’

Shimmer took in the outline of the girl’s twisted legs beneath her robes, her covered oddly shaped feet. Yet here she is leading me, a stranger, unselfconscious. ‘As are you, Lek.’

The girl blushed furiously and lowered her gaze as if embarrassed. She stopped then, pointing. ‘Your friends are over there.’

But Shimmer hardly heard her for she was staring at the girl’s naked arm where the robes had fallen away. It was misshapen, swollen, the flesh grey and pebbled. Lek caught her gaze, whipped her arm away, turned, and ran as fast as she could in her clumsy walk.

‘Lek! Wait! Please don’t-’

But she would not stop and disappeared among the trees.

Damn! Gods, what a fool I am! Oh, Lek. I am so sorry … Gods, I pray I will meet you again. Then I’ll hold you and not let you run away again.

She walked on, thinking perilous indeed is Jakal Viharn and conversing with Ardata. Perilous in so many ways …

* * *

For several days Hanu carried her. He assured her it was not trying for him at all. She tested the leg by walking longer and longer distances. It was healing; that Thaumaturg, Pon-lor, certainly did know his trade. This day they came to a rise, a hillock or mound. Giant tualangs crowned it and a river curled round three of its sides. Saeng wondered whether it was the same river they’d crossed days ago. Her spirits sank as she came to suspect that perhaps it was. One particular tree offered excellent purchase for climbing and she had Hanu lift her up so that she could try to have a look about. She ascended the mostly naked trunk to quite a height until she had a vista over the surrounding canopy. Here a sight almost made her cry. It was not the league after league of undifferentiated verdant emerald jungle that surrounded them on all sides. No, it was to the west. There, still within sight, rose the dark steep teeth of the Gangrek Mounts.

She threw herself down from hold to hold in a recklessness of despair. She almost fell the last short distance but Hanu steadied her foot. She climbed down a few more knots and depressions in the bark until he took her weight and lowered her. She kicked the tree with her bad leg then danced, cursing and fuming.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

She pointed mutely to the west, almost spluttering her disbelief. ‘We’ve come hardly any distance at all! We’ve just been meandering — directionless! Lost!’ Pon-lor’s warnings came to her then and she bit her lip. Damn the man. Yet he would have had her turn round!

She felt tears stinging in her eyes and she turned away. What were they to do? They were out of food, lost, and she was still without any hope of finding this ‘Great Temple’. She was a complete failure! Her throat burned as bile rose again — she’d been heaving of late, and suffering from the runs. She could keep little down and what she did manage to choke down went right through her. She knew it was their bizarre diet — the few odd things she knew to be safe to consume — but she wouldn’t risk poisoning herself with anything strange.

That was the worst of her maladies, of course. It was hardly worth dwelling upon the huge patches of angry itching rash, the swellings, the weeping infected cuts, and the countless bites from being eaten alive every night. Among all this, the infestation of maggots in a sore on her foot barely even registered.

She was weakening. They both knew it. She hadn’t the strength to fend off any new illness that might take her at any time. A raging infection, the chills, water fever — the list was endless. Then it would be the end. There was nothing Hanu could do.

Perhaps it would have been better if she had remained …

No! She struck a fist to the tree. I have my mission! I must succeed.

The faces of the drowned girls wavered in her blurring vision: you must help us, they had pleaded of her. Pleaded!

‘Which way?’ Hanu asked, ever practical.

Saeng started down the hillock. ‘It doesn’t matter any more.’

She walked among the brush for a time until she stumbled through hanging lianas, leaving a shower of fallen blossoms carpeting the dead leaves. They would disappear quickly, she knew, as the many insects would converge to consume them. As they shall me soon.

A rigid grip righted her. ‘You are delirious,’ a voice spoke in her thoughts. Arms lifted her then cradled her. She smelled something then: a scent of home. Woodsmoke. She reached for it. Rice steaming on the fire. Fish over the open flames. The arched branches of the high canopy passed her vision as she seemed to float effortlessly. She closed her eyes.

The scent of food woke her. A palm frond roof above. Reed walls. Movement, and an old woman appeared. She held out her hand; something was smeared there. Saeng opened her mouth and the woman pressed her fingers within. Saeng swallowed. She did this many times until sleep took her once more.

She awoke once again and this time she could raise herself on her elbows. She was in a village. A village of Himatan yet not a ghost one. Living and breathing. She was alone in the hut; the old woman was gone. People crossed the open commons the hut faced: they were mostly naked, in loin wraps only. Some were painted in smears of coloured mud, male and female; others not. One woman noticed that she was awake and ran off. Moments later an old man thrust his face into the hut. He was painted, but garishly so, with feathers and necklaces of objects she took to be talismans: teeth, bits of metal, chipped stones, talons and a dried paw.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘Awake for certain,’ he remarked. ‘Have you the strength to converse?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Even better.’

‘What happened?’

He shrugged in a rattle of bones and claws. ‘You were ill with fever. Close to death. Your stone servant delivered you to us.’

Saeng sat up straighter. ‘Where is he — the stone servant?’

The old man gestured to the grounds. ‘He stands in the village, unmoving. No doubt he awaits your command.’

Of course. ‘Hanu? Can you hear me?’

‘Saeng! Shall I come?’

‘No. I’m all right — thanks to you. How are you?’

‘Sufficient.’

‘You’ve eaten?’

‘Yes. These villagers set out offerings and I ate some. This amused them no end.’

‘All right. Well … I’m tired still.’

‘Rest.’

‘Thank you, Hanu. Thank you for everything.’

‘It was nothing.’

Saeng sat back, relaxing. The old man had watched her throughout. ‘You communicated with your servant?’ he asked.

Saeng saw no reason to explain things; she just nodded.

‘Good. I know these things, you see. I am a great magus.’ He rattled the fetishes about his neck. ‘I command the shades of the dead. I am beloved of Ardata herself.’

‘Is that so.’

‘Oh yes. No doubt this is why your servant brought you to me.’

‘Well, thank you for healing me.’

‘Certainly. My wives are great healers. But enough of that for now. Rest, heal. We shall talk again.’ He disappeared in a clanking and clatter of the engraved stones hung from his neck.

Saeng lay back to regard the roof once more. Mocking gods … how much time have I wasted? Am I too late? But no — we would not even be here if I was too late. Isn’t that so? It made her head hurt to think of it. She shut her eyes to sleep again.

The next day she felt strong enough to try to get up. The old women who had been tending her rushed to her aid. The magus’s wives, she supposed. And thinking of that — it was they who healed her, not him. She limped out to the central commons to see Hanu there, waiting.

He was sitting cross-legged, meditating perhaps. Before him lay clay bowls of oil, burning incense sticks, and bowls and saucers of rice, stewed vegetables and dried meat.

‘You seem to have made an impression,’ she said, coming up.

‘These are propitiations intended to appease my anger, apparently.’

‘Oh? Your anger? They’re afraid of you?’

He hesitated for a time, said, ‘You are recovering?’

‘Yes. My leg is well. Weak and painful, but it can support me.’ She studied him. His inlay mosaic of bright stones shone dazzlingly in the light. Much of the light was a deep emerald and she glanced up to see the Visitor hanging there fully visible in the day. So close! We may have no time! ‘What happened, Hanu? Did you have to twist their arms?’

‘No, Saeng. It’s that mage, or theurgist, or whatever he is. He claims he stopped me from destroying the village. They’re all terrified of him here.’

Saeng scanned the collection of ramshackle huts for some sign of the man. ‘I see … Well, not our problem. I’ll rest one more day and then we’ll go. All right?’

‘Fine.’

She motioned to the offerings. ‘Wrap up the food. We’ll take it with us.’

‘I have been.’ He lifted their one remaining shoulder bag.

‘Thank you, Hanu.’ She hobbled back to her hut.

She sat in the shade at the open entrance. Here, the women, some young, some old, were readying packets of food. Saeng watched for a time, then asked, ‘Are those offerings as well?’

The youngest snapped a look to her and Saeng was surprised to see anger and sour resentment in her eyes. ‘You could say that,’ she said, her voice tight. ‘These go to wild men in the woods. We feed them so that they will not kill our men or rape us. Chinawa made this deal.’

‘Chinawa? Your … husband?’

‘Yes. They killed many men and women but he put a stop to it. All we must do is feed them. And now-’ She stopped herself, lowered her gaze.

‘And now you must feed us as well,’ Saeng finished for her. The young woman merely hunched, lowering her head even further. ‘And there is not enough.’

‘There is none!’ she yelled, glaring, tears in her eyes.

The oldest of the women hissed her disapproval. ‘Would you have them burn down our homes? Eat us? Stop your complaining, child.’

Not my problem. If the Visitor should fall everyone will be dead. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and went to lie down.

That night the mage, Chinawa, came to her. She awoke suddenly from a troubled sleep to find him sitting next to the rattan bedding she lay upon. A single guttering oil lamp cast a weak amber glow in the hut. His eyes were bright in the dark. She sat up and adjusted her frayed skirt and shirt as best she could. ‘What do you want?’

‘Gratitude, for one thing. Were it not for me you would be dead.’

‘I noticed it was the women who healed me — not you.’

The eyes sharpened. ‘On my orders.’

‘They would have acted without your orders, I’m sure.’

The man’s expression hardened into a deep scowl. ‘Do not play haughty with me, young woman. Cooperate and no one will get hurt. I will take you as my wife and with your stone servant I will sweep the wild men from the jungle. After that no one will challenge my rule here.’

Saeng snorted her disbelief. ‘And why should I do that?’

‘Because if you refuse, or use your stone servant to kill me, the wild men will descend upon the village and kill everyone. All the children will have their skulls cracked open against rocks. The women will be raped then stabbed to death. The men will be hunted down and eviscerated and left for the dogs to eat. Do you want these crimes upon your head?’

And if I do not find the Great Temple and prevent the summoning of the Visitor everyone shall die. Do I want that upon my head?

She sensed, then, one of the Nak-ta, the restless dead of the region, pressing to make herself heard. She presumed that Chinawa had summoned the spirit to scare her into cooperating. Yet the shades of the dead held no terror for her and so she allowed the small presence to come forward.

The mage did not react as she thought he would. He became quiet and still. He scanned the hut, his eyes growing huge. ‘What is that?’

Saeng stared at the man, surprised. ‘What is what?’

‘That noise!’

Saeng listened and after a time she heard it: faint weeping, as of a young disconsolate girl. She saw her as well and motioned to the opening where a pale wavering shade stood just outside. The weak rain fell through her shape.

Chinawa leaped to his feet, gaping. ‘Noor! A ghost!’ And he jumped out into the rain, his necklaces of stones and claws clattering and rattling, to disappear into the dark.

Saeng watched him go, completely stunned. By the false gods … A fake. A damned fake. Then she laughed so hard she hurt her side and had to wipe tears from her eyes. Throughout, the shade, Noor, continued to weep. After her amusement had subsided Saeng turned to her. She appeared a harmless enough Nak-ta, but Saeng raised her protections in any case, as one could never be certain of the dead.

‘Noor, is it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why are you weeping?’

‘Because I am dead.’

Saeng bit back a snarled reply. She took a calming breath. Her fault; it had been too long. ‘So, tell me, Noor. How did you die?’

‘Chinawa killed me.’

Saeng jerked her surprise, hurting her leg. Wincing, she rubbed it. ‘Chinawa slew you? Why?’

‘So that he could blame it on the wild men in the jungle.’

Ah. All is becoming clear.

‘Then there are no wild men.’

‘Yes, there are. I could see them. They were slipping close to death themselves. Sick, hungry and weak.’

‘Then they have killed no one?’

‘Not of this village.’

‘I see. Thank you, Noor. Bless you for your help. Rest. Weep no more.’

The shade of the girl dropped her hands from her face. Saeng thought she must have been pretty. She gave a deep naive curtsy. ‘My thanks. The blessing of the High Priestess is an honour.’ She began to fade away. ‘I go now, released. Thank you.’

Saeng jerked upright. ‘Wait! What do you mean? Come back.’ Shit! High Priestess? What did she mean by that? She fell backwards, draped an arm across her eyes. Gods! High Priestess? And I can’t even find the damned Great Temple!

By the next morning she knew what she would do. The wives, young and old, offered a large first meal of rice, stewed vegetable roots, and the last of the meat from a trapped wild pig. She took only the rice, and this she kept in its broad leaf wrapping. She went out to get Hanu; it was time to go.

She still limped, and by the time she reached Hanu Chinawa had appeared from wherever it was he slunk about. The old man was glowering at her, his gaze flicking from her to Hanu. ‘What do you think you are doing?’ he hissed.

‘We are going.’

‘No, you are not.’ He crept closer, lowering his voice: ‘If you go I’ll bring the wild men in here and they will kill everyone! Do you want that?’

‘No.’

‘Shall I strangle him?’ Hanu asked. She signed for him to wait.

She peered about, saw faces peering from huts, people standing about pretending to work, but watching. ‘Listen to me!’ she called loudly. ‘When I lay near death I spoke with the shades of the jungle. They came to me because I command this stone servant.’

Chinawa gaped at her, then eyed the watching villagers.

She raised her arms. ‘Yes, I have communed with the dead and I commanded them not to follow Chinawa’s orders. They will no longer listen to him!’

The old man backed away. He waved his arms frantically. ‘Oh! I see it now!’ he bellowed as if to shout her down. ‘This one is a sorceress! Begone, you seductress! I order you to go now! Leave us good people in peace!’

Oh, for the love of … I can’t believe this! ‘Hanu — grab this wretch.’

Hanu lunged forward. He grasped a fistful of the hanging amulets and talismans and lifted the man from his feet to hang kicking. He squawked and yanked at the countless laces of leather and spun fibres.

‘We go now of our choosing!’ Saeng called. ‘As for the wild men — they are no threat. I have seen them. They are just lost and starving refugees. They no doubt fear you more than you fear them!’

She gestured for Hanu to drop the man. He did so, retaining a handful of broken laces and charms that he threw down upon him. One of the objects caught Saeng’s eye: a stone disc inscribed with the many-pointed star, a sign of the old cult of the Sun. She picked it up while the old man scrambled to his feet. ‘Where did you get this?’ she demanded.

He eyed her while clearly considering saying nothing. Then he shrugged, gesturing vaguely. ‘From one of the old ruins. A place of great power-’

‘Stop pretending to be a warlock, or whatever it is. You are no practitioner.’

He glared his enraged impotent hatred. ‘I sensed it,’ he finally ground out. ‘Anyone would. Terrible things have been done there.’

‘How do I get there? Tell me the way.’

He gaped, astonished, then laughed. ‘You would travel there? By all means, do so. Go to your deaths.’

She raised a hand to Hanu. ‘Perhaps you should lead us …’

The man hunched, obviously terrified. ‘There is no need. Follow the lines of power.’

‘Lines? What lines?’

‘The channels. Lines. Carved in the ground! They lead to the centre. The loci.’

Saeng stared without seeing the cringing man. Lines! What a fool I’ve been. All this time clambering over mounds and channels, searching for tall structures, when I should have been looking down. They lead to the temple. Converge there. Lines of power.

She nodded to Hanu then waved her dismissal of Chinawa. ‘Very well. For that I shall allow you to live. But if I hear through the shades of the dead that you have done any wrong I will curse you to eternal pain. Do you understand?’ He merely stared, as if remorse or guilt was something utterly beyond him. Saeng pointed to the circle of villagers that had gathered. ‘And if I were you I would run before these people tore me to pieces.’

He jerked and hunched even more, turning this way and that.

Saeng started off, ignoring him. She studied the flat stone disc in her hand. Hanu followed.

When they entered the jungle Hanu called to her: ‘Saeng …’

‘Yes?’

‘We should’ve killed him.’

She sighed. ‘I know … I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Besides, if those people can’t organize themselves enough to get rid of him, then they deserve him.’

* * *

Osserc did not think himself a vain man. One trait he did pride himself upon was his patience. He thought himself far more forbearing than the run of most. However, even his stone-like endurance was nearing its end. He felt it fraying; less like stone than the cheapest calico. And he did not know what would happen when it finally tore.

All was as usual: Gothos remained seated opposite, immobile. His gnarled hands remained poised upon the table, long yellowed nails dug into the wood, as if ready should Osserc suddenly snap and take a swing at him. The monkey creature came and went on its constant housecleaning errands, dusting, sweeping and knocking down cobwebs. Yet for all its efforts — sometimes striking Osserc in the back of his head with its broom — the dust and grime only seemed to mount ever deeper.

Outside, through the milky opaque windowpane, light and dark came and went. However, with each cycle of brightening and adumbration, Osserc believed he was coming to discern a disturbing pattern. The wavering jade glow shafting from above was brightening significantly.

Eventually, when the darkness through the patinated and rippled glass was at its deepest, he rose and crossed to the window. Squinting, he could make out the Visitor glowing above and he was shocked by how large it loomed.

He turned to regard Gothos. ‘I have never seen one come this close before.’

‘One did, before,’ came a low breathless observation from among the hanging strings of filthy hair.

‘One has? Before? You mean …’ Osserc’s gaze snapped up to the hanging threat. ‘You cannot mean to suggest that they would actually do it again.’

‘I do.’

‘That would be utter madness. They learned that from the first, surely.’

Gothos snorted his scorn as only a Jaghut could. ‘Learned?’ he scoffed.

‘Someone should do something.’

‘I suppose someone ought,’ Gothos sighed. ‘But in any case you will be safe hiding in here.’

‘Hiding? I am not hiding.’

‘No? Then you are doing a very good imitation of it.’

Rage clawed up Osserc’s chest, almost choking him, and his gaze darkened. All that leashed it was the knowledge that this Jaghut was merely doing his job in goading and mocking him. Breathing heavily, he growled through clenched teeth: ‘And you are doing a very good job of being a prick, Gothos.’

The Jaghut inclined his head in a false bow.

Osserc sat once again. He crossed his arms. ‘So we just sit here while fools undo all that we have striven to build and protect.’

‘Build? I have striven to build nothing. Quite the opposite, in fact.’

Osserc shook his head in remonstration. ‘Do not dissemble. You strove as mightily as any. It was just that your efforts were not in stone or iron. They resided in another field entirely. The battlefield of ideas and the mind.’

The Jaghut inclined his head once more.

Yet instead of a sense of having won a point, Osserc could not shake the feeling that he had in fact once more been manoeuvred to where the Jaghut wanted him. Once more dwelling upon ideas and the mind.

The Nacht came shambling into the room again. This time he dragged a long pole at the end of which had been tied a dirty rag. The creature made a great show of lifting the pole to brush the cobwebs from the murky corners of the ceiling. Dust drifted down in clouds upon Osserc and Gothos. Neither moved throughout, though Osserc did grind his teeth.

He decided a retreat and reordering was called for. What he knew from Gothos’ rebounding of questions with questions was that the Azath were insisting that the answer must come from within. An obvious path in retrospect, given that the Azath themselves were by definition notoriously inward. It made sense that they would applaud such an approach. That aside, this did not necessarily undermine any potential insight. Any such revelation would be his to accept or dismiss.

Insights from self-reflection were beyond the capability of many — perhaps himself included. Rationalization, denial, self-justification, delusion, all made it nearly impossible for any true insight to penetrate into the depths of one’s being. And Osserc was ruthless enough in his thinking not to consider himself above such equivocations. Therefore, as he had seen in his reflections, one measure of progress was discomfort and pain.

If this were the case then the Azath were demanding a high price indeed.

It struck him that all this hinged upon one plain and simple thing. He faced a choice: whether to remain or to step out. No one forbade either option. Gothos had made this clear — he was no gatekeeper. The choice was entirely Osserc’s. Any choice represented a future action. Therefore, the Azath were more concerned with his future than with his past. The choice represented an acceptance of that future.

Osserc’s unfocused gaze drifted down to settle upon the obscured features of the Jaghut opposite. ‘I am being asked to face something I find personally distasteful. I never accepted the mythopoeia I see accreting around the Liosan. It all means nothing to me.’

‘Whether it means anything to you in fact means nothing.’ Gothos sounded particularly pleased in saying that. ‘I’m sorry, but I suspect it is all very much larger than you.’ He sounded in no way apologetic at all.

Osserc found himself gritting his teeth once again. ‘It would seem that stepping outside would be an endorsement of a future I have no interest in, and do not support.’

The Jaghut revealed his first hint of temper as his nails gouged even further into the slats of the table and he hung his head. ‘It is obvious even to me that nothing at all is being asked of you!’ He raised his head and flattened his hands upon the table. ‘Think of it more as an opportunity to guide and to shape.’

‘But what if-’

Gothos snapped up a finger for silence. ‘No.’

‘You really cannot expect me to relinquish all control!’

Something changed in the poise of the Jaghut. A wide predatory smile now rose behind the ropy curtain of hair. His tusks caught the emerald glow from outside. Osserc fought the uncomfortable sensation of having fallen into a carefully prepared trap. ‘Osserc,’ Gothos began, his voice now silken, ‘how can you relinquish that which you never possessed in the first place?’