Blood and Bone

CHAPTER XIV

Golan woke from a troubling dream in which he heard distant voices chanting through darkness. That alone was nothing to be alarmed about; dreams, his training taught him, were merely random images swirling about the mind, not dire portents or prophecies. No such ignorant superstitions for the Thaumaturgs. Yet this chanting had carried whispered echoes of ancient compellings and forbidden phrasings. It called to mind references to a ritual said to have been completed only once — the greatest, and most perilous, of all their order’s invocations. One he and his fellow students discussed only in the most muted and guarded terms.

It was no wonder, he reflected, that his mind should choose to throw up such an echo now. He faced a reality of slow grinding annihilation every day.

He opened his eyes to the thin frayed awning spread above him, dripping with the passing rain. He sat up and pulled his sweat-soaked shirt from his chest. His bare arms glistened and bore countless red swellings of bites. His yakshaka guards stood in a broad circle about him. It seemed to him that the night was as quiet as it ever could get; the usual hunting calls shocked everyone — each morning one or two of his remaining force would always be missing. The constant buzzing of the cicadas also grated on nerves already frayed beyond endurance. The rush of passing bats made him glance to the trees; he quite disliked bats. There was also the constant moaning and groaning of the sick in camp. ‘The sick’, in point of fact, now described nearly all of the remaining army.

Myself included, Golan reflected. He’d come down with the chills. The fever of shuddering cold spells followed by prostrating sweats. It was quite debilitating, and it was only through his Thaumaturg training that he was able to continue to function.

He paused then, for he heard something more: the murmuring that had haunted his dreams had not stopped. Indeed, he heard it even more clearly now. A true chill took him suddenly — one far more profound than his fever. He crossed to one of his last remaining pieces of luggage: an iron chest that, if lost, would necessitate his death in penance. Frost limned it now. Even in the depths of this heated abyss frost feathered its sides. A silver light escaped from the crack of its lid. He reached for it but paused, reconsidering. His hands were close enough to feel the cold breath wafting from it.

The whispered chanting spoke to him then and he knew. He knew. He scrambled to the centre of the clearing his awning occupied. Yakshaka turned their armoured heads to peer at him. He scanned the clearing night sky. There, through gaps in the canopy, the Visitor glowed behind the thinnest ribbon of cloud. The scarf drifted on as he waited, scarcely able to breathe. What was revealed was a swollen gibbous jade banner so gravid Golan thought it about to break upon the treetops.

To think I haven’t been paying attention, he wondered. Not at all.

What could possibly drive them to … No matter. He wiped a hand down his face, peered about frantically. ‘Second!’ he called, his voice rather high. ‘Mister Waris! You are needed!’

The man appeared, a loose shirt that he’d obviously just thrown on hanging down over his trousers. I chose well, Golan decided. ‘Break camp, Second,’ he told him. ‘We must continue pressing east, quickly now.’

The man’s slit gaze revealed nothing. Golan would have preferred some sort of reaction. Even the suggestion that he was losing his mind. But whatever doubts or reservations the man might have harboured he continued to keep them to himself and he bowed, still silent. Golan waved him away. ‘Begin at once.’

The man bowed again and jogged off.

A new figure pushed its way through the wall of yakshaka guards, this one gangly and crooked of neck, his bulging pouch of papers at his side. How does he do that? Golan wondered. Have to have a word with my guards.

‘Troubled dreams, Commander?’ Principal Scribe Thorn asked.

‘In a sense, Principal Scribe. You are here now for what reason? Other than to trouble me with questions?’

Thorn pulled his quill from behind his blackened ear. ‘Why, to record your orders of course!’

‘Like history, you are too late, Scribe. However, just for you, I shall recreate the scene.’ He leaned closer, peered at the sheet of pressed fibre paper the scribe held ready on a wooden pallet, and said, ‘March east.’

Principal Scribe Thorn scratched at the sheet. He mouthed aloud as he wrote: ‘Glorious Leader Golan allows no respite in his remorseless advance upon the enemy.’

‘You capture it eerily.’

‘My lord is too kind.’

‘Not at all.’ Golan gestured aside. ‘Now, if you do not mind. We are breaking camp.’

‘The soldiers will consider it a privilege to set aside sleep to return to the march, Commander. No doubt the sick will be inspired to attempt to stand.’

Golan, who had been moving off, halted to return to the man. Mustn’t show the bastard that he can reach me. He drew a patient breath. ‘No doubt. That is why I shall order the yakshaka to carry the worst — to spare them the effort.’

The Principal Scribe’s fist-sized Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He blinked his bulging rheumy eyes, then quickly lowered them to his sheet. He wrote, mouthing, ‘So eager to crush the enemy is Golan the Great that he orders his soldiers carried into battle!’

Golan studied the man — who bowed obsequiously. ‘Such accuracy in recording is uncanny, Principal Scribe. Future scholars shall hang on every word. I’m certain of it.’

Thorn stooped again, even lower. Like a buzzard … and I am the corpse.

* * *

His last mount had fallen under Jatal two days before. He and Scarza were descending out of the Gangrek Mounts, the Dragon’s Teeth, when the abused, exhausted animal pitched forward, tumbling his rider over his neck to slew down the grade of loose gravel and rock. Jatal received several bruises and a numbed arm, but the horse broke a leg and so they killed it. He was all for moving on immediately. But Scarza had insisted on the time to butcher a portion of the animal for meat and so it was some while before they set off, the half-Trell carrying a haunch over his shoulder. The giant had shown great foresight in that. The meat saw them through the next few days, until it turned, and they had to throw the remainder away.

They were gaining upon the Warleader — at least so Scarza insisted. Jatal had no idea. He couldn’t track here in this abyssal green maze. The half-Trell led him to one old abandoned fire site. It could have belonged to anyone as far as he could tell, but Scarza insisted he had been here.

Jatal merely shrugged. ‘Let us move on.’

Scarza nodded, eyeing him. ‘Yes — for a time. Yet he is keeping a fire. We should also.’

‘It may alert him,’ Jatal objected. He turned away and pushed through the surrounding broad-leafed plants.

Scarza followed. ‘There are more things in this pit than just he.’

‘They do not concern me.’

‘They do me. I for one do not intend to be torn to pieces before I can get my hands on him.’

Jatal glanced back. ‘Do as you choose.’

When evening came Scarza called a halt. In the gloom he offered Jatal a wink. ‘We do not want to fall down a hole, now do we? Like back in those Gangreks. That was a close call.’

‘We’ve left the sinkholes behind.’

‘Quicksand, then. Or a boggy morass.’

Jatal said nothing — there was nothing to say as far as he was concerned.

Scarza peered about, then gestured to one side. ‘Under cover of that tree, I think. It should keep the rain off. I’ll build a small fire.’

Jatal sat. When the fire was going, Scarza let go a great breath and sat back. He offered a fruit. ‘Try that. I think it’s edible. Looks familiar.’

Jatal took a bite.

‘How is it?’

‘I’m not dead.’

‘Ah! In that case I’ll try one.’ And he popped a fruit into his mouth. He watched Jatal eating and nodded approvingly. ‘Had you heard that the Moon’s Spawn has fallen?’

‘We heard something of that.’

‘Yes. They say it has.’ He nodded again, scanning the overcast sky. ‘Man could make a fortune sifting through that wreckage. Imagine. I was thinking … after this … I would head over that way. What say you?’

Over the fruit, Jatal eyed him, blinking. There was no ‘after this’ for him. He would join Andanii. If her spirit was as fierce in death as it had been in life, then he knew she’d be waiting for him. He hoped she would forgive him for the wait.

Scarza was quiet for a time, watching him. Then he cleared his throat and glanced away. He studied the sky, and after a while he frowned. ‘Tell me, Adwami scholar, have you ever seen one of these passing Visitors grow so large before?’

Jatal glanced up briefly. The broad streaming head of the Banner did loom monstrously bloated behind the cloud cover. Its emerald glow was now the murky olive of deep water. ‘I have only seen one before.’ He shrugged.

‘Well, I have seen many, my friend. And I swear, in all my years, I have never seen one come this close.’

‘What of it?’

‘Well … the legends. The stories. That old lay — how was it? Oh yes, “The Fall of the Shattered God”.’

‘And?’

Scarza waved a thick arm. ‘Well, I for one would not wish to be beneath it!’

‘If it falls, it falls. There is nothing we can do about it.’

‘True. But perhaps it is meant for someone in particular … if you follow my reasoning.’

Jatal regarded him levelly for a time. He swallowed a mouthful of the underripe fruit. ‘Then I will hold him down myself.’

‘Now, lad. I do not think the lass would want-’

‘Andanii waits for me,’ Jatal cut in. His voice was flat but hard. ‘You do as you choose. I will continue on.’

Scarza blew out a long exhalation, rubbed a wide hand over his mop of hair. He shot another glance skyward, winced. Then he brightened, sitting up straighter. ‘Well … there is only one thing for it. We can always hope their aim is as good as the first time, hey?’ And he laughed in great loud guffaws.

Staring out at the jungle, Jatal did not even smile.

* * *

The first thing that gripped Mara was the terrifying cold. The next was the wet. She was kneeling in water so frigid a slush of ice washed about within it. She vomited into the water, then wrapped her arms about her soaked robes, and bellowed: ‘Red! For Burn’s sake do something!’

‘I’m on it!’ He sounded just as shocked and pained as she.

All about, Crimson Guard Disavowed straightened, groaning and cursing. Skinner had brought fifteen swords and all three mages.

They occupied the top of a bare rocky shoreline. A tower rose just inland. Water foamed and washed back and forth across the land, storm-driven, leaving layers of ice behind. Low clouds churned overhead so close she imagined she could touch them.

‘Where are we?’ she shouted to the priest over the screaming wind and the crash of breakers down the coast. The man merely cackled and laughed wildly. ‘The tower!’ he cried, pointing.

The water pulled back downhill round her. It carried bodies, some in blue woollen robes over mail, others in opalescent scaled breastplates, greaves and helms that gleamed like mother-of-pearl. Mara stared while they nudged past her in the flow.

‘Stormriders?’ she yelled to the priest as he scrambled by.

‘Matters not,’ the man laughed. Ahead, Skinner was already advancing on the tower. Disavowed formed ranks behind. He appeared to still be arguing with Shijel for one of his swords. Since he broke Black’s no one was willing to lend him theirs.

A Warren-fed warmth now stole over her. She recognized Red’s work. It blunted the worst of the strength-draining frigidity but hardly thawed her. She knew she wouldn’t have much time here before her fingers and toes froze.

‘Ware!’ a voice called from behind and she just had time to turn before a wall of webbed green came breaking over her. The mountain of water drove her off her knees and swept her up the slope. She knocked bodies with others, either living or dead, she had no idea. The waters stole all the sense of warmth she’d regained. She almost lost consciousness from the soul-penetrating cold stabbing her. She breached the surface and gasped for breath. Something slashed her side with stinging cold and she spun to see a Stormrider raising his jagged sword for another blow.

She reacted instantly, raising her Warren and thrusting all in one. The creature flew backwards to crack against the tower’s stone wall in a sickening crunch of shattering armour. She gestured again and all the waters swirling about her were driven back in a broad circle. A melee of Riders against Disavowed lay spread across the hillside. Enraged, she threw her arms out and all the Riders lurched backwards as if yanked. They tumbled and rolled to disappear into the churning moil of waters.

‘Mara’s with us!’ Shijel laughed, panting, and he waved his approval.

‘The tower, fools!’ the priest called from the open doorway.

Mara gestured everyone on. Slogging past, Jacinth pointed aside, and Mara saw Petal lying there. She laboured through mud brittle with ice and turned him over. Blood smeared the side of his head. He’d fallen or been driven against rocks. She felt at his neck — the flesh was bitter cold, but possessed a pulse.

‘Bring him,’ she ordered two Disavowed, Farese and Hist. They carried him up steps that were an ice-slick waterfall of pouring water. Within, the main floor was awash; foaming water was even rushing down stairways from the higher levels. Corpses of Stormriders and others in blue tabards over mailed armour lay about in the blood-streaked flow. Those in the blue tabards Mara now recognized as Korelri Chosen, Stormguards, guardians of the storied Wall. They were in the lands some named Korel.

Why would the priest bring them here during an attack by the Riders?

Skinner and Red were facing the bedraggled priest, who, though wearing only a ragged loincloth here amid the frigid waters, still jerked and hopped as urgently as before.

‘There is no way down,’ Red was telling Skinner.

The priest tore at his few remaining strands of hair. ‘I tell you — the way is down!’

Red jabbed a finger to his temple to indicate what he thought of the priest.

‘Another wave!’ Jacinth called from the entrance where the heavy iron doors hung warped and askew, blasted from their hinges.

‘Brace yourselves!’ Skinner bellowed.

Mara turned: Another wave this high?

The dressed granite stones beneath her feet juddered and shook at the approach of something immense. A landslide roaring tore the air. Jacinth backed away from the gaping entrance. ‘Burn protect us,’ she breathed, awed.

Mara glimpsed a solid wall of water choking the opening then something slammed her into a wall and held her there, crushed and pressed so hard that she could not draw breath — even if there were air to breathe. A terrible heart-stopped cold clawed at her. It pulled her strength and her life from her as water might douse a flame. Her slashed side stung as if burned.

The pressure relented and she fell from the wall to her hands and knees, coughing, gasping for air. Fighting surrounded her. She straightened, pushed aside her hair. Several Disavowed were down, run through by lethal ice-shards that stood from them like spears, hissing and steaming. Skinner had a Stormrider by the arm, and as Mara watched he lifted the entity and brought it down over his knee. A loud wet crack sounded and the creature spasmed. Skinner straightened, allowing the corpse to slide off his coat of mail to splash into the water that foamed about their knees.

New war shouts sounded and Korelri came charging down the stairs and from halls leading further back into the tower. They faced the Disavowed with spears levelled and broad shields raised. The shields held their sigil: a stylized tower or wall standing against swirling waters.

One of them pushed his way forward. He was old, his hair as white as snow, but he was still slim and straight. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

‘You’re welcome,’ Skinner answered.

The man glanced past them to the entrance and the overcast murk beyond where the surf boomed loud and echoing. ‘Well,’ he allowed, ‘our thanks — but we are holding.’ He studied them now, narrowly. ‘Where are you from?’

‘What matters that?’ Skinner answered. ‘We are come to your aid.’

‘You are not allowed-’

‘Another!’ a Stormguard called from up the stairs.

The man’s jaws worked as he swallowed all further argument or objections. ‘Very well,’ he snapped. To his men, he continued, ‘As before. Allow the surge to fade then counter-attack!’

The Chosen clashed their spears to the floor. ‘Aye, Marshal!’ They retreated to their posts.

Mara came to Skinner’s side. ‘We are weakening,’ she whispered. ‘We can’t endure much more of this.’

He nodded his understanding. He raised a hand in a sign: ambush.

The Disavowed eyed one another in silent understanding.

A wave was building; she could feel it in the pregnant charged atmosphere. A wind of displaced air preceded it: the howling came surging through the entrance, ruffled her hair and chilled her further, then went on its way up the stairs and through the tower rooms. The avalanche roar returned, surging, until, paradoxically, she could hear nothing at all. This time she would be ready: she raised her Warren and created a sphere of outward pressure about her. She concentrated upon it with all her might.

Darkness obscured the entrance: a murky olive green.

Here it comes!

A solid wall of icy water came exploding in. It struck the circumference of her protective sphere and could not penetrate. But the blow shocked her backwards into the wall once again, knocking the wind from her. Shapes moved past through the water and flowed up the stairs, glimmering a phosphorescent emerald and sapphire. One shape seemed to pause, wavering, before her. A lance shot through the wall of water. She flinched her head aside and it yanked on her hair as it slammed into the wall and burst into a thousand fragments of ice.

Snarling, her face slashed, she sent force to strike the shape and slam it spinning backwards.

The water churned, losing its forward urgency. It pulled now, escaping. Grateful, Mara eased her concentration; she didn’t think she could’ve lasted much longer.

The Korelri emerged again. They pushed back the last few remaining Riders, who fought to the end, silent, yielding nothing. An ages-old unrelenting enmity here, Mara knew. This war was the stuff of songs and epic poems all round the world.

When the last fell, the marshal approached Skinner. ‘Thank you for your aid, but we are holding. I must ask that you leave now during this lull.’

‘Your numbers appear to be much diminished.’ Skinner said. ‘I do not believe you will hold.’

‘That is our concern. We will defend to the end, in any case. You are an outsider. I ask again that you leave.’

Skinner’s scaled armour scraped and slithered as he held out his arms. ‘I understand. We will go. I just have one request.’

The marshal raised his pale white brows. ‘Oh? Yes?’

Skinner’s hand snapped out to clench the man’s throat. The Disavowed lunged forward, thrusting and slashing to push back his fellows. ‘Where is the shard!’ Skinner yelled.

A strong wind pushed against Mara’s back and she glanced behind. The light outside had dimmed to a near subsurface dark green. So soon? Oh, shit …

She was behind the melee line of Disavowed engaging Korelri defenders. The priest, she noted, was somehow still with them, hopping and waving his fists, appearing even more demented.

‘Wave!’ she called, and raised her Warren, bracing herself.

The water slammed her to a wall once more. Through the swirling webbed green she saw shapes writhing and thrusting in a chaotic struggle of all against all. She could not even be certain which shapes were which. A blade thrust through the wall of water, narrowly missing her. She moved to answer the threat but found that her hands were now numb clubs, the nails dark blue.

Gods! It’s almost too late!

When the water receded the Disavowed were the majority standing. They fell upon the remaining Korelri. Skinner rose to his feet, water pouring from him: he still held the marshal by the throat, but the man had been thrust through the back and Mara doubted he still lived.

Skinner shook him. ‘The shard!’

The old man just bared his blood-smeared teeth in defiance, and shook his head. Cursing, Skinner threw him aside. ‘Mara!’ he called.

She pushed forward through the swirling water. ‘Yes?’

Skinner pointed to the set and dressed stones of the floor. Mara sagged inwardly. ‘I am nearly spent,’ she gasped. Her words were jagged as she stuttered with cold.

‘Red!’ No answer. Skinner and Mara peered about. ‘Red?’

‘Aye,’ came a weak response. The man straightened. He cradled an arm gashed open. Blood streamed from his fingertips, darkening the water round him. ‘Make it quick,’ he said, smiling bleakly.

‘Warm Mara.’

The old man nodded. ‘Then I’ll have me a nap — if you don’t mind.’

‘Farese!’ Skinner called. ‘See to his arm.’

The small Talian swordsman jogged to Red. Mara waited, shivering uncontrollably, while the mage summoned his strange form of elder magic — a kind of animism still retained in some backward regions. Mara couldn’t understand the first of it; unlike the clarity of the Warrens, it seemed to lack logic or order. Farese knelt at Red’s side and tore strips from his ratty sodden blanket.

Welcome sensual warmth infused Mara, yet it came on too strongly and too quickly. She felt her flesh tingling with the onset of burning. Steam rose from her. She felt faint and dizzy.

‘Now!’ Skinner demanded.

She nodded, barely able to see. She focused her Warren and gathered her energy. She collected it, guarded it, allowed it to swell until she was on the verge of losing the control that kept it from consuming her flesh entirely.

‘Back off!’ she heard Skinner yelling, distantly, through a thundering roar in her ears.

She released the pent-up energies, sending them blasting down into the centre block of the floor. Rock shattered. The block shifted beneath her feet. She tottered forward but an arm encircled her waist, holding her. Skinner. Clattering rock resounded from beneath them. Several stone blocks had fallen away, revealing floored-over circular stone stairs.

The priest appeared from nowhere, cackling and waving his arms in triumph. He jumped and leaped his way down the steps. Skinner released Mara and rushed to follow. ‘Remain!’ he ordered, adding, ‘Hold them here …’ as he disappeared from sight.

Jacinth came to Mara, steadied her; the woman’s blazing mane of hair now hung bedraggled and lank about her shoulders. Ice rime feathered the red-stained leather scales of her armour. ‘I’ll hold the stairs,’ Mara told her.

The swordswoman nodded and glanced about at the remaining Disavowed — a mere eight. And of Petal there was no sign. Washed away, Mara imagined, feeling an unexpected pang of loss.

Another wave surged towards them. Mara readied herself. The avalanche of water hit the chamber and Mara fought to repel it. But an opening had been created, and she could not contain the pressure; the force pushed her aside like a cork and the course streamed past her to rush down the throat of the staircase. Almost immediately the waters round them swirled down to a mere wash about their knees and this too was sucked away down the stairs.

Damn. Skinner … I’m sorry.

A convulsion from below kicked the floor. Everything loose jumped, including all bodies, living and dead. Mara rammed her elbow into the floor, raising stars in her vision.

Stones came crashing down among them. Cracks tore the set blocks apart.

‘Out! Now!’ Jacinth bellowed.

The Disavowed all ran scrambling for the entrance. Mara descended the iced stairs down the front then stopped to look back. Further concussions shook the ground beneath her feet. Great cracks now climbed the walls of the tower.

Skinner! Come on!

The priest appeared. He came running and dodging from the entrance. Mara didn’t think that holding his hands above his head would really have helped him much, but he did make it out. She caught hold of one skinny blue-hued arm as he ran past. ‘What happened? Where’s Skinner!’

‘He has it,’ the priest growled, enraged. He pounded his chest and shouted, scattering spittle: ‘I should have the honour! It is mine!’

‘Your god’s, you mean,’ Mara answered and released him to totter onward.

Skinner … now would be good …

She scanned the water for any sign of a new wave. The sea raged, choked by clashing white-capped waves that broke in every direction. It is as though they are confused, unsure. Hurry, Skinner. We have a chance!

Farese pointed. ‘Someone!’ It was the wide black-robed figure of Petal emerging from among the broken boulders of the slope. Farese ran to help him.

Mara felt an unaccountable degree of relief. Now at least I still have someone to talk to.

‘Do you feel that?’ Jacinth called. ‘It is quiet.’

Mara felt for tremors: the ground was still but for the pounding of waves. The tower remained, though wide cracks climbed its sides. It also stood rather canted in its rise.

‘There!’ Shijel called, pointing.

Skinner was at the entrance. He came stepping over fallen blocks and he carried a large chest in both hands. The chest gleamed silver in the overcast half-light.

‘Open your Warren!’ Jacinth told the priest. ‘Now!’

Mara’s attention was drawn from Skinner as he descended the slope. She felt something tug at her awareness. Magery, on the far side of the tower. Someone familiar.

‘Someone comes!’ she shouted to everyone.

The priest opened a gate. The chaos roiling through it made Mara gag once more. It gave her a headache like a spike being pounded into her temple.

‘Go now,’ Jacinth ordered the Disavowed. ‘Go!’ They hurried through one after the other.

She shoved the priest but he would not move. ‘Not until I have it!’ he yelled.

‘Just send us all now!’ Mara shouted over the wind and crashing surf.

‘Someone must bring it,’ he answered, snarling his frustration.

‘Go!’ Mara told Jacinth. Furious, the lieutenant backed into the gate, glaring.

‘You, too,’ the priest told Mara. She ignored him.

Closer now, Skinner called out, ‘Go now, all of you …’ Mara edged back into the gate, slowly. The priest followed after her, also backing in. As Mara went she heard a bull-throated yell sound out, so loud it drowned all the noise of the roaring wind and the pounding combers: ‘Skinnnnerrr!’ it bellowed on and on.

She tried to return but it was too late. The gate had hold of her. She heard, or thought she heard, Skinner calling something, and then she was gone. The repulsive touch of chaos enmeshed her and her own absolute abhorrence made her push at it as if she could somehow keep it from touching her.

She fell out on to hard dry dirt, choking humidity, and the screeching of birds. Jacuruku. The land was not welcome, but its heat certainly was. She fought down her heaving empty stomach and watched, fascinated, while streamers of mist rose from her arms and blue-tinged hands. Never again would she complain about the heat. Never.

The priest emerged and moments later Skinner appeared. He still carried the large chest, which Mara saw now was indeed made of hammered silver. ‘Who was that?’ she demanded. ‘Someone shouted. Who was it?’

Skinner just tossed his wet hair and laughed. ‘Bars! Can you imagine? And Blues. They must have come for the shard.’ He hefted the chest. ‘Well … it is ours now.’

Blues? Really? Mara felt astonishment, but also relief. She was strong in D’riss, but his understanding of it was far more subtle, and deeper.

‘My god’s, you mean,’ the priest snarled. ‘Now open it and give it to me.’

Skinner set the chest down. The priest threw himself upon it, rubbed his hands over it. ‘How do you open it? Is there a catch? A latch?’

Mara flexed her hands; feeling was returning to them in a most painful wave of pins and needles.

‘I believe you open it like this,’ Skinner said, reaching down. And he clasped hold of the priest’s head and savagely twisted it. The snap of his neck made Mara jump.

The body fell aside. Mara’s gaze climbed to Skinner. Her amazement and horror must have shown on her face for he shrugged. ‘We have no more use for him. He has delivered to us a shard. Now we have a bargaining chip in all this.’

‘But you are King of Chains — what of that?’

He picked up the chest. ‘It too has served its purpose. Now it is no longer necessary either.’

‘But are you not … what of retribution?’

Skinner threw his head back and laughed again. ‘Retribution?’ He started walking. ‘That creature has far greater things to worry about.’ He raised his voice: ‘Shijel! Which way?’ The swordsman pointed. ‘Very good. Farese, help Red. Mara, can you help Petal?’

Mara took hold of the mage’s arm through his frigid sodden robes. ‘What happened to you?’

The big man touched a hand to his head, hissed his pain. ‘I almost drowned.’

Mara nearly laughed aloud. Yes, drowned. There were times when plodding literalness is somehow appropriate.

Later in the afternoon Petal was treading along in front of Mara, swinging from side to side with his elephant-like gait, when he suddenly stopped. Mara nearly ran into him. ‘What is it?’ she asked, rather annoyed.

He was peering up at the canopy. ‘Someone … some thing … watching.’

‘Tell Skinner.’

He twisted his hands together. ‘I may be wrong …’

She sighed her impatience, shouted, ‘Skinner!’

He glanced back from the fore. She raised a hand, signed: company.

He nodded, raised a hand to sign for a halt. Everyone crouched, hands going to weapons.

‘Where?’ Mara whispered to Petal.

The big man lifted his chin to one side. ‘Right over-’

Something came streaking down to hammer into Skinner and the two went careering off through the brush, rolling and crashing. Mara had a momentary glimpse of a shape that resembled a woman, yet not a woman, something half else.

Everyone set off in pursuit.

They found Skinner engaged in a tug of war with a woman smeared in dried mud and wearing only a loincloth. What was even more astonishing to Mara was that when she yanked upon the chest she pulled Skinner entirely off-balance. And she recognized the woman: she’d been trapped among the Dolmens of Tien the last time they saw her.

‘Let … go!’ she panted, snarling. ‘This one is mine.’

The Disavowed encircled the two, weapons out, but unsure whether to rush in. Skinner let go one hand and lashed out with a punch to the woman’s head that made Mara wince.

All that happened was that the woman stilled. Her eyes grew huge, like twin black pools, and she drew herself up as if insulted. ‘You dare … again!’ She raised a hand and backslapped Skinner across the face. The blow echoed through the trees and sent him tumbling. She raised the chest. ‘At last,’ she breathed.

‘Get her now!’ Jacinth shouted. Hist and Shijel closed.

The woman laughed and jumped up the trunk of a nearby tree. Mara stared, astounded, as she pulled herself up one-handed and leaped from limb to limb.

Next to her, Petal stroked his wide chin. ‘An impressive display,’ he murmured.

Jacinth helped Skinner to his feet. ‘Bring her down!’ he roared to Mara.

She nodded and let out a wary breath. Very well … but can we take her? She focused her Warren.

Far above in the upper canopy the woman laughed wildly and shook the chest. ‘Sister Envy!’ she shouted to the sky, ‘I am coming!’ And she leaped from her perch.

Mara flinched, but as the woman fell her shape transformed into something else, something sinuous and dark russet-red that flapped huge wings, driving Mara to cover her face from the dust. When she looked back the long writhing form was diminishing in the sky, forelimbs clenched round something small and gleaming.

‘Most impressive,’ Petal repeated. ‘Sister Spite. Envy, I think, is in for rather an unpleasant surprise.’

Skinner roared, enraged, and punched the tree, leaving a dent in the thick bark.

‘Now what?’ Mara murmured to Petal.

‘I am not certain. But I do believe that we still have to establish whether K’azz truly is here.’

At that name Skinner’s head snapped round. He marched to Petal and stared up at him; Skinner was one of the largest men Mara knew, but Petal was simply a giant both in girth and in height. After a moment, their commander nodded and crossed his arms. ‘That is for you, Petal.’

The big mage’s eyes slid to Mara. They held fear like twin cornered mice. Why the dread? Ah, of course … Ardata will be waiting.

* * *

The mound Saeng and Hanu kept to was broad enough to be dismissed as a mere natural undulation in the jungle floor. The canopy rose seamlessly from the forest of the surrounding lower tracts to top the higher ground just as densely. As she walked, Saeng wondered whether, from far enough away, an immense pattern, rather like a many-rayed star, might be visible in the rise and fall of the canopy height.

They followed the rise for two days, angling southeast. The way was not easy as the passage of centuries had not been kind to the earthwork; streams cut through it creating steep-sided gullies. In places it had been levelled entirely in broad swampy lowlands. But after continuing on, they found it once more as the land gently rose again.

Each night Saeng lay awake for some time beneath the cover of the densest trees while the inevitable rain poured down. She watched the olive-tinged clouds and the glowing Visitor, immense and ominous, glaring down upon them. Would it really come crashing into the earth? And if so, where? Right on top of them? She hardly believed the Thaumaturgs would call it down directly upon themselves. In which case, being next to them might be a very safe place to retreat after all. Not that it would matter. She imagined that such an impact would annihilate everything across the land in ferocious firestorms.

On the third day she glimpsed through gaps in the canopy some sort of tall rounded structure far ahead. Hanu paused and gestured. The land rose here; jumbled age-gnawed stone blocks might have once described a set of rising levels, or wide stairs. Jungle choked them now. A curtain of hanging and ground-crawling lianas draped the rise. Clinging orchid blossoms dazzled her with brilliant crimson, pink and white. Hanu pushed aside the hanging mats and led the way.

The ground appeared to level here to a wide plateau that stretched as far as she could see. Far off, perhaps at the centre, was a structure. They advanced, Hanu drawing his yataghan. After a time she realized they walked the remains of a concourse. Statues lined it, barely visible through the undergrowth. They appeared to depict monsters or daemons of some sort, all bowed or kneeling. Defeated enemies? Enslaved forces? It was all so long ago she had no idea what they might reference.

The concourse traced what might once have been a moat but was now just another stretch of wilderness, albeit wetter than its surroundings. It led to a wide arched gate in a wall of dressed cyclopean stones. The arch was strangely pointed in a style she did not recognize.

Here Hanu pulled her behind the cover of the nearest of the mature trees that had pushed their way through the laid stones ages ago. He motioned to the ground close to the gate. She could just make out deep cuts and prints in the loamy soil. A line of many wheeled wagons or carriages had entered before them.

The Thaumaturgs were already here.

A black despair of exhaustion pulled on her. After all this! She pressed her head to the tree trunk. She’d counted on getting here first to sabotage or wreck any possibility of the ritual, but they had lost too much time. Now the Circle was here and had already begun.

Hanu squeezed her shoulder and gestured that they should move. She shook her head. There was no point now. What could she possibly do against the entire Circle of Masters?

Hanu unceremoniously picked her up and marched off to the side, tracing the outer wall.

‘What is it?’

‘I do not know. We’re not alone out here. For some time it’s been bothering me. Perhaps we’re being followed.’

She covered her face to fight back tears. ‘Well — it’s all over anyway.’

‘Not yet.’

‘Hanu … You don’t understand …’

‘I know you shouldn’t give up before the battle is joined.’

‘It’s not that simple!’

He was jogging now, hunched, leaping tall snaking roots and fallen rotting tree trunks. They rounded the corner of the overgrown walls to find an exact replica of the side they’d quit. The structure, it appeared, was completely symmetrical in all directions. He set off again at a run. Saeng braced herself with an arm at his armoured neck.

They came to another gate, this one facing north. From the untrammelled ground it appeared that no one had come this way for a very long time. Hanu set her down. ‘I know we should at least reconnoitre,’ he sent, then he motioned for her to follow him at a distance, and edged forward towards the gate.

The interior was a series of narrow courts separated by walls and gates. Covered walks lined the walls. Carvings depicted a series of battles against inhuman forces, giants and half-humans such as those she’d met populating the jungle today. Saeng was reminded of the ancient legends of the God-King as a great conqueror who subdued the entire continent. It occurred to her that what she was looking at here was a record of human ascension. Perhaps they revered him because he had won them their lands.

Yet the earthworks, the mounds, all were so incredibly ancient. Did it all go back that far? The thought of such an immense gulf of time made her dizzy. Perhaps, she considered, people had been here already — just a different tribe or offshoot of humanity. Forebears painted as monsters in retrospect.

They were nearing something. She could feel it pressing against her like a driving wind coming out of a place where no wind should come. Her flesh prickled with the power being summoned, leashed and contained. All to compel a god.

Hanu returned and gestured her forward. She ran a hand along the damp chill stone inner wall of an arch as she went. Grit from the old stones came away against her palm. Crumbling away even as I touch it.

He motioned to one side along another covered walkway. They were near the centre structure, a tall narrow stupa-like tower, but Hanu was pointing down here. She edged around to see that the wall of the inner temple possessed a narrow gap, an opening leading down.

‘What do you think?’

She nodded. Yes, down. It felt right. Hanu went first and she hurried after. The stairway was so slim her shoulders brushed either wall, and the stone steps were so steep she had to take them one at a time. Below ground level the stones lining the way changed to a darker native rock and each block was much larger. These were also set exquisitely, without a hair’s gap between.

An older construction — one pre-dating the temple above. Of course! A sacred site retains its power. Newer faiths or creeds merely build atop the ruined old, each appropriating the older authority and presence. That thought gave her an idea, and suddenly all did not appear as hopeless as before.

As they descended, a flickering light grew ahead. Not daylight, which was fading behind them, but an argent and white surging that Saeng recognized as raw puissance. They emerged into a wide chamber built entirely of the cyclopean basaltic blocks. At its centre was a raised dais, or altar, carved from the same dark stone. Set within the stone lay a multi-rayed sun symbol that glowed as if formed of gold itself. It probably represented the immense league-spanning earthworks surrounding this structure, that perhaps even extended all the way across the continent. The Locus. The focal point of immense energies tapping the entire land.

Sizzling and crackling on the dais stood a pillar of that enormous might, drawn like an inverted waterfall up to the ceiling and through a tiny aperture, presumably to the chamber above where the Thaumaturgs, having summoned it, now strove to manipulate and control it.

Saeng stared, awestruck, her gaze shielded against the glare. How could anyone hope to contain such astounding power? No wonder they seemed unaware of her presence — they were quite preoccupied, enmeshed in a fight for their lives. She knew that even to approach such a cascade would blast her to ashes instantly; and the Circle above fought now to actually direct it.

She lowered her gaze to the dais. This was the key. It had originally been an altar sanctified to Light — the worship of the Sun and the Sky. The cult of which others had recognized her as High Priestess. She knew then what she had to do.

She merely had to claim it.

She turned to Hanu. The truth must have been in her eyes for he glanced from her to the dais. He waved a negative. ‘No! There must be another way. I will try to break it …’

‘This is how it must be,’ she sent to him.

‘No! There must-’ He broke off, spinning to the entrance.

Saeng turned and had a shocked single glimpse of a ragged figure, a ghost from the awful days just past: Myint herself, pale and haggard, her armour torn, her hair a gnarled mat. Insane glee blazed in her eyes as she launched herself from the steps of the entrance, her spear levelled at Hanu.

The keen weapon struck home. And with Myint’s entire weight falling behind the thrust the blade penetrated to emerge glistening with blood from Hanu’s back. He toppled to his side.

More figures followed. In scuttled Thet-mun, hunched, emaciated, dirt-smeared, his eyes huge as he stared about, terrified. And last came the one she somehow knew would be leading them still: Kenjak Ashevajak, the so-called Bandit Lord. He’d had most of the swagger kicked out of him, but he still carried a smirk that he now bestowed on her.

She ignored them all to run to Hanu’s side. She brushed her hands over him; she had no idea where to start, what to do. Blood ran from his wound and the sight horrified her.

‘Run,’ he sent to her.

Hands yanked her upright and spun her about to face Kenjak. He stepped up so close she could smell his stale sweat, see the dirt and grime blackening his pores. He stared at her as if he too could not believe that they had at last met again.

The smirk grew into a secretive smile and his gaze became almost tender. ‘I’ve been following you,’ he whispered, just audible over the roar of the energies filling the chamber.

Saeng felt her shoulders fall as the realization struck. Of course! The wild men of the woods. What a fool I’ve been! ‘Kenjak,’ she began, speaking very slowly, ‘you must listen to me. You mustn’t interfere here. This is very important.’

He waved for silence and the hands, Myint’s, tightened about her neck. He stepped up even closer, close enough to kiss her. ‘Oh, important,’ he said, mocking her delivery. ‘Well … I have something important to do as well.’ He raised a blade between their faces. ‘Something I’ve had to wait far too long to do.’

The hands were vices at her neck but she forced out, ‘Jak — I’m worth much more alive.’

‘Fuck that!’ he yelled spraying spittle in her face. ‘Fuck them all! I swore I’d have your head and I mean to collect.’ He pressed the blade’s razor edge under her chin.

The man is insane! Utterly transported with hatred. What can I do? There is nothing. Absolutely nothing.

The hands at her throat flew away. Gagging sounded behind her. Jak’s gaze shifted to over her shoulder and puzzlement creased his brow. ‘What …?’ He jerked back a step, knocking Saeng backwards into the side of the dais. Another figure now blocked the entrance and Saeng thought dazedly, Of course — why not?

It was the Thaumaturg, Pon-lor. He appeared even worse for wear than these ragged bandits. Saeng couldn’t even believe he was standing; dried caked blood covered his shoulder and side. The left side of his head was a crusted wound. One eye stared upwards but the other was fixed upon Jak. A smile that could only be described as ironic crooked one edge of the man’s mouth.

‘No …’ Jak breathed. ‘You are dead. You must be …’

The horrific figure mouthed something. His words were distorted, but Saeng understood despite the sizzling and crackling punishing her ears: ‘Perhaps I am. No matter.’

Something thumped to the ground and Saeng peered over to see Myint, her face contorted in terror and utterly bloodless, her own hands at her throat. Had he compelled that? Self-throttling? Or had she died fighting for breath?

Thet-mun appeared from behind the dais to throw himself at Pon-lor’s feet. ‘I am yours again!’ he pleaded. He raised his hands as if in prayer. ‘Please! I will serve. Remember? Remember how I served you before? Yes?’

Jak leaped to take Saeng’s arm. He pressed the knife to her neck once more. Yet she could hardly spare all this any attention, for the blood continued to flow from Hanu, and his chest rose with such effort, and so slowly.

The Thaumaturg looked down — or rather one eye shifted to peer down. The other continued to look off in another direction. ‘Thet,’ he mumbled from the side of his mouth, ‘I told you. I warned you. Go home, I said.’

Thet, his hands clasped together, nodded eagerly. ‘Yes! I will! I promise.’

Pon-lor shook his head. ‘No. I’m sorry … it is too late.’

The lad looked confused. He lowered his hands. ‘What …?’

Pon-lor gestured with one hand and Thet seemed to sag. He slumped to the ground and continued to spread out, running, flowing, until all that was left was wet gleaming bones and limp clothes amid a pool of fluids that disappeared into the cracks of the floor.

The Thaumaturg’s single eye now rose to Jak, who flinched and pushed the blade even harder into Saeng’s neck. She felt warmth running down her shirt-front from the cut he made. ‘I’ll kill her!’ he yelled. ‘I swear!’

Pon-lor just shook his head as if all this was so very tiring. ‘Jak … I’m sorry, but she could have destroyed you at any time of her choosing.’

The blade withdrew a fraction. ‘What?’ he said, mystified.

And Saeng knew it was the truth even as Pon-lor said it. Yes … I could have. I am standing next to a source of power unmatched in this age and all I have to do is reach out — yet they will know the instant I do.

‘But unlike you,’ the young Thaumaturg continued, ‘she is no murderer. You should thank her. I, however, do not share such high principles.’ He curled the fingers of his left hand — his right had so far hung limp at his side — and Jak was yanked from Saeng’s side as surely as if he’d been plucked from a cliff. The bandit leader fell to his knees before Pon-lor.

‘Go ahead!’ the youth bellowed. ‘You rich bastards always win in the end, don’t you? Spoiled brat! It isn’t fair! You’ve had all the advantages all your life!’ The Bandit Lord was fighting tears and Saeng now saw how he was perhaps even younger than she, or the mage.

Pon-lor continued to shake his head, as if saddened by this entire affair. ‘Jak … you have no idea. You grew up in a village, yes? In a family, with a father and a mother, a place to sleep, food on your table …’ He grimaced and his odd eye rolled aimlessly. ‘I cannot remember my childhood. There are images …’ he winced again, pained. ‘Jak … I was taken by the Thaumaturgs from the streets of Anditi Pura where I’d been abandoned to fend for myself. I never knew my mother or my father. I grew up sleeping in alleyways that were nothing more than open sewers. I fought packs of dogs for trash thrown into gutters. I throttled other children over rags and scraps of food you yourself would have turned away from in disgust. I …’ His voice caught and he blinked to master himself. Tears fell from both eyes. ‘And here you … Well, no matter. Your only defence is that you are utterly ignorant. Similarly, however, your crime is that you chose to remain ignorant. Therefore, I condemn you for wilful ignorance and blind self-centred self-pity.’

Pon-lor clenched his one good hand and Jak gagged. He dropped his dagger. His hands flew to his neck as if he would prise unseen fetters from round his throat.

‘Choke on the truth you have rejected all your life, Kenjak Ashevajak — Bandit Lord.’

Jak tottered, gagging yet, and fell. His breath, together with all the tension in his convulsing frame, sighed from him in one last long exhalation and he stilled.

Saeng blinked. The spell that had held her fascinated faded away. She ran past Pon-lor to kneel at her brother’s side. ‘Hanu! Speak to me!’ she sent, pleading.

No answer came, though his chest still rose and fell in light panted breaths.

Pon-lor limped to her. He took hold of her arm to lift her to her feet. ‘I will do what I can to heal him. You must do what you have to.’

She squeezed his shoulder, looked up to meet his good eye. ‘Yes! Thank you. And … I’m sorry … I was wrong.’

‘As was I. You were right all along. Now go. Do what you can.’

‘But they will know!’

‘I will hold them off for as long as I can.’

‘But you are no master!’

A sad half-smile lifted one edge of his mouth. ‘As you can see, my mind is now working in a strange new way. I see things … differently. In a way none of them can. They will find it very difficult to penetrate my thoughts. Now go.’

He urged her away, but before he released her arm it seemed as if he would lower his face to her, only to quickly turn away to Hanu. She caught his hand and squeezed it and the brow over his good eye rose in surprise, and gratitude. She turned to the pillar of coursing energies and readied herself.

The trick, she knew, was to allow the power to run through one’s self without any interference or attempt at redirection. That was the hard part — resisting the urge to manipulate. Terror alone would drive her to do so. The driving urge to self-preservation.

She glanced back to see Pon-lor demonstrating surprising strength in snapping the spear haft then yanking it one-handed from Hanu’s armoured back. Encouraged by that, she stepped up on to the dais. She had her defences raised as tautly as she knew how, yet even so the raging stream of spinning sizzling power appeared to be able to snuff her to ashes instantly. She had to yield to what had been instilled in her all these many years: the training, the discipline, the insights. But most of all, the trust. Trust in one’s abilities. Trust enough to make that leap, and that release.

All her powers heightened, her arms out, she stepped into the flow.

* * *

Murk decided that he was getting the feel for this jungle tramping. All one had to do was turn one’s expectations completely round — that was all. Instead of hacking and slashing one’s way through the dense brush all one had to do was let go the idea of beating it down. Which was pretty much impossible anyway. What you had to do was slip through all kinda sideways and there you went. It was just another way of moving. A way that didn’t push against all the league after league of spines and trees and poisonous vines.

And as for all the damned biting, stinging and sucking bugs — once you had a thick enough layer of dirt smeared over you and kept there by your oils and sweat, they never bothered you again. It was like they couldn’t smell you any more. Just like Sour said. There you go. His partner had finally found his place in the world. And it was the one place no one else wanted ever to be. Go figure it. Well, once they returned to civilization he’d be blundering round once more all wide-eyed stupid, and Murk’d have to take him in hand again.

And the diet. Well, once you got your head round the obvious idea that you really ought to eat what was literally growin’ on the trees around you and crawlin’ all over everything in limitless numbers, then your problem was solved. As to the taste, well, that wasn’t so bad once you got used to it. Tasted like nuts, really.

He walked near the middle of the loose column alongside the litter with Dee and Ostler. Sour had survived his mission to cut off the arm of a Seguleh but it had been a close thing. The woman had grabbed his throat the moment she understood what was going on and only the intervention of her employer, Rissan, had saved the man’s life. He was out front now, ranging with the scouts. Their guest walked with the captain towards the rear. The bodyguard, Ina, had lived up to the reputation of the Seguleh in being back on her feet the day after the amputation. She walked behind Rissan. The stump ending at her elbow was wrapped in cloth and tied tight to her body. She hadn’t said a thing to anyone since that night and walked with her head hanging low. Murk thought he understood something of what she must be feeling. Imagine, a one-armed Seguleh! Sounded like a bad joke. Still, if she really was one, then even with her off hand she was probably more deadly than any of them.

The going was easier now. They’d entered a region of open parklike woods. The upper canopy was solid, but below, the ground was mostly open, even dusty, with almost no brush. It looked almost manicured. He saw files of ants walking along, each carrying off a piece of the fallen leaf litter. The mystery, then, of where all the fallen detritus had gone was solved. They’d seen those half-creatures shadowing them at a discreet distance. So far, none had attacked. They seemed content merely to monitor their progress.

With the sun beating down it was now damned hot. Water was their main worry. Sour had them sucking on stems and fruits for moisture. Still, Murk was feeling the heat, and he knew the signs of water-starvation; he’d seen enough of it in the army. The night rains vanished instantly. Yusen had everyone capturing what they could in any remaining containers, while Sour showed them how to use big leaves to do the same.

As it was wont to do these last few days, Murk’s gaze drifted down to the litter with its rags and the burden wrapped within. Was he doing the right thing? She’d expressed her will and he chose to respect that. Though doubts harried and bit at him like these damned bugs, he was still of the opinion that he was right to do so. It was a question not of right or wrong, but of respect. He had to respect this thing as a separate entity fully capable of making up its own mind. Even if it looked and sounded like a child.

Mercenaries running past shook him from his reverie. They were headed pell-mell for the front. Burastan came jogging to his side. ‘A problem?’ he demanded.

She jerked a hand to the rear. ‘Our guest the sorceress says we’ve entered Jakal Viharn already.’

He scowled his puzzlement. ‘What? That can’t be right.’ He waved to the surrounding jungle. ‘There’s nothing here.’

‘All the same, Captain’s ordered a halt. Call your partner.’

Murk nodded. He reached out to give his Warren the barest touch — just enough to send a message to Sour: recall. He motioned for Dee and Ostler to rest. The two big swordsmen eyed one another then shrugged and set down the litter.

Murk returned with Burastan to the rear. Here he found Yusen with the sorceress and her bodyguard. They were eyeing some sort of much weathered stone marker, or stela. Murk studied the flat, worn standing stone. The carving on its face had been reduced to nothing more than suggestions of lines and depressions. He turned to Rissan. ‘You can read that?’

‘I do not need to read it,’ she answered. ‘Its message is impregnated into it in many different ways.’

Murk gave it a one-eyed squint through his Warren. There was something there … but so faint, so damnably ancient. ‘And what does it say?’

‘It marks the boundary of Jakal Viharn.’

Murk snorted. ‘There ain’t nothing here. There’s supposed to be a huge city. Temple towers, streets paved in gold. You know … fabled Jakal Viharn and such.’

The sorceress was unmoved. ‘There was such a place here, once. Long ago. A large ceremonial centre servicing millions. But to call it a city … well …’ She tilted her head. ‘Those who saw it could only interpret it through their own experience … if you see what I mean.’

Yusen nodded, though Burastan was frowning, uncertain.

‘We know cities,’ Murk said, explaining, ‘so that’s what we called it.’

‘Indeed.’

Sour and the scouts arrived. Yusen motioned them to him. ‘We sit tight for the meantime. I want a careful look round first.’

Sour cocked one goggling bug-eye to Murk. ‘You’re up, partner.’

Murk scowled. Great. Guess what? You get to go spy on the Witch-Queen Ardata. He squinted up at the bright blue sky. ‘Not in full on daylight. I want to wait for dusk.’

Yusen was rubbing a thumb over his chin. He nodded. ‘Accepted.’

When dusk gathered under the trees and a deep purple took the eastern sky, Murk entered Jakal Viharn. He kept to the shadows, naturally enough. He’d been warned not to have Meanas raised fully as Ardata would take it as a challenge; mild disguising of his presence, well, that was apparently acceptable.

He remembered his briefing — that was the only word he could think of for it — when their guest sorceress Rissan took him aside for ‘a few words’.

‘Do not go in with your Warren blazing,’ she’d told him, rather imperiously.

‘Hey,’ he objected, ‘I follow the spirit of Meanas.’

‘Not entirely, I should hope,’ she remarked coolly. She crossed her arms and regarded him critically. ‘Now … if you should meet her or see her watching you, don’t overtly respond. Don’t run off, or duck away. Just lower your gaze and bow. Then go on your way. She’s been treated like a goddess for ages here and she’s become, how shall I put it … accustomed to it.’

‘Any wards or protections I should know about?’

‘I do not believe so.’

‘Guards?’

‘None that should accost you.’

He shrugged. ‘Fine then. No problem. I’ll just have a quick look round then report back.’

‘I doubt you will see anything,’ she answered. ‘Jakal Viharn covers many square leagues.’ She waved him on his way.

The woman’s haughtiness had quite annoyed him at the time. Must be some high muckety-muck back home. Now, however, walking the treed grounds, he wondered how she came to such intimate knowledge of Ardata and her ways. Well, perhaps it was her particular area of expertise.

Even though he cloaked himself in the shifting shadows of Meanas, he kept to the verges and the gloom of trees. The sky was unusually clear this night; perhaps the rainy season was on the wane. The Visitor blazed like a literal vengeful eye of some falling god. It cast shadows as dense as spilled ink. Next to it the moon was a pale weak smear.

He walked and walked, and then he found he had to walk even more. Jakal Viharn, he realized, was just as their guest sorceress had asserted: an immense sprawling complex of countless temples, shrines, monasteries and plain enigmatic ruins. He even caught sight of the curve of a river where it glimmered in the dusk like a crimson snake. He realized he could wander for days without discovering anything. He might as well turn back now.

What to do. He idled within a grove of bamboo. The grove crowded round a diminutive altar of ancient brick. Placed on the altar and before it lay countless carved stone heads — doubtless taken from the many statues he’d passed lying about half buried. It was a grisly collection of decapitated staring trophies. And he would have been most disturbed if he’d been the least bit superstitious and taken it as an omen.

Rissan, he reflected, had warned against any overt use of his Warren. And if it could ever be said that Shadow was not something, that would most certainly be overt. Therefore, he decided, a little oblique probing shouldn’t go amiss. He eased his sensitivity outwards, passively, receiving impressions of movement among the infinite shadows flitting and dancing about Jakal Viharn. Scanning in an ever-broadening circle, he at last came to a concentration of moving shadows. Ambulatory. Could be anything: a group of night-foraging animals, a herd of restless water buffalo, who knew? But it was a lead, and so he started that way, jogging, his senses raised and now actively probing.

It was a good thing he had his Warren up for otherwise he would’ve walked right into the trap. It was masterfully laid; an ambush he never would’ve expected. His sensitivity warned him of it in good time and so he halted and began edging round, shadow-wrapped, disguised in the lineaments of night itself.

From the deep shade of a tree, he watched them. Three foreign soldiers keeping an eye on this obvious approach through the woods — the one he’d naturally almost taken. Two men and one woman. They still had their armour, albeit leathers. In all, they appeared to have weathered the entrance into Himatan better than his troop. He couldn’t be certain where they hailed from, though they had the look of Quon types, tall and broad, with curly black hair on one. None had spoken yet, which troubled Murk: very professional. Too professional for out here in the middle of Himatan. What were they doing here? Who were they?

A cascade of liquid silver wavered down then over the scene, the moon breaching a cloud, and the fittings of their armour and weapons gleamed in the light. The woman shifted and the light caught her full on: her bunched thick mane piled high and pinned, her long coat of dark stained scaled leather armour, heavy longsword at her side, and he knew her, had heard of her often enough. If it were daylight that hair would be flame red and that armour the deep crimson of dried blood.

Jacinth, Skinner’s lieutenant.

Murk slowly edged backwards. They’d come to negotiate with Ardata to escape these renegades.

But Skinner had got here first.

* * *

Shimmer lay in her hut unable to sleep. This night the ghosts of all the dead Avowed, the Brethren, were calling to her with an insistence that simply could not be ignored. She rose, pulled on her gambeson, belted her sword, and headed out to walk the camp.

She found almost everyone up already: Cole, Amatt and Turgal guarded the perimeter while K’azz stood at the near-dead smouldering fire. He was peering down, hands clasped behind his back, seemingly pensive, or perhaps studying the smoke for visions of the future, as some seers do. Lor emerged from the night accompanied by Gwynn; the two had fallen in together. Lor never was one to go very long between lovers.

K’azz raised his head and signed to the two mages that they should watch the perimeter. They nodded and separated. Shimmer moved to head off as well, but he motioned her to him. ‘Stay with me, Shimmer,’ he said, his voice tight.

‘What is it?’

‘What do you sense?’

She peered into the dense night, uneasy. ‘The Brethren are … troubled.’

‘Indeed. For many reasons.’

She studied his shadowed face, so stark and sharp in the contrast of light and dark. ‘Why hasn’t Ardata come to you?’ she asked. ‘She hired you, didn’t she?’

‘She requested that I come.’

‘She demanded.’

‘For her, Shimmer, that was as close to a request as is possible.’

‘Nagal as much as blamed you for Rutana’s death.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘And now he won’t even speak to us.’

‘Yes.’

‘Were they … related? Lovers?’

K’azz squinted at the smoke as if divining some message. ‘You could say they are, were, two of a kind.’

‘I see. So, what is the trouble? Is he close?’

K’azz nodded. ‘Yes. As is … another. One stirring the Brethren by his presence.’

Shimmer frowned, considering. She couldn’t think of anyone. ‘Who?’

By way of answer K’azz dipped his head to direct her attention aside; she turned, hand on the long grip of her whipsword, to face that direction. Shortly, a wavering appeared over the grounds. Like heat waves dancing in the air. Though this was night. A shape took form, slim and dark, whip-lean in fact, in tattered dark silks. A pale hatchet-like face ghosted into vision beneath mussed black hair and Shimmer hissed out an appalled breath. She drew her sword.

‘Cowl!’

The gangly scarecrow shape offered Shimmer a mocking bow. The others came running up, weapons ready. K’azz waved them down. ‘Cowl,’ he greeted the ex-Master Assassin and High Mage of the Crimson Guard.

The man executed a deep courtier’s bow, his arms extended out from his sides. ‘My lord.’

‘This is impossible!’ Shimmer burst out. ‘We heard you were taken by an Azath!’

‘You heard correctly,’ he answered, his gaze fixed upon K’azz. The mage’s eyes appeared almost to hunger so eagerly did they drink up the sight.

‘None can escape the Azath.’

‘You are wrong, obviously.’

‘He was taken, Shimmer,’ K’azz said. ‘But he alone possessed one pre-existing means of escape. Is that not so, Cowl?’

The ex-High Mage nodded solemnly. His avid gaze edged to Shimmer. ‘A prior commitment,’ he said, and smiled.

Shimmer winced at the madness betrayed by that twisted ghastly smile. Entombed by the Azath! Could anyone emerge sane from such a trial? And the man was hardly what anyone would call sane to begin with.

The burning gaze slid back to K’azz. ‘Skinner is near, Commander. What will you do? He has with him all his Disavowed. You are outnumbered ten to one.’

Shimmer spun to scan the surroundings. Skinner here? She looked to Cole and Amatt: both remained on guard, glancing back to them at the centre occasionally.

‘I did not come to fight him,’ K’azz said.

‘No? Of course not.’

‘You have a message from him?’ K’azz asked.

Cowl shook an exaggerated negative. ‘Oh, no. Not him. I am done with him now … now that I have glimpsed the truth.’

‘The truth?’

‘Oh yes. I came to bring it to you, K’azz …’ the assassin raised a finger to him, chidingly, ‘but I see now that you already know it. You have known it for some time but have kept it to yourself.’ He snorted his scorn. ‘You think that a mercy? Well, time will tell.’

‘What is he going on about?’ Shimmer demanded.

‘Another time, Shimmer,’ K’azz said.

‘Yes, Lieutenant,’ Cowl echoed. ‘Another time.’ And he bowed to K’azz again, withdrawing. ‘Commander …’

Shimmer stared after him. Cowl, for as long as she had known him, had never bowed to anyone. Yet now he had to K’azz. Twice. The man he’d always been so open in his contempt for. What had changed? His imprisonment had shown him something. K’azz, he claimed, knew. And she would ask, though she already knew she would get no answer.

‘Now what?’ she asked K’azz.

‘Now we wait.’

‘For what?’

‘For whoever will visit us next.’

‘I do not like this passivity.’

A wintry smile climbed K’azz’s skull-like features. ‘This is Himatan, Shimmer. Visions and messages come to one of their own accord. One cannot demand inspiration.’

* * *

In retrospect, Osserc could not identify the precise moment when it happened. All he knew was that at one instant he was inwardly fuming against Gothos, and at the next he was suddenly fuming in impatience at himself. All his life he had steadfastly pursued what he saw as his duties and obligations — yet these he suddenly saw as nothing more than rag-thin substitutions, delusions and diversions. He had chased them with utter single-mindedness, yet how far had all this got him? What progress had he made? Towards anything? What had he to show for all this time? Precious little progress towards … what? What was it he really desired? Reconciliation or forgiveness? No, too wretched and backward-looking, that.

And always it had been the fault of others: of Anomander’s interference, of the Azathanai’s machinations. T’riss, Envy, all the scheming Elders. The Jaghut. Whoever. Anyone, perhaps, other than himself. Yet was that really the truth? Could he really be as pathetic as all those he had sneered at all these ages? In a way, of course — for was he not of them?

What then did he lack? He decided that, oddly enough, it was the one thing he had thought he in no way lacked: courage. Not the physical courage to face challenges. That he had in abundance. No, what he lacked, it seemed, was emotional courage. The courage to face the hard interior truths and make the hard choices.

There. He had finally reached it.

And it was something that could never have been imposed from without, of course.

The answer lies within you. Ah. And of course self-evident … with the luxury of looking back.

He tipped his head ever so slightly to Gothos across the table. ‘Thank you, prick.’

The Jaghut raised a grizzled brow. ‘I? I did nothing.’

‘I know. As was required. And anticipated.’ He stood. ‘I will go now. If I ever see you again it will be too soon.’

‘Who knows what the future holds — Tiste Liosan.’

Osserc again fractionally inclined his head in farewell. He walked up the hall. Here, curled up asleep before the door, he found the Nacht creature. He gently nudged it aside with a sandalled foot. Farewell, Azath. Perhaps I shall never encounter you again either. And I hope not. Your lessons are far too … demanding. He lifted the latch and pushed open the rough, adzed plank door, and stepped outside.

In the grounds, halfway up the short flagged walk to the front gate, he paused. A troubled frown crossed his brow and he turned his face to the southwest.

The Visitor looms as ever. Yet that is not my concern. Others address that. No, there is something else going on. Power is being gathered. All to a purpose. And that purpose … somehow it touches upon … Thyrllan.

He staggered as if from a blow to the chest. He raised his fists to the south. ‘No!’ came the groan, torn from his throat.

They must not!