Blood and Bone

EPILOGUE

It was movement that betrayed the presence of their quarry to Jatal. Movement where there had been none for the last two days. Jatal had got used to the only change being the dust and ash sifting down within the blasted vista of blanketed fallen tree trunks. He was coughing all the time now, a cloth across his mouth and nose. He hawked up bloodied phlegm. His breath was coming short, perhaps from exhaustion and malnourishment, or perhaps from the unsettling bubbling and fullness that choked his chest.

Movement far off immediately caught his eye. At first he thought it an animal; a wounded survivor of the blast, a deer perhaps. Yet amid its struggles the figure straightened to two legs and staggered onward a pace or two before collapsing once again.

Jatal stopped to peer back to Scarza. Flakes of ash dusted the half-Trell from head to foot. They even rested on his eyelashes. Scarza’s gaze was steady on the distant figure. Without a word, Jatal changed direction to follow the survivor.

As they drew close, some noise or instinct alerted the figure and it spun, straightening, to confront them. Jatal looked upon a horrifyingly wounded Warleader who was, he now knew, the demon out of his own legendary past: the self-proclaimed High King, Kallor himself. The man weaved drunkenly, a hand on the grip of the bastard sword still at his side. His coat of mail hung from him in torn and blackened tatters of metal links. The flesh beneath oozed, blistered and raw. His beard had been half burned away, as had his hair, leaving seared livid skin behind. One eye was swollen closed, weeping a clear fluid. Dried mud and ash caked him.

Recognition gleamed in his one good eye and he snorted and waved his contempt. ‘You cannot kill me,’ he grated. His voice was so hoarse as to be almost inaudible.

‘I see that now,’ Jatal answered, just as hoarse and breathless. ‘I see that all the ancient curses heaped upon you still hold.’

Kallor growled deep in his throat at that, hawked up a mouthful of catarrh, and spat aside. ‘I will break them yet.’

Merciless gods! All because of you and your damned curses … ‘You thought them gone, didn’t you?’ Jatal opened his arms to indicate the blasted surroundings. ‘All this because you wished to end it. Is that not so?’

The High King actually shrugged. ‘It seemed a good bet. The sword Draconus swore upon is broken. Sister of Cold Nights is broken. Those who cursed me are all slipping away — as they should have long ago.’

‘Damn you,’ Jatal breathed, utterly overcome with horror.

Kallor laughed a dry hack, wiped his mouth, his hand coming away gleaming with blood. ‘So, you too would add to my burden. Is that it? You are quite done then?’

‘Almost.’

‘Oh? You cannot kill me. You curse me. We are done, I should think.’

‘Yes,’ Jatal answered wearily. He felt so tired of it all. So ready to throw it all aside. ‘We will leave you crawling in the dust, Kallor. Which is where you belong, curse or no curse. But first I would have one boon from you.’

The High King raised his flame-scarred head to better examine him. His one good eye gleamed as if touched by madness. ‘A boon? In truth? And what can I grant you?’

Scarza edged forward to touch Jatal’s elbow. ‘Lad …’ he urged, ‘don’t.’

Jatal gently shook his touch away. ‘What you lack the courage to grant yourself … release.’

Kallor lurched forward. His livid features darkened even further in fury. He raised a fist to Jatal. ‘You think I have not tried? You think I meekly …’ He cut himself off, choking. He straightened. His gaze eased back into its familiar condescension. ‘They will not be the end of me. I will break them, or go of my own choosing.’

Jatal nodded his understanding. ‘I agree, High King. That is why I am here. I ask that you release me. My love awaits.’

Kallor’s breath hissed from him in a long slow exhalation of amazement, and he flinched back a step. ‘Well done, Prince Jatal of the Hafinaj. You win your way and in so doing you succeed where I am cursed to fail. Well done.’ He drew his bastard sword and held it upright before him in salute.

Scarza pushed forward. ‘Now, lad,’ he said, ‘think of what she’d want. You don’t really think she’d-’

Jatal gently urged the half-Trell aside. ‘It is all right, Scarza. She awaits me. I must join her. There is nothing else left for me.’

Scarza had to turn his face away. He squeezed his eyes against the tears that warmed his cheeks.

Kallor cried out: ‘So join her!’ and a foot stamped the ground.

Scarza spun to see a length of the wide bastard sword blade extending from Jatal’s back. The lad grunted something. His knees bent and he slid backwards off the slick blade. Scarza caught him in his arms. ‘Lad!’ he croaked, shocked. ‘You didn’t need to …’ But Jatal could not answer; Kallor’s thrust had been true. Scarza hugged the body to him.

Kallor sheathed the blade. ‘What now, Scarza?’ he asked. ‘I am headed north. Join me. Draconus is free, they say. I will find him and squeeze the life from him.’

Scarza just shook his head. He could not find the words for the depth of callousness, the astounding lack of … humanity.

‘No?’ Kallor continued. ‘The pay will be far better this time, I promise.’

Scarza merely turned away and started walking.

‘What is this?’ Kallor called. ‘You are walking away? Don’t be a fool! Drop that carrion and join me. You know I cannot be defeated. Scarza! Come back. I demand — I order you to return!’ He bellowed after him: ‘Scarza! Do as I say!’

Scarza walked on. He hugged the cooling body to his chest. The ash flakes stuck to his wet face. What could one say? Even after all this — in the sight of such devastation — the man still had not learned a thing. Perhaps that was his true curse. His overriding inner curse.

He could never learn.

* * *

The clouds had cleared from the sky. The layer of pulverized stone, soot, and ash lay as a smooth blanket. With evening, rainclouds swept in from the east and a light drizzle fell. It dimpled the ash and hissed where it met heated rock beneath.

A swirl of wind emerged from nowhere with a gust of displaced air that blew the ash in all directions. A man now stood amid the dispersing dust. He brushed it from his green cloak as he set off walking with a brisk purposeful stride.

The ground he trod lay as a broad shallow bowl, or crater. It crackled beneath his boots, flash-heated to a thin glass-like layer of sintered earth. The man scanned the flattened surroundings: a plain of emptiness apart from the gusting curtains of ash and pulverized stone. He brushed the powder from his arms and shoulders and continued on.

A distance off, a humped shape revealed another occupant of this otherworld of drifting flakes of falling soot. The man hurried forward. He found a woman, mostly naked, kneeling over a prostrate body in blackened and seared trousers and shirt. The woman straightened and pushed back her unkempt mane of tousled hair. She wore a wrap at her breasts and loins. To one side lay a small chest, like a jewellery case.

Ignoring the woman, the man knelt at the body’s side, pressed a hand to its neck to check for a pulse.

‘Greetings, L’oric, son of Osserc,’ the woman said, backing away.

‘And you, Spite, daughter of Draconus,’ the man answered, and he let out a breath of relief as he kept his hand on the fallen one’s neck. ‘He lives.’

‘Yes,’ Spite answered as she continued to back away. ‘Astonishingly. He lives still. Despite all this. He lives still.’

With some effort, L’oric managed to turn the prostrate figure over, revealing the pale hair and skin of a Tiste Liosan. ‘You are surprised?’ he asked, eyeing the woman.

‘By his survival? Or by his actions?’

‘The latter more,’ L’oric mused. ‘As I am.’

‘Yes.’ She frowned down at the unconscious man. ‘Your father … interceded … took it upon himself.’

‘Yes.’

She raised her puzzled gaze to L’oric. ‘Why?’

‘I do not know at this time. Perhaps he will eventually explain.’ He shook his head. ‘But more likely not.’ He pointed aside. ‘And that?’

Spite grunted a harsh exhalation, muttering beneath. She picked up the small chest and opened the top, tipping it. Black powder spilled forth to disperse in the weak wind. ‘A failed errand. Wishful thinking.’ She cast the box into the distance.

‘Will you aid me in another errand?’ L’oric asked, eyeing the dust as it swirled into nothingness.

‘Which is?’

The tall wiry mage indicated his unconscious father. ‘To put him where he belongs.’

The daughter of Draconus arched one shapely brow. ‘Indeed … that I should like very much.’

‘Very well.’ The mage knelt, and, grunting his effort, arose with his father in his arms. Spite backed away, her face betraying surprise and amazement. The mage commanded through clenched teeth: ‘Open us a way to the border regions of Kurald Thyrllan.’

Spite’s brows rose even higher. ‘But it is closed.’ She pointed to Osserc. ‘By his very hand.’

‘We shall see then,’ L’oric grunted. ‘As close as possible — if you would.’

Spite gave a quick nod and turned, extending her arms. The air tore before her. Blinding golden light burst forth through a jagged rent. The two figures, mere dark silhouettes in the roaring conflagration of brilliance, stepped through and disappeared.

The rent snapped shut.

L’oric and Spite faced a blasted landscape of twisting narrow canyons all shimmering in heat waves. Overhead, energies streamed as rippling auroras of power in banners, curtains and multicoloured scarves. They both hunched beneath the punishing heat and glare. L’oric adjusted his burden, hugging his father tighter to his chest.

‘Now what?’ Spite growled, shielding her eyes with an arm.

L’oric cast about, searching. He lifted his chin to the left. ‘There! You see the tall landmark?’

Spite squinted. Some sort of spire or tower rose atop a butte. ‘Yes.’

‘Get us over there.’

She swept her arms again and they disappeared.

L’oric stumbled as he walked to emerge upon a heap of loose baked shards of talus that shifted beneath his feet. He ended up at the bottom of the slope deep within a narrow canyon of crumbling layers of shale, sandstone and silts. Spite awaited him. She pointed up.

L’oric nodded and hefted his burden once again, wincing. ‘Get us up there,’ he shouted over the roar of energies streaming overhead.

Spite grumbled something under her breath and wiped the sweat now dripping down her face and naked limbs. She cast about, scanning the surroundings. She gestured, pushing and kneading with her hands. The wall of a nearby canyon shuddered. Rocks clattered. Then, with a crack of stone, the entire wall came crashing down in an avalanche of broken rock, raising a cloud of dust that Spite waved from her face. L’oric turned his head away, hunching a shoulder.

The dust dispersed quickly, driven off by the blasting power coursing across the landscape. A slope of shattered dry rock was revealed. Spite started up; she used all fours, pulling and dragging herself along. L’oric followed. ‘Not exactly how I would have handled that,’ he muttered to himself.

At the top, he winced again, turning his face away from the blasting wild energies punishing the landscape. Spite had run ahead to the shadow side of a tower that somehow remained standing against the streaming power. L’oric followed.

He lurched against the brick wall only to flinch away: the stones nearly glowed with heat.

‘Now what?’ Spite shouted into his ear.

He raised his chin to the tower. ‘Go on up.’

She grumbled once more: something about ‘this better be worth it’, and pushed on, dodging ahead. L’oric followed. Within, stairs encircled the outer walls, leading up. The interior was empty but for the rippling heat of a kiln. L’oric staggered up the stairs. He was nearing the end of his strength.

The stairs ended at an open trapdoor into a chamber at the tower’s top. It was enclosed but for a single narrow slit window facing the source of the glaring energies. Spite stood aside, her arms crossed.

‘And now?’ she demanded.

He set his father down and straightened his sweat-soaked shirt. ‘Now we shall see.’ He approached the slit window. A beam of light came in through the slit and crossed the chamber, cutting it in half. L’oric knew that it seemed that this was a world facing a cruel sun that hung at a fraction of the distance of the one most humans knew. But in truth, it was not like that at all. The source of the unleashed brilliance was in fact much smaller, and much closer, than imagined.

He extended a hand into the wall of light then yanked it back as the beam seared his flesh. To Spite’s questioning look he explained: ‘Now we wait.’

‘Who built this?’

‘Jaghut, I believe.’

‘To study Thyrllan?’

‘I believe it may extend back much further than that.’

Spite grunted something non-committal. L’oric eyed her; her limbs seemed to glow as well, gleaming with sweat. He cleared his throat and quickly looked away.

Spite smiled almost cruelly. ‘What are we waiting for?’

‘We’ll know it when we see it,’ he replied, still looking away.

The beam of light rippled and they both flinched backwards. Something appeared to be blocking the slit from the outside, hovering there.

‘Who comes?’ a voice whispered. It somehow penetrated the crackling and snarling energies though it came gently, soft and melodious.

‘Liosan!’ L’oric called.

‘Entreat us no more,’ the thing answered. ‘The way is closed.’

‘He who closed it is come,’ L’oric shouted.

‘For him we have been waiting all this time. Where is he? We sense him not.’

‘He is injured.’

‘We will discern the truth of this.’

The light streaming across the room rippled again, writhing as if something were moving within it. Then a pillar of flame burst to life within the chamber. L’oric and Spite flinched all the way back to press themselves against the walls. The sizzling presence scoured the brick floor leaving a black scar behind as it wavered about. It passed over Osserc’s unconscious body and halted, flickering. L’oric tensed, his Warren raised.

‘It is him!’ came the melodious call, somehow conveying disbelief and joy. ‘Returned as he promised us. Open the way!’

The grating of stone pulled L’oric’s attention from his father. The narrow slit window in the far wall appeared to be changing. Dust and ground stone fell in a fine powder that flared incandescent as it drifted into the beam of blazing light. That beam cutting through the slit took on a deeper hue of gold until L’oric could no longer see through it. It might have been that light, but when he studied the slit window, his hand before his eyes, it appeared to be widening. As if it were opening.

He grabbed Spite’s arm and brought his head next to hers. ‘We must go!’ he shouted through the burgeoning roar.

‘Why?’ she yelled, and brushed his hand away.

He pointed. ‘The window! I believe it is the gate! A gate opening directly into Kurald Thyrllan.’

‘So what?’ She waved at him. ‘Aren’t you resistant, or whatever, to its manifestation?’

‘No more than Mother Dark could encompass Darkness itself!’ he shouted back. ‘Come!’

‘Your father?’

‘They will take him! Come!’ He attempted again to grab her arm but she easily brushed his hand away. He started backing away towards the stairs regardless.

The slit was definitely wider now, and lengthening, extending down to the floor. The solid bar of light was filling the chamber and it was this that pushed Spite back as it ate up the floor space finger by finger like shimmering poured gold. She joined L’oric on the stairs, which they descended backwards. So bright was the presence above, L’oric had to turn his face away. Spots danced before his punished eyes. On the ground floor Spite bumped into him, cursing and wiping at her eyes. ‘Damn it to Night!’ she snarled. ‘I can’t see a damned thing.’

‘Thryllan has taken him,’ L’oric said, studying the stairs.

‘He will hardly be missed,’ Spite growled.

‘You are harsh.’

‘It is the truth.’

He took a fold of cloth and dabbed his eyes. ‘We will not know the truth of this until sufficient time has passed.’

‘Sufficient time for the lies to take hold.’

‘I think you hold too hard to bitterness.’

Spite studied him for a time. ‘Our alliance is nearly at an end, L’oric. Do not tempt me to any rash act following it.’

He sketched a courtier’s bow. ‘As m’lady would have it. Shall we go?’

‘Gladly. I loathe this place.’

‘That is not so strange. I rather like it.’

* * *

On the western slope of the Gangrek Mounts a woman descended a slim trail. It was no more than a rocky animal track occasionally used by locals to climb the mount for game or to collect firewood or plants. Her shirt was tattered, stained and worn to mere threads, while her skirt hung merely to her knees. Her hair was an unkempt cloud about her heart-shaped features. Yet she walked the trail with the assurance and ease of an experienced jungle tracker.

Halfway down she stopped to peer back up the path. After a time another figure came descending behind. He came slowly as he used a sturdy stick as a crutch. One arm hung tied to his side, he dragged one foot, and a cloth was wrapped around his head covering one eye. His hair hung long and loose but did not completely hide the odd shape of the left side of his head. He wore the torn and hard-travelled robes of a Thaumaturg.

The young woman took his arm to help him down the more difficult sections of the steep track. He offered her a strange one-sided smile that made her blush and turn her face away. As the trail levelled she kept his arm to walk along beside him.

Together, they retraced their steps back into Thaumaturg territory. They were returning because someone had to rebuild, and if they did not others would. She had a reborn faith to guide and shape anew and he would do all he could to clear its way into the world.

* * *

Far off on the eastern coast of Jacuruku, a gentle surf kissed a stretch of desert strand. A dense jungle verge crowded the shore. The empty sands descended steeply to the sapphire waves. Above, clear blue sky echoed the pale blue of the shallow waters. White seabirds hovered and gave their harsh calls in the weak wind. Crabs searched among the foam and cast-up seaweed.

A man came staggering out of the jungle to stand weaving drunkenly and blinking in the bright sunlight. A shirt hung from him in tatters, as did his trousers. Sores, bites and scratches dotted his limbs. His beard and hair were ragged and filthy. Another emerged, no different from the first. He, too, stopped as if dumbfounded, or completely uncertain of what to do next.

A giant emerged next. It carried a man in its stone arms that it gently set down to stand in the sands. This man tapped a blackwood rod chased in silver to his shoulder while he stood staring out to sea.

More men, a bare few handfuls, came staggering out to fall or sit in the sands and stare wordlessly at the bright leagues of empty sea. A scrawny old man wearing only a loincloth came limping from the jungle. He carried a bag over one shoulder and he walked down to the man holding the blackwood rod.

After studying the sea for a time, Principal Scribe Thorn turned to his commander, Master Golan, and said, ‘Congratulations, Golan the Great.’

Master Golan blinked as if coming out of a dream and peered down at his scribe. ‘I’m sorry,’ he croaked. ‘Congratulations?’

‘The Army of Righteous Chastisement has emerged triumphant, m’lord. It has crushed the jungle into abasement. Dealt it a final decisive blow! Your march has proved victorious.’

‘You will write that down, won’t you?’

‘Of course!’

The old man, all skin and bones, his hair standing as a thinning white rim about his skull, bent his head down to search within the loose bag. He searched, then searched again, becoming more and more agitated. Finally, he pulled the bag from his side and overturned it, waving and flapping it. A single sheet flew free to flutter out over the waves and disappear into the distance.

Golan watched it fly off. ‘Nothing important, I trust,’ he offered, rather drily. He peered curiously at the empty bag. ‘Misplaced your records? What has become of them?’

‘Food has been rather scarce of late,’ Principal Scribe Thorn confessed, looking guilty.

Golan studied the man, frowning. ‘My glorious campaign has disappeared down your gullet, been digested, and shat out your other end?’

‘I have merely done the job of the historians for them, m’lord.’

Golan tilted his head, thinking about it, then nodded, conceding the point. ‘True enough, Principal Scribe. True enough. You have merely saved everyone a great deal of time.’

‘I do try to serve in my own small way.’ He suddenly raised a finger as if in inspiration. He yanked the nub of a quill from behind one blackened ear, licked the end, and poised it over the leather bag. ‘Your orders?’

Golan looked to the surf, the blue sea rolling onward to the horizon. He rubbed his fingers across his brow — they came away slick with grime and sweat. He sighed heavily. ‘Second,’ he called in a raised voice.

Shortly after this, Second in Command Waris emerged from the jungle verge. He wore a long stained shirt that was at one time the underpadding of leather armour. A weapon belt hung over one shoulder and he bore a scrap of cloth tied about his head. He came to Golan and saluted.

‘Second Waris,’ Golan began. Then he paused. He eyed the cloth on the man’s head. ‘Not regulation, I should think, Second.’

‘Keeps the sun off, sir,’ the man replied, his voice flat.

Still a man of few words. Somehow reassuring, that. Golan cleared his throat. ‘We will camp here. Perhaps there are foodstuffs that the troops may collect. On the morrow we head north around the coast. Eventually we will reach our borders.’

Waris bowed and headed off to convey the orders.

Golan started pacing the shore, slowly, meditatively. He held the blackwood Rod of Execution behind his back in both hands, tapping it with his thumbs.

Principal Scribe Thorn followed behind. He licked the quill and began scratching on the bag. He mouthed as he walked: ‘Having utterly crushed the jungle leagues of Jacuruku, Golan the Great vanquishes the Eastern Ocean then casts his victor’s eyes onward to new conquests! He orders the beginning of a grand new campaign against the Northern Wastes. The glorious Army of Righteous Chastisement springs to its feet to follow its inspiring leader onward to new triumphs no doubt as rewarding and glorious as those they have known …’

Master Golan suddenly halted. He raised his face to the clear sky while exhaling mightily through clenched teeth. He raised the Rod of Execution, then regarded the surf restlessly surging up the steep strand. For a moment it appeared as if he were considering throwing the baton into the sea. He lowered it, however, and turned to study the bedraggled survivors of his army as they slumped down together to sit listless and exhausted, staring out at the vast unbroken horizon before them.

His gaze fell to Principal Scribe Thorn who watched him expectantly, quill poised. He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, blinking, then quickly turned his face out to sea. After a time he murmured, as if more to himself: ‘You are right, Thorn. Posterity will wonder at your perspicacity. You have assured my due place in history.’

The scribe swallowed, his bulging Adam’s apple bobbing. ‘It is my duty, Master Golan.’