Deadhouse Landing

Chapter 7

Word came to Dancer via the tall and rather dour Napan, Tocaras, that Kellanved was ready. He still had trouble using the fellow’s new name, even though he was quite certain that Wu hadn’t been the lad’s real name to begin with, anyway, so it hardly mattered. He was almost ready himself. He wrapped the remainder of his equipment in leather, slipped it under a loose floorboard, then went up to the office.

The mage had a set of saddlebags over one shoulder, his walking stick planted before him. Dancer had armed himself with his best weapons and tools. His baldrics under his loose cloak hung heavy with sheathed blades. Rope and wire lay coiled about him, and he carried an emergency pouch of dried food and a goatskin of water.

Kellanved nodded. ‘Very good. Let us go, then.’

A new thought occurred to Dancer and he raised a hand for a pause. ‘One moment.’ The Dal Hon mage, in his constant glamour of a wrinkled old man, sighed and tapped the walking stick on the floor.

Dancer returned downstairs. The burly swordsman Choss, one of Surly’s lieutenants, sat at a table and Dancer asked, ‘Surly?’

‘Rear.’

Dancer crossed to the kitchen and pantries. He found her with the Crust brothers, taking stock. At least they claimed to be brothers; he could see no family resemblance beyond their blue skin. Cartheron was lean and short, while Urko was tall and as solid as an ox. Surly cast him one evaluative glance, raised a brow, and said, ‘Going somewhere?’

‘Exactly. You’ve noticed that W— Kellanved disappears sometimes.’

Surly did not appear pleased. ‘So I’ve noticed.’

‘Well, we’re both going to be gone for a time. So you’ll have to handle things until we return.’

She motioned the brothers out, waited for them to go, then crossed her arms, looking very like her name. ‘Is there a time when we can expect you back?’

He considered this, wondering whether to tell her the truth, or to try to string her along with some not too distant date. But because he knew what he and Kellanved were facing, and held no misconceptions about their chances, he decided to be frank.

‘I don’t know. We may not come back at all.’

She raised a brow once again, perhaps impressed by his bluntness. ‘I see. I’ll keep that in mind.’ She inclined her head, if not in gratitude, then perhaps in acknowledgement of the warning. ‘Thank you.’

He answered her nod. ‘Till later, then.’

‘Yes. Later.’

He returned to the office to find Kellanved fighting with his pet nacht. The mage appeared to be attempting to force the monkey-like creature to perch on his shoulder, but the beast was on his back, had hold of the lad’s short kinky hair and wouldn’t let go. Round and round the desk they careered, Kellanved muttering curses under his breath, the creature baring its fangs in a grin.

‘You ready?’ Dancer asked.

Kellanved froze, then turned to face him, his features composed; the nacht, too, peering over his shoulder, suddenly looked innocent. ‘Of course! What does it look like?’

‘Like you’re having some trouble with the help.’

‘Nonsense!’ He reached up and grasped the beast by the neck and yanked it from his back. ‘Ha! Got you now.’

The creature reached to bite his arm and he let it fall, yanking his hands away. ‘Now, now. Bad! Bad Demon.’ The nacht clambered back up to the rafters, hissing what sounded eerily like laughter.

‘I thought you were going to call it something else.’

‘Many things come to mind, I assure you.’

‘If you’re finished?’

Kellanved sent the beast one last glare. ‘Certainly.’ He motioned Dancer closer. ‘The shift should be smoother now.’

Dancer drew two blades and crouched into a ready stance. ‘Very well.’

Scarves of murky darkness coalesced from the air about them, spinning and twisting, and for an instant his vision darkened. He blinked, squinting, weapons raised. Then a tilt in the surface sent him forward and something struck him a blow on the forehead. He staggered backwards in loose stones and gravel, falling.

The darkness slipped away. He lay on his back staring up at the leaden sky of Shadow. All about them stood a forest of tall cylinders, broken off at various heights.

Kellanved loomed into his vision, peering down, concerned. ‘Sorry about that.’

Dancer jumped to his feet, rubbed the back of a hand to his forehead, slightly dizzy. ‘It’s fine. Never mind. What is this place? Ruins?’

‘Of a kind. Take a look.’

Dancer examined the nearest column – it appeared to have been carved in the likeness of a tree, complete with scabs of bark. Yet the placement made no architectural sense. Towers rose everywhere, in no apparent straight lines.

Kellanved had started off across the hardscrabble rock pavement that lay between. Dancer followed, marvelling at the scale and insanity of the gargantuan site. ‘Who would do this?’ he asked. ‘Do you know?’

‘No one did,’ the little mage answered, humming to himself once more and tapping his stick – a sure sign that he was pleased and at ease. ‘What do they looked like?’

‘They’re made to look like trees. Perhaps these Edur we’ve heard of?’

‘No. They are trees. I quite assure you.’

Walking between the countless trunks, Dancer couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it. ‘Real trees? Was it a curse? Who could possibly be so powerful? Anomandaris? Kilmandaros? Ancient K’rul?’

Kellanved waved his walking stick, chuckling. ‘No, no. No one is that powerful – at least, so I hope and believe. No, scholars argue that this is natural. That if things are buried and remain inviolate for long enough, then they turn to stone.’

This made a kind of sense to Dancer. He grunted, saying, ‘So, Burn’s work then.’

Kellanved tilted his head to one side. ‘Well. I suppose you could call it that.’

They passed through the boundary of the eerie silent forest to low dry hills, their tops carpeted in broken rock and brittle thorny brush. A heap of stones crowned a number of the rises – each a burial cairn, Kellanved explained. One had obviously been demolished, its stones scattered all down the hillside, and this one he approached. Dancer followed, wary, hands on blades.

The little mage stood staring down inside for a time, and, after scanning the surroundings, Dancer joined him.

The cairn held a half-revealed corpse. Tattered cloth and leather wrapped its bare white bones, the dry environment having preserved the coverings well. The bones looked nearly human to Dancer, though somewhat too robust. ‘What are they?’ he asked.

‘Edur, I judge.’

‘Did you…’

Kellanved shook his head. ‘No.’

Dancer was relieved; not that he was overly superstitious. It just seemed … prudent … not to interfere in anything here until they understood the potential consequences.

A prickling brushed the back of his neck then, as of a faint awareness of something, and he spun, drawing his blades. There stood the man from the cairn – yet not him, less ragged in leathers, a spear straight at his side.

Kellanved turned, his brows rising, then bowed. ‘Greetings.’

The man, or Edur – it was hard to tell since he was covered in dust and obviously dead – did not respond, and after a time Dancer sent Kellanved a questioning look. The mage signed for patience.

As if carried by the wind, or the brush of the sands over the stones, there came faint words. ‘Disturb not the dead.’

Kellanved bowed once more. ‘We would not dream of it.’ He waited for a response, tapping his fingertips together.

Once again, after a long silence: ‘Disturb not the dead.’

Now Kellanved sent Dancer a look of exasperation. He bowed his farewell to the figure and waved Dancer on.

Together they abandoned the hilltop, Dancer walking backwards, weapons still readied. He glanced away for a moment to make sure of his footing and when he looked back the figure was gone. ‘A ghost?’ he asked.

‘We’re all ghosts here. Shadows of pasts and futures.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘Emurlahn is broken, shattered. Perhaps one may think of it as a repository of all the shadows of everything past and future, now spilling over and jumbled.’

Dancer scratched his chin, thinking. Finally, he gave up. ‘Sorry. Doesn’t help one bit.’

Kellanved raised a brow at him. ‘Really? I rather liked that one. Been working on it for a while.’

‘Try again.’

‘Critic.’

‘Now, now. So, where’s this gate?’

Kellanved raised the walking stick, pointing. ‘Beyond those hills.’

‘Couldn’t you have got us a little closer, then?’

The mage eyed him for a time, as if wondering whether he was being serious or not. ‘I don’t choose where to appear, you know. Anyway, we have to make it there before—’ He stopped himself.

‘Before the hounds find us,’ Dancer finished.

Wincing, Kellanved cast him a wary glance. ‘Ah … yes. Before that.’

‘Then we’d better hurry.’

They marched through the hills, passing more cairns and sand-choked scattered ruins. It struck Dancer that Shadow seemed nothing more than a gigantic mausoleum or trash heap of time and history. As if all the moments hidden by time in the world he’d left behind were all naked here, exposed and visible. Strangely enough, it made him rather sad to think of all that had been, or could have been.

He couldn’t relax, however, and kept glancing back over his shoulder to a dark smear in the sky – a lazily flapping creature like no bird he knew of, which seemed to be following them, or, at the very least, going their way.

They passed between two hills to find the dark arch of the gateway ahead, still half buried in sand. To Dancer, the gnawed stones of its frame seemed weary beneath the weight of unknown ages upon it. Kellanved began rummaging in the saddlebags at his shoulder. Dancer peered round, waiting for the inevitable.

While Kellanved set to work, muttering to himself, or mouthing invocations, examining his drawings, and touching the stones in precise places, Dancer kept watch. Why, he wasn’t certain, as there was nothing he could do in any case.

The Hood-blasted hounds remained a problem for them. Thinking about that, he probably should’ve brought a spear, like the one that ghost carried. He wanted to know Kellanved’s ideas on their history and why they kept coming, but the fellow was busy. Were they guarding Shadow? Or were they just damned hungry?

The first thing that happened was that the flying thing came circling down to land on a nearby hilltop. Like a bat it was; dark, with broad leathery wings. But bore a long pointed beak more like a pelican. Dancer watched it and it watched them.

Then the distant baying reached him.

He switched to his set of heaviest parrying blades and readied himself, crouching. This was it. The confrontation he’d been dreading, and hoping he wouldn’t really have to see through. To his surprise he found his mouth dry and his palms damp; no human opponent had ever raised such a reaction in him. Perhaps it was this damn waiting.

All he could do was to try to defend Kellanved to give the mage time to open the gate. Once it was open, they’d be gone.

‘How’s it going?’ he asked over his shoulder.

Kellanved was too engrossed even to answer.

He edged forward a half-pace, shifting his feet into the sands for better footing. The creature on the hilltop seemed to settle down on to its haunches, perhaps to watch the show.

Bastard.

A dark brown hound appeared on another hilltop. Scars matted its short-haired hide and its eyes blazed a glacier blue. Spotting them, it let go another of the howls that so shook and froze its quarry. Then it came charging down the slope in a flurry of kicked-up sands.

Dancer knew there was no way he could counter such a charge, except for dodging. And that would leave Kellanved undefended.

There was nothing for it. He knelt even lower, leaning forward, blades held straight out before him.

Light burst over his shoulder and a sudden thrust of power pushed him a good two paces forward. The beast veered off, slamming to a halt, warily eyeing not Dancer, but something behind him. Dancer straightened, backing up. A deep thrumming of power now vibrated the sands beneath his feet and he called over it, ‘Open?’

‘Ah … nearly,’ came the hesitant answer.

Oh, for the love of Oponn!

The beast had recovered from its surprise and was now edging forward, though still wary. Clearly it did not want to go bursting through a gate.

Dancer wove his blades, slashing at it, trying to force it back. Its haunches, he noted, came up almost to his own shoulders. It snapped at his blades as he slashed, but only half-heartedly; its attention, he noted, was fixed past his shoulder, on the gate beyond.

It was almost as if the creature was … fearful? No, not of the gate itself – of what might come through it.

Without taking his gaze from the massive beast, he called over his shoulder, ‘Kellanved! Perhaps this thing was sealed for a reason … Maybe we shouldn’t—’

‘Ha! Got it!’

A blossoming of power pushed Dancer from behind like a giant’s hand. The gigantic beast also flinched, snarling, down upon its forepaws. Dancer found himself eye to eye with the titanic thing. Its gaze was hot and lusting, but held more than just blind animal instinct; he thought he saw intelligence within the eyes. A kind of reasoning and cunning. Just what were these things?

A hand took hold of his collar, drew him backwards. He retreated, on guard, but the hound did not press its advantage; it appeared content to allow them to go – so long as they were leaving.

Plain guardians then? Set upon the borders? Or just fiercely territorial? Would he ever understand this mystery?

‘This way,’ Kellanved shouted. His words were almost drowned out by the steady deep waterfall thrumming. Dancer dared one quick glimpse over his shoulder and saw that the gate was indeed active now: its centre was cloudy, opaque. He could no longer see through it.

‘What now?’ he shouted back.

‘We, ah, jump through, I suppose.’

‘You don’t know?’ he yelled. ‘You’re supposed to be the expert!’

‘Well, I’ve never done anything like this before, have I!’

Dancer noted the hound’s sky-blue eyes narrowing, its haunches lowering and tightening. It seemed that with no monster worthy of its respect emerging from the gate it was running out of patience.

‘You go now,’ he called. ‘I’ll cover.’

‘Oh fine! Send me through first!’

Irritated beyond belief, Dancer almost turned his back on the crouched beast. ‘Would you just go through now!’

‘Well, if you’re going to be like that about it,’ Kellanved sniffed.

The beast’s rear claws now clenched at the sands for purchase. Dancer spun, saw Kellanved standing with hand on chin still studying the arch, and summarily planted a boot to his rear and pushed him through.

The mage’s yelp of surprise and protest was cut off as he disappeared within the clouded milky opaqueness.

Dancer leapt after him even as he heard the jarring clash of teeth closing upon the air just behind.

* * *

The beast remained crouched before the gate for a time, jaws upon its forepaws, patient and waiting. Eventually, however, with nothing forthcoming, it lost interest – or another summoning beckoned – and it loped off across the hills, howling.

Watching from its hilltop, the night-dark creature threw open its broad wings and took flight. It wafted over the sullen featureless skies of Shadow, scudding low across the landscape, until it found what it sought: a lone figure marking a solitary path through the barrens.

It landed before the scarecrow-thin walker, who came to a halt. To all appearances it resembled an ambulatory corpse. Mummified leather-like skin clung to wind- and sun-greyed bone peeping out behind rusted and tattered ancient armour. A single weapon hung at its waist, rusted and blunted.

The desiccated corpse tilted its eyeless face to regard the flying creature. After a time it asked in a breathless whisper, ‘Yes?’

‘Those poachers have returned,’ the bat-like thing hissed, somehow conveying disapproval and impatience. ‘They escaped the hounds.’

‘So?’

It hopped on its tiny clawed feet, clearly agitated. ‘They are meddling! They have opened a gate into the Scarred Lands.’

‘That is outside my purview.’

The creature fairly leapt into the air. ‘What? Purview? They trespass! Vandalize! Fall upon them and rend them bone from bone!’

‘No.’

‘No? It is what you do. None have defeated you! Exult in your supremacy, Edgewalker!’

‘You have no idea what it is I do, Koro.’

‘Faugh! Your passivity is infuriating! If you will not act then at least set Telorast and Curdle upon them.’

‘No.’

‘No?’ the creature fairly squawked. ‘No? Why ever not?’

‘Because I do not want them eaten. Not yet, in any case.’

Koro hopped in animated circles. ‘Bah! Do you guard or not?’

‘I do – in my own manner.’

‘Infuriating!’ And Koro leapt into the air.

‘Do not interfere,’ the skeletal figure called after it. ‘Save at my order.’

The creature flapped away, though its torn membranous wings did not appear in any way adequate to keep it aloft.

The desiccated corpse, Edgewalker, regarded the flat umber horizon in the direction of the gate to the Scarred Lands. It adjusted the hang of the sheathed sword at its side, dust sifting from the cracked leather belt, and continued its slow limping walk.

* * *

Dancer fell into what felt like a heap of ash. Sooty black dust that marked him like charcoal. To one side Kellanved sat coughing. Dancer stood and faced the gate, weapons raised.

‘It will not pursue us,’ Kellanved said, his voice hoarse.

‘Why not?’

‘I believe because it has not been summoned.’

‘We didn’t summon them before.’

Kellanved slapped the dust from his chest and sleeves. ‘Oh, we did! By invoking Shadow.’

Dancer eased his stance. ‘Ah. I see.’ He turned a full circle. Gentle rolling hills all round, bare, wind-blown, with scarves of ash and dust masking the distances. ‘Another garden spot you’ve managed to find for us. Why couldn’t it be an orchard, or a vineyard?’

Kellanved tapped his walking stick in the dirt. ‘Don’t blame me. All this is the legacy of ancient war, violence, and curses.’ He nodded to himself as he examined the blasted hillsides. ‘Yes. Curses. They linger even now.’

‘Are we safe?’

The little mage blinked, distracted. ‘What? Safe? Oh yes. Provided nothing from the period that produced this desolation should find us.’ He pointed his stick. ‘This way, I believe.’

Dancer set off with him, though every direction appeared the same. ‘How can you tell?’

Kellanved pointed. ‘I sense something over there. Some sort of disruption. Something perhaps impinging into the Warren here.’

Dancer shoved his blades home in his baldrics. ‘Well, let’s hope it’s not too much of a disruption.’

They walked on. Dancer had no idea how much time passed, or how far they’d travelled. All the landscape ran together into one indistinguishable wasteland of blackened earth and blowing ash and dust. It left a taste of acrid smoke in his mouth, stung his eyes, and tricked his ears with faint ghostly brushings and moans.

He wondered if the place was haunted and decided it probably was.

After a time something changed ahead; some sort of haze blurred the distant hillsides, as of a dust storm. It appeared to be heading their way, like a moving curtain of darkness.

The two men slowed, then halted. ‘What is it?’ Dancer asked.

‘I do not know – but it isn’t natural, I assure you of that.’

‘Nothing here is natural.’ He drew out a handkerchief and tied it over his lower face.

Kellanved watched, amused. ‘It is not that sort of storm. It is like a storm among Warrens. We must be passing over a bizarre region.’ Dancer glimpsed the faint rippling about him that betrayed his raised Warren.

Dust and sand now buffeted them and the Dal Hon frowned. ‘This isn’t normal.’

Dancer turned his back to the wind. ‘Of course it isn’t!’

Kellanved shielded his eyes. ‘No. I mean it should be one or the other. Magical or natural – not both.’

‘Both?’

‘Yes. I—’ He broke off, raised his hands to his face and stared at them. He looked to Dancer, his eyes huge with dread. ‘Oh no…’

‘What is it?’ Dancer studied his own hands: dust coated them, a fine rust-red powder.

The little mage let out a wordless cry and staggered off into the shifting curtains of sand. Dancer chased after him, calling, ‘What is it?’

Lightning crackled like enormous releases of static sparks. Shadows whipped about like wind-tossed scraps. Dancer glimpsed Kellanved at the centre of this weird storm. The mage was spinning, his arms thrown wide, and he appeared to be slowly rising. The tatters of shadow seemed to be either emerging from him or eating into him; Dancer couldn’t tell which. ‘What is it?’ he yelled again, desperate.

A voice called from behind and Dancer spun; a stocky figure was advancing through the dust storm, one arm over his face, the other pointing past Dancer. ‘Knock him out!’ he bellowed. ‘Take him down before he kills us all!’

Dancer charged Kellanved, drawing a heavy knife as he did so. The lad had risen so far Dancer had to leap to reach him; he swung, blade reversed, and smacked him across the back of the head. Kellanved fell in a heap, unconscious. Dancer pressed a hand to his neck – alive, but weak.

The winds began to drop. The choking sand and fine ochre-red dust came sifting down in great long hissing banners. Seven figures emerged from the murk, all with crossbows aimed. The man who had called to Dancer closed, drawing a rag from his face; he was sunburned and grimy, in dusty, scuffed, much-repaired leather armour. Dancer drew two weapons and stood over Kellanved.

‘Alive, eh?’ the newcomer grunted. ‘Might as well finish him. Trust me, it would be a mercy.’

‘What happened?’

The fellow pointed to Kellanved. ‘He’s a mage, hey? Had his Warren raised, right? Any fool knows better than to step on to the Otataral Desert with their Warren up. His mind’s gone now. Best just to slit his throat.’

‘Touch him and I’ll kill you.’

The fellow considered Dancer for a time. ‘Fine. But I ain’t carrying him.’ He gestured. ‘This way.’

Dancer picked Kellanved up in his arms and headed in the indicated direction. The crossbowmen surrounded him while the spokesman followed. ‘Where are we?’ Dancer asked over his shoulder.

‘I done just told you. The Otataral Desert.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Land of the Seven Holy Cities. Hearda that?’

‘Yes, I’ve heard of it.’ From what Dancer could remember of the rough geography he had been taught, the lands of the Seven Holy Cities lay far to the north of the Falari archipelago, which itself lay north of Quon Tali. They had somehow wandered – or been brought – very far indeed. He wondered how on earth they would ever return; especially if Kellanved’s mind had been destroyed.

The party crossed several steep dunes, passed between cliffs of bare layered rock, and emerged on to a plateau hardpan. Ahead stood a ragged palisade of standing logs. ‘What’s this?’ Dancer asked, rather disappointed.

‘Welcome to Skullcup mine,’ the guide announced, indicating a heavy gate set in the palisade.

‘Really? What do you mine?’

The fellow’s cracked lips crooked. ‘A rare ore.’

The gate opened and Dancer was escorted through. He saw now that the palisade was huge, encompassing a large open-face pit. Far down at the base of the sloping sides, cave tunnels led off into darkness. Huts and barracks stood between the palisade and the pit edge.

‘Do your friend a favour and leave him here,’ his guide said. ‘We’ll give him a decent burial.’

‘No. What’s your name, anyway?’

‘Call me Puller. Now, put your friend down and hand over all your gear.’

Dancer set Kellanved down and straightened, his hands loose at his sides. ‘And if I don’t?’

Puller glanced to the surrounding crossbowmen. ‘Then we stick you fulla bolts and take it anyway.’

Dancer tilted his head to acknowledge the logic in that. He began unbuckling his baldrics. It broke his heart to have to hand over all his weapons, but he told himself he’d have them all back in a few days – when he escaped.

Having dropped all his own gear, he set to handing over Kellanved’s. The saddlebags were gone already, lost in the storm. The men collected the gear, then Puller motioned him towards a narrow dirt ramp that ran down into the pit below. Dancer picked up Kellanved and headed down.

Before he reached the bottom a crowd had gathered at the base of the ramp. They were a ragged, malnourished bunch of older men and women; Dancer judged that he could take them all down if push came to shove.

One squat, muscular fellow pushed to the front. He jerked a thumb at Kellanved. ‘What happened to him?’

‘Had his Warren up when he landed here.’

Every man and woman facing Dancer winced. This fellow shook his bald sun-darkened head. ‘Best to let him go, lad. Ain’t no hope.’

‘I’ll keep watch over him. If you don’t mind.’

The squat fellow rubbed a hand over his sweaty pate. ‘Well, truth is, we do mind. We’re labour here. Everyone has to make their quota in ore. No quota, no food. Understand?’

‘I’ll make it for both of us.’

The man snorted. ‘No need to ruin your health. He’ll be dead in a few days, I guarantee it. Or he’ll awaken with no mind at all.’

‘That’s my problem.’

The man’s already slit eyes narrowed. ‘See that it remains so. What’s your name?’

‘Dancer.’ The fellow snorted his disbelief. ‘Yours?’

The man gave a hungry, almost brutal grin. ‘Call me Hairlock.’

Dancer glanced at the man’s bald head, and snorted in turn. Then he hefted Kellanved, asking, ‘Is there a hut or a cave we can use?’

The gathered men and women wandered off, too beaten down and starved to manage any sustained curiosity. Hairlock pointed to a wall of the pit where shallow alcoves had been carved from the soft rock, some of which were closed off by hanging flaps of tattered cloth. Dancer cast one last glance back up the ramp, thinking: Sorry, Surly, and made for the line of caves.

* * *

Cartheron, Surly, Urko and Shrift stood in a line at the edge of a pier and studied the Twisted. Seeing it up close, Cartheron was even more horrified by the ship’s dilapidated state. Barnacles clung in a thick layer along the waterline.

‘Look at this,’ Urko announced. ‘Proof that shit really does float.’

‘It’s not so bad,’ Shrift objected.

‘How so?’

‘It’s floating.’

Surly looked to Cartheron; he noted that she was being careful to mask her own reaction. ‘You’re in charge. I want it hauled up and repaired.’

Cartheron rubbed the back of his neck, almost wincing at the mountain of work ahead. ‘We’ll have to replace rotten planks, recaulk, recoat the hull, repair the decking, replace all the canvas … where’s the coin going to come from for all that work?’

‘We’ll squeeze it out of our holdings.’

That will take some squeezing, Cartheron reflected. ‘There could be trouble.’

‘I don’t care. This is our ticket off this wretched island. Fix it.’

‘All right … I’ll see about getting it hauled up.’

She turned to his brother. ‘Urko, you and Shrift stand guard here day and night. I don’t want anyone interfering.’

Urko grunted his assent. ‘Well, they sure as the Abyss ain’t gonna set fire to it.’

‘See that they don’t.’ Surly walked off and Cartheron followed just far enough for some privacy.

‘Any word from our erstwhile employers?’

She halted. ‘No.’

‘Any idea when they’re comin’ back?’

‘No.’ She hesitated, her thin lips compressed. Finally, she let out a breath, saying, ‘They might not come back at all.’

Cartheron raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? What in the world’re they doing?’

‘Judging from them? Either murdering someone or stealing something.’

Cartheron cleared his throat. ‘Ah. I see. So, what do we do?’

‘Just continue on and ignore them.’

He rubbed the back of his neck once more. ‘Well, okay. But how do we know whether—’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she cut in. ‘Just do what you have to do.’ And she left him.

He watched her go and slowly shook his head. Everyone else might be relaxing their attitude towards rank now that they were so far from the Napan palace, but, understandably, it was much harder for her. He returned to his brother who was still studying the vessel, hand on chin.

‘I don’t want to be seen on this piece of crap,’ Urko finally announced.

‘Wear a hat,’ Shrift suggested.

‘We’ll need a team of horses to haul this up,’ Cartheron said neutrally.

‘No horses on this island,’ Urko grumbled.

‘Donkeys, then. Or asses.’

‘Plenty of them about.’

Shrift choked out a laugh then leapt round, drawing her sword and eyeing the piled cargo behind them.

Urko and Cartheron shifted, wary. ‘What is it?’ Urko asked.

‘Thought I heard something…’ She edged towards the heaped barrels, rope-tied bales of provender, and great wide-bellied baskets woven of sisal. ‘In here!’ she yelled, kicking a barrel.

A hairy creature exploded from the barrel, making Shrift scream in surprise. Urko cursed, ducking, and Cartheron flinched away. The thing bounded to the side of the pier and in an instant was up and over the side of the Twisted.

‘What was that?’ Shrift gasped, a hand at her throat.

‘No idea,’ Urko supplied; then he studied her. ‘Did you just actually scream?’

‘Shut up! It surprised me, okay?’

Cartheron was scratching his chin. ‘I think I saw that beast hanging round our employer’s quarters.’

Shrift’s eyes widened. ‘You mean like a familiar? A daemon of some kind?’

‘Maybe.’

The woman pulled up an amulet that was hanging round her neck and pressed it to her forehead in a warding gesture against evil and ill-luck.

Urko just snorted. ‘Looks like our employer’s claimed his property.’

Privately, Cartheron agreed. ‘Let’s keep up the story that it’s haunted – that’ll keep everyone away.’

‘But it is haunted,’ Shrift said.

Cartheron rubbed his forehead in exasperation. ‘I told you…’

She was shaking her head, her hand gripping and regripping the worn leather handle of her longsword. ‘No way – that ship’s cursed. Plain as day.’

He threw out his arms. ‘Fine. Whatever. Doesn’t matter.’

‘Matters to me,’ Shrift muttered under her breath. Urko nodded his agreement.

Cartheron waved them off. ‘Let’s go. I have to find some asses – other than you two.’

Walking ahead of them, he heard Urko say to Shrift, ‘Lots of asses on this island.’

‘I’ll say,’ she answered. ‘They’ve overrun the place.’

* * *

The island of Seven Ruins south of the peninsula that arched from the horn of the continent of Genabackis didn’t have a permanent settlement in the usual sense. Its one town wasn’t truly a functioning community; just a collection of huts and shacks atop cliffs above a set of piers which serviced the deep-water harbour that was the real reason anyone ever stopped at Seven Ruins.

Which was widely known to be the second most haunted island in the region.

Lars Jindrift was sitting in the one open tavern, Funal’s the Full Sail, when the stranger entered. He heard him before he entered: he didn’t walk like any other resident or visitor to the island. His footsteps were slow, heavy, and firm, quite unlike the drunken stagger or wary beaten-down shuffle of most of those who found their way here.

Such as himself. Though it was all the fault of that laughing minx. How was he to know she’d survive like that? She shouldn’t have been out alone; it was all her damned fault for trying to yell for help – and for leading him on, of course.

This newcomer, however, trod the dry boards with firm and heavy conviction. When he entered everyone looked up: everyone being Lars; the innkeep, Funal; seven crew members from the three corsair vessels that happened to be laying over for repairs and supplies; and the notorious murderer, Shorty Bower.

The stranger – a great novelty on Seven Ruins Island in itself – was an old man with a lean face ravaged by age and scars. His hair and beard were long and ragged, and iron-grey. Even his eyes shone a sort of pale pewter. But most arresting was his habit; from some ancient hoard or pit the fellow had got hold of the most archaic armour imaginable. A long coat of fine-mesh mail covered him, dragging in ragged ends to the floor, where armoured boots peeped out. The cuffs likewise draped down over his wiry age-crooked hands.

A ridiculously huge two-handed chunk of iron at his side completed the costume.

Everyone stared at the apparition.

Lars was wondering: Where’d he come from? No other vessel had dropped anchor in days.

The fellow studied the room and everyone present, then looked to Funal and mimed raising a drink to his mouth. Funal blinked as he recovered from his astonishment and drew a stoneware mug of ale. The fellow’s face almost lost its scowl as he drank it down. He handed the mug back to Funal, and, in a clash of rustling mail and articulating iron boots, he approached the main table where most of the sailors were seated. They all peered up at him, curious.

‘I require transportation off this island,’ he said in a thick, strange accent.

The corsairs exchanged amused glances. One cleared his throat, sitting back, ‘We’re not a ferry service, old man.’

‘I will pay.’

The corsair’s lips twisted up in a half-sneer. ‘As I said – we are not for hire.’

The newcomer dug at his belt and came away with a leather pouch, which he held out over the table and upended. A glittering cascade of flashing rubies, emeralds and sapphires fell bouncing and clattering across the table in a display of the greatest treasure hoard Lars had ever seen or expected to see. Everyone in the alehouse stared, completely frozen, open-mouthed, enthralled.

‘All this goes to the vessel which transports me,’ said the man.

Torreth, of the Bright Spear, slid his narrowed gaze over to Grace of the Striker, who dropped a hand down to the horn-handled knife at her belt.

Patch of the Tempest suddenly swept a hand across the table in an effort to snatch up a swath of the gems. Dim of the Striker slammed a knife through Patch’s hand, pinning it to the table. Grace slashed at Torreth but he blocked her arm then grasped her throat. Patch yanked the blade from his hand and thrust at Dim who threw himself back so violently that he toppled backwards. Stinkfoot of the Bright Spear kicked him in the head.

Meanwhile, Shorty Bower, being a wanted murderer, had obviously reasoned that the stranger must be filthy rich and so leapt on to his back and attempted to draw a knife across his throat. The stranger somehow snapped up a hand to block the slash, grasped Bower’s arm, and in a display of astonishing strength tossed him across the room.

The table was kicked over, gems flying in a glittering rain, and the corsairs fell into a free-for-all, fists pummelling and knives slashing. Behind the bar, Funal, rightly blaming the stranger for the disturbance – or perhaps reasoning like Bower that he was damned rich – raised a crossbow and shot him.

The bolt glanced from the fine-mail coat; the stranger grunted, was knocked back a half-step, then closed on Funal, grasped his head, and slammed him face first down against the bar. Funal slid from sight behind the bar, leaving behind a bright red smear of blood.

Bower had somehow produced a long curved sword honed down to a sickle, what some might call a falchion, and came at the man, screaming. He was not notorious for nothing.

The fellow drew the comically huge two-handed blade at his side and proceeded to somehow parry Bower’s frenzy of slashing, thrusting attacks. Lars was amazed that the man could move the gigantic bar of iron so deftly; but perhaps the widely spaced hands on its long grip gave him the leverage necessary.

Of the corsairs, Grace of the Striker and Tampoor of the Tempest now circled one another. Both bled from countless minor wounds; both panted, exhausted.

The stranger flicked his heavy blade in such a way that it drove Bower’s falchion aside, then thrust. The archaic weapon actually held a point, and a good third of the iron was driven through the murderer’s torso and out his back. Shorty fell to his knees. The man raised an armoured boot to his chest and pushed to yank the blade free.

Tampoor had a hand pressed to his neck, bright blood flowing between his fingers and down his forearm to drip from his elbow. He was slowing, every breath a gurgle. Grace stalked him, switching her blade from hand to hand as she closed, backing him into a corner. Trapped, his back up against a wall, he snarled a wet ‘Damn you!’ and lunged. Grace blocked his weak slash and thrust her blade home in his chest. He fell and she bent over him.

Lars stepped up behind Grace and, two-handed, slammed his long-knife into her back. She sagged on to Tampoor.

The stranger was cleaning his blade on Bower’s clothes. Lars fell to his hands and knees and set to snatching up the gems. Wounded corsairs clutched at him for help but he slapped their weak efforts aside.

‘With what vessel do you serve, sailor?’ the stranger asked.

Lars thought quickly. ‘With none at this time, lord. But I will negotiate with any of your choosing for passage. Which do you wish?’

‘The most seaworthy.’

Lars rolled Torreth over to get at the gems beneath him. The man grasped at him with bloodied hands, but he pushed him aside. ‘Ah, that would be the Tempest, lord.’

‘Very good. You will secure passage for me.’

‘At once.’

The fellow’s armoured boots stamped the floorboards as he headed to the door. Lars scrambled round the bar, stepped over the dying Funal, and snatched up his cashbox. ‘Coming, lord!’ he called. Running, he caught up with the stranger and gestured ahead. ‘This way.’

‘I know the way,’ the man answered, sounding amused.

Strangely, as they walked, Lars noted that the track of the fellow’s incoming footsteps did not trace a route up from the waterfront as he had assumed. Rather, the distinctive trail led down from the island heights, which was strange as the only things up there were the ruins for which the island was named. There, so legend had it, had lain the capital and cenotaph of the ancient warlord who had terrorized all south Genabackis centuries ago. This island had been his fortress stronghold, and the ferocious cataclysms of those wars had given birth to the much-storied martial orders of Elingarth.

Far below, down the switchback trail that climbed the shore cliffs, lay the three corsair vessels anchored in the deep blue waters of the sheltered natural harbour.

‘And where are you headed, great lord?’ Lars asked, thinking of the astounding wealth now nestled down his shirt, hard and now warmed against his stomach. ‘Elingarth? Darujhistan?’

The man lifted his lean, knife-sharp profile to the sky and frowned even harder behind his iron-grey moustache and long ragged beard. ‘West,’ he judged, eyeing that direction. ‘Something happened in the west.’

Lars scampered along behind the man. ‘Ah, yes, m’lord. And … your name?’

The fellow glanced back and stood still for some time, making Lars extremely uncomfortable with his eerie dead-eyed stare. Finally, he ground out, ‘My name is Kallor. Does this mean anything to you?’

Lars shook his head. ‘No, m’lord. Should it?’

The man slowly turned his head away and continued onward down the narrow rocky path. After a while, Lars heard him mutter, as if to himself, ‘Time is the most merciless destroyer of all.’