The two men departed.
Toras Redone coughed, and then asked, ‘Did I dismiss them?’
In every way imaginable, sir. ‘I would depart too, sir, to oversee the preparations of my cohorts.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘as I am too far gone to even fuck right now.’
Without your will or your leave, Toras, there is nothing I could find to make love to. It may seem a fragile agreement, with you sodden most of the time, but I will hold to it nonetheless.
He waited a moment longer, if she would speak again, but then saw that her eyes had closed, her breaths now slow and deep.
The commander cannot see you now, as she communes with her jug of tears, with not a drop spilled to the world.
* * *
‘The ways of the Tiste,’ muttered Hataras Raze, her level blue gaze fixed upon the encampment ahead. ‘They scurry like ants upon a kicked nest. Each one a child to the world.’
‘Soldiers the worst,’ said Vastala Trembler, who now walked holding Listar’s left hand, while he gripped the lead for the horses with his right. The feel of her warm palm against his own was strangely miraculous, a gift undeserved, and he still did not know what to make of it. Earlier in the day, it had been Hataras walking close at his side, her fingers brushing his forearm on occasion, or resting on his hip. There seemed to be few barriers in the sensibilities of the Dog-Runners.
His eyes were not as sharp as theirs and it was a few moments before he made out the bustle of activity in the camp ahead. ‘They’re preparing to march,’ he said. ‘We’re just in time.’ He glanced at Vastala. ‘What did you mean, soldiers were the worst?’
‘Our children play the hunt. To learn the ways. But once the first blood is on their hands, they stop play. They meet the eyes of the hunt as adults, not children.’
‘Cruel necessity,’ said Hataras, nodding. ‘To give thanks to the spirit of the slain beast seeks to silence the terrible guilt within the hunter.’
Listar nodded. ‘I have heard of such practices. Among the Deniers.’
Vastala grunted. ‘Such gratitude is real,’ she said, ‘but if the hunter remains a child inside, the guilt is false. Only a hunter who is grown to an adult inside can understand the burden of such guilt. And knows that no animal spirit is appeased by its slayer’s gratitude.’
Hataras stepped ahead to twist round and study Listar as they walked. ‘A wolf drags you down, Punished Man, and begins to feed on you before your last breath. Its tail wags in gratitude. Tell me, are you appeased? Do you forgive with your last breath? Do you now see,’ she continued, ‘the delusion of the hunter?’
‘But soldiers—’
Vastala’s hand tightened its grip. ‘Soldiers! They blunt their guilt for every life taken. Their souls bear desperate shields, deflecting every threat away from themselves and towards their leader, king, queen, god or goddess. The one who demands of them the spilling of blood. In defence. Or conquest. Or punishment.’
‘Or disbelief,’ added Hataras. ‘Death to the faithless for the misguided Deniers.’
‘Children inside,’ Vastala said dismissively. ‘Guilt a lie. Wrongness made righteous. Lies to the self, lies to all others, lies to the god worshipped, lies to the children to come. Soldiers play, in the name of goddess or god, king or queen. In the name of generations to come. In the name of all but the true name.’
Hataras gestured ahead. ‘The child self. Cruel without necessity. Cruelty that tastes of pleasure. Such exists among hunters whom we have failed. Such exists among soldiers.’
They were drawing closer. Listar prised his hand loose from Vastala’s grip, felt the cold bite of its absence. ‘And criminals,’ he muttered under his breath.
‘So,’ said Hataras, ‘to the ritual. Dog-Runners do not abide adults who stay children inside. We force truths upon them. To draw aside the veil, this is what we will do.’
‘I told you of the woman, Rance.’
‘Yes, Punished Man. We will examine her.’
‘Be warned,’ interjected Vastala, ‘some things we cannot heal. Some things need to be cut away. Sometimes the one lives, sometimes it dies.’
‘Our captains wish you to begin with her,’ said Listar. ‘And they wish your ritual to be witnessed by all in the camp.’
Vastala smiled. ‘We are to perform. Good. Dog-Runners not shy.’
‘Indeed,’ Listar replied, recalling the night just past.
Vastala drew close to him again and peered into his face, and then she nodded. ‘Hataras, you spoke true. Our children will bear the tilt of his eyes. Our children will carry within them the promise of a life beyond the fate of the Dog-Runners. So. It is an even exchange.’
The notion that he had planted the seeds of children in these two women made Listar flinch. He forced his thoughts away, telling himself that such things could not yet be known, and that their words of payment – for the ritual to come – could not be weighed in flesh and blood.
Ahead, soldiers stationed at the pickets had seen them, and while one set off to deliver the news, others began gathering from the camp, drawn out to the defensive line by curiosity, or, perhaps, boredom.
‘I think,’ said Listar, ‘the secret’s out.’
‘No Azathanai hide in yonder camp,’ said Hataras. ‘Good. They are obsessed with secrets.’
Listar frowned at her. ‘You can sense their presence?’
Both women nodded. ‘We have learned this talent,’ said Vastala.
‘By tasting the fires of the hearth, the breath of smoke.’
‘By lapping the valley between Mother’s legs.’
‘Tellanas,’ Hataras said, nodding again. ‘Sorcery is the snake eating its own tail. It looks upon itself and in looking it devours, and in devouring, it grows. So the magic attends an endless feast. Our goddess Mother is trapped in a circle of herself. But we Bonecasters, we dance.’
For all their bluntness, these two women often confounded Listar. He had no understanding of this magic of which they spoke. To him, the Azathanai were half-legendary figures, not quite obscure enough for him to disbelieve in their existence, yet vague enough in details to lend him scepticism regarding their exploits. They straddled a line of veracity, and until tales of the one named T’riss, and her curses uttered in the Citadel of Kharkanas, reached Listar, he had given little thought to the Azathanai. Builders. Gift givers.
And, it now seems, meddlers.
‘If they would be gods,’ he now said, as the guards ahead waved them forward, ‘why not reveal such? Why hide their power?’
‘Worship is vulnerability,’ replied Hataras. ‘See how we dance around Mother? We are her weakness, even as she is ours.’
‘Worse yet,’ added Vastala, ‘they too are children inside. Players of games.’
Listar squinted, seeing Wareth and Rebble now, the two men pushing their way through the small crowd awaiting them. It is strange, to call these two my friends. And yet, they are. The coward and the bully. But I wonder, how much courage does it take to live with your fear? And how vast is Rebble’s heart, to cast so kind an eye upon those of us who are weak? We too readily judge and then dismiss.
But I think it is not Rance who should fear most what is to come. It is Wareth.
* * *
‘Listar looks different,’ said Rebble, tugging at his fingers to make the knuckles pop. ‘Younger.’
Wareth nodded. Or, perhaps, no longer so old. ‘Then they may have worked on him already,’ he said.
Rebble grunted. ‘By how they hover around him, I’d say there was truth in your words, Wareth. Worked on him, hah.’
‘I meant the ritual.’
‘I meant sex.’
‘Yes, well. I suppose word’s already reached Prazek and Dathenar, but why don’t you make sure, and see that Rance is escorted into the centre of the parade ground. That’s how they want this to proceed.’
‘Assuming those witches will do as asked.’ Rebble paused. ‘Whatever that is, and damned if I have a clue.’
‘Nor I, to be honest. As for these Bonecasters agreeing to it, well, they’re here, aren’t they?’
Grunting, Rebble stepped forward. ‘Listar! Welcome back! Bring ’em in to the middle of the parade ground.’ Then he turned about, grinned enigmatically at Wareth, and set off back into the camp.
Wareth studied the two Dog-Runners. For all their blunt, stolid forms, there was a sensuality about them, and in their manner of moving, and their gestures, he wondered if they were sisters. Still, they seem young to be powerful witches.
Listar handed the reins of the trailing horses to a nearby soldier and then walked up to Wareth. For a moment, it seemed that the man contemplated closing with an embrace, but at the last instant he halted, and nodded awkwardly. ‘Lieutenant.’ He glanced to one of the Bonecasters who now moved past him to stare up into Wareth’s eyes. ‘Ah, this is Hataras Raze. And here, Vastala Trembler. Bonecasters of the Logros clan of the Dog-Runners.’
Hataras reached out and rested one thick, calloused forefinger against Wareth’s chest. ‘This one, the coward?’
‘So he calls himself,’ Listar replied.
She pushed Wareth back a step with that stiff finger, and then, moving past, said, ‘Bah. We are all cowards, until we are not. Now, where is the tormented woman?’
‘Take your pick,’ a feminine voice offered from the crowd.
Hataras grinned. ‘Good!’
Another woman spoke, ‘You here to kill all the men?’
Vastala replied, ‘In a way, yes!’
Listar scowled, and then turned to Vastala. ‘Please, no more of Dog-Runner humour. Come along, we’re to head to the centre of the camp.’
‘Have the soldiers encircle us there,’ Hataras said, continuing on.
‘I think that is the plan,’ Listar replied, his gaze now searching Wareth with some confusion.
But Wareth was unable to respond. We are all cowards, until we are not. The words thundered through him, as did the easy dismissal with which she had uttered them. He wanted to turn, to set off after Hataras Raze, to demand more from her. Do you offer me hope? A rebirth? If cowardice only before now, then when and how its end? What side of me still hides? Where, in myself, have I not already crawled, or cowered, or searched?
Do not offer me such words! Do not leave me with them, damn you!
The crowd had parted, and closed in again to form an informal escort as the Bonecasters made their way into the camp, Listar lingering between them and Wareth.
‘Sir?’
‘C-can they do this, Listar?’
After a long moment, Listar nodded, and said, ‘Mother help us all.’
* * *
Galar Baras scowled at Prazek, and then Dathenar. ‘You are both addled,’ he said. The three of them stood just outside the command tent. A moment later he waved away the soldier who’d delivered the news of Listar’s return. Stepping close to Prazek, he said, ‘This is madness. We are Tiste Andii. Children of Mother Dark. To bring in foreign witches—’
‘Children we may be,’ Prazek cut in, ‘but of the Hust, not Mother Dark.’
‘Be not deceived by the cast of the skin,’ Dathenar added. ‘That was a summary blessing. The Hust iron now claims these men and women, and it bridles with newborn power. Sorcery and witchery, a dance of the unknown, yet we would face it. We would grasp it. We would make it our own.’
Galar Baras shook his head. ‘The commander will not sanction this.’
‘Our commander lies insensate to the world,’ Prazek retorted.
‘A singular proclamation,’ said Dathenar, ‘to embrace all manner of leader and politician. Waters made opaque by unsecured belief and misapprehension, to which dear Toras Redone has splashed a sampling of sour wine. We meet her inebriation with indifference, deeming it irrelevant to the failures implicit among all who would rule us.’
‘Mother Dark,’ said Prazek, scratching at his beard, ‘made no distinction in her blessing, and now leaves the skin to will its hue, as befits each man’s and each woman’s mercurial moods. This is a wavering faith, a host of questions devoid of stipulation.’
‘The Hust Legion,’ said Dathenar, ‘requires more than that. Manic blades and moaning armour will not suffice. The shared residue of pits and picks, shackles and groaning carts, of crimes snared and punishments binding, all prove insufficient to our need.’
Galar could now see a knot of figures entering the parade square, while from all sides, soldiers had abandoned their preparations for the march and were drawing closer in a rough, jostling ring. Swords bickered in scabbards. Chain and scales muttered incessantly. Dark faces remained expressionless.
Overhead, the sky was pale and dull, a formless white stretched across the heavens. A hint of warmth rode the soft winds from the south. The day seemed to slump, heavy feet rooted to the still frozen ground. Sounds were dying away, one by one, like unfinished thoughts.
He watched as the two Dog-Runner witches emerged from an unbidden divide among the soldiers, heading towards Rebble who now stood with Sergeant Rance at his side. The bearded man was gripping Rance’s left arm. Frowning, Galar Baras swung to Prazek. ‘Is that woman to be their sacrifice? I cannot permit—’
‘No blood will be spilled,’ Prazek said.
‘How do you know?’
‘Not the Dog-Runner way,’ Dathenar said. ‘Join us, Galar Baras. Stand in your commander’s stead. You need neither condone nor bless. We shall witness, and in witnessing, partake. Alas, what finds us on this day may well fail in penetrating our commander’s present state of unconsciousness.’
‘Unfortunate,’ muttered Prazek, ‘that the one who, perhaps, needs healing the most, has inadvertently excused herself. But then, who could have predicted the timing of this?’
‘Sergeant Rance,’ said Dathenar to Galar Baras, ‘has been killing men in the camp. And yet the woman you see yonder is in fact innocent, though the blood stains her hands.’
‘What riddle is this?’
‘Another hides within her, Galar Baras. One adept with sorcery, and yet consumed by the madness of murder.’
‘What will these witches do to her?’
‘We don’t know.’
Galar Baras stared at Dathenar, and then at Prazek. ‘And our soldiers are to witness all this as well? Have they not suffered enough scenes of punishment and retribution? And to now be reminded once again on the very day before we march? Gentlemen, you will see this legion torn apart!’
‘Possibly,’ Prazek conceded. ‘The manner in which we gamble defines the stakes. Win or lose, it shall be absolute.’
The two witches reached Rance, who at the last moment pulled back and would have fled if not for Rebble’s sudden, somewhat harsh intercession, as he wrapped both arms about her. Rance struggled in his grip, and then sagged as if in a faint, slipping down to the ground.
‘No,’ said Galar Baras, moving forward. ‘This is wrong.’
One of the witches knelt beside Rance, who now hung by one arm in Rebble’s grasp, her hair covering her face, as motionless as if death had taken her.
As Galar Baras drew closer, Rebble looked over and met the captain’s eyes. ‘She’s fled,’ he said. ‘Not away. Inside.’
‘Rebble, let her go.’
He released his grip and her arm flopped down.
The witch who knelt beside Rance now held up a staying hand. ‘No closer, Lover of Death.’
The title halted Galar Baras in his tracks. He was unable to speak. From the ring of soldiers surrounding the parade ground, there was now utter silence. Not a sword cackled. The chain and scale had ceased their desultory murmur. Something had come into the air, potent and febrile.
The other witch began dancing with slow steps, her naked form swaying above her broad hips. ‘Watch me!’ she cried. ‘All of you! I am Vastala Trembler, Bonecaster of the Logros! Watch me, and I will open your eyes!’
* * *
Faror Hend pushed through the ring of silent soldiers, her eyes fixed on the prone form of
Rance. Fear shortened her breath. There was nothing fair in this. Even Rebble, who had now taken two steps back from where the Bonecaster knelt over Rance, was making a mute appeal to Galar Baras who also stood nearby.
But the witch who had been dancing in a circle around Rance now began stretching her steps into an outward spiral, and some unseen power emanated from her, visibly pushing away both Rebble and Galar Baras. As Faror Hend drew nearer, she felt a pressure building against her, resisting each step. After a moment she halted, panting. The dancing woman seemed to be trembling, shivering, her form blurring as if seen through thick glass.
Rance suddenly cried out, her shriek answered by three thousand Hust swords with a fierce metallic shout. Staggering back, Faror Hend saw soldiers collapsing in the line, one after another, while others struggled, fighting against something – and now she could feel it, a slithering sensation beneath her armour, as if snakes had been loosed here. Yet, wherever she frantically reached, she felt nothing.
They are beneath my skin! She fell to her knees, desperately pulling at the straps and buckles.
* * *
An inexplicable rage filled Wareth as he pushed against the overwhelming pressure that rolled in waves from the centre of the parade ground. Whatever sorcery this was, it seeped through the armour as if it was little more than cheesecloth. It raced across his skin, and then burrowed beneath it, rushing into muscles and then bones. He was roaring his fury but could hear nothing but the deafening rush of that terrible power.
He could feel his blood thinning to water in his veins, while something else flooded through him, thick and viscous. It seemed to burn through his rage and his terror, whispering secrets he could feel but not hear.
But Rance was thrashing on the ground, her agony and torment plain to see, and he would not stop as he clawed his way towards her. The Bonecaster kneeling at her side had reached into Rance’s abdomen, as if plunging her hands through flesh, and there was blood on her forearms, clear fluids stretching like webs down from her elbows.
No woman could survive such wounds. He found he was reaching for his sword, but the blade would not pull free of the scabbard. It was howling, as if matching Rance’s pain, and yet helpless, its pealing voice shrill with frustration.