‘She died, too. And so I had a chance to, you know, talk to her. Since we found ourselves in the same place. Her problem was, she couldn’t put enough words together to make a real sentence. Not thick, much. Just inarticulate. People like that, how can you guess what’s in their mind? They can’t tell you, so the guessing stays guessing and most of the time you’re so wrong it’s pathetic. Well, we worked it out, more or less. I think. She said even less as a ghost.
‘But that’s the thing with it all, Emroth. There’s the big explosion, the white, then black, then you’re stirring awake all over again. A damned ghost with nowhere worthwhile to go, and all you’re left with is realizations and regrets. And a list of wishes longer than Hood’s—’
‘No more, Hedge of the Bridgeburners,’ Emroth interjected, the tremor of emotion in its voice. ‘I am not a fool. I comprehend this game of yours. But my memories are not for you.’
Hedge shrugged. ‘Not for you either, I gather. Gave them all away to wage war against the Jaghut. They were so evil, so dangerous, you made of yourselves your first victims. Kind of a backwards kind of vengeance, wouldn’t you say? Like you went and done their work for them. And the real joke is, they weren’t much evil or dangerous at all. Oh, maybe a handful, but those handful earned the wrath of their kin real fast – often long before you and your armies even showed up. They could police themselves just fine. They flung glaciers at you, so what did you do to defeat that? Why, you made your hearts even colder, even more lifeless than any glacier. Hood knows, that’s irony for you.’
‘I am unbound,’ Emroth said in a rasp. ‘My memories remain with me. It is these memories that have broken me.’
‘Broken?’
Another shrug. ‘Hedge of the Bridgeburners, unlike you, I remember love.’
Neither spoke for a time after that. The wind whipped bitter and dry. The crusted remnants of snow crackled underfoot in the beds of moss and lichen. On the horizon ahead there was a slate-grey ridge of some sort, angular like a massed line of toppled buildings. Above it the sky was milky white. Hedge gestured northward. ‘So, Emroth, is that it?’
The half-shattered head lifted. ‘Omtose Phellack.’
‘Really? But—’
‘We must cross it.’
‘Oh, and what lies beyond?’
The T’lan Imass halted and stared at Hedge with its withered, shadow-shrunken eyes. ‘I am not sure,’ it replied. ‘But, I now believe, it may be . . . home.’
Damn you, Emroth. You’ve just made things a lot harder.
The temple stood on a low hill, the land barren on all sides. Its huge cyclopean walls looked battered, shoved inward as if by ten thousand stone fists. Crooked fissures tracked the dark grey granite from ground level to the massive lintel stone leaning drunkenly above what had once been a grand, noble entranceway. The remnants of statues jutted from pedestals set to either side of the broad, now sagging steps.
Udinaas did not know where he was. Just another dream, or what started as a dream. Doomed, like all the others, to slide into something far worse.
And so he waited, trembling, his legs crippled, broken and lifeless beneath him – a new variation on the theme of incapacity. Bludgeoning symbol to his many flaws. The last time, he recalled, he had been squirming on the ground, limbless, a broken-backed snake. It seemed his subconscious lacked subtlety, a most bitter admission.
Unless, of course, someone or something else was sending these visitations.
And now, corpses had appeared on the stony slopes beneath the temple. Scores, then hundreds.
Tall, skin pale as the shell of turtle eggs, red-rimmed eyes set deep in elongated, chiselled faces, and too many joints on their long limbs, transforming their stiff expressions of death into something surreal, fevered – but that last detail was no surprise.
And now, a smudge of motion in the darkness beneath the lintel stone. A figure staggering into view. Unlike the dead. No, this one looked . . . human.
Splashed in blood from head to toe, the man reeled forward, halted at the top of the steps and looked round with wild, enraged eyes. Then, flinging his head back, he screamed at the colourless sky.
No words. Just fury.
Udinaas recoiled, sought to drag himself away.
And the figure saw him. One crimson, dripping hand, lifting, reaching out for him. Beckoning.
As if grasped by the throat, Udinaas lurched closer to the man, to the temple, to the cold scree of corpses. ‘No,’ he muttered, ‘not me. Choose someone else. Not me.’
‘Can you feel this grief, mortal?’
‘Not for me!’
‘But it is. You are the only one left. Are their deaths to be empty, forgotten, without meaning?’
Udinaas tried to hold on to the ground, but the stones pulled loose under his hands, the sandy soil broke free as his nails dragged furrows in his wake. ‘Find someone else!’ His shriek echoed, as if launched directly at the temple, in through the gaping entrance, and echoing within – trapped, stolen away, rebounding until it was no longer his own voice, but that of the temple itself – a mournful cry of dying, of desperate defiance. The temple, voicing its thirst.
And something shook the sky then. Lightning without fire, thunder without sound – an arrival, jarring loose the world.
The entire temple heaved sideways, clouds of dust gasping out from between mortarless joins. It was moments from collapse—
‘No!’ bellowed the figure at the top of the stairs, even as he staggered to regain his balance. ‘This one is mine! My T’orrud Segul! Look at these dead – they must be saved, delivered, they must be—’
And now another voice sounded, behind Udinaas, high, distant, a voice of the sky itself. ‘No, Errant. These dead are Forkrul Assail. Dead by your own hand. You cannot kill them to save them—’
‘Dread witch, you know nothing! They’re the only ones I can save!’
‘The curse of Elder Gods – look at the blood on your hands. It is all of your own making. All of it.’
A huge shadow swept over Udinaas then. Wheeled round.
Wind gusting, tossing tangled black hair upward from corpses, buffeting the torn fragments of their clothes; then, a sudden pressure, as of vast weight descending, and the dragon was there – between Udinaas and the Errant – long hind limbs stretching downward, claws plunging through cold bodies, crushing them in the snapping of bones as the enormous creature settled on the slope. Sinuous neck curling round, the huge head drawing closer to Udinaas, eyes of white fire.
Its voice filled his skull. ‘Do you know me?’
Argent flames rippling along the golden scales, a presence exuding incandescent heat – Forkrul Assail bodies blackened beneath her, skin crinkling, peeling back. Fats melting, popping from sudden blisters, weeping from joints.
Udinaas nodded. ‘Menandore. Sister Dawn. Rapist.’
Thick, liquid laughter. The head swung away, angled up towards the Errant. ‘This one is mine,’ she said. ‘I claimed him long ago.’
‘Claim what you like, Menandore. Before we are done here, you will give him to me. Of your own will.’
‘Indeed?’
‘As . . . payment.’
‘For what?’
‘For news of your sisters.’
She laughed again. ‘Do you imagine I don’t know?’
‘But I offer more.’ The god raised his red hands. ‘I can ensure they are removed from your path, Menandore. A simple . . . nudge.’
The dragon shifted round, regarded Udinaas once more. ‘For this one?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very well, you can have him. But not our child.’
It was the Errant’s turn to laugh. ‘When last did you visit that . . . child, Menandore?’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Only this. He is grown now. His mind is his own. Not yours, Menandore. You are warned, and this time I demand nothing in return. Elder Gods, my dear, can on occasion know mercy.’
She snorted – a gust of raw p
ower. ‘I have heard that. Fine propaganda, the morsel you feed to your starving, pathetic worshippers. This man, this father of my child, he will fail you. T’orrud Segul. He has no faith. The compassion within him is like a meer-rat in a pit of lions – dancing faster than you can see, ever but moments from annihilation. He has played with it for a long time, Errant. You will not catch it, cannot claim it, cannot bind it to your cause.’ She voiced her cruel laughter once more. ‘I took more from him than you realize.’
Including, bitch, my fear of you. ‘You think you can give me away, Menandore?’
The eyes flared with amusement or contempt or both. ‘Speak then, Udinaas, let us hear your bold claims.’
‘You both think you summoned me here, don’t you? For your stupid tug of war. But the truth is, I summoned the two of you.’
‘You are mad—’
‘Maybe so, Menandore. But this is my dream. Not yours. Not his. Mine.’
‘You fool,’ she spat. ‘Just try banishing us—’
Udinaas opened his eyes, stared up at a cold, clear night sky, and allowed himself a smile. My dream, your nightmare. He pulled the furs tighter about himself, drawing up his legs – making sure they weren’t broken. Stiffness in the knees – normal, what came of scrabbling over rock and ice – but warm with life. ‘All is well,’ he whispered.
‘Good,’ said Kettle.
Udinaas turned, looked up. She was crouched at his side. ‘Why are you awake?’ he demanded.
‘I’m not. And neither are you. That temple, it fell over. After you left.’
‘Hope it crushed the Errant flat, then.’
‘No. You’d already sent him away. Her too.’
‘But not you.’
‘No. You didn’t know I was there.’
‘All right, so I am still dreaming. What do you want?’
‘That temple. It couldn’t have held all those souls. All that grief. It was broken and that’s why it fell over. That was what you were supposed to see. So you’d understand when everything happens. And not be sad. And be able to do what he wants you to do, just not in the way he thought it would be. That’s all.’
‘Good. Now crawl back to your own dreams, Kettle.’
‘Okay. Just remember, don’t cry too soon. You have to wait.’
‘Really. How long before I do this crying?’
But she was gone.
He’d caught some damn fever from the rotting ice. Shivering and hallucinating for three – maybe four – nights now. Bizarre dreams inside dreams and on and on. Delusions of warmth, the comfort of furs not sodden with sweat, the balm of mysterious conversations where meaning wasn’t an issue. I like this life. It’s predictable. Mostly. And when it isn’t, it feels no different. I take whatever comes at me. As if each night I receive lessons in . . . in taking control.
Now it was time for the huge table heaped with all his favourite foods.
They said he was gaunt as a wraith.
But every night he ate his fill.
With the dawn light pushing the shadows into the clefts and valleys and transforming the snow-clad peaks into molten gold, Seren Pedac rose from her furs and stood, feeling grimy and dishevelled. The high altitude left her throat sore and her eyes dry, and her allergies only exasperated those conditions. Shivering in the cutting wind, she watched Fear Sengar struggling to relight the fire. Long-frozen wood was reluctant to burn. Kettle had been gathering grasses and she now squatted down beside the Tiste Edur with her offerings.
A ragged cough from where Udinaas lay still buried in furs. After a moment, he slowly sat up. Face flushed with fever, sweat on his brow, his eyes dull. He hacked out a noise Seren belatedly realized was laughter.
Fear’s head snapped round as if wasp-stung. ‘This amuses you? You’d rather another cold meal to start the day?’
Udinaas blinked over at the Tiste Edur, then shrugged and looked away.
Seren cleared her throat. ‘Whatever amused him, Fear, had nothing to do with you.’
‘Speaking for me now?’ Udinaas asked her. He tottered weakly to his feet, still wrapped in the furs. ‘This might be another dream,’ he said. ‘At any moment that white-skinned warrior perched over there might transform into a dragon. And the child Kettle will open her mouth like a door, into which Fear Sengar will plunge, devoured by his own hunger to betray.’ The flat, murky eyes fixed on Seren Pedac. ‘And you will conjure lost ages, Acquitor, as if the follies of history had any relevance, any at all.’
The whirl and snap of a chain punctuated the bizarre pronouncements.
Udinaas glanced over at Clip, and smiled. ‘And you’re dreaming of sinking your hands into a pool of blood, but not any old blood. The question is, can you manipulate events to achieve that red torrent?’
‘Your fever has boiled your brain,’ the Tiste Andii warrior said with an answering smile. He faced Silchas Ruin. ‘Kill him or leave him behind.’
Seren Pedac sighed, then said, ‘Clip, when will we begin our descent? Lower down, there will be herbs to defeat his fever.’
‘Not for days,’ he replied, spinning the chain in his right hand. ‘And even then . . . well, I doubt you’ll find what you’re looking for. Besides,’ he added, ‘what ails him isn’t entirely natural.’
Silchas Ruin, facing the trail they would climb this day, said, ‘He speaks true. Old sorcery fills this fetid air.’
‘What kind?’ Seren asked.
‘It is fragmented. Perhaps . . . K’Chain Che’Malle – they rarely used their magic in ways easily understood. Never in battle. I do recall something . . . necromantic.’
‘And is that what this is?’
‘I cannot say, Acquitor.’
‘So why is Udinaas the one afflicted? What about the rest of us?’
No-one ventured a response, barring another broken laugh from Udinaas.
Rings clacked. ‘I have made my suggestion,’ Clip said.
Again, the conversation seemed to die. Kettle walked over to stand close to Udinaas, as if conferring protection.
The small campfire was finally alight, if feebly so. Seren collected a tin pot and set out to find some clean snow, which should have been a simple enough task. But the rotted patches were foul with detritus. Smears of decaying vegetation, speckled layers of charcoal and ash, the carcasses of some kind of ice-dwelling worm or beetle, wood and pieces of countless animals. Hardly palatable. She was surprised they weren’t all sick.
She halted before a long, narrow stretch of ice-crusted snow that filled a crack or fold in the rock. She drew her knife, knelt down and began pecking at it. Chunks broke away. She examined each one, discarding those too discoloured with filth, setting the others into the pot. Not much like normal glaciers – those few she had seen up close. After all, they were made of successive snowfalls as much as creeping ice. Those snowfalls normally produced relatively pristine strata. But here, it was as if the air through which the snow fell had been thick with drifting refuse, clogging every descending flake. Air thick with smoke, ash, pieces of once living things. What could have done that? If just ash then she could interpret it as the result of some volcanic eruption. But not damned fragments of skin and meat. What secret hides in these mountains?
She managed to dig the knife-point deep into the ice, then settled her weight on it. The entire remaining slab of ice lifted suddenly, prised away from the crack. And there, lying beneath it, a spear.
The shaft, long as Seren was tall, was not wood. Polished, mottled amber and brown, it looked almost . . . scaled. The broad head was of one piece, blade and stem, ground jade, milky smooth and leaf-shaped. No obvious glue or binding held the socket onto the shaft.
She pulled the weapon loose. The scaled texture, she saw, was created by successive, intricate layering of horn, which explained the mottled appearance. Again, she could discern no indication of how the layers were fixed. The spear was surprisingly heavy, as if the shaft had mineralized.
A voice spoke behind her. ‘Now that is an interesting find
.’
She turned, studied Clip’s mocking expression, and felt a flash of irritation. ‘In the habit of following people around, Clip?’
‘No, mostly I lead them. I know, that task serves to push you to one side. Leaves you feeling useless.’
‘Any other bright observations you want to make?’
He shrugged, spinning the damned chain back and forth. ‘That spear you found. It’s T’lan Imass.’
‘Is that supposed to mean something to me?’
‘It will.’
‘It’s not a weapon you fight with, is it?’
‘No. And I don’t hide in trees and throw fruit either.’
She frowned.
He laughed, turning away. ‘I was born in Darkness, Acquitor.’
‘And?’
He paused, glanced back at her. ‘Why do you think I am the Mortal Sword of the Black-Winged Lord? My good looks? My charming personality? My skill with these blades here?’
‘Well,’ she replied, ‘you’ve just exhausted my list of reasons.’
‘Ha ha. Hear me. Born in Darkness. Blessed by our Mother. The first in thousands of years – she turned away, you know. From her chosen sons. Thousands of years? More like tens of thousands. But not from me. I can walk the Darkness, Acquitor.’ He waved his chain-spinning hand back towards the others. ‘Not even Silchas Ruin can make that claim.’
‘Does he know?’
‘No. This is our secret for as long as you choose.’
‘And why would I choose to not tell him this, Clip?’
‘Because I am the only one here who can keep him from killing you. You and Udinaas – the two he considers most useless. Indeed, potential enemies.’
‘Enemies? Why would he think that?’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘We’re just bugs he can crush underfoot any time he likes. An enemy is one who poses a threat. We don’t.’
‘Well, on that count, I see no need to enlighten you. Yet.’
Snorting, she turned and collected the pot with its chunks of glittering ice.