The Bonehunters

  That was a precipice they had both clung to not so long ago. And I betrayed my vow. In the name of friendship. He had been broken, and it shamed him still. Worse, to see the compassion in Icarium's eyes, that had been a sword through Mappo's heart, an unhealed wound still haunting him.

  But curiosity was a fickle thing, as well. Distractions devoured time, drew Icarium from his relentless path. Yes, time. Delays. Follow where he will lead, Mappo Runt. You can do naught else. Until... until what? Until he finally failed. And then, another would come, if it was not already too late, to resume the grand deceit.

  He was tired. His very soul was weary of the whole charade. Too many lies had led him onto this path, too many lies held him here to this day. I am no friend. I broke my vow — in the name of friendship? Another lie. No. Simple, brutal self-interest, the weakness of my selfish needs.

  Whilst Icarium called him friend. Victim of a terrible curse, yet he remained, trusting, honourable, filled with the pleasure of living. And here I am, happily leading him astray, again and again. Oh, the word for it was indeed shame.

  He found himself standing before his papk. How long he had stood there, unseeing, unmoving, he did not know. Ah, now that is just, that I begin to lose myself. Sighing, he picked it up and slung it over a shoulder. Pray we cross no'one's path. No threat. No risk. Pray we never find a way out of the chasm. But to whom was he praying? Mappo smiled as he made his way back. He believed in nothing, and would not presume the conceit of etching a face on oblivion. Thus, empty prayers, uttered by an empty man.

  'Are you all right, my friend?' Icarium asked as he arrived.

  'Lead on,' Mappo said. 'I must secure my pack first.'

  A flash of something like concern in the Jhag's expression, then he nodded and walked over to where the chute debouched, slipped over the edge, and vanished from sight.

  Mappo tugged a small belt-pouch free and loosened the drawstrings. He pulled another pouch from the first one and unfolded it, revealing that it was larger than the one it had been stored in. From this second pouch he withdrew another, again larger once unfolded. Mappo then, with some effort, pushed the shoulder pack into this last one. Tightened the strings. He stuffed that pouch into the next smaller and followed by forcing that one into the small belt-pouch, which he tied at his waist. Inconvenient, though temporary. He would have no quick access to his weapons should some calamity arise, at least for the duration of the descent. Not that he could fight clinging like a drunk goat to the cliff-side in any case.

  He made his way to the chute and looked over the edge. Icarium was making swift progress, already fifteen or more man-heights down.

  What would they find down there? Rocks. Or something that should have remained buried for all time.

  Mappo began his descent.

  Before long, the passage of the sun swept all light from the crevasse. They continued in deep gloom, the air cool and stale. There was no sound, barring the occasional scrape of Icarium's scabbard against stone from somewhere below, the only indication that the Jhag still lived, that he had not fallen, for, had he lost his grip and plummeted, Mappo knew that he would make no outcry.

  The Trell's arms were getting tired, the calves of his legs aching, his fingers growing numb, but he maintained his steady pace, feeling strangely relentless, as if this was a descent with no end and he was eager to prove it, the only possible proof being to continue on. For ever. There was something telling in that desire, but he was not prepared to be mindful of it.

  The air grew colder. Mappo watched the plumes of his breath frosting the stone face opposite him, sparkling in some faint, sourceless illumination. He could smell old ice, somewhere below, and a whisper of unease quickened his breathing.

  A hand on the heel of his left, down-reaching foot startled him.

  'We are here,' Icarium murmured.

  'Abyss take us,' Mappo gasped, pushing away from the wall and landing with sagging legs on a slick, slanted floor. He flung his arms out to regain balance, then straightened. 'Are you certain? Perhaps this slope is but a ledge, and should we lose our footing—'

  'We will get wet. Come, there is a lake of some sort.'

  'Ah, I see it. It... glows...'

  They edged down until the motionless sweep of water was before them. A vague, greenish-blue illumination, coming from below, revealed the lake's depth. They could see to the bottom, perhaps ten man-heights down, rough and studded with rotted tree stumps or broken stalagmites, pale green and limned in white.

  'We descended a third of a league for this?' Mappo asked, his voice echoing, then he laughed.

  'Look further in,' Icarium directed, and the Trell heard excitement in his companion's tone.

  The stumps marched outward four or five paces, then stopped. Beyond, details indistinct, squatted a massive, blockish shape. Vague patterns marked its visible sides, and its top. Odd, angular projections reached out from the far side, like spider's legs. The breath hissed from Mappo. 'Does it live?' he asked.

  'A mechanism of some sort,' Icarium said. 'The metal is very nearly white, do you see? No corrosion. It looks as if it had been built yesterday... but I believe, my friend, that it is ancient.'

  Mappo hesitated, then asked, 'Is it one of yours?'

  Icarium glanced at him, eyes bright. 'No. And that is the wonder of it.'

  'No? Are you sure? We have found others—'

  'I am certain. I do not know how, but there is no doubt in my mind. This was constructed by someone else, Mappo.'

  The Trell crouched down and dipped his hand into the water, then snatched it back. 'Gods, that's cold!'

  'No obstacle to me,' Icarium said, smiling, the polished lower tusks sliding into view.

  'You mean to swim down and examine it? Never mind, the answer is plain. Very well, I shall seek out some level ground, and pitch our camp.'

  The Jhag was tugging off his clothes.

  Mappo set off along the slope. The gloom was sufficiently relieved by the glowing water that he was able to make certain of each step he took, moving up until his left hand was brushing the cold stone wall. After fifteen or so paces that hand slipped into a narrow crack, and, upon regaining contact, immediately noted a change of texture and shape in the surface under his blunt fingertips. The Trell halted and began a closer examination along its length.

  This stone was basalt, ragged, bulging out until the slope beneath his feet dwindled, then disappeared. Sharp cracks emanated out across the angled floor and into the lake, the black fissures reappearing on the lake's bottom. The basalt was some kind of intrusion, he concluded. Perhaps the entire crevasse had been created by its arrival.

  Mappo retreated until he had room to sit, perched with his back against the rock, eyes on the now rippled surface of the lake. He drew out a reed and began cleaning his teeth as he considered the matter. He could not imagine a natural process creating such an intrusion. Contrary as earth pressures were, far beneath the land's surface, there was no colliding escarpment shaping things in this part of the subcontinent.

  No, there had been a gate, and the basalt formation had come through it. Catastrophically. From its realm... into solid bedrock on this world.

  What was it? But he knew.

  A sky keep.

  Mappo rose and faced the ravaged basalt once more. And that which lcarium now studies at the bottom of the lake... it came from this. So it follows, does it not, that there must be some sort of portal. A way in. Now he was curious indeed. What secrets lay within? Among the rituals of inculcation the Nameless Ones had intoned in the course of Mappo's vow were tales of the sky keeps, the dread K'Chain Che'Malle fortresses that floated like clouds in the air. An invasion of sorts, according to the Nameless Ones, in the ages before the rise of the First Empire, when the people who would one day found it did little more than wander in small bands — not even tribes, little different, in fact, from mortal Imass. An invasion that, in this region at least, failed. The tales said little of who or what had opposed them. Jaghut, perhap
s. Or Forkrul Assail, or the Elder Gods themselves.

  He heard splashing and peered through the gloom to see lcarium pull himself, awkwardly, onto the strand. Mappo rose and approached.

  'Dead,' lcarium gasped, and Mappo saw that his friend was racked with shivers.

  'The mechanism?'

  The Jhag shook his head. 'Omtose Phellack. This water... dead ice. Dead... blood.'

  Mappo waited for lcarium to recover. He studied the now swirling, agitated surface of the lake, wondering when last that water had known motion, the heat of a living body. For the latter, it had clearly been thirsty.

  'There is a corpse inside that thing,' the Jhag said after a time.

  'K'Chain Che'Malle.'

  'Yes. How did you know?'

  'I have found the sky keep it emerged from. Part of it remains exposed, extruding from the wall.'

  'A strange creature,' lcarium muttered. 'I have no memory of ever seeing one before, yet I knew its name.'

  'As far as I know, friend, you have never encountered them in your travels. Yet you hold knowledge of them, nonetheless.'

  'I need to think on this.'

  'Yes.'

  'Strange creature,' he said again. 'So reptilian. Desiccated, of course, as one would expect. Powerful, I would think. The hind limbs, the forearms. Huge jaws. Stubby tail—'

  Mappo looked up. 'Stubby tail. You are certain of that?'

  'Yes. The beast was reclined, and within reach were levers — it was a master of the mechanism's operation.'

  'There was a porthole you could look through?'

  'No. The white metal became transparent wherever I cast my gaze.'

  'Revealing the mechanism's inner workings?'

  'Only the area where the K'Chain Che'Malle was seated. A carriage of some sort, I believe, a means of transportation and exploration... yet not intended to accommodate being submerged in water; nor was it an excavating device — the jointed arms would have been insufficient for that. No, the unveiling of Omtose Phellack caught it unawares. Devoured, trapped in ice. A Jaghut arrived, Mappo, to make certain that none escaped.'

  Mappo nodded. Icarium's descriptions had led him to conclude much the same sequence of events. Like the sky keep itself, the mechanism was built to fly, borne aloft by some unknown sorcery. 'If we are to find level ground,' he said, 'it shall have to be within the keep.'

  The Jhag smiled. 'Is that a glimmer of anticipation in your eyes? I am beginning to see the Mappo of old, I suspect. Memory or no, you are no stranger to me, and I have been much chagrined of late, seeing you so forlorn. I understood it, of course — how could I not? I am what haunts you, friend, and for that I grieve. Come, shall we find our way inside this fell keep?'

  Mappo watched Icarium stride past, and slowly turned to follow him with his eyes.

  Icarium, the Builder of Mechanisms. Where did such skills come from? He feared they were about to find out.

  ****

  The monastery was in the middle of parched, broken waste­land, not a village or hamlet within a dozen leagues in either direction along the faint tracks of the road. On the map Cutter had purchased in G'danisban, its presence was marked with a single wavy line of reddish-brown ink, upright, barely visible on the worn hide. The symbol of D'rek, Worm of Autumn.

  A lone domed structure stood in the midst of a low-walled, rectangular compound, and the sky over it was dotted with circling vultures.

  Beside him and hunched in the saddle, Heboric Ghost Hands spat, then said, 'Decay. Rot. Dissolution. When what once worked suddenly breaks. And like a moth the soul flutters away. Into the dark. Autumn awaits, and the seasons are askew, twisting to avoid all the unsheathed knives. Yet the prisoners of the jade, they are forever trapped. There, in their own arguments. Disputes, bicker­ing, the universe beyond unseen — they care not a whit, the fools. They wear ignorance like armour and wield spite like swords. What am I to them? A curio. Less. So it's a broken world, why should I care about that? I did not ask for this, for any of this…'

  He went on, but Cutter stopped listening. He glanced back at the two women trailing them. Listless, uncaring, brutalized by the heat. The horses beneath them walked with drooped heads; their ribs were visible beneath dusty, tattered hide. Off to one side clambered Greyfrog, looking fat and sleek as ever, circling the riders with seemingly boundless energy.

  'We should visit that monastery,' Cutter said. 'Make use of the well, and if there's any foodstuffs—'

  'They're all dead,' Heboric croaked.

  Cutter studied the old man, then grunted. 'Explains the vultures. But we still need water.'

  The Destriant of Treach gave him an unpleasant smile.

  Cutter understood the meaning of that smile. He was becoming heartless, inured to the myriad horrors of this world. A monastery filled with dead priests and priestesses was as... nothing. And the old man could see it, could see into him. His new god is the Tiger of Summer, Lord of War. Heboric Ghost Hands, the High Priest of strife, he sees how cold I have become. And is... amused.

  Cutter guided his horse up the side track leading to the monastery. The others followed. The Daru reined in in front of the gates, which were closed, and dismounted. 'Heboric, do you sense any danger to us?'

  'I have that talent?'

  Cutter studied him, said nothing.

  The Destriant clambered down from his horse. 'Nothing lives in there. Nothing.'

  'No ghosts?'

  'Nothing. She took them.'

  'Who?'

  'The unexpected visitor, that's who.' He laughed, raised his hands. 'We play our games. We never expect... umbrage. Outrage. I could have told them. Warned them, but they wouldn't have listened. The conceit consumes all. A single building can become an entire world, the minds crowding and jostling, then clawing and goug­ing. All they need do is walk outside, but they don't. They've forgotten that outside exists. Oh, all these faces of worship, none of which is true worship. Never mind the diligence, it does naught but serve the demon hatreds within. The spites and fears and malice. I could have told them.'

  Cutter walked to the wall, leading his horse. He climbed onto its back, perched on the saddle, then straightened until he was standing. The top of the wall was within easy reach. He pulled himself up. In the compound beyond, bodies. A dozen or so, black-skinned, mostly naked, lying here and there on the hard-packed, white ground. Cutter squinted. The bodies looked to be... boiling, frothing, melting. They roiled before his eyes. He pulled his gaze away from them. The domed temple's doors were yawning open. To the right was a low corral surrounding a low, long structure, the mud-bricks exposed for two thirds of the facing wall. Troughs with plaster and tools indicated a task never to be completed. Vultures crowded the flat roof, yet none ventured down to feast on the corpses.

  Cutter dropped down into the compound. He walked to the gates and lifted the bar clear, then pulled the heavy doors open.

  Greyfrog was waiting on the other side. 'Dispirited and distraught. So much unpleasantness, Cutter, in this fell place. Dismay. No appetite.' He edged past, scuttled warily towards the nearest corpse. 'Ah! They seethe! Worms, aswarm with worms. The flesh is foul, foul even for Greyfrog. Revulsed. Let us be away from this place!'

  Cutter spied the well, in the corner between the out­building and the temple. He returned to where the others still waited outside the gate. 'Give me your waterskins. Heboric, can you check that outbuilding for feed?'

  Heboric smiled. 'The livestock were never let out. It's been days. The heat killed them all. A dozen goats, two mules.'

  'Just see if there's any feed.'

  The Destriant headed towards the outbuilding.

  Scillara dismounted, lifted clear the waterskins from Felisin Younger's saddle and, with her own thrown over a shoulder, approached Cutter. 'Here.'

  He studied her. 'I wonder if this is a warning.'

  Her brows lifted fractionally, 'Are we that important, Cutter?'

  'Well, I don't mean us, specifically. I meant, maybe we should tak
e it as a warning.'

  'Dead priests?'

  'Nothing good comes of worship.'

  She gave him an odd smile, then held out the skins.

  Cutter cursed himself. He rarely made sense when trying to talk with this woman. Said things a fool would say. It was the mocking look in her eyes, the expression ever antici­pating a smile as soon as he opened his mouth to speak. Saying nothing more, he collected the waterskins and walked back into the compound.

  ****

  Scillara watched him for a moment, then turned as Felisin slipped down from her horse. 'We need the water.'

  The younger woman nodded. 'I know.' She reached up and tugged at her hair, which had grown long. 'I keep see­ing those bandits. And now, more dead people. And those cemeteries the track went right through yesterday, that field of bones. I feel we've stumbled into a nightmare, and every day we go further in. It's hot, but I'm cold all the time and getting colder.'

  'That's dehydration,' Scillara said, repacking her pipe.

  'That thing's not left your mouth in days,' Felisin said.

  'Keeps the thirst at bay.'

  'Really?'

  'No, but that is what I keep telling myself.'

  Felisin looked away. 'We do that a lot, don't we?'

  'What?'

  She shrugged. 'Tell ourselves things. In the hope that it'll make them true.'

  Scillara drew hard on the pipe, blew a lungful of smoke upward, watching as the wind took it away.

  'You look so healthy,' Felisin said, eyes on her once more. 'Whilst the rest of us wither away.'

  'Not Greyfrog.'

  'No, not Greyfrog.'

  'Does he talk with you much?'