Page 18 of The Bonehunters

  Mappo reached out and just managed to grasp the Jhag's flailing foot. He pulled Icarium back down onto the thresh­old. 'Well,' he said, grunting, 'that was interesting. You weighed nothing, when I had you in my grip. As light as a mote of dust.'

  Slowly, tentatively, the Jhag clambered upright once more. 'That was most alarming. It seems we may have to fly after all.'

  'Then why build bridges?'

  'I have no idea. Unless,' he added, 'whatever mechanism invokes this weightlessness is breaking down, losing its precision.'

  'So the bridges should have been exempted? Possibly. In any case, see the railings, projecting not up but out to either side? Modest, but sufficient for handholds, were one to crawl.'

  'Yes. Shall we?'

  The sensation, Mappo decided as he reached the midway point, Icarium edging along ahead of him, was not a pleasant one. Nausea, vertigo, a strange urge to pull one's grip loose due to the momentum provided by one's own muscles. All sense of up and down had vanished, and at times Mappo was convinced they were climbing a ladder, rather than snaking more or less horizontally across the span of the bridge.

  A narrow but tall entranceway gaped ahead, where the bridge made contact with the fortress. Fragments of the door it had once held floated motionless before it. Whatever had shattered it had come from within.

  Icarium reached the threshold and climbed to his feet. Moments later Mappo joined him. They peered into the darkness.

  'I smell... vast... death.'

  Mappo nodded. He drew out his mace, looked down at the spiked ball of iron, then slipped the handle back through the leather loop at his belt.

  Icarium in the lead, they entered the fortress.

  The corridor was as narrow as the doorway itself, the walls uneven, black basalt, wet with condensation, the floor precarious with random knobs and projections, and depressions slick with ice that cracked and shifted underfoot. It ran more or less straight for forty paces. By the time they reached the opening at the end their eyes had adjusted to the gloom.

  Another enormous chamber, as if the heart of the keep had been carved out. A massive cruciform of bound, black wood filled the cavern, and on it was impaled a dragon. Long dead, once frozen but now rotting. An iron spike as thick around as Mappo's torso had been driven into the dragon's throat, just above the breast bones. Aquamarine blood had seeped down from the wound and still dripped heavy and turgid onto the stone floor in slow, steady, fist-sized drops.

  'I know this dragon,' Icarium whispered.

  How? No, ask not.

  'I know this dragon,' Icarium said again. 'Sorrit. Its aspect was... Serc. The warren of the sky.' He lifted both hands to his face. 'Dead. Sorrit has been slain...'

  ****

  'A most delicious throne. No, not delicious. Most bitter, foul, ill-tasting, what was I thinking?'

  'You don't think, Curdle. You never think. I can't remember any throne. What throne? There must be some mistake. Not-Apsalar heard wrong, that much is obvious. Completely wrong, an absolute error. Besides, someone's sitting in it.'

  'Deliciously.'

  'I told you, there was no throne—'

  The conversation had been going on for half the night, as they travelled the strange paths of Shadow, winding across a ghostly landscape that constantly shifted between two worlds, although both were equally ravaged and desolate. Apsalar wondered at the sheer extent of this fragment of the Shadow Realm. If her recollection of Cotillion's memories was accurate, the realm wandered untethered to the world Apsalar called her own, and neither the Rope nor Shadowthrone possessed any control over its seemingly random peregrinations. Even stranger, it was clear that roads of a sort stretched out from the frag­ment, twisting and wending vast distances, like roots, or tentacles, and sometimes their motions proved independent of the larger fragment.

  As with the one they now traversed. More or less following the eastern road leading out from Ehrlitan, skirting the thin ribbon of cedars on their left, beyond which was the sea. And as the traders' track began to curve northward to meet the coastline, the Shadow Road

  joined with it, narrowing until it was barely the width of the track itself.

  Ignoring the ceaseless nattering from the two ghosts flitting behind her, Apsalar pushed on, fighting the lack of sleep and eager to cover as much ground as possible before the sun's rise. Her control of the Shadow Road

  was growing more tenuous — it vanished with every slip of her concentration. Finally, she halted.

  The warren crumbled around them. The sky to the east was lightening. They stood on the traders' track at the base of a winding climb to the coastal ridge, rhizan darting through the air around them.

  'The sun returns! Not again! Telorast, we need to hide! Somewhere!'

  'No we don't, you idiot. We just get harder to see, that's all, unless you're not mindful. Of course, Curdle, you are incapable of being mindful, so I look forward to your wail­ing dissolution. Peace, at last. For a while, at least—'

  'You are evil, Telorast! I've always known it, even before you went and used that knife on—'

  'Be quiet! I never used that knife on anyone.'

  'And you're a liar!'

  'Say that again and I'll stick you!'

  'You can't! I'm dissolving!'

  Apsalar ran a hand across her brow. It came away glistening with sweat. 'That thread of Shadow felt... wrong,' she said.

  'Oh yes,' Telorast replied, slipping round to crouch before her in a miasma of swirling grey. 'It's sickly. All the outer reaches are. Poisoned, rotting with chaos. We blame Shadowthrone.'

  'Shadowthrone? Why?'

  'Why not? We hate him.'

  'And that is sufficient reason?'

  'The sufficientest reason of all.'

  Apsalar studied the climbing track. 'I think we're close.'

  'Good. Excellent. I'm frightened. Let's stop here. Let's go back, now.'

  Stepping through the ghost, Apsalar began the ascent.

  'That was a vicious thing to do,' Telorast hissed behind her. 'If I possessed you I wouldn't do that to me. Not even to Curdle, I wouldn't. Well, maybe, if I was mad. You're not mad at me, are you? Please don't be mad at me. I'll do anything you ask, until you're dead. Then I'll dance on your stinking, bloated corpse, because that's what you would want me to do, isn't it? I would if I was you and you were dead and I lingered long enough to dance on you, which I would do.'

  Reaching the crest, Apsalar saw that the track continued along the ridge another two hundred paces before twisting back down onto the lee side. Cool morning wind plucked the sweat from her face, sighing in from the vast, dark cape that was the sea on her left. She looked down to see a narrow strand of beach fifteen or so man-heights below, cluttered with driftwood. Along the track to her right, near the far end, a stand of stunted trees rose from a niche in the cliff-side, and in their midst stood a stone tower. White plaster covered its surface for most of its height, barring the uppermost third, where the rough-cut stones were still exposed.

  She walked towards it as the first spears of sunlight shot over the horizon.

  Heaps of slate filled the modest enclosure surrounding the tower. No-one was visible, and Apsalar could hear nothing from within as she strode across to halt in front of the door.

  Telorast's faint whisper came to her: 'This isn't good. A stranger lives here. Must be a stranger, since we've never met. And if not a stranger then somebody I know, which would be even worse—'

  'Be quiet,' Apsalar said, reaching up to pound on the door — then stopped, and stepping back, stared up at the enormous reptilian skull set in the wall above the door­way. 'Hood's breath!' She hesitated, Telorast voicing minute squeals and gasps behind her, then thumped on the weathered wood with a gloved fist.

  The sounds of something falling over, then of boots crunching on grit and gravel. A bolt was tugged aside, and the door swung open in a cloud of dust.

  The man standing within filled the doorway. Napan, massive muscles, blunt face, small eyes. H
is scalp shaved and white with dust, through which a few streaks of sweat ran down to glisten in his thick, wiry eyebrows.

  Apsalar smiled. 'Hello, Urko.'

  The man grunted, then said, 'Urko drowned. They all drowned.'

  'It's that lack of imagination that gave you away,' she replied.

  'Who are you?'

  'Apsalar—'

  'No you're not. Apsalar was an Imass—'

  'Not the Mistress of Thieves. It is simply the name I chose—'.

  'Damned arrogant of you, too.'

  'Perhaps. In any case, I bring greetings from Dancer.'

  The door slammed in her face.

  Coughing in the dust gusting over her, Apsalar stepped back and wiped grit from her eyes.

  'Hee hee,' said Telorast behind her. 'Can we go now?'

  She pounded on the door again.

  After a long moment, it opened once more. He was scowling. 'I once tried to drown him, you know.'

  'No, yes, I recall. You were drunk.'

  'You couldn't have recalled anything — you weren't there. Besides, I wasn't drunk.'

  'Oh. Then... why?'

  'Because he irritated me, that's why. Just like you're doing right now.'

  'I need to talk to you.'

  'What for?'

  She suddenly had no answer to give him.

  His eyes narrowed. 'He really thought I was drunk? What an idiot.'

  'Well, I suppose the alternative was too depressing.'

  'I never knew he was such a sensitive soul. Are you his daughter? Something... in the way you stand...'

  'May I come in?'

  He moved away from the door. Apsalar entered, then halted once more, her eyes on the enormous headless skeleton commanding the interior, reaching all the way up to the tower's ceiling. Bipedal, long-tailed, the bones a burnished brown colour. 'What is this?'

  Urko said, 'Whatever it was, it could swallow a bhederin in one bite.'

  'How?' Telorast asked Apsalar in a whisper. 'It has no head.'

  The man heard the question, and he now scowled. 'You have company. What is it, a familiar or something? I can't see it, and that I don't like. Not at all.'

  'A ghost.'

  'You should banish it to Hood,' he said. 'Ghosts don't belong here, that's why they're ghosts.'

  'He's an evil man!' Telorast hissed. 'What are those?'

  Apsalar could just make out the shade as it drifted towards a long table to the right. On it were smaller versions of the skeletal behemoth, three of them crow-sized, although instead of beaks the creatures possessed long snouts lined with needle-like teeth. The bones had been bound together with gut and the figures were mounted so that they stood upright, like sentry meer-rats.

  Urko was studying Apsalar, an odd expression on his blunt, strong-featured face. Then he seemed to start, and said, 'I have brewed some tea.'

  'That would be nice, thank you.'

  He walked over to the modest kitchen area and began a search for cups. 'It's not that I don't want visitors... well, it is. They always bring trouble. Did Dancer have anything else to say?'

  'No. And he now calls himself Cotillion.'

  'I knew that. I'm not surprised he's the Patron of Assassins. He was the most feared killer in the empire. More than Surly, who was just treacherous. Or Topper, who was just cruel. I suppose those two still think they won. Fools. Who now strides among the gods, eh?' He brought a clay cup over. 'Local herbs, mildly toxic but not fatal. Antidote to buther snake bites, which is a good thing, since the bastards infest the area. Turns out I built my tower near a breeding pit.'

  One of the small skeletons on the tabletop fell over, then jerkily climbed back upright, the tail jutting out, the torso angling almost horizontal.

  'One of my ghost companions has just possessed that creature,' Apsalar said. A second one lurched into awkward motion.

  'Gods below,' whispered Urko. 'Look how they stand! Of course! It has to be that way. Of course!' He stared up at the massive fossil skeleton. 'It's all wrong! They lean forward — for balance!'

  Telorast and Curdle were quickly mastering their new bodies, jaws snapping, hopping about on the tabletop.

  'I suspect they won't want to relinquish those skeletons,' Apsalar said.

  'They can have them — as reward for this revelation!' He paused, looked round, then muttered, 'I'll have to knock down a wall...'

  Apsalar sighed. 'I suppose we should be relieved one of them did not decide on the big version.'

  Urko looked over at her with slightly wide eyes, then he grunted. 'Drink your tea — the toxicity gets worse as it cools.'

  She sipped. And found her lips and tongue suddenly numb.

  Urko smiled. 'Perfect. This way the conversation stays brief and you can be on your way all the sooner.'

  'Mathard.'

  'It wears off.' He found a stool and sat down facing her. 'You're Dancer's daughter. You must be, although I see no facial similarities — your mother must have been beautiful. It's in your walk, and how you stand there. You're his beget, and he was selfish enough to teach you, his own child, the ways of assassination. I can see how that troubles you. It's there in your eyes. The legacy haunts you — you're feeling trapped, caged in. There's already blood on your hands, isn't there? Is he proud of that?' He grimaced, then spat. 'I should've drowned him then and there. Had I been drunk, I would have.'

  'You are wong.'

  'Wong? Wrong, you mean? Am I?'

  She nodded, fighting her fury at his trickery. She had come with the need to talk, and he had stolen from her the ability to shape words. 'Nnnoth th-aughther. Mmothethed.'

  He frowned.

  Apsalar pointed at the two reptilian skeletons now scut­tling about on the stone-littered floor. 'Mmothethion.'

  'Possession. He possessed you? The god possessed you? Hood pluck his balls and chew slow!' Urko heaved himself to his feet, hands clenching into fists. 'Here, hold on, lass. I have an antidote to the antidote.' He found a dusty beaker, rubbed at it until a patch of the glazed reddish earthenware was visible. 'This one, aye.' He found another cup and poured it full. 'Drink.'

  Sickly sweet, the taste then turning bitter and stinging. 'Oh. That was... fast.'

  'My apologies, Apsalar. I'm a miserable sort most of the time, I admit it. And I've talked more since you arrived than I have in years. So I'll stop now. How can I help you?'

  She hesitated, then looked away. 'You can't, really. I shouldn't have come. I still have tasks to complete.'

  'For him?'

  She nodded.

  'Why?'

  'Because I gave my word.'

  'You owe him nothing, except maybe a knife in his back.'

  'Once I am done... I wish to disappear.'

  He sat down once more. 'Ah. Yes, well.'

  'I think an accidental drowning won't hold any longer, Urko.'

  A faint grin. 'It was our joke, you see. We all made the pact... to drown. Nobody got it. Nobody gets it. Probably never will.'

  'I did. Dancer does. Even Shadowthrone, I think.'

  'Not Surly. She never had a sense of humour. Always obsessing on the details. I wonder, are people like that ever happy? Are they even capable of it? What inspires their lives, anyway? Give 'em too much and they complain. Give 'em too little and they complain some more. Do it right and half of them complain it's too much and the other half too little.'

  'No wonder you gave up consorting with people, Urko.'

  'Aye, I prefer bones these days. People. Too many of them by far, if you ask me.'

  She looked round. 'Dancer wanted you shaken up some. Why?'

  The Napan's eyes shifted away, and he did not answer.

  Apsalar felt a tremor of unease. 'He knows something, doesn't he? That's what he's telling you by that simple greeting.'

  'Assassin or not, I always liked Dancer. Especially the way he could keep his mouth shut.'

  The two reptilian skeletons were scrabbling at the door. Apsalar studied them for a moment. 'Disappearing..
. from a god.'

  'Aye, that won't be easy.'

  'He said I could leave, once I'm done. And he won't come after me.'

  'Believe him, Apsalar. Dancer doesn't lie, and I suspect even godhood won't change that.'

  I think that is what I needed to hear. 'Thank you.' She headed towards the door.

  'So soon?' Urko asked.

  She glanced back at him. 'Too much or too little?'

  He narrowed his gaze, then grunted a laugh. 'You're right. It's about perfect — I need to be mindful about what I'm asking for.'

  'Yes,' she said. And that is also what Dancer wanted to remind you about, isn't it?

  Urko looked away. 'Damn him, anyway.'

  Smiling, Apsalar opened the door. Telorast and Curdle scurried outside. She followed a moment later.

  ****

  Thick spit on the palms of the hands, a careful rubbing together, then a sweep back through the hair. The outlawed Gral straightened, kicked sand over the small cookfire, then collected his pack and slung it over his shoulders. He picked up his hunting bow and strung it, then fitted an arrow. A final glance around, and he began walking.

  The trail was not hard to follow. Taralack Veed con­tinued scanning the rough, broken scrubland. A hare, a desert grouse, a mamlak lizard, anything would do; he was tired of the sun-dried strips of bhederin and he'd eaten the last date two nights previously. No shortage of tubers, of course, but too much and he'd spend half the day squatting over a hastily dug hole.

  The D'ivers demon was closing on its quarry, and it was vital that Taralack remain in near proximity, so that he could make certain of the outcome. He was being well paid for the task ahead and that was all that mattered. Gold, and with it, the clout to raise a company of mercenaries. Then back to his village, to deliver well-deserved justice upon those who had betrayed him. He would assume the mantle of warleader then, and lead the Gral to glory. His destiny lay before him, and all was well.

  Dejim Nebrahl revealed no digressions, no detours in its path. The D'ivers was admirably singular, true to its geas. There would be no deviation, for it lusted for the freedom that was the reward for the task's completion. This was the proper manner in which to make bargains, and Taralack found himself admiring the Nameless Ones. No matter how dread-filled the tales he had heard of the secret cult, his own dealings with them had been clean, lucrative and straightforward.