The Bonehunters

  Iskaral Pust was having trouble focusing on them, so jolted and tossed about was he on the mule's back. When the T'rolbarahl had closed to within thirty paces, the mule suddenly skidded to a halt. And the High Priest of Shadow was thrown forward, lunging over the animal's head. Head ducking, somersaulting over, then thumping down hard on his back in a spray of gravel and dust.

  The first creature reached him, forearms lifting, talons unsheathed as it sailed through the air, then landing on the spot where Iskaral Pust had fallen — only to find him not there. The second and third beasts experienced a moment of confusion as the quarry vanished, then they sensed a presence at their side. Their heads snapped round, but too late, as a wave of sorcery hammered into them. Shadow-wrought power cracked like lightning, and the creatures were batted into the air, leaving in their wakes misty clouds of blood. Writhing, they both struck the ground fifteen paces away, skidding then rolling.

  The two flanking D'ivers attacked. And, as Iskaral Pust vanished, they collided, chests reverberating like heavy thunder, teeth and talons raking through hide. Hissing and snarling, they scrambled away from each other.

  Reappearing twenty paces behind the T'rolbarahl, Iskaral Pust unleashed another wave of sorcery, watched it strike each of the five beasts in turn, watched blood spray and the bodies tumble away, kicking frenziedly as the magic wove flickering nets about them. Stones popped and exploded on the ground beneath them, sand shot upward in spear-like geysers, and everywhere there was blood, whipping out in ragged threads.

  The T'rolbarahl vanished, fleeing the warren of Shadow out into the world, where they scattered, all thoughts of the caravan gone as panic closed on their throats with invisible hands.

  The High Priest of Shadow brushed dust from his clothes, then walked over to where stood the mule. 'Some help you were! We could be hunting each one down right now, but oh no, you're tired of running. Whoever thought mules deserved four legs was an idiot! You are most useless! Bah!' He paused, then, and lifted a gnarled finger to his wrinkled lips. 'But wait, what if they got really angry? What if they decided to make a fight to the finish? What then? Messy, oh, very messy. No, best leave them for someone else to deal with. I must not get distracted. Imagine, though! Challenging the High Priest of Shadow of all Seven Cities! Dumber than cats, that T'rolbarahl. I am entirely without sympathy.'

  He climbed back onto the mule. 'Well, that was fun, wasn't it? Stupid mule. I think we'll have mule for supper tonight, what do you think of that? The ultimate sacrifice is called for, as far as you're concerned, don't you think? Well, who cares what you think? Where to now? Thank the gods at least one of us knows where we're going. That way, mule, and quickly now. Trot, damn you, trot!'

  Skirting the caravan, where dogs still barked, Iskaral Pust began shifting shadows once more.

  ****

  Dusk had arrived in the world beyond when he reached his destination, reining in the plodding mule at the foot of a cliff.

  Vultures clambered amongst the tumbled rocks, crowd­ing a fissure but unable or, as yet, unwilling to climb down into it. One edge of that crevasse was stained with dried blood, and among rocks to one side were the remains of a dead beast — devoured to bones and ragged strips by the scavengers, it was nonetheless easy to identify. One of the T'rolbarahl.

  The vultures voiced a chorus of indignation as the High Priest of Shadow dismounted and approached. Spitting curses, he chased away the ugly, Mogora-like creatures, then eased himself down into the fissure. Deep, the close air smelling of blood and rotting meat.

  The crevasse narrowed a little more than a man's height down, and into this was wedged a body. Iskaral Pust settled down beside it. He laid a hand on the figure's broad shoulder, well away from the obvious breaks in that arm. 'How many days, friend? Ah, only a Trell would survive this. First, we shall have to get you out of here, and for that I have a stalwart, loyal mule. Then, well, then, we shall see, won't we?'

  Neither stalwart nor particularly loyal, the mule's dis­inclination towards cooperation slowed down the task of extracting Mappo Runt considerably, and it was full dark by the time the Trell was pulled from the fissure and dragged onto a flat patch of wind-blown sand.

  The two compound fractures in the left arm were the least of the huge Trell's injuries. Both legs had broken, and one edge of the fissure had torn a large flap of skin and flesh from Mappo's back — the exposed meat was swarming with maggots, and the mostly hanging flap of tissue was clearly unsalvageable, grey in the centre and blackening round the edges, smelling of rot. Iskaral Pust cut that away and tossed it back into the fissure.

  He then leaned close and listened to the Trell's breath­ing. Shallow, yet slow — another day without attention and he would have died. As it was, the possibility remained distinct. 'Herbs, my friend,' the High Priest said as he set to cleaning the visible wounds. 'And High Denul ointments, elixirs, tinctures, salves, poultices... have I forgotten any? No, I think not. Internal injuries, oh yes, crushed ribs, that whole side. So much bleeding inside, yet, obviously, not enough to kill you outright. Remarkable. You are almost as stubborn as my servant here—' He looked up. 'You, beast, set up the tent and start us a fire! Do that and then maybe I'll feed you and not, hee hee, feed on you—'

  'You are an idiot!' This cry came from the darkness off to one side, and a moment later Mogora appeared from the gloom.

  The gloom, yes, that explains everything. 'What are you doing here, hag?'

  'Saving Mappo, of course.'

  'What? I have saved him already!'

  'Saving him from you, I meant!' She scrabbled closer. 'What's that vial in your hand? That's venom of paralt! You damned idiot, you were going to kill him! After all he's been through!'

  'Paralt? That's right, wife, it's paralt. You arrived, so I was about to drink it.'

  'I saw you deal with that T'rolbarahl, Iskaral Pust.'

  'You did?' He paused, ducked his head. 'Now her ador­ation is complete! How could she not adore me? It must be near worship by now. That's why she followed me all the way. She can't get enough of me. It's the same with every­one — they just can't get enough of me—'

  'The most powerful High Priest of Shadow,' cut in Mogora as she removed various healing unguents from her pack, 'cannot survive without a good woman at his side. Failing that, you have me, so get used to it, warlock. Now, get out of my way so I can tend to this poor, hapless Trell.'

  Iskaral Pust backed away. 'So what do I do now? You've made me useless, woman!'

  'That's not hard, husband. Make us camp.'

  'I already told my mule to do that.'

  'It's a mule, you idiot...' Her words trailed away as she noted the flicker of firelight off to one side. Turning, she studied the large canvas tent, expertly erected, and the stone-ringed hearth where a pot of water already steamed beneath a tripod. Nearby stood the mule, eating from its bag of oats. Mogora frowned, then shook her head and returned to her work. 'Tend to the tea, then. Be useful!'

  'I was being useful! Until you arrived and messed every-thing up! The most powerful High Priest in Seven Cities does not need a woman! In fact, that's the very last thing he needs!'

  'You couldn't heal a hangnail, Iskaral Pust. This Trell has the black poison in his veins, the glittering vein-snake. We shall need more than High Denul for this—'

  'Oh here we go! All your witchy rubbish. High Denul will conquer the black poison—'

  'Perhaps, but the dead flesh will remain dead. He will be crippled, half-mad, his hearts will weaken.' She paused and glared over at him. 'Shadowthrone sent you to find him, didn't he? Why?'

  Iskaral Pust smiled sweetly. 'Oh, she's suspicious now, isn't she? But I won't tell her anything. Except the hint, the modest hint, of my vast knowledge. Yes indeed, I know my dear god's mind — and a twisted, chaotic, weaselly mind it is. In fact, I know so much I am speechless — hah, look at her, those beetle eyes narrowing suspiciously, as if she dares grow aware of my profound ignorance in all matters per­taining to my cherished, idio
tic god. Dares, and would challenge me openly. I would crumble before that onslaught, of course.' He paused, reworked his smile, then spread his hands and said, 'Sweet Mogora, the High Priest of Shadow must have his secrets, kept even from his wife, alas. And so I beg you not to press me on this, else you suffer Shadowthrone's random wrath—'

  'You are a complete fool, Iskaral Pust.'

  'Let her think that,' he said, then added a chuckle. 'Now she'll wonder why I have laughed — no, not laughed, but chuckled, which, all things considered, is far more alarming. I mean, it sounded like a chuckle so it must have been one, though it's the first I've ever tried, or heard, for that matter. Whereas a chortle, well, that's different. I'm not fat enough to chortle, alas. Sometimes I wish—'

  'Go sit by your mule's fire,' Mogora said. 'I must prepare my ritual.'

  'See how that chuckle has discomfited her! Of course, my darling, you go and play with your little ritual, that's a dear. Whilst I make tea for myself and my mule.'

  ****

  Warmed by the flames and his tralb tea, Iskaral Pust watched — as best as he was able in the darkness — Mogora at work. First, she assembled large chunks of stone, each one broken, cracked or otherwise rough-edged, and set them down in the sand, creating an ellipse that en­compassed the Trell. She then urinated over these rocks, achieving this with an extraordinary half-crab half-chicken wide-legged waddle, straddling the stones and proceeding widdershins until returning to the place she had started. Iskaral marvelled at the superior muscle control, not to mention the sheer volume, that Mogora obviously possessed. In the last few years his own efforts at urination had met with mixed success, until even starting and stopping now seemed the highest of visceral challenges.

  Satisfied with her piddle, Mogora then started pulling hairs from her head. She didn't have that many up there, and those she selected seemed so deeply rooted that Iskaral feared she would deflate her skull with every successful yank. His anticipation of seeing such a thing yielded only disappointment, as, with seven long wiry grey hairs in one hand, Mogora stepped into the ellipse, one foot planted to either side of the Trell's torso. Then, muttering some witchly thing, she flung the hairs into the inky blackness overhead.

  Instinct guided Iskaral's gaze upward after those silvery threads, and he was somewhat alarmed to see that the stars had vanished overhead. Whereas, out on the horizons, they remained sharp and bright. 'Gods, woman! What have you done?'

  Ignoring him, she stepped back out of the ellipse and began singing in the Woman's Language, which was, of course, unintelligible to Iskaral's ears. Just as the Man's Language — which Mogora called gibberish — was beyond her ability to understand. The reason for that, Iskaral Pust knew, was that the Man's Language was gibberish, designed specifically to confound women. It's a fact that men don't need words, but women do. We have penises, after all. Who needs words when you have a penis? Whereas with women there are two breasts, which invites conversation, just as a good behind presents perfect punctuation, something every man knows.

  What's wrong with the world? You ask a man and he says, 'Don't ask.' Ask a woman and you'll be dead of old age before she's finished. Hah. Hah ha.

  Strange streams of gossamer began descending through the reflected light of the fire, settling upon the Trell's body.

  'What are those?' Iskaral asked. Then started as one brushed his forearm and he saw that it was a spider's silk, and there was the spider at one end, tiny as a mite. He looked skyward in alarm. 'There are spiders up there? What madness is this? What are they doing up there?'

  'Be quiet.'

  'Answer me!'

  'The sky is filled with spiders, husband. They float on the winds. Now I've answered you, so close that mouth of yours lest I send a few thousand of my sisters into it.'

  His teeth clacked and he edged closer to the hearth. Burn, you horrid things. Burn!

  The strands of web covered the Trell now. Thousands, tens, hundreds of thousands — the spiders were wrapping about Mappo Runt's entire body.,

  'And now,' Mogora said, 'time for the moon.'

  The blackness overhead vanished in a sudden bloom of silver, incandescent light. Squealing, Iskaral Pust fell onto his back, so alarming was the transformation, and he found himself staring straight up at a massive, full moon, hanging so low it seemed within reach. If he but dared. Which he did not. 'You've brought the moon down! Are you mad? It's going to crash on us!'

  'Oh, stop it. It only seems that way — well, maybe I nudged it a bit — but I told you this was a serious ritual, didn't I?'

  'What have you done with the moon?'

  She crowed with manic laughter. 'It's just my little ritual, darling. How do you like it?'

  'Make it go away!'

  'Frightened? You should be! I'm a woman! A witch! So why don't you just drag that scrawny behind of yours into that tent and cower, dear husband. This is real power, here, real magic!'

  'No it isn't! I mean, it's not witch magic, not Dal Honese — I don't know what this is—'

  'You're right, you don't. Now be a good little boy and go to sleep, Iskaral Pust, while I set about saving this Trell's miserable life.'

  Iskaral thought to argue, then decided against it. He crawled into the tent.

  From outside, 'Is that you gibbering, Iskaral?'

  Oh be quiet.

  ****

  Lostara Yil opened her eyes, then slowly sat up.

  A grey-cloaked figure was standing near a stone-arched portal, his back to her. Rough-hewn walls to either side, forming a circular chamber with Lostara — who had been lying on an altar — in the centre. Moonlight was flooding in from in front of the figure, yet it seemed to be sliding in visible motion. As if the moon beyond was plunging from the sky.

  'What—?' she asked, then began to cough un­controllably, sharp pain biting in her lungs. Finally recovering, she blinked tears from her eyes, looked up once again.

  He was facing her now.

  The Shadow Dancer. The god. Cotillion. Seemingly in answer to her initial question, he said, 'I am not sure. Some untoward sorcery is at work, somewhere in the desert. The moon's light has been... stolen. I admit I have never seen anything like it before.'

  Even as he was speaking, Lostara's memories returned in a rush. Y'Ghatan. Flames, everywhere. Blistering heat. Savage burns — oh how her flesh screamed its pain — 'What — what happened to me?'

  'Oh, that was what you meant. My apologies, Lostara Yil. Well, in short, 1 pulled you out of the fire. Granted, it's very rare for a god to intervene, but T'riss kicked open the door—'

  'T'riss?'

  'The Queen of Dreams. Set the precedent, as it were. Most of your clothes had burned — I apologize if you find the new ones not to your liking.'

  She glanced down at the rough-woven shift covering her.

  'A neophyte's tunic,' Cotillion said. 'You are in a Temple of Rashan, a secret one. Abandoned with the rebellion, I believe. We are a league and a half from what used to be Y'Ghatan, forty or so paces north of the Sotka Road. The temple is well concealed.' He gestured with one gloved hand at the archway. 'This is the only means of ingress and egress.'

  'Why — why did you save me?'

  He hesitated. 'There will come a time, Lostara Yil, when you will be faced with a choice. A dire one.'

  'What kind of choice?'

  He studied her for a moment, then asked, 'How deep are your feelings for Pearl?'

  She started, then shrugged. 'A momentary infatuation. Thankfully passed. Besides, he's unpleasant company these days.'

  'I can understand that,' Cotillion said, somewhat enigmatically. 'You will have to choose, Lostara Yil, between your loyalty to the Adjunct... and all that Pearl represents.'

  'Between the Adjunct and the Empress? That makes no sense—'

  He stayed her with a raised hand. 'You need not decide immediately, Lostara. In fact, I would counsel against it. All I ask is that you consider the question, for now.'

  'What is going on? What do you know
, Cotillion? Are you planning vengeance against Laseen?'

  His brows lifted. 'No, nothing like that. In fact, I am not directly involved in this... uh, matter. At the moment, anyway. Indeed, the truth is, I am but anticipating certain things, some of which may come to pass, some of which may not.' He faced the portalway again. 'There is food near the altar. Wait until dawn, then leave here. Down to the road. Where you will find... welcome company. Your story is this: you found a way out of the city, then, blinded by smoke, you stumbled, struck your head and lost conscious­ness. When you awoke, the Fourteenth was gone. Your memory is patchy, of course.'

  'Yes, it is, Cotillion.'

  He turned at her tone, half-smiled. 'You fear that you are now in my debt, Lostara Yil. And that 1 will one day return to you, demanding payment.'

  'It's how gods work, isn't it?'

  'Some of them, yes. But you see, Lostara Yil, what I did for you in Y'Ghatan four days ago was my repayment, of a debt that I owed you.'

  'What debt?'

  Shadows were gathering about Cotillion now, and she barely heard his reply, 'You forget, I once watched you dance...' And then he was gone.

  Moonlight streamed into his wake like quicksilver. And she sat for a time, bathed in its light, considering his words.

  ****

  Snoring from the tent. Mogora sat on a flat stone five paces from the dying fire. Had he been awake, Iskaral Pust would be relieved. The moon was back where it belonged, after all. Not that she'd actually moved it. That would have been very hard indeed, and would have attracted far too much attention besides. But she'd drawn away its power, somewhat, briefly, enough to effect the more thorough healing the Trell had required.

  Someone stepped from the shadows. Walked a slow circle round the recumbent, motionless form of Mappo Trell, then halted and looked over at Mogora.

  She scowled, then jerked a nod towards the tent. 'Iskaral Pust, he's the Magi of High House Shadow, isn't he?'

  'Impressive healing, Mogora,' Cotillion observed. 'You do understand, of course, that the gift may in truth be a curse.'