The Bonehunters

  'So what of it?'

  She gaped at him like a toothless spider. 'You have a brain like pumice stone — throw stuff at it and it just sinks in! Disappears. Vanishes. Even when I piss on it, the piss just poofs! Gone! Oh how I hate you, husband. With all your obnoxious, smelly habits — gods, picking your nose for breakfast — I still get sick thinking about it — a sight I am cursed never to forget—'

  'Oh be quiet. There's nutritious pollen entombed in snot, as everyone well knows—'

  A heavy sigh interrupted him, and both Dal Honese looked down at Mappo. Mogora scrabbled over and began stripping away the webs from the Trell's seamed face.

  Iskaral Pust leaned closer. 'What's happened to his skin? It's all lined and creased — what did you do to him, woman?'

  'The mark of spiders, Magi,' she replied. 'The price for healing.'

  'Every strand's left a line!'

  'Well, he was no beauty to begin with.'

  A groan, then Mappo half-lifted a hand. It fell back and he groaned again.

  'He's now got a spider's brain, too,' Iskaral predicted. 'He'll start spitting on his food — like you do, and you dare call picking my nose disgusting.'

  'No self-respecting creature does what you did this morn­ing, Iskaral Pust. You won't get no spiders picking their noses, will you? Ha, you know I'm right.'

  'No I don't. I was just picturing a spider with eight legs up its nose, and that reminded me of you. You need a hair­cut, Mogora, and I'm just the man to do it.'

  'Come near me with intentions other than amorous and I'll stick you.'

  'Amorous. What a horrible thought—'

  'What if I told you I was pregnant?'

  'I'd kill the mule.'

  She leapt at him..

  Squealing, then spitting and scratching, they rolled in the dust.

  The mule watched them with placid eyes.

  ****

  Crushed and scattered, the tiles that had once made the mosaic of Mappo Runt's life were little more than faint glimmers, as if dispersed at the bottom of a deep well. Disparate fragments he could only observe, his awareness of their significance remote, and for a seemingly long time they had been retreating from him, as if he was slowly, in­exorably floating towards some unknown surface.

  Until the silver threads arrived, descending like rain, sleeting through the thick, murky substance surrounding him. And he felt their touch, and then their weight, halt­ing his upward progress, and, after a time of motionlessness, Mappo began sinking back down. Towards those broken pieces far below.

  Where pain awaited him. Not of the flesh — there was no flesh, not yet — this was a searing of the soul, the manifold wounds of betrayal, of failure, of self-recrimination, the very fists that had shattered all that he had been... before the fall.

  Yet still the threads drew the pieces together, unmindful of agony, ignoring his every screamed protest.

  He found himself standing amidst tall pillars of stone that had been antler-chiselled into tapering columns. Heavy wrought-iron clouds scudded over one half of the sky, a high wind spinning strands across the other half, fill­ing a void — as if something had punched through from the heavens and the hole was slow in healing. The pillars, Mappo saw, rose on all sides, scores of them, forming some pattern indefinable from where he stood in their midst. They cast faint shadows across the battered ground, and his gaze was drawn to those shadows, blankly at first, then with growing realization. Shadows cast in impossible directions, forming a faint array, a web, reaching out on all sides.

  And, Mappo now understood, he stood at its very centre.

  A young woman stepped into view from behind one of the pillars. Long hair the colours of dying flames, eyes the hue of beaten gold, dressed in flowing black silks. 'This,' she said in the language of the Trell, 'is long ago. Some memories are better left alone.'

  'I have not chosen it,' Mappo said. 'I do not know this place.'

  'Jacuruku, Mappo Runt. Four or five years since the Fall. Yet one more abject lesson in the dangers that come with pride.' She lifted her arms, watched as the silks slid free, revealing unblemished skin, smooth hands. 'Ah, look at me. I am young again. Extraordinary, that I once believed myself fat. Does it afflict us all, I wonder, the way one's sense of self changes over time? Or, do most people contend, wilfully or otherwise, a changeless persistence in their staid lives? When you have lived as long as I have, of course, no such delusions survive.' She looked up, met his eyes. 'But you know this, Trell, don't you? The gift of the Nameless Ones shrouds you, the longevity haunts your eyes like scratched gemstones, worn far past beauty, far past even the shimmer of conceit.'

  'Who are you?' Mappo asked.

  'A queen about to be driven from her throne, banished from her empire. My vanity is about to suffer an ignominious defeat.'

  'Are you an Elder Goddess? I believe I know you...' He gestured. 'This vast web, the unseen pattern amidst seem­ing chaos. Shall I name you?'

  'Best you did not. I have since learned the art of hiding. Nor am I inclined to grant favours. Mogora, that old witch, will rue this day. Mind you, perhaps she is not to blame. There is a whisper in the shadows about you, Mappo. Tell me, what possible interest would Shadowthrone have in you? Or in Icarium, for that matter?'

  He started. Icarium. I failed him — Abyss below, what has happened? 'Does he yet live?'

  'He does, and the Nameless Ones have gifted him with a new companion.' She half-smiled. 'You have been... dis­carded. Why, I wonder? Perhaps some failing of purpose, a faltering — you have lost the purity of your vow, haven't you?'

  He looked away. 'Why have they not killed him, then?'

  She shrugged. 'Presumably, they foresee a use for his talents. Ah, the notion terrifies you, doesn't it? Can it be true that you have, until this moment, retained your faith in the Nameless Ones?'

  'No. I am distressed by the notion of what they will release. Icarium is not a weapon—'

  'Oh you fool, of course he is. They made him, and now they will use him... ah, now I understand Shadowthrone. Clever bastard. Of course, I am offended that he would so blithely assume my allegiance. And even more offended to realize that, in this matter, his assumption was correct.' She paused, then sighed. 'It is time to send you back.'

  'Wait — you said something — the Nameless Ones, that they made Icarium. I thought—'

  'Forged by their own hands, and then, through the succession of guardians like you, Mappo, honed again and yet again. Was he as deadly when he first crawled from the wreckage they'd made of his young life? As deadly as he is now? I would imagine not.' She studied him. 'My words wound you. You know, I dislike Shadowthrone more and more, as my every act and every word here complies with his nefarious expectation. I wound you, then realize that he needs you wounded. How is it he knows us so well?'

  'Send me back.'

  'Icarium's trail grows cold.'

  'Now.'

  'Oh, Mappo, you incite me unto weeping. I did that, on occasion, when I was young. Although, granted, most of my tears were inspired by self-pity. And so, we are transformed. Leave now, Mappo Runt. Do what you must.'

  ****

  He found himself lying on the ground, bright sun overhead. Two beasts were fighting nearby — no, he saw as he turned his head, two people. Slathered in dusty spit, dark streaks of gritty sweat, tugging handfuls of hair, kicking and gouging.

  'Gods below,' Mappo breathed. 'Dal Honese.'

  They ceased scrapping, looked over.

  'Don't mind us,' Iskaral Pust said with a blood-smeared smile, 'we're married.'

  ****

  There was no outrunning it. Scaled and bear-like, the beast massed as much as the Trygalle carriage, and its long, loping run covered more ground than the terrified horses could manage, exhausted as they now were. The red and black, ridged scales covering the animal were each the size of bucklers, and mostly impervious to missile fire, as had been proved by the countless quarrels that had skidded from its hide as it drew ever closer. It p
ossessed a single, overlarge eye, faceted like an insect's and surrounded by a projecting ridge of protective bone. Its massive jaws held double rows of sabre teeth, each one as long as a man's forearm. Old battle-scars had marred the symmetry of the beast's wide, flat head.

  The distance between the pursuer and the pursued had closed to less than two hundred paces. Paran abandoned his over-the-shoulder study of the beast and urged his horse ahead. They were pounding along a rocky shoreline. Twice they had clattered over the bones of some large creature, whale-like although many of the bones had been split and crushed. Up ahead and slightly inland, the land rose into something like a hill — as much as could be found in this realm. Paran waved towards it. 'That way!' he shouted to the driver.

  'What?' the man shrieked. 'Are you mad?'

  'One last push! Then halt and leave the rest to me!'

  The old man shook his head, yet steered the horses up onto the slope, then drove them hard as, hoofs churning in the mud, they strained to pull the huge carriage uphill.

  Paran slowed his horse once more, caught a glimpse of shareholders gathered round the back of the carriage, all staring at him as he reined in, directly in the beast's path.

  One hundred paces.

  Paran fought to control his panicking horse, even as he drew a wooden card from his saddlebag. On which he scored a half-dozen lines with his thumbnail. A moment to glance up — fifty paces, head lowering, jaws opening wide. Oh, a little close—

  Two more deeper scores into the wood, then he flung the card out, into the path of the charging creature.. Four soft words under his breath—

  The card did not fall, but hung, motionless.

  The scaled bear reached it, voicing a bellowing roar — and vanished.

  Paran's horse reared, throwing him backward, his boots leaving the stirrups as he slid onto its rump, then off, land­ing hard to skid in the mud. He picked himself up, rubbing at his behind.

  Shareholders rushed down to gather round him.

  'How'd you do that?'

  'Where'd it go?'

  'Hey, if you coulda done that any time what was we runnin' for?'

  Paran shrugged. 'Where — who knows? And as for the "how", well, I am Master of the Deck of Dragons. Might as well make the grand title meaningful.'

  Gloved hands slapped his shoulders — harder than necessary, but he noted their relieved expressions, the terror draining from their eyes.

  Hedge arrived. 'Nice one, Captain. I didn't think any of you'd make it. From what I saw, though, you left things nearly too late — too close. Saw your mouth moving — some kind of spell or something? Didn't know you were a mage—'

  'I'm not. I was saying "I hope this works".'

  Once again, everyone stared at him.

  Paran walked over to his horse.

  Hedge said, 'Anyway, from that hilltop you can see our destination. The High Mage thought you should know.'

  ****

  From the top of the hill, five huge black statues were visible in the distance, the intervening ground broken by small lakes and marsh grasses. Paran studied the rearing edifices for a time. Bestial hounds, seated on their haunches, perfectly rendered yet enormous in scale, carved entirely of black stone.

  'About what you had expected?' Hedge asked, clamber­ing back aboard the carriage.

  'Wasn't sure,' Paran replied. 'Five... or seven. Well, now I know. The two shadow hounds from Dragnipur found their... counterparts, and so were reunited. Then, it seems, someone freed them.'

  'Something paid us a visit,' Hedge said, 'the night us ghosts annihilated the Dogslayers. Into Sha'ik's camp.'

  Paran turned to regard the ghost. 'You haven't mentioned this before, sapper.'

  'Well, they didn't last long anyway.'

  'What in Hood's name do you mean, they didn't last long?

  'I mean, someone killed them.'

  'Killed them? Who? Did a god visit that night? One of the First Heroes? Or some other ascendant?'

  Hedge was scowling. 'This is all second-hand, mind you, but from what I gathered, it was Toblakai. One of Sha'ik's bodyguards, a friend of Leoman's. Afraid I don't know much about him, just the name, or, I suppose, title, since it's not a real name—'

  'A bodyguard named Toblakai killed two Deragoth hounds?'

  The ghost shrugged, then nodded. 'Aye, that's about right, Captain.'

  Paran drew off his helm and ran a hand through his hair — gods below, do I need a bath — then returned his attention to the distant statues and the intervening lowlands. 'Those lakes look shallow — we should have no trouble getting there.'

  The carriage door opened and the Jaghut sorceress Ganath emerged. She eyed the black stone monuments. 'Dessimbelackis. One soul made seven — he believed that would make him immortal. An ascendant eager to become a god—'

  'The Deragoth are far older than Dessimbelackis,' Paran said.

  'Convenient vessels,' she said. 'Their kind were nearly extinct. He found the few last survivors and made use of them.'

  Paran grunted, then said, 'That was a mistake. The Deragoth had their own history, their own story and it was not told in isolation.'

  'Yes,' Ganath agreed, 'the Eres'al, who were led unto domestication by the Hounds that adopted them. The Eres'al, who would one day give rise to the Imass, who would one day give rise to humans.'

  'As simple as that?' Hedge asked.

  'No, far more complicated,' the Jaghut replied, 'but for our purposes, it will suffice.'

  Paran returned to his horse. 'Almost there — I don't want any more interruptions — so let's get going, shall we?'

  ****

  The water they crossed stank with decay, the lake bottom thick with black mud and, it turned out, starfish-shaped leeches. The train of horses struggled hard to drag the carriage through the sludge, although it was clear to Paran that Karpolan Demesand was using sorcery to lighten the vehicle in some way. Low mudbanks ribboning the lake afforded momentary respite, although these were home to hordes of biting insects that swarmed hungrily as the share­holders came down from the carriage to pull leeches from horse-legs. One such bank brought them close to the far shore, separated only by a narrow channel of sluggish water that they crossed without difficulty.

  Before them was a long, gentle slope of mud-streaked gravel. Reaching the summit slightly ahead of the carriage, Paran reined in.

  Nearest him, two huge pedestals surrounded in rubble marked where statues had once been. In the eternally damp mud around them were tracks, footprints, signs of some kind of scuffle. Immediately beyond rose the first of the intact monuments, the dull black stone appallingly lifelike in its rendition of hide and muscle. At its base stood a structure of some kind.

  The carriage arrived, and Paran heard the side door open. Shareholders were leaping down to establish a defensive perimeter.

  Dismounting, Paran walked towards the structure, Hedge coming up alongside him.

  'Someone built a damned house,' the sapper said.

  'Doesn't look lived in.'

  'Not now, it don't.'

  Constructed entirely from driftwood, the building was roughly rectangular, the long sides parallel to the statue's pedestal. No windows were visible, nor, from this side, any entrance. Paran studied it for a time, then headed towards one end. 'I don't think this was meant as a house,' he said. 'More like a temple.'

  'Might be right — that driftwood makes no joins and there ain't no chinking or anything to fill the gaps. A mason would look at this and say it was for occasional use, which makes it sound more like a temple or a corral...'

  They reached one end and saw a half-moon doorway. Branches had been set in rows in the loamy ground before it, creating a sort of walkway. Muddy feet had trod its length, countless sets, but none very recent.

  'Wore leather moccasins,' Hedge observed, crouching close to study the nearest prints. 'Seams were topside except at the back of the heel where there's a cross-stitch pattern. If this was Genabackis, I'd say Rhivi, except for one thing.'
/>
  'What?' Paran asked.

  'Well, these folk have wide feet. Really wide.'

  The ghost's head slowly turned towards the building's entrance. 'Captain, someone died in there.'

  Paran nodded. 'I can smell it.'

  They looked over as Ganath and Karpolan Demesand — the latter flanked by the two Pardu shareholders — approached. The Trygalle merchant-mage made a face as the foul stench of rotting meat reached him. He scowled over at the open doorway. 'The ritual spilling of blood,' he said, then uncharacteristically spat. 'These Deragoth have found worshippers. Master of the Deck, will this detail prove problematic?'

  'Only if they show up,' Paran said. 'After that, well, they might end up having to reconsider their faith. This could prove tragic for them...'

  'Are you reconsidering?' Karpolan asked.

  'I wish I had that luxury. Ganath, will you join me in exploring the interior of the temple?'

  Her brows rose fractionally, then she nodded. 'Of course. I note that darkness rules within — do you have need for light?'

  'It wouldn't hurt.'

  Leaving the others, they walked side by side towards the doorway. In a low voice, Ganath said, 'You suspect as I do, Ganoes Paran.'

  'Yes.'

  'Karpolan Demesand is no fool. He will realize before long.'

  'Yes.'

  'Then we should display brevity in our examination.'

  'Agreed.'

  Reaching the doorway, Ganath gestured and a dull, bluish light slowly rose in the chamber beyond.

  They stepped within.

  A single room — no inner walls. The floor was mud, packed by traffic. A shattered, up-ended tree-stump dominated the centre, the roots reaching out almost horizontally, as if the tree had grown on flat bedrock, sending its tendrils out to all sides. In the centre of this makeshift altar the core of the bole itself had been carved into a basin shape, filled now by a pool of black, dried blood. Bound spreadeagled to out­stretched roots were two corpses, both women, once bloated by decay but now rotted into gelatinous consistency as if melting, bones protruding here and there. Dead maggots lay in heaps beneath each body.