The Bonehunters

  'Who care nothing for pain or mystery, Heboric,' Cutter said, crouching down to study the creature. The size of a child's hand. 'That's not one of its legs. It's a prop.'

  'You are assuming other spiders can count. She knows better.'

  'All very interesting,' Cutter said, straightening, 'but we must get going.'

  'We're all watching this play out,' Heboric said, leaning back and studying the strangely pulsing, taloned hands that flitted in and out of existence at the ends of his wrists.

  We? Oh, yes, you and your invisible friends. 'I wouldn't think there'd be many ghosts in these hills.'

  'Then you would be wrong. Hill tribes. Endless warfare — it's those who fall in battle that I see, only those who fall in battle.' The hands flexed. 'The mouth of the spring is just ahead. They fought over control of it.' His toad-like features twisted. 'There's always a reason, or reasons. Always.'

  Cutter sighed, studied the sky. 'I know, Heboric.'

  'Knowing means nothing.'

  'I know that, too.'

  Heboric rose. 'Treach's greatest comfort, understanding that there are infinite reasons for waging war.'

  'And are you comforted by that, too?'

  The Destriant smiled. 'Come. That demon who speaks in our heads is obsessing about flesh at the moment, with watering mouth.'

  They made their way down the trail. 'He won't eat them.'

  'I am not convinced that is the nature of his appetite.'

  Cutter snorted. 'Heboric, Greyfrog is a four-handed, four-eyed, oversized toad.'

  'With a surprisingly boundless imagination. Tell me, how much do you know of him?'

  'Less than you.'

  'It has not occurred to me, until now,' Heboric said, as he led Cutter onto a path offering a less precarious climb — but more roundabout — than the one the Daru had used, 'that we know virtually nothing of who Greyfrog was, and what he did, back in his home realm.'

  This was proving an unusually long lucid episode for Heboric. Cutter wondered if something had changed — he hoped it would stay this way. 'Then we could ask him.'

  'I shall.'

  ****

  In the camp, Scillara kicked sand over the few remaining coals of the cookfire. She walked over to her pack and sat down, settling her back against it as she pushed more rustleaf into her pipe and drew hard until smoke streamed from it. Across from her, Greyfrog squatted in front of Felisin, making strange whimpering sounds.

  She had seen so little for so long. Drugged insensate by durhang, filled with infantile thoughts by her old master, Bidithal. And now she was free, and still wide-eyed with the complexities of the world. The demon lusted after Felisin, she believed. Either to mate with or to devour — it was hard to tell. While Felisin regarded Greyfrog as if it was a dog better to stroke than kick. Which might in turn be giving the demon the wrong notions.

  It spoke with the others in their minds, but had yet to do so with Scillara. Out of courtesy to her, the ones the demon addressed replied out loud, although of course they did not have to — and perhaps didn't more often than not. There was no way for Scillara to tell. She wondered why she had been set apart — what did Greyfrog see within her that so affected its apparent loquaciousness?

  Well, poisons do linger. I may be... unpalatable. In her old life, she might have felt some resentment, or suspicion, assuming she felt anything at all. But now, it appeared to her that she didn't much care. Something had taken shape within her, and it was self-contained and, oddly enough, self-assured.

  Perhaps that came with being pregnant. Just beginning to show, and that would only get worse. And this time there would be no alchemies to scour the seed out of her. Although other means were possible, of course. She was undecided on whether to keep the child, whose father was probably Korbolo Dom but could have been one of his officers, or someone else. Not that that mattered, since whoever he had been he was probably dead now, a thought that pleased her.

  The constant nausea was wearying, although the rustleaf helped. There was the ache in her breasts, and the weight of them made her back ache, and that was unpleasant. Her appetite had burgeoned, and she was getting heavier, especially on the hips. The others had simply assumed that such changes were coming with her returning health — she hadn't coughed in over a week, and all this walking had strengthened her legs — and she did not disabuse them of their assumptions.

  A child. What would she do with it? What would it expect of her? What was it mothers did anyway? Sell their babies, mostly. To temples, to slavers, to the harem merchants if it's a girl. Or keep it and teach it to beg. Steal. Sell its body. This, born of sketchy observations and the stories told by the waifs of Sha'ik's encampment. Meaning, a child was an investment of sorts, which made sense. A return on nine months of misery and discomfort.

  She supposed she could do something like that. Sell it. Assuming she let it live that long.

  It was a dilemma indeed, but she had plenty of time to think on it. To make her decision.

  Greyfrog's head twisted round, looking past Scillara's position. She turned to see four men emerge and halt at the edge of the clearing. The fourth one was leading horses. The riders who had passed them yesterday. One was carry­ing a loaded crossbow, the weapon trained on the demon.

  'Be sure,' the man said in a growl to Felisin, 'that you keep that damned thing away from us.'

  The man on his right laughed. 'A four-eyed dog. Yes, woman, get a leash on it... now. We don't want any blood spilled. Well,' he added, 'not much.'

  'Where are the two men you were with?' the man with the crossbow asked.

  Scillara set down her pipe. 'Not here,' she said, rising and tugging at her tunic. 'Just do what you've come here to do and then leave.'

  'Now that's accommodating. You, with the dog, are you going to be as nice as your friend here?'

  Felisin said nothing. She had gone white.

  'Never mind her,' Scillara said. 'I'm enough for all of you.'

  'But maybe you ain't enough, as far as we're concerned,' the man said, smiling.

  It wasn't even an ugly smile, she decided. She could do this. 'I plan on surprising you, then.'

  The man handed the crossbow over to one of his comrades and unclasped the belt of his telaba. 'We'll see about that. Guthrim, if that dog-thing moves, kill it.'

  'It's a lot bigger than most dogs I've seen,' Guthrim replied.

  'Quarrel's poisoned, remember? Black wasp.'

  'Maybe I should just kill it now.'

  The other man hesitated, then nodded. 'Go ahead.'

  The crossbow thudded.

  Greyfrog's right hand intercepted the quarrel, plucking it out of the air, then the demon studied it, and slithered out its tongue to lick the poison.

  'The Seven take me!' Guthrim whispered in disbelief.

  'Oh,' Scillara said to Greyfrog, 'don't make a mess of this. There's no problem here—'

  'He disagrees,' Felisin said, her voice thin with fear.

  'Well, convince him otherwise.' I can do this. Just like it was before. Doesn't matter, they're just men.

  'I can't, Scillara.'

  Guthrim was reloading the crossbow, whilst the first man and the one not holding the reins of the horses both drew scimitars.

  Greyfrog bounded forward, appallingly fast, and leapt upward, mouth opening wide. That mouth clamped onto Guthrim's head. The demon's lower jaw slipped out from its hinges and the man's head disappeared. Greyfrog's momentum and weight toppled him. Horrific crunching sounds, Guthrim's body spasming, spraying fluids, then sagging limp.

  Greyfrog's jaws closed with a scraping, then snapping sound, then the demon clambered away, leaving behind a headless corpse.

  The remaining three men had stared in shock during this demonstration. But now they acted. The first one cried out, a strangled, terror-filled sound, and rushed forward, raising his scimitar.

  Spitting out a mangled, crushed mess of hair and bone, Greyfrog jumped to meet him. One hand caught the man's sword-arm, twisted
hard until the elbow popped, flesh tore, and blood spurted. Another hand closed on his throat and squeezed, crushing cartilage. The man's scream never reached the air. Eyes bulging, face rushing to a shade of dark grey, tongue jutting like some macabre creature trying to climb free, he collapsed beneath the demon. A third hand held the other arm. Greyfrog used the fourth one to reach back and scratch itself.

  The remaining swordsman fled to where the fourth man was already scrabbling onto his horse.

  Greyfrog leapt again. A fist cracked against the back of the swordsman's head, punching the bone inward. He sprawled, weapon flying. The demon's charge caught the last man with one leg in the stirrup.

  The horse shied away with a squeal, and Greyfrog dragged the man down, then bit his face.

  A moment later this man's head vanished into the demon's maw as had the first one. More crunching sounds, more twitching kicks, grasping hands. Then, merciful death.

  The demon spat out shattered bone still held in place by the scalp. It fell in such a way that Scillara found herself looking at the man's face — no flesh, no eyes, just the skin, puckered and bruised. She stared at it a moment longer, then forced herself to look away.

  At Felisin, who had backed up as far as she could against the stone wall, knees drawn up, hands covering her eyes.

  'It's done,' Scillara said. 'Felisin, it's over.'

  The hands lowered, revealing an expression of terror and revulsion.

  Greyfrog was dragging bodies away, round behind a mass of boulders, moving with haste. Ignoring the demon for the moment, Scillara walked over to crouch in front of Felisin. 'It would have been easier my way,' she said. 'At least a lot less messy.'

  Felisin stared at her. 'He sucked out their brains.'

  'I could see that.'

  'Delicious, he said.'

  'He's a demon, Felisin. Not a dog, not a pet. A demon.'

  'Yes.' The word was whispered.

  'And now we know what he can do.'

  A mute nod.

  'So,' Scillara said quietly, 'don't get too friendly.' She straightened, and saw Cutter and Heboric clambering down from the ridge.

  ****

  'Triumph and pride! We have horses!

  Cutter slowed. 'We heard a scream—'

  'Horses,' Heboric said as he walked towards the skittish animals. 'That's a bit of luck.'

  'Innocent. Scream? No, friend Cutter. Was Greyfrog... breaking wind.'

  'Really. And did these horses just wander up to you?'

  'Bold. Yes! Most curious!'

  Cutter headed over to study some odd stains in the scuffled dust. Greyfrog's palm-prints were evident in the effort to clean up the mess. 'Some blood here...'

  'Shock, dismay... remorse.'

  'Remorse. At what happened here, or at being found out?'

  'Sly. Why, the former, of course, friend Cutter.'

  Grimacing, Cutter glanced over at Scillara and Felisin, studied their expressions. 'I think,' he said slowly, 'that I am glad I was not here to see what you two saw.'

  'Yes,' Scillara replied. 'You should be.'

  'Best keep your distance from these beasts, Greyfrog,' Heboric called out. 'They may not like me, much, but they really don't like you.'

  'Confident. They just don't know me yet.'

  ****

  'I wouldn't feed this to a rat,' Smiles said, picking desultorily at the fragments of meat on the tin plate resting in her lap. 'Look, even the flies are avoiding it.'

  'It's not the food they're avoiding,' Koryk said. 'It's you.'

  She sneered across at him. 'That's called respect. A foreign word to you, I know. Seti are just failed Wickans. Everybody knows that. And you, you're a failed Seti.' She took her plate and sent it skidding across the sand towards Koryk. 'Here, stick it in your half-blood ears and save it for later.'

  'She's so sweet after a day's hard riding,' Koryk said to Tarr, with a broad, white smile.

  'Keep baiting her,' the corporal replied, 'and you'll probably regret it.' He too was eyeing what passed for supper on his plate, his normally placid expression wrinkling into a slight scowl. 'It's horse, I'm sure of it.'

  'Dug up from some horse cemetery,' Smiles said, stretch­ing out her legs. 'I'd kill for some grease-fish, baked in clay over coals down on the beach. Yellow-spiced, weed-wrapped. A jug of Meskeri wine and some worthy lad from the inland village. A farm-boy, big—'

  'Hood's litany, enough!' Koryk leaned forward and spat into the fire. 'You rounding up some pig-swiller with fluff on his chin is the only story you know, that much is obvious. Dammit, Smiles, we've heard it all a thousand times. You crawling out of Father's estate at night to get your hands and knees wet down on the beach. Where was all this again? Oh, right, little-girl dream-land, I'd forgotten—'

  A knife thudded into Koryk's right calf. Bellowing, he scrambled back, then sank down to clutch at his leg.

  Soldiers from nearby squads looked over, squinting through the dust that suffused the entire camp. A moment's curiosity, quickly fading.

  As Koryk loosed a stream of indignant curses, both hands trying to stem the bleeding, Bottle sighed and rose from where he sat. 'See what happens when the old men leave us to play on our own? Hold still, Koryk,' he said as he approached. 'I'll get you mended — won't take long—'

  'Make it soon,' the half-blood Seti said in a growl, 'so I can slit that bitch's throat.'

  Bottle glanced over at the woman, then leaned in close to Koryk. 'Easy. She's looking a little pale. A bad throw—'

  'Oh, and what was she aiming at?'

  Corporal Tarr climbed to his feet. 'Strings won't be happy with you, Smiles,' he said, shaking his head.

  'He moved his leg—'

  'And you threw a knife at him.'

  'It was that little-girl thing. I was provoked.'

  'Never mind how it started. You might try apologizing – maybe Koryk will leave it at that—'

  'Sure,' Koryk said. 'The day Hood climbs into his own grave.'

  'Bottle, you stopped the bleeding yet?'

  'Pretty much, Corporal.' Bottle tossed the knife over towards Smiles. It landed at her feet, the blade slick.

  'Thanks, Bottle,' Koryk said. 'Now she can try again.'

  The knife thudded into the ground between the half-blood's boots.

  All eyes snapped to stare at Smiles.

  Bottle licked his lips. That damned thing had come all too close to his left hand.

  'That's where I was aiming,' Smiles said.

  'What did I tell you?' Koryk asked, his voice strangely high.

  Bottle drew a deep breath to slow his pounding heart.

  Tarr walked over and pulled the knife from the ground. 'I'll keep this for a while, I think.'

  'I don't care,' Smiles said. 'I got plenty more.'

  'And you will keep them sheathed.'

  'Aye, Corporal. So long as no-one provokes me.'

  'She's insane,' Koryk muttered.

  'She's not insane,' Bottle replied. 'Just lonely for...'

  'Some farm-boy from the inland village,' Koryk finished, grinning.

  'Probably a cousin,' Bottle added, low so that only Koryk heard.

  The man laughed.

  There. Bottle sighed. Another hairy moment on this endless march passed by, with only a little blood spilled. The Fourteenth Army was tired. Miserable. It didn't like itself, much. Deprived of delivering fullest vengeance upon Sha'ik and the murderers, rapists and cut-throats who followed her, and now in slow pursuit of the last remnant of that rebel army, along crumbling, dusty roads in a parched land, through sandstorms and worse, the Fourteenth still waited for a resolution. It wanted blood, but so far most of the blood spilled had been its own, as altercations turned into feuds and things got ugly.

  The Fists were doing their best to keep things under control, but they were as worn down as everyone else. It didn't help that there were very few captains worthy of the rank in the companies.

  And we don't have one at all, now that Keneb got moved. There w
as the rumour of a new contingent of recruits and officers disembarking at Lato Revae and now somewhere behind them, hurrying to catch up, but that rumour had begun ten days ago. The fools should have caught them by now.

  Messengers had been coming and going in the last two days, pelting along the track from their wake, then back again. Dujek Onearm and the Adjunct were doing a lot of talking, that much was clear. What wasn't was what they were talking about. Bottle had thought about eaves­dropping on the command tent and its occupants, as he had done many times before, between Aren and Raraku, but the presence of Quick Ben made him nervous. A High Mage. If Quick turned over a rock and found Bottle under it, there'd be Hood to pay.

  The damned bastards fleeing ahead of them could run for ever, and probably would if their commander had any brains. He could have chosen a last stand at any time. Heroic and inspiring in its pointlessness. But it seemed he was too clever for that. Westward, ever westward, out into the wastes.

  Bottle returned to where he had been sitting, collecting handfuls of sand to scrub Koryk's blood from his fingers and palms. We're just getting on each other's nerves. That's all. His grandmother would know what to do about this situation, but she was long dead and her spirit was anchored to the old farm outside Jakata, a thousand leagues from here. He could almost see her, shaking her head and squinting in that half-crazed genius way she'd had. Wise in the ways of mortals, seeing through to every weakness, every flaw, reading unconscious gestures and momentary expressions, cutting through the confused surface to lay bare the bones of truth. Nothing was hidden from her.

  He could not talk with her, however.

  But there's another woman... isn't there? Despite the heat, Bottle shivered. She still haunted his dreams, that Eres'al witch. Still showed him the ancient hand-axes spread out over this land like the stone leaves of a world-encompassing tree, scattered by the winds of countless passing ages. He knew, in fact, that fifty or so paces south of this track, there was a basin cluttered with the damned things. Out there, a short walk, waiting for him.

  I see them, but I do not yet understand their significance. That's the problem. I'm not equal to this.