Dust of Dreams

  ‘Once she’s fully returned,’ Yedan said, swinging back, ‘the power should ease.’

  ‘She? Who?’

  ‘Don’t be obtuse, sister. Mother Dark. Who else arrives like a fist in our skulls?’ He resumed his search along the First Shore.

  ‘Errastas,’ she whispered, ‘whatever will you do now?’

  Torrent scowled at the hag. ‘Aren’t you even listening?’

  Olar Ethil straightened, gathering up her rotted cape of furs and scaled hide. ‘Such a lovely carpet, such a riot of richness, all those supine colours!’

  The withered nut of this witch’s brain has finally cracked. ‘I said these carriage tracks are fresh, probably not even a day old.’

  Olar Ethil had one hand raised, as if about to wave at someone on the horizon. Instead, one taloned finger began inscribing patterns in the air. ‘Go round, my friends, slow your steps. Wait for the one to pass, through and out and onward. No point in clashing wills, when none of it has purpose. Such a busy plain! No matter, if anyone has cause to quake it’s not me, hah!’

  ‘An enormous carriage,’ Torrent resumed, ‘burdened. But while that’s interesting, it’s the fact that the tracks simply begin—as if from nowhere—and look at the way the ground cracked at the start, as if the damned thing had landed from the sky, horses and all. Doesn’t any of that make you curious?’

  ‘Eh? Oh, soon enough, soon enough.’ She dropped her arm and then pointed the same finger at him. ‘The first temple’s a mess. Besieged a decade ago, just a burnt-out husk, now. No one was spared. The Matron took weeks to die—it’s no easy thing, killing them, you know. We have to move on, find another.’

  Snarling, Torrent mounted his horse and collected the reins. ‘Any good at running, witch? Too bad.’ He kicked his horse into motion, setting out on the carriage’s weaving trail. Let the thing’s bones clatter into dust in his wake—the best solution to all his ills. Or she could just stand there and stare at every horizon one by one and babble and rant all she wanted—as if the sky ever answered.

  A carriage. People. Living people. That’s what he needed now. The return of sanity—hold on, it dropped out of the sky, don’t forget. What’s so normal about that?

  ‘Never mind,’ he muttered, ‘at least they’re alive.’

  Sandalath made it to the bridge before collapsing. Cursing, Withal knelt at her side and lifted her head until it rested on his lap. Blood was streaming from her nose, ears and the corners of her eyes. Her lips glistened as if painted.

  The three Nachts—or whatever they were called in this realm—had vanished, fled, he assumed, from whatever was assailing his wife. As for himself, he felt nothing. This world was desolate, lifeless, probably leagues from any decent body of water—but oh how he wished he could take her and just sail out of this madness.

  Instead, it looked as though his wife was dying.

  Crimson froth bubbled from her mouth as she began mumbling something—he leaned closer—words, yes, a conversation. Withal leaned back, snorting. When she’d thought him asleep, she’d said the same lines over and over again. As if they were a prayer, or the beginning of one.

  ‘What’s broken cannot be mended. You broke us, but that is not all—see what you have done.’

  There was the touch of a lament in her tone, but one so emptied of sentiment it cut like a dagger. A lament, yes, but infused with chill hatred, a knuckled core of ice. Complicated, aye, layered—unless he was just imagining things. The truth could be as silly as a childhood song sung to a broken doll, its head lolling impossibly with those stupid eyes underneath the nose and the mouth looking like a wound to the forehead—

  Withal shook himself. The oldest memories might be smells, tastes, or isolated images—but rarely all three at once—at least in so far as he knew from his own experience. Crammed into his skull, a crowded mess with everything at the back so tightly pressed all the furniture was crushed, and to reach in was to come up with a few pieces that made no sense at all—

  Gods, he was tired. And here she was, dragging him all this way, only to die in his lap and abandon him at the gates of a dead city.

  ‘. . . see what you have done.’

  Her breathing had deepened. The blood had stopped trickling down—he wiped her mouth with a grimy cuff. She suddenly sighed. He leaned closer. ‘Sand? Can you hear me?’

  ‘Nice pillow . . . but for the smell.’

  ‘You’re not going to die?’

  ‘It’s over now,’ she said, opening her eyes—but only for a moment as she gasped and shut them again. ‘Ow, that hurts.’

  ‘I can get some water—from the river here—’

  ‘Yes, do that.’

  He shifted her from his lap and settled her down on the road. ‘Glad it’s over, Sand. Oh, by the way, what’s over?’

  She sighed. ‘Mother Dark, she has returned to Kharkanas.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nice.’

  As he made his way down the wreckage-cluttered bank, waterskins flopping over one shoulder, Withal allowed himself a savage grimace. ‘Oh, hello, Mother Dark, glad you showed up. You and all the rest of you gods and goddesses. Come back to fuck with a thousand million lives all over again, huh? Now, I got an idea for you all, aye, I do.

  ‘Get lost. It’s better, you see, when we ain’t got you to blame for our mess. Understand me, Mother Dark?’ He crouched at the edge of black water and pushed the first skin beneath the surface, listening to the gurgle. ‘And as for my wife, hasn’t she suffered enough?’

  A voice filled his head. ‘Yes.’

  The river swept past, the bubbles streamed from the submerged skin until no bubbles were left. Still, Withal held it down, as if drowning a maimed dog. He wasn’t sure he’d ever move again.

  The descent of darkness broke frozen bone and flesh across the width of the valley, spilling out beyond the north ridge, devouring the last flickering flames from the burning heaps that had once been Barghast wagons.

  The vast battlefield glistened and sparkled as corpses and carcasses shrivelled, losing their last remnants of moisture, and earth buckled, lurching upward in long wedges of stone-hard clay that jostled bodies. Iron steamed and glowed amongst the dead.

  The sky above was devoid of all light, but the ashes drifting down were visible, as if each flake was lit from within. The pressure continued pushing everything closer to the ground, until horses and armoured men and women became flattened, rumpled forms. Weapons suddenly exploded, white-hot shards hissing.

  The hillsides groaned, visibly contracted as something swirled in the very centre of the valley, a darkness so profound as to be a solid thing.

  A hill cracked in half with a thunderous detonation. The air seemed to tear open.

  From the swirling miasma a figure emerged, first one boot then the other crunching down on desiccated flesh, hide and bone, striding out from the rent, footfalls heavy as stone.

  The darkness seethed, pulsed. The figure paused, held out a gauntleted left hand.

  Lightning spanned the blackness, a thousand crashing drums. The air itself howled, and the darkness streamed down. Withered husks that had once been living things spun upright as if reborn, only to pull free of the ground and whirl skyward like rotted autumn leaves.

  Shrieking wind, torn banners of darkness spiralling inward, wrapping, twisting, binding. Cold air rushed in like floodwaters through a crumbling dam, and all it swept through burst into dust that roiled wild in its wake.

  Hammering concussions shook the hills, sheared away slopes leaving raw cliffs, boulders tumbling and pitching through the remnants of carnage. And still the darkness streamed down, converging, coalescing into an elongated sliver forming at the end of the figure’s outstretched hand.

  A final report, loud as the snapping of a dragon’s spine, and then sudden silence.

  A sword, bleeding darkness, dripping cold.

  Overhead, late afternoon sunlight burned the sky.

  He slowly scanned the ground, even as desiccated fragments o
f hide and flesh began raining from the heavens, and then he stepped forward, bending down to retrieve a battered scabbard. He slid the sword home.

  A sultry wind swept down the length of the valley, gathering streamers of steam.

  He stood for a time, studying the scene on all sides.

  ‘Ah, my love. Forgive me.’

  He set out, boots crunching on the dead.

  Returned to the world.

  Draconus.

  Book Four

  The Path

  Forever Walked

  When your penance is done

  Come find me

  When all the judges cloaked in stone

  Have faced away

  Seek the rill beneath the bowers and strings

  Of fine pearls

  Down in the fold of sacred hills

  Among the elms

  Where animals and birds find shelter

  Come find me

  I am nestled in grasses never trod

  By heartbroken

  Knights and brothers of kings

  Not a single root torn

  In the bard’s trembling grief

  Seek out what is freely given

  Come find me

  In the wake of winter’s dark flight

  And take what you will

  Of these blossoms

  My colours lie in wait for you

  And none other

  COME FIND ME

  FISHER

  Chapter Nineteen

  In the midst of fleeing

  the unseen enemy

  I heard the hollow horrors

  of the wretched caught

  We collected our gasps

  to make ourselves a song

  Let the last steps be a dance!

  Before the spears strike

  and the swords slash

  We’ll run with torches

  and write the night

  with glutted indulgences

  Our precious garlands

  bold laughter to drown

  the slaughter in the stables

  of the lame and poor

  Entwine hands and pitch skyward!

  None will hear the dread

  groans of the suffering

  nor brush with tips

  glistening sorrow’d cheeks

  on stilled faces below

  Let us flee in mad joy—

  the unseen enemy draws near

  behind and ahead

  and none will muster

  to this harbinger call

  for as long as we are able

  to run these perfect circles

  confound the fates

  all you clever killers!

  I am with you!

  UNSEEN ENEMY

  EFLIT TARN

  M

  oving like one bludgeoned, Kilmandaros slowly, by degrees, picked herself up from the ground. She leaned to one side and spat red phlegm, and then glanced over to see Errastas lying curled on the dead grasses, motionless as a stillborn calf. Off to one side stood Sechul Lath, arms wrapped tightly about his torso, face bleached of all warmth.

  She spat again. ‘It’s him.’

  ‘A summoning beyond all expectation,’ Sechul said. ‘Odd, Errastas looks less than pleased at his own efficacy.’

  Kilmandaros levered herself upright, stood unsteadily. ‘He could be subtle when he wanted,’ she said, in some irritation. ‘Instead, he made sure to let us know.’

  ‘Not just us,’ Sechul replied. ‘Nothing so crass,’ he added, ‘as careless.’

  ‘Is it anger, do you think?’

  He rubbed at his face with both hands. ‘The last time Draconus was wakened to anger, Mother, nothing survived intact. Nothing.’ He hesitated, and then shook his head. ‘Not anger, not yet, anyway. He just wanted everyone to know. He wanted to send us all spinning.’

  Kilmandaros grunted. ‘Rude bastard.’

  They stood at the end of a long row of standing stones that had taken them round a broad, sweeping cursus. The avenue opened out in front of them, with scores of lesser stones spiralling the path inward to a flat-topped altar, its surface stained black. Little of this remained in the real world, of course. A few toppled menhirs, rumpled tussocks and ruts made by wandering bhederin. Errastas had drawn them ever closer to a place where time itself dissolved into confusion. Assailed by chaos, straining beneath the threats of oblivion, even the ground underfoot felt porous, at risk of crumbling under their weight.

  The builders of this holy shrine were long gone. Resonance remained, however, tingling her skin, but it was an itch she could not scratch away. The sensation further fouled her mood. Glaring down at Errastas, she asked, ‘Will he recover? Or will we have to drag him behind us by one foot.’

  ‘A satisfying image,’ Sechul conceded, ‘but he’s already coming round. After the shock, the mind races.’ He walked up to where the Errant lay. ‘Enough, Errastas. On your feet. We have a task to complete and now more than ever, it needs doing.’

  ‘She took an eye,’ rasped the figure lying on the grasses. ‘With it, I would have seen—’

  ‘Only what you wanted to see,’ Sechul finished. ‘Never mind that, now. There is no going back. We won’t know what Draconus intends until he shows us—or, Abyss forbid, he finds us.’ He shrugged. ‘He’s thrown his gauntlet down—’

  Errastas snorted. ‘Gauntlet? That, Setch, was his fist.’

  ‘So punch back,’ Sechul snapped.

  Kilmandaros laughed. ‘I’ve taught him well, haven’t I?’

  The Errant uncurled, and then sat up. He stared bleakly at the altar stone. ‘We cannot just ignore him. Or what his arrival tells us. He is freed. The sword Dragnipur is shattered—there was no other way out. If the sword is shattered, then—’

  ‘Rake is dead,’ said Kilmandaros.

  Silence for a time. She could see in the faces of the two men sweeping cascades of emotion as they contemplated the raw fact of Anomander Rake’s death. Disbelief, denial, wonder, satisfaction and pleasure. And then . . . fear. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Great changes, terrible changes.’

  ‘But,’ Errastas looked up at her, ‘how was it possible? Who could have done such a thing? Has Osserc returned—no, we would have sensed that.’ He climbed to his feet. ‘Something has gone wrong. I can feel it.’

  Sechul faced him. ‘Master of the Holds, show us your mastery. You need to look to your own hands, and the power within them.’

  ‘Listen to my son,’ said Kilmandaros. ‘Seek the truth in the Holds, Errastas. We must know where things stand. Who struck him down? Why? And how did the sword break?’

  ‘There is irony in this,’ Sechul said with a wry smile. ‘The removal of Anomander Rake is like kicking down a gate—in an instant the path beyond runs straight and clear. Only to have Draconus step into the breach. As deadly as Rake ever was, but a whole lot crueller, that much closer to chaos. His appearance is, I think, a harbinger of the madness to come. Squint that lone eye, Errastas, and tell me you see other than ruination ahead.’

  But the Errant was shaking his head. ‘I can tell you now who broke Dragnipur. There could be no other. The Warlord.’

  Breath hissed from Kilmandaros. ‘Brood. Yes, I see that. The weapon he holds—none other. But that only confuses things all the more. Rake would not have willingly surrendered that weapon, not even to Caladan Brood.’ She eyed the others. ‘We are agreed that the Son of Darkness is dead? Yet his slayer did not take Dragnipur. Can it be that the Warlord killed him?’

  Sechul Lath snorted. ‘Centuries of speculation—who was the deadlier of the two? Have we our answer? This is absurd—can any of us even imagine a cause that would so divide those two? With the history they shared?’

  ‘Perhaps the cause was Dragnipur itself—’

  Kilmandaros grunted. ‘Think clearly, Errastas. Brood had to know that shattering the sword would free Draconus, and a thousand other ascendants—’ her hands closed into fists—‘and Eleint. He would not have done it if he’d had a choice. Nothing
could have so fractured that ancient alliance, for it was more than an alliance. It was friendship.’ She sighed heavily and looked away. ‘We clashed, yes, but even me—no, I would not have murdered Anomander Rake if the possibility was presented to me. I would not. His existence . . . had purpose. He was one you could rely upon, when justice needed a blade’s certain edge.’ She passed a hand over her eyes. ‘The world has lost some of its colour, I think.’

  ‘Wrong,’ said Sechul. ‘Draconus has returned. But listen to us. We swirl round and round this dread pit of truth. Errastas, will you stand there frozen as a hare? Think you not the Master of the Deck is bleeding from the ears right now? Strike quickly, friend—he will be in no condition to intercept you. Indeed, make him fear we planned this—all of it—make him believe we have fashioned the Consort’s escape from Dragnipur.’

  Kilmandaros’s eyes were wide on her son.

  Errastas slowly nodded. ‘A detour, of sorts. Fortunately, a modest one. Attend me.’

  ‘I shall remain here,’ announced Kilmandaros. At the surprise and suspicion she saw in the Errant’s face, she raised her fists. ‘There was the danger—so close to the Eleint—that I lose control. Surely,’ she added, ‘you did not intend me to join you when you walked through that last gate. No, leave me here. Return when it’s done.’

  Errastas looked round at the shrine’s standing stones. ‘I would not think this place suited you, Kilmandaros.’

  ‘The fabric is thin. My presence weakens it more—this pleases me.’

  ‘Why such hatred for humans, Kilmandaros?’

  Her brows rose. ‘Errastas, really. Who among all the races is quickest to claim the right to judgement? Over everyone and everything? Who holds that such right belongs to them and them alone? A woodcutter walks deep into the forest, where he is attacked and eaten by a striped cat—what do his fellows say? They say: “The cat is evil and must be punished. The cat must answer for its crime, and it and all its kind must answer to our hate.” Before too long, there are no cats left in that forest. And humans consider that just. Righteous. Could I, Errastas, I would gather all the humans of the world, and I would gift them with my justice—and that justice is here, in these two fists.’