Authors: Steven Erikson
The young golden warrior seemed unperturbed by her warning. ‘He will see no such thing, bonecaster.’
She started, and then hissed. ‘A bold claim. How can you be so certain?’
‘Because,’ Ryadd replied, ‘I already have.’
All at once everything shifted. Torrent saw Silchas Ruin step away from his companion, both hands stealing closer to the grips of his swords.
Olar Ethil cackled.
‘Bonecaster,’ Ryadd said, adding a faint bow to the title, ‘I know your name. I know you are the Maker of the Ritual of Tellann. That without you all the will of the Imass would have achieved nothing. The One Voice was yours. You took a people and stole from them death itself.’
‘You have dwelt among T’lan Imass?’
He shook his head. ‘Imass. But I know one who was once a T’lan Imass. Onrack the Broken. And I know his wife, Kilava.’
‘Kilava, that sweet bitch. His wife now? She almost undid me. Is she well? Tell her I forgive her. And tell Onrack the Broken of the Logros, I shall not reclaim him. His life is his, now, and for all time.’
‘It is well you said so,’ Ryadd said. ‘For I have vowed that no harm come to them.’
‘Ryadd Eleis, I have chosen: I am not your enemy and be glad for that. If I had chosen otherwise, that bold vow would have killed you.’
He shrugged. ‘Perhaps between the two of us, you would prevail. But against me and Kilava both, the outcome might prove the opposite.’
‘Is she close? No! I sense nothing!’
‘She is the oldest true bonecaster of all, Olar Ethil. The others ceased to grow once they surrendered to the Ritual. And look at yourself—the same is true. You are only what you once were, that and nothing more. If Kilava wishes to remain undetected, so it shall be. You do not rule this world, Olar Ethil. You surrendered that privilege long ago, with your very own Ritual.’
Olar Ethil swung to Silchas Ruin. ‘See what you have invited into your shadow? You fool! And now, best you beg me for an alliance—quickly!’
But Silchas Ruin let his hands fall away from his weapons. ‘It may be that I have kept him close for the reasons you say, Olar Ethil, but there are other reasons—and these are proving far more compelling the more I come to know this son of Menandore. If he has indeed surpassed me, I will yield my leadership of the pair of us. As for an alliance with you, frankly, I’d rather bed an enkar’al.’
Torrent laughed, as much to release the tension and fear building within him as at the notion of this warrior bedding something with the ugly name of enkar’al. The sound, unfortunately, drew everyone’s attention.
Ryadd addressed him. ‘Warrior, are you indebted to this bonecaster?’
He frowned. ‘I’d not thought of that. Possibly, but I do not know the coin, nor its value. I am Torrent of the Awl, but the Awl are no more. Instead, I keep company with bones.’
The youth smiled, as if unexpectedly pleased with the answer.
Silchas said, ‘Torrent of the Awl. I grieve for the passing of your people. Their memory rests with you now. Cherish it but do not let it destroy you.’
‘An interesting distinction,’ Torrent said after a moment’s thought. ‘But I am past such things, since I now cherish destruction. I would slay my slayers. I would end the lives of those who have ended mine.’ He glanced across at Olar Ethil. ‘Perhaps this is the coin between me and this undead witch.’
Sorrow tinged Ruin’s face but he said nothing.
Ryadd’s smile was gone. ‘Look around then, warrior. This is the home you would make for your enemies and for yourself. Does it please you?’
‘I think it does, Ryadd Eleis.’
The young man’s displeasure and disappointment at that answer was plain to see.
A short span of silence, and then Olar Ethil spoke. ‘You have waited to spring this ambush, Silchas Ruin. Were the words we have exchanged all you sought, or is there something else?’
‘My curiosity is satisfied,’ Silchas said to the bonecaster. ‘But I will give you this as a gesture, if you will, as evidence that I wish no enmity between us. Two undead dragons are seeking you. I know them of old. They will bow and scrape and swear fealty. But in their hearts they are vile.’
Olar Ethil sniffed. ‘I thought I sensed . . . something. On our trail. You say you
know them, while I do not. I find that odd, given the world you and I once shared.’
‘From when the Eleint were unleashed, out through the Gate, seeking to claim realms to rule amidst the shattered remains of Kurald Emurlahn.’ He paused, and then added, ‘My own encounter with them was brief, but violent. They are true spawn of T’iam.’
‘Yet they travel together. Why has neither one committed treachery upon the other?’
‘I believe they are twins, Olar Ethil, hatched from a single egg as it were. Among all the Eleint during the Wars of Shadow, they came closest to victory. It was the last time I stood beside my brother, the last time he held my flank and I his. For a time, then . . .’ and his voice fell away, ‘we were happy.’
Though Torrent knew nothing of these Wars of Shadow, nor the other players involved, he could not but hear the sorrow in Ruin’s voice, and it stung him deep inside.
Fucking regrets. We all have them, don’t we. Live long enough and maybe it’s all we have, all we keep alive in our minds. Spirits below, what a miserable thought.
But Olar Ethil had no room in her bag of bones for sentiment. She hacked out a laugh. ‘Happy delivering death! Oh, you were all such righteous fools back then! And now among you and your brothers, only you remain, like a thorn no one can dig loose! Tell me the great cause you have espoused for yourself this time, Silchas Ruin. Tell me about all the regrettable but necessary deaths to shore up your grisly road! Do not think I won’t cheer you on—nor this mortal beside me either, if one would purchase truth from his words. You are welcome to mayhem, Silchas Ruin! You and this flawed fire of a child at your side, and Kilava too, for that matter!’
At her outburst, Silchas frowned. ‘Speak what you are hiding, bonecaster.’
‘Gesture for gesture? Very well. Errastas has summoned the Elders. Sechul Lath, Kilmandaros, Mael—and now Draconus—yes! When you hide yourselves so well you yield your touch on this trembling world—you become blind. Your brother is dead, Silchas Ruin. Dragnipur is shattered. Draconus is loose upon the realm, Darkness in his hands—and what does his old lover see now that she sets eyes upon us all once more? Have you greeted your mother yet, Silchas? Have you felt her touch upon your brow? I thought not. She grieves for the son she cherished the most, I think. In whom the black flames of her love burned brightest. She reserves true spite and contempt for—’
Torrent’s backhanded swing caught her full in the face, hard enough to knock her from her feet, falling in a clatter of bones. As he loomed over her, he found he’d drawn his sword. ‘Spite, witch? Well, you’d know of it better than anyone. Now shut that bony jaw and keep it shut.’
Her black pitted eyes seemed to fix upon his own as if bearing claws, but he did not flinch.
Destruction? You scrawny bitch, I fear only its escape.
He stepped back and shot Silchas a glance.
The man looked so wounded it was a wonder he was still standing. He had wrapped his arms about his own torso, curled in and shrunken. The liquid that
leaked down from his eyes traced crimson glints down his hollowed cheeks. Torrent saw Ryadd, his face ravaged with distress, take a step towards his companion, and then he wheeled to advance on Olar Ethil.
Torrent stepped into his path. ‘Go back,’ he said. ‘Now is not the time. Console your friend, Ryadd. I will lead her away from here.’
The young warrior trembled, his eyes incandescent with fury. ‘She will not—’
‘Heed me? She will. Ryadd, the attacks are over—’
He started, eyes widening. ‘Attacks.’ Then he nodded. ‘Yes, I see. Yes.’ He nodded again, and then turned round, ready to give his youthful strength to an old man suddenly broken.
And so he surpasses, and leadership now belongs to him. Simple as that.
Torrent sheathed his sword and swung up on to his horse. He gathered the reins, shot one last withering look upon Olar Ethil—who’d yet to move—and then kicked his mount into motion.
On to the trail of the wagon, east and south. He did not look back, but after a time he saw a spinning cloud of dust lift from a nearby rise. She was with him.
I see you, sweet as crotch rot, but will you even admit I probably just saved your sorry sack?
Didn’t think so.
As the sun painted gold the brutal facing of the stone tower, a figure of gold and bronze stood above another who knelt, bowed forward over his thighs with his face in his hands.
Neither moved until long after the sun set and darkness claimed the sky.
There had been an old man among the Barghast, brain-addled and prone to drag on to his shoulders a tattered, mangy wolf hide, and then fall to his hands and knees, as if at last he had found his true self. A beast incapable of speech beyond yips and howls, he would rush in amongst the camp dogs, growling, until he had subdued every bewildered, cowering animal. He had sought to do other things as well, but Setoc found even the memory of those to be too pitiful and painfully pathetic to revisit.
The giant plains wolf, Baaljagg, reminded her of that old man. Hide patched and rotted, in places hanging in mangled strips. Its muzzle was perpetually peeled back, revealing the massive oak-hued teeth and fangs, as if the entire world deserved an eternal challenge. The creature’s black pitted eyeholes haunted her, speaking to her in eloquent silence:
I am death,
they said.
I am your fate and the fate of all living things. I am what is left behind. Departed from the world, I leave you only this.
She wondered what had happened to that old man, to make him want to be a wolf. What wound stuck in his mind made him lose all sense of his true self? And why was there no going back, no finding that lost self? The mind held too many secrets. The brain was a sack of truths and their power, hiding there inside, was
absolute. Twist one truth into a lie, and a man became a wolf. His flesh and bones could only follow, straining to reshape themselves. Two legs to four, teeth to fangs: new forms and new purposes to give proof to the falsehood.
But such lies need not be so obvious as that old man with his broken brain, need they? The self could become lost in more subtle ways, could it not?
Today I am this person. Tomorrow I am another. See the truths of me? Not one is tethered. I am bound to no single self, but unleashed into a multitude of selves. Does this make me ill? Broken?
Is this why I can find no peace?
The twins walked five paces in front of her. They were one split in two. Sharp-eyed round faces peering into the mirror, where nothing could hide. Truths could bend but not twist.
I willingly followed Toc Anaster, even as I resented it. I have my very own addiction and it is called dissatisfaction. And each time it returns, everyone pays. Cafal, I let you down. I cried out my own failure of faith—I forced you to flee me. Where are you now, my soft-eyed priest?
Baaljagg’s dead eyes fixed on her again and again as they walked. She lagged behind the twins. The boy’s weight was making the muscles of her arms burn. She would have to set him down again, and so their pace would suddenly slow to a crawl. Everyone was hungry—even an undead wolf could find little to chase down out here. The withered grasses of the plains were long behind them now. Soil had given way to stones and hard-packed clay. Thorny shrubs clung here and there, their ancient trunks emerging from beds of cacti. Worn watercourses revealed desiccated pieces of driftwood, mostly no more substantial than the bones of her forearm; but occasionally they came upon something far larger, long and thick as a leg, and though she could not be certain she thought that they showed signs of having been worked. Boreholes large enough to insert a thumb—though of course to do so would invite a spider’s bite or a scorpion’s sting—and the faint scaly signs of adze marks. But none of these ancient streams could have borne a boat of any kind, not even a skiff or raft. She could make no sense of any of it.
The north horizon hinted at high towers of stone, like mountains gnawed through from every side, leaving the peaks tottering on narrow spires. They made her uneasy, as if warning her of something.
You are in a land that gives nothing. It will devour you, and there is no end to its vast hunger.
They had made a terrible mistake. No,
she’d
made it.
He was leading us east, so we will go east. Why was he leading us in that direction? Stavi, I have no idea.
But here is a truth I have found inside myself. All that dissatisfaction? It’s not at Toc. It’s not at anyone. It’s with me. My inability to find peace, to trust it when I do find it, and to hold on to it.
This addiction feeds itself. It may be incurable.
Another rutted watercourse ahead—no . . . Setoc’s eyes narrowed. Two ruts, churned up by horse hoofs. A track. The twins had seen the same, for they suddenly ran ahead, halting and looking down. Setoc didn’t catch their words but both turned as she arrived, and in their faces they saw a hardening determination.
Storii pointed. ‘It goes that way. It goes that way, Setoc.’
‘So will we,’ Stavi added.