Authors: Steven Erikson
Yet, as she rose to her feet, a new assurance filled her—gift of her dreams, and though they might be nothing more than fanciful conjurations, false benedictions, they seemed to give her something solid, and she could feel her frailty falling away from her soul like a cracked seed husk. Her eyes hardened as she regarded the three K’Chain Che’Malle.
‘If they find us, they find us. We cannot run from . . . from ghosts. Nor can we trust in the protection of Gu’Rull. So, we drive south—straight as a lance. Gunth Mach, give me your back to ride. This will be a long day—there is so much, so much we must now leave behind us.’ She looked to Rythok. ‘Brother, I mean to honour Kor Thuran—we all must—by succeeding in our quest.’
The K’ell Hunter’s reptilian eyes remained fixed on her, cold, unyielding.
Sag’Churok and Gunth Mach rarely spoke to her these days, and when they did it seemed their voices were more distant, harder to make out. She did not think the fault was theirs.
I am dwindling within myself. The world narrows—but how is it I even know this? What part within me is aware of its own measure?
No matter. We must do this.
‘It is time.’
Sag’Churok watched Gunth Mach force her own body into the configuration necessary to accommodate the Destriant. The heady, spice-drenched scents roiled from her in tendrils that spread like branches on the currents of air, and they carried to the K’ell Hunter echoes of Kor Thuran’s last moments of agony.
When the hunter became the hunted, every retort was reduced to a defiant snarl, a few primitive threat postures, and the body existed to absorb damage—to weather and withstand all it could as the soul that dwelt within it sought, if not escape, then a kind of comprehension. A recognition. That even the hunter must know fear. No matter how powerful, no matter how superior, how supreme, sooner or later forces it could not defeat or flee from would find it.
Domination was an illusion. Its coherence could only hold for so long.
This lesson was a seared brand upon the memories of the K’Chain Che’Malle. Its bitter taste soured the dust of the Wastelands, and eastward, on the vast plain that had once known great cities and the whisper of hundreds of thousands of K’Chain Che’Malle, now there was nothing but melted and crushed fragments, and what the winds sought they could not find, and so wandered for ever lost.
Kor Thuran had been young. No other crime belonged to the K’ell Hunter. He had made no foolish decisions. Had not fallen victim to his own arrogance or sense of invulnerability. He had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. And now so much was lost. And for all the Destriant’s noble words—her sudden, unwarranted confidence and determination—Sag’Churok, along with Rythok and Gunth Mach, knew that the quest had failed. Indeed, it was not likely that they would survive the day.
Sag’Churok shifted his gaze from Gunth Mach as she suffered her transformation in runnels of oil that dripped like blood.
Gu’Rull was gone, probably dead. Every effort to brush his thoughts had failed. Of course, the Shi’gal Assassin could shield his mind, but he had no reason to do so. No, two of the five protectors were gone. And still this puny human stood, her soft face set in an expression Sag’Churok had come to know as defiant, weak eyes fixed on the undulating horizon to the south as if her will alone could conjure
into being her precious Shield Anvil and Mortal Sword. It was brave. It was . . . unexpected. For all that the Matron’s gifts were fading from the woman, she had indeed found some kind of inner strength.
All for naught. They would die, and soon. Their torn and broken bodies would lie scattered, lost, their great ambitions unheralded.
Sag’Churok lifted his head, drank in the air, and caught the taint of the enemy. Close. Drawing closer. Threat oils rising between his scales, he scanned the horizon, and finally settled on the west—where Kor Thuran had fallen.
Rythok had done the same, and even Gunth Mach’s head had swivelled round.
The Destriant was not blind to their sudden fixation. She bared her teeth. ‘Guardians,’ she said. ‘It seems we need your help—not some time in the future, but now. What can you send to us? Who among you can stand against that which my companions will not let me even see?’
Sag’Churok did not understand her meaning. He did not know whom she was addressing. Was this the Matron’s madness, or Kalyth’s very own?
The Destriant’s gait was stiff with fear as she walked up to Gunth Mach, who helped the woman on to the gnarled saddle of scales behind her shoulders.
Sag’Churok faced Rythok.
Hunter. Slow them down.
Rythok stretched his jaws until they creaked, and then drew the edges of his blades against each other in a singing rasp. Tail lashing—spraying thick droplets of oil that pattered the ground—the K’ell Hunter set off at a run, head dipping in the attack posture. Westward.
‘Where is he going?’ Kalyth shouted. ‘Call him back! Sag’Churok—’
But he and Gunth Mach sprang into motion, side by side, legs scything the air, taloned feet snapping as they kicked them forward, ever swifter, the pace building until the broken ground blurred beneath them. South.
The Destriant shrieked—her mask of determination shattered and in its place the raw truth of comprehension and all the horror that followed. Her puny fists beat at Gunth Mach’s neck and shoulders, and for an instant it looked as if Kalyth would throw herself from the First Daughter’s back—but their speed was too great, the risk of broken limbs, or indeed, a broken neck, defeated the impulse and forced her to hold tightly to Gunth Mach’s neck.
They had gone a third of a league when Rythok’s savage hiss burst into their skulls—the blistering acid of sudden, frenzied battle. Blades striking home, impacts reverberating like thunder. A crackling, terrifying sound, and all at once blood was gushing from the K’ell Hunter. A piercing cry, a weaving stagger, burning pain and then baffled anguish as Rythok’s legs gave way.
Ribs cracked as he struck the ground. Sharp rocks tore and stabbed the softer hide of his belly as he skidded.
But Rythok was not yet done. Dying would have to wait.
He rolled, twisted round, blade lashing back into his wake. The edge struck armour, chopped through it, and bit deep into flesh.
Phlegm and blood spattered, stung like fire in Rythok’s eyes—a sudden image, brutal in its clarity, as a massive axe swung down, filling the Hunter’s vision on his left side.
An explosion of white.
And death made the two fleeing K’Chain Che’Malle stagger. A moment, and then, with unyielding will, they recovered. Glistening with grief, rank with battle oils.
The Destriant was weeping—shedding her own oil, thin, salty, all that she could muster.
She humbled Sag’Churok. Had his hide grown slick with sorrow when he killed Redmask? No, it had not. Bitter with disappointment, yes, he had known that. But greater the icy grip of intransigent judgement. He and Gunth Mach had been witness to humans slaughtering each other. The fire of battle had raged on all sides. Human life was, it was clear, of little value—even to the humans themselves. When the world is swarming with a hundred million orthen, what loss a few tens of thousands?
Yet, this frail alien creature wept. For Rythok.
In moments he would wheel. He would do as Rythok had done. But not precisely so. There was little point in attempting to kill. Maiming was a more useful tactic. He would wound as many as he could and so diminish the numbers capable of pursuing Gunth Mach and the Destriant.
He would employ skills Rythok had not yet learned and now never would. Sag’Churok might not be a Ve’Gath Soldier, but he would surprise them nonetheless.
Gunth Mach.
‘Yes, beloved.’
Sag’Churok whetted his blades.
‘
No!
’ Kalyth shrieked. ‘Do not dare leave us! Sag’Churok—I forbid it!’
Destriant. I shall succeed where Rythok failed. My life shall purchase you a day, perhaps two, and you must make it enough.
‘Stop! I have prayed! Do you not understand?
They said they would answer!
’
I do not know of whom you speak, Destriant. Listen well to my words. Acyl Nest shall die. The Matron is doomed, and all those within the Rooted. Gunth Mach carries my seed. She shall be a new Matron. Find your Shield Anvil and your Mortal Sword—the three of you shall be Gunth Mach’s J’an Sentinels, until such time as she breeds her own.
Then Gunth Mach shall free you.
This is not your war. This is not your end—it is ours.
‘Stop!’
Sag’Churok prepared to speak to her once more, despite the growing effort it entailed. He would tell her of his admiration. And his faith in her—and of his own astonishment at feeling such emotions for a human. They were paltry things, too weak to be considered gifts of any sort, but he would—
Figures in the distance ahead. Not the enemy. Not born and bred of matrons either. And not, Sag’Churok realized, human.
Standing, readying an array of weapons.
Fourteen in all. Details assembling as Sag’Churok and Gunth Mach raced ever closer. Gaunt despite the blackened, gnarled armour encasing their torsos and
limbs. Strange helms with down-swept cheek-guards that projected below their chins. Ragged camails of black chain. Thick, tattered and stained cloaks that had once been dyed an intense, deep yellow, trimmed in silver fur.
Sag’Churok saw that seven of the strangers held in their gauntleted hands long, narrow-bladed swords of blued steel, basket-hilted with half-moon knuckle-guards, and ornate bucklers. He saw two others with heavier single-edged axes and embossed round shields covered in mottled hides. Three with broad-headed, iron-sheathed spears. And two more, standing behind the rest, preparing slings.
And, surrounding them all, spreading down from the faint rise on which they waited, frost sparkled on earth and stone.
Disbelief struck Sag’Churok like a hammer-blow.
This was not possible. This was . . . without precedent.
Impossible—what cast these strangers? Foes or allies? But no, they cannot be allies.
Besides, as all know, Jaghut stand alone.
‘There!’ shouted Kalyth, pointing. ‘I prayed! There—run to them—quickly! Guardians of the Gate!’
Destriant—hear me. These ones will not help us. They will do nothing.
‘You’re wrong!’
Destriant. They are Jaghut. They are . . .
. . . impossible.
But Gunth Mach had altered her course, was closing directly upon the waiting warriors. Sag’Churok fell in beside her, still shocked, still confused, uncomprehending—
And then he and Gunth Mach caught the stench wafting from the Jaghut, gusting out from the frozen ground encircling them.
Destriant, beware! They are undead!
‘I know what they are,’ snapped Kalyth. ‘Stop, Gunth Mach—stop retreating—right here, don’t move.’ And then she slipped down from the Daughter’s back.
Destriant, we do not have time—
‘We do. Tell me, how many pursue us? Tell me!’
A Caste. Fifty. Forty-nine now. Four wield Kep’rah, weapons of sorcery. A Crown commands them, they flow as one.
She looked to the northwest. ‘How far away?’
Your eyes shall find them shortly. They are . . . mounted.
‘On what?’
Sag’Churok would have sent her an image, but she was beyond such things now. She was closed and closing.
Wrought . . . legs. To match our own. Tireless.
He watched as the Destriant absorbed this information, and then she faced the Jaghut.
‘Guardians. I thought to see . . . familiar faces.’
One of the spear-wielders stepped forward. ‘Hood would not want us.’
‘If he had,’ said the swordswoman beside him, ‘he would have summoned us.’
‘He would not choose that,’ resumed the first Jaghut, ‘for he knew we would not likely accede.’
‘Hood abused our goodwill,’ the swordswoman said, tusks gleaming with frost, ‘at the first chaining. He knew enough to face away from us at the next one.’ An iron-sheathed finger pointed at the Destriant. ‘Instead, he abused you, child of the Imass. And made of one his deadliest enemy. We yield him no sorrow.’
‘No commiseration,’ said the spear-wielder.
‘No sympathy,’ added one of the slingers.
‘He will stand alone,’ the swordswoman said in a rasp. ‘A Jaghut in solitude.’
Sag’Churok twisted round, studied the glint of metal to the northwest. Not long now.
The swordswoman continued. ‘Human, you keep strange company. They will teach you nothing of value, these Che’Malle. It is their curse to repeat their mistakes, again and again, until they have destroyed themselves and everyone else. They have no gifts for you.’
‘It seems,’ said Kalyth of the Elan, ‘we humans have already learned all they could teach us, whether we ever knew it or not.’
A chilling sound, the rattling laughter of fourteen undead Jaghut.
Then the spear-wielder spoke. ‘Flee. Your hunters shall know the privilege of meeting the last soldiers of the only army the Jaghut ever possessed.’