Blood and Bone (98 page)

*

The Crimson Guard camped together, Avowed and Disavowed – though Disavowed no longer. From where she sat on a root Shimmer scanned the crowd.
Crowd. Who would have thought I could ever use that word again regarding the Avowed?
Yet crowd it seemed to her: she had become used to gatherings of mere handfuls.

For some, she knew, this change in circumstances would be harder than for others. Her gaze found fierce Mara sitting aside, alone, hugging herself. She had given much to Skinner, Shimmer knew. And now he was gone. Though she knew she would see him again among the Brethren, should he ever choose to come to the living. She scanned the group and found the broad towering figure of Petal sitting at one fire. She caught his gaze and directed it to Mara. He pursed his heavy lips thoughtfully, then rose, smoothed his torn and frayed robes down his wide front, and crossed to sit next to her.

She now searched for K’azz. She saw him nowhere and she threw herself to her feet.
Damn the fool! The very night he ought to be among us! Our first evening together. Where is he? I have a few words for him!
She set off to track him down.

After searching among the woods she found him standing alone, arms crossed, peering up at the clear night sky. It was a cold night and she’d been shivering. Somewhere, a hunting cat roared.

‘K’azz!’ she called sharply.

He turned, looking rather bemused. ‘Yes? You are upset?’

‘Yes, I’m upset! Here you are off alone. You should be with us. You should be reassuring everyone with your presence.’

He turned away, his gaze falling. ‘Shimmer, I am not blind. My presence is far from reassuring. I can see that I make everyone uncomfortable … even you. And I understand.’

Oh, K’azz!

She spoke, surprising herself with the strength of the emotion in her voice: ‘You are still our commander. We still follow. We still need you.’ She closed one hesitant step. ‘K’azz … something is worrying you. Something you know. Some secret. What is it? Tell me. Share it. We will all carry it with you.’

For some reason, that only made him flinch as if pained. He would not meet her entreating gaze. ‘No. It is something I suspect … nothing more. It mustn’t be spoken of. Not yet.’

‘But in Assail …’

He let out a long tormented breath. ‘Yes. Assail. Of all places. Assail.’

‘I heard the Enchantress. The answer lies there.’

‘
If
it can be found, yes.’

‘I heard Cowl. He claims to know.’

K’azz gave a sad shake of his head. ‘Shimmer … I doubt the man’s sanity. He
thinks
he knows. And perhaps he has grasped some strange idea – the gods alone know what it might be.’

She crossed her arms, raised her gaze to the stars.
At least he is talking now. Perhaps I may persuade him to return
. She indicated the night sky. ‘Whenever I look up I feel so alone and so small. I like the idea of each light up there being a campfire. It makes me feel … part of a tribe.’

‘You are part of a tribe, Shimmer,’ he answered.

She slid her eyes aside to see him also peering up. ‘Yes. Our tribe. The Guard. Will you not rejoin it?’

The muscles on his jaw bunched as he clamped his teeth. He dropped his gaze to her. ‘A good try, Shimmer.’

‘Not a try. A timely reminder.’ She motioned to the camp. ‘Now, return with me. Yes?’
Now or never, Shimmer lass
. She took a step, inviting him to fall in with her. ‘You have seen Petal, yes?’ She glanced back to him expectantly.

A half-smile climbed his lips and he took one slow step. ‘Yes …’ he answered, guardedly.

‘I do believe he is even bigger than when he left us.’

The smile climbed even higher. ‘I do not see how, given that everyone else has lost weight here in this damned jungle.’

Shimmer continued her slow walking pace. ‘Even so. It always amused me. Whenever we met some hulking swordsman who was too full of himself we would introduce him to Petal – the largest man alive and a crushingly shy mage to boot.’

K’azz smiled in remembrance.

‘He and Mara seem to be getting along now.’

‘No!’ K’azz stepped up even with her. ‘But she was so scornful of him. It made me wince. I worked to keep them apart. I knew why she joined with Skinner, of course. But I could never understand why he did.’ He shook his head. ‘That was always a mystery to me.’

Now Shimmer shook her head as she walked along back to camp. ‘K’azz …’ she sighed. ‘You need to mix more.’

EPILOGUE

After having lived among these tribes for many years now I have formed the considered opinion that but for all the differing ritual, accoutrements, myths and attributes of their religious practices, we both seek answers to the same profound questions universal to the human condition: Who are we? Where do we come from? Where are we going?

Whelhen Mariner

Narrative of a Shipwreck and Captivity

within a Mythical Land

IT WAS MOVEMENT
that betrayed the presence of their quarry to Jatal. Movement where there had been none for the last two days. Jatal had got used to the only change being the dust and ash sifting down within the blasted vista of blanketed fallen tree trunks. He was coughing all the time now, a cloth across his mouth and nose. He hawked up bloodied phlegm. His breath was coming short, perhaps from exhaustion and malnourishment, or perhaps from the unsettling bubbling and fullness that choked his chest.

Movement far off immediately caught his eye. At first he thought it an animal; a wounded survivor of the blast, a deer perhaps. Yet amid its struggles the figure straightened to two legs and staggered onward a pace or two before collapsing once again.

Jatal stopped to peer back to Scarza. Flakes of ash dusted the half-Trell from head to foot. They even rested on his eyelashes. Scarza’s gaze was steady on the distant figure. Without a word, Jatal changed direction to follow the survivor.

As they drew close, some noise or instinct alerted the figure and it spun, straightening, to confront them. Jatal looked upon a horrifyingly wounded Warleader who was, he now knew, the demon
out
of his own legendary past: the self-proclaimed High King, Kallor himself. The man weaved drunkenly, a hand on the grip of the bastard sword still at his side. His coat of mail hung from him in torn and blackened tatters of metal links. The flesh beneath oozed, blistered and raw. His beard had been half burned away, as had his hair, leaving seared livid skin behind. One eye was swollen closed, weeping a clear fluid. Dried mud and ash caked him.

Recognition gleamed in his one good eye and he snorted and waved his contempt. ‘You cannot kill me,’ he grated. His voice was so hoarse as to be almost inaudible.

‘I see that now,’ Jatal answered, just as hoarse and breathless. ‘I see that all the ancient curses heaped upon you still hold.’

Kallor growled deep in his throat at that, hawked up a mouthful of catarrh, and spat aside. ‘I will break them yet.’

Merciless gods! All because of you and your damned curses
… ‘You thought them gone, didn’t you?’ Jatal opened his arms to indicate the blasted surroundings. ‘All this because you wished to end it. Is that not so?’

The High King actually shrugged. ‘It seemed a good bet. The sword Draconus swore upon is broken. Sister of Cold Nights is broken. Those who cursed me are all slipping away – as they should have long ago.’

‘Damn you,’ Jatal breathed, utterly overcome with horror.

Kallor laughed a dry hack, wiped his mouth, his hand coming away gleaming with blood. ‘So, you too would add to my burden. Is that it? You are quite done then?’

‘Almost.’

‘Oh? You cannot kill me. You curse me. We are done, I should think.’

‘Yes,’ Jatal answered wearily. He felt so tired of it all. So ready to throw it all aside. ‘We will leave you crawling in the dust, Kallor. Which is where you belong, curse or no curse. But first I would have one boon from you.’

The High King raised his flame-scarred head to better examine him. His one good eye gleamed as if touched by madness. ‘A boon? In truth? And what can I grant you?’

Scarza edged forward to touch Jatal’s elbow. ‘Lad …’ he urged, ‘don’t.’

Jatal gently shook his touch away. ‘What you lack the courage to grant yourself … release.’

Kallor lurched forward. His livid features darkened even further in fury. He raised a fist to Jatal. ‘You think I have not tried? You
think
I meekly …’ He cut himself off, choking. He straightened. His gaze eased back into its familiar condescension. ‘They will not be the end of me. I will break them, or go of my own choosing.’

Jatal nodded his understanding. ‘I agree, High King. That is why I am here. I ask that you release me. My love awaits.’

Kallor’s breath hissed from him in a long slow exhalation of amazement, and he flinched back a step. ‘Well done, Prince Jatal of the Hafinaj. You win your way and in so doing you succeed where I am cursed to fail. Well done.’ He drew his bastard sword and held it upright before him in salute.

Scarza pushed forward. ‘Now, lad,’ he said, ‘think of what she’d want. You don’t really think she’d—’

Jatal gently urged the half-Trell aside. ‘It is all right, Scarza. She awaits me. I must join her. There is nothing else left for me.’

Scarza had to turn his face away. He squeezed his eyes against the tears that warmed his cheeks.

Kallor cried out: ‘So join her!’ and a foot stamped the ground.

Scarza spun to see a length of the wide bastard sword blade extending from Jatal’s back. The lad grunted something. His knees bent and he slid backwards off the slick blade. Scarza caught him in his arms. ‘Lad!’ he croaked, shocked. ‘You didn’t need to …’ But Jatal could not answer; Kallor’s thrust had been true. Scarza hugged the body to him.

Kallor sheathed the blade. ‘What now, Scarza?’ he asked. ‘I am headed north. Join me. Draconus is free, they say. I will find him and squeeze the life from him.’

Scarza just shook his head. He could not find the words for the depth of callousness, the astounding lack of … humanity.

‘No?’ Kallor continued. ‘The pay will be far better this time, I promise.’

Scarza merely turned away and started walking.

‘What is this?’ Kallor called. ‘You are walking away? Don’t be a fool! Drop that carrion and join me. You know I cannot be defeated. Scarza! Come back. I demand – I order you to return!’ He bellowed after him: ‘Scarza! Do as I say!’

Scarza walked on. He hugged the cooling body to his chest. The ash flakes stuck to his wet face. What could one say? Even after all this – in the sight of such devastation – the man still had not learned a thing. Perhaps that was his true curse. His overriding inner curse.

He could never learn.

* * *

The clouds had cleared from the sky. The layer of pulverized stone, soot, and ash lay as a smooth blanket. With evening, rainclouds swept in from the east and a light drizzle fell. It dimpled the ash and hissed where it met heated rock beneath.

A swirl of wind emerged from nowhere with a gust of displaced air that blew the ash in all directions. A man now stood amid the dispersing dust. He brushed it from his green cloak as he set off walking with a brisk purposeful stride.

The ground he trod lay as a broad shallow bowl, or crater. It crackled beneath his boots, flash-heated to a thin glass-like layer of sintered earth. The man scanned the flattened surroundings: a plain of emptiness apart from the gusting curtains of ash and pulverized stone. He brushed the powder from his arms and shoulders and continued on.

A distance off, a humped shape revealed another occupant of this otherworld of drifting flakes of falling soot. The man hurried forward. He found a woman, mostly naked, kneeling over a prostrate body in blackened and seared trousers and shirt. The woman straightened and pushed back her unkempt mane of tousled hair. She wore a wrap at her breasts and loins. To one side lay a small chest, like a jewellery case.

Ignoring the woman, the man knelt at the body’s side, pressed a hand to its neck to check for a pulse.

‘Greetings, L’oric, son of Osserc,’ the woman said, backing away.

‘And you, Spite, daughter of Draconus,’ the man answered, and he let out a breath of relief as he kept his hand on the fallen one’s neck. ‘He lives.’

‘Yes,’ Spite answered as she continued to back away. ‘Astonishingly. He lives still. Despite all this. He lives still.’

With some effort, L’oric managed to turn the prostrate figure over, revealing the pale hair and skin of a Tiste Liosan. ‘You are surprised?’ he asked, eyeing the woman.

‘By his survival? Or by his actions?’

‘The latter more,’ L’oric mused. ‘As I am.’

‘Yes.’ She frowned down at the unconscious man. ‘Your father … interceded … took it upon himself.’

‘Yes.’

She raised her puzzled gaze to L’oric. ‘Why?’

‘I do not know at this time. Perhaps he will eventually explain.’ He shook his head. ‘But more likely not.’ He pointed aside. ‘And that?’

Spite grunted a harsh exhalation, muttering beneath. She picked up the small chest and opened the top, tipping it. Black powder
spilled
forth to disperse in the weak wind. ‘A failed errand. Wishful thinking.’ She cast the box into the distance.