Forge of Darkness

SEVEN

There were moments of lucidity, when finarra stone became aware of strange, discordant details. She was bound to Spinnock Durav, a horse labouring under them both. Black blades of Glimmer Fate’s savage grasses rasped against the mount’s wooden armour, rustled past like swirling waves. It was night and she could smell Spinnock’s sweat, could feel his heat against her chilled body.

She slipped away, only to awaken again, and this time she saw before them a wavering blur of yellow light, swimming in a penumbra that seethed with moths and bats. The frenzied motion of the creatures hurt her eyes and she looked away, to where the high grasses had been chopped down, forming a killing field surrounding the fort; and then the walls, stretched out beneath the lantern suspended above the gate — the ‘logs’ of bound grass, patchy with sun-fired black clay — the gate opening and sudden voices — she felt Spinnock sag as ropes were cut and she was gently drawn away from him.

Firm hands carried her quickly into the fort, crossing the compound, a flare of harsher light, the gust of heat from a fire, and then she was inside the main room. They set her down on a bench. A dog brushed close, wet nose smearing the back of her swollen hand, and was then sent scurrying with a slap.

Finarra blinked her vision clear and found she was staring up at her commander’s face, the man’s features grave, his eyes firelit from a blazing hearth. ‘We have guests, captain,’ he said to her. ‘Serendipitous guests. Ilgast Rend is with us, well versed in the healing arts. The poison will be expunged — he wagers your leg will be saved. Do you understand my words?’

She nodded.

‘Spinnock tells us of Faror Hend’s mission — she has not yet returned. Tracking a stranger from the Vitr — this was not wise.’

‘The decision,’ Finarra said, startled at finding her voice sounding so thin, so cracked, ‘was hers.’

‘Her betrothed is with us. He even now prepares a troop to set out in search of her.’

Kagamandra Tulas? Has he come for her, then? She stumbled in the confusion of her own thoughts. Where was Spinnock? What had driven Faror Hend into such a foolhardy venture? She suddenly recalled the look in Faror’s eyes, at the moment when she was about to ride into the high grasses. The lust for death, the curse of the Tiste. Had Faror known that her betrothed was coming for her? But Finarra had heard nothing of that before they’d departed, and she most certainly would have done.

‘She is in great danger,’ she said to Calat Hustain.

‘You know more of this stranger, then?’

‘Inimical. Defiant of death. They may be… Soletaken.’

‘From the Vitr? You speak of more than one — have invaders come among us?’

‘They come,’ she said. ‘Eager to slay. The one Faror tracks, it took a human form. A child or woman. No less dangerous. Upon the shore

… my horse, slain.’

‘I will send a troop back upon your trail, captain.’

‘Tell them… do not assume death in what they find, no matter the evidence before their eyes.’

‘Ilgast Rend will attend to you now, captain. He will make you sleep.’

She struggled to sit up. ‘I have slept too long as it is-’

‘You are fevered. Infection has set in — the bite of a naked wolf. He will scour it from your blood. If you refuse to sleep, there will be great pain. There is no virtue in knowing it.’

‘I was careless-’

‘If this proves a matter for disciplining, that is for me to decide, captain. Lie back, the Lord insists.’

She relented, caught site of Ilgast Rend’s broad, battered face, the softness in his eyes. He set a calloused hand upon her brow, and darkness flooded up to take her.

Watching from a distance, Hunn Raal stood with his arms crossed, his back resting against a smoke-stained wall of cracked clay. He was drunk, but in the way of old, in that few could tell, and his thoughts, while loose, were clear enough. Beside him was Osserc, his young face high with colour from the unexpected excitement of this broken troop’s return. The Vitr was a mystery, to be sure, but until now it had been indifferent in its destruction, no more malicious than a winter storm or spring flood. The thought of that vast sea bearing ships or some such thing, followed by the heavy footfalls of invaders, was indeed alarming.

They did not need another war, and yet in that possibility Hunn Raal could see certain advantages, though he could not but view them with unease. The resurrection of Urusander’s Legion. An invasion would give cause to take up arms once more, in a flurry of veterans reinstated, and so set the stage for undeniable clout should internal matters turn sour and threats were needed. Of course, this assumed that the invaders could be quickly dealt with, and Hunn Raal was reluctant to walk that path. He well understood the risks of being dismissive, and was not unaware of how sweet self-serving beliefs could taste in these heady times.

He could see Calat Hustain’s sudden sharpness on the matter. The commander had a quick and sure cause now to dismiss the turgid debate that had threatened to bog them all down in this fort for days, if not weeks. Ilgast Rend had spoken in private with Calat, and there had been betrayal in that, Hunn suspected. The firstborn son of Hust Henarald was now adamant in his neutrality, and in the immediate aftermath of that decision this had amounted to a defeat in Hunn Raal’s eyes.

But in truth he had no cause to be shocked by it. And in some ways, now that he’d time to mull on the matter, he might even consider it a kind of victory. Calat was married to the commander of the Hust Legion, after all, and everyone knew that the Hust Legion belonged to Mother Dark, and were one and all her children.

There would be highborn who were determined to oppose the ascension of Urusander, but without the Hust Legion behind them, they could hardly pose a credible threat to Urusander’s forces. Houseblades were all very well, impressive in battle, but they numbered too few. The will of seven thousand soldiers, all loyal to the cause, would drive Urusander into Mother Dark’s arms, and if they needed to roll over a few hundred Houseblades on the march, well, that would suffice as clear warning to the other noble families.

Power will shift to us. But we seek no tyranny. Only justice. We fought and many of us fell, and those that remain must not be forgotten or cast aside.

‘This is disturbing,’ Osserc said under his breath. ‘Hunn Raal, have you seen this Vitr for yourself?’

Hunn Raal shook his head. ‘A devouring sea, I am told.’

‘What manner of invaders might come from there? Soletaken — might they be kin to the Jheleck, then, taking the form of giant wolves?’

‘We shall find out soon enough.’

Osserc leaned close. ‘Ill-timed, this. We must set aside-’

‘Not at all,’ Hunn Raal cut in. ‘If anything, this has potential to serve us well. Our disbanded kin will have their commissions returned to them — indeed, I envisage our new mission to be riding to Kharkanas with word of this new threat. Or, rather, I will do so. You had best return to your father, to apprise him of what may be, by Mother Dark’s own command, his necessary return to service.’

Osserc frowned. ‘He may well refuse.’

‘He will not,’ Hunn Raal replied. ‘Your father knows his duty.’

‘Perhaps he will charge me with taking his place.’

The obvious answer to that served no value, so Hunn Raal instead assumed a thoughtful expression, but one bearing a glint of amusement. ‘Why do you think I invite you to bring the news to your father? The two of you will speak, and decisions of the blood will be made. Stand tall before him, friend, and be resolute in your regard. Show nothing of eagerness or avid desire. Assume a troubled mien, but not too troubled, obviously. Sober and stern shall serve our cause well, in both your imminent aspiration and indeed in ours as well.’

Osserc slowly nodded. ‘Well said. I shall leave at once-’

‘I would think morning will do. Perhaps even later. It will do us well to hear Calat Hustain’s thoughts on the matter of this threat, and his course of action beyond sending a troop out to investigate. We are now here as representatives of the Legion, and we must be direct in our offers to assist.’

But Osserc scowled. ‘Well enough for you, Hunn, but I am representative of nothing-’

‘Untrue. Here, and in the morning, you will stand in your father’s stead, and I will be certain to make the others aware of that.’

‘But what will I say to them?’

‘Nothing. Just listen and, if a sharp question pricks you awake, voice it. But be spare in your queries — let others ask the bulk of them, and heed well the conversations to follow.’

Osserc nodded, although he remained nervous.

‘See Sharenas over there?’ Hunn Raal asked. ‘She watches and listens — not to my cousins so eager to adopt her, but to Ilgast and Calat. Heed her methods, Osserc. She plays well these political scenes.’

‘We must learn more of this Vitr.’

‘We shall,’ Hunn Raal assured him. And probably have little say in the matter, for I feel events quickening.

Sharenas had watched Tulas leave the room, had observed with interest the man’s sudden acuity. Dead in spirit he might be, but in the matter of salvation of others — in this case his betrothed — he was first to the fore. In fact, she could almost see the lurid flames ignited in him, this potential opportunity to die in defence of the woman he was to take as wife, and so live pure in noble grief for ever, rather than descend into the squalid truths of an unhappy marriage, where old ashes would begin settling on glory before the last stone was set on the threshold of their new home.

There was something almost pathetic in Kagamandra’s energy as he prepared to set out into the night in search of Faror Hend. This was a man who would wither without hands and feet, without the promise of sure motion and actions to undertake with verve and will. But those brave expostulations were all short-lived, the echoes of deeds quickly falling away, and what was the poor man left with, but a renewed silence or, worse, the unheard howl inside his own skull? No, far better these hands in motion, these feet to carry him; better all these things that need doing, and indeed could be done with.

To bind a broken man, by word or thread or chain, was ever a lost cause. Worse yet, how likely was the broken man to in turn break all that was given to him, including young Faror Hend? Was it not Gallan who wrote ‘ On trembling floor / ashes will flow ’, and would not Faror’s world tremble so in the company of Kagamandra Tulas? He will dust her, coat her from head to toe, and she will become the hue of stone, a statue blind to every garden. Gallan, you should write about this betrothal, and set it well upon a stage. I see knives in the wings.

Serap leaned close, ale-soured breath hot on Sharenas’s cheek, ‘Join us tonight, will you? See how heated it’s all become? Blood rushes close under the skin at times like these.’

‘What times would those be?’ Sharenas asked drily.

On Serap’s other side, Sevegg giggled behind her hand.

Hunn Raal’s whores. That’s all they are. He brings them and casts them out among those he would make into allies or, Abyss forbid, friends. But I’m not interested in that, dear captain. I fall in on your cause, as will my sister and cousin. Be content with that, lest you sour my regard. She stepped away from the cousins, evading a drunken paw from Risp, and strode from the main room.

In the small compound, she found Tulas saddling a horse. Six Wardens were doing the same with their own mounts, while a dozen of their comrades checked over the kits of those soon to leave the fort. Lanternlight played out yellow and filled with night insects. Sharenas found a groom standing nearby and gestured him over. ‘Ready my horse,’ she told him. ‘I will ride with them.’

The boy hurried away.

Looking up, she saw Tulas staring across at her.

Sharenas walked to him. ‘You know my skill with a spear,’ she said.

He continued studying her for a moment longer, and then turned back to his horse. ‘You are most welcome, Sharenas Ankhadu, and I thank you.’

‘There is too little love in the world to see it so endangered.’

She saw how her words made him stiffen — but slightly, as he was a man used to self-control. ‘Have you spoken to Spinnock Durav?’ she asked.

‘I did, before exhaustion took him.’

‘Then we have a trail awaiting us.’

‘Yes.’

The groom returned with her horse. She resigned herself to a long, wearying ride. But she was determined to witness this pursuit. Anyway, better the horse than the whore. If that Durav had eyes open this night, well, I might have stayed in the fort. A most handsome young warrior.

I wonder if Finarra and Faror shared him out there in the wilds?

Amused by the thought, she climbed into the saddle and took up the reins.

The others were ready. The gate was opened once more this night, and they all rode out.

Ensconced in the commander’s private room, modest as it was, Ilgast Rend settled in the rickety chair, wincing as it creaked beneath him. Opposite him, in a matching chair, Calat Hustain asked, ‘Your thoughts on what she had to say, Lord?’

Ilgast rubbed hard at his eyes, blinked away swimming blots of colour, and then scratched down through his beard, considering. ‘I spared them no room, commander.’

‘Ah, of course. The efforts at healing must try you, Lord. I admit to a sense of wonder, at this rare skill with earth and heat, moulds and roots. Upon battle’s field, I have seen miracles performed with sharp knife and gut and thorn, but this mysterious sorcery you have found in such mundane things, it is most astonishing.’

‘There is power in nature,’ Ilgast replied, ‘and what is often forgotten is that nature lies within us as much as it does out there, amidst high grasses or shoreline. To heal is to draw across the divide; that and nothing more.’

‘It is said that such power grows.’

Ilgast frowned at the suggestion, not because he would deny it, but because the notion — which he himself sensed — disturbed him. ‘It was ever my belief, commander, that we who blinked the mist clear from our eyes, and so saw truly the flow of life, were but privileged, by quirk of temper or gift of vision. We beheld a power in constancy, yet one unaware of itself. Of no mind, if you will. Neither living nor dead; rather, like the wind.’ He paused, chewing on those thoughts, and then sighed and shook his head. ‘But now, I grow to sense… something. A hint of deliberation. Purpose. As if, in taking from the power, it shifts a shoulder and sets regard upon the taker.’

‘That is… strange, Lord.’

‘As if in looking down into the river,’ Ilgast continued, his frown deepening, ‘one discovers the river looking back up at you. Or a stone returning stern attention. A glance catching the eye of earth, or sand.’ He rubbed vigorously at his face again. ‘It leaves one startled, I tell you, as if in an instant the world is unmade, and all its comforts are revealed as false, and the solitude we’d thought private was in truth played out before a silent audience; and the minds that gave thought to all we did, why, they think nothing like us.’

He saw Calat Hustain look away, into the fire.

‘Forgive me, commander,’ Ilgast said, with a gruff laugh. ‘Healing wearies me. There is a Shake word to describe that sense, as of the myriad things in nature giving sudden and most fixed attention upon a person, and the uncanny shiver that comes of it.’

Calat nodded, eyes still on the fire. ‘ Denul.’

‘Just so.’

‘But the monks speak of it as a kind of ecstasy. A moment of spiritual revelation.’

‘And if the revelation diminishes the self? What ecstasy is found in that?’

‘That of helplessness, I should imagine.’

‘Commander, I dislike helplessness.’

‘And so you wage battle with Denul.’

Perhaps. Yes, it could be seen that way. ‘Her wounds will mend. The poison is gone. She will lose no limbs, and even now the last of the fever rides out on her breath. Your captain will return to you, sound of mind and body, in a few days hence.’

‘I thank you, Lord.’

Ilgast studied the commander for a moment and then asked, ‘This Vitr — you have taken its challenge upon yourself. What can be made of the captain’s claim that strangers have crossed this inimical sea?’

Calat smiled. ‘So you gave heed after all.’ He shook his head. ‘I admit, I am inclined to disbelieve. Stone is devoured by the liquid. Wood crumbles after a few moments in contact with it. Flesh burns and the air upon the sea is itself caustic. What vessel could survive those alien waters?’

‘She spoke of no vessels, no ships. She said the strangers have come from the sea. She spoke, with little coherence it is true, of a demon lying on the beach, a thing that appeared to be dead.’

‘This night,’ Calat said, ‘I have only questions.’

‘Have you theories on the origin of this Vitr?’

‘You well know I am firm in my opinion that it poses a grave threat to Kurald Galain. It is destroying land. With each surge of wave more of our world is taken away, never to reappear. Storms open like jaws and teeth descend to tear away stone and clay. Cliffs weaken and crumble, slide down into oblivion. We map these inroads-’

‘Commander, I would hear your theories instead.’

Calat scowled. ‘Forgive me, Lord, but in that I am frustrated. Where are the legends of the Vitr? Not among us. Perhaps among the Azathanai there are old tales referring to it, but I know nothing of them. The Jaghut, in all their written histories, might well have made note of the Vitr; indeed, the entirety of its reason might have been plainly writ in their works-’

‘But those works have all been destroyed, by their own hands-’

‘By the Lord of Hate, you mean. It was his arguments that mined unto crumbling the foundations of the Jaghut, until they could not trust all they stood upon. The losses to us all, of that vast knowledge, are immeasurable.’

Ilgast Rend grunted. ‘I never shared your respect for the Jaghut, commander. They remind me of the Deniers in the manner in which they turned away from the future — as if to wash their hands of it. But we must all face our days and nights, for they are what await us. Not even a Jaghut can walk back into his or her past. No matter how directionless a step seems when taken, it is always forward.’

‘The Lord of Hate would not disagree with you, Lord. Which is why he has chosen to stand still. To take no step at all.’

‘Yet time bends not to his deep root,’ Ilgast retorted in a growl. ‘It but flows around and past. He vows to forget and so is forgotten.’

‘He has slain their civilization,’ Calat Hustain said, ‘and in so doing, proclaimed all knowledge to be dust. And so I am made to feel, Lord, gaping pits awaiting us ahead, that need not have been, if not for the Lord of Hate.’

‘The loss is only in what was written, commander. Might it serve us, in the matter of the Vitr, to seek out the counsel of a Jaghut? All have not dispersed, I understand. Some still reside in their old keeps and holds. I am of a mind to seek one out.’

‘Yet now the Jheleck have laid claim to the abandoned lands.’

Ilgast shrugged. ‘They could claim the heavens, for all it matters. A Jaghut choosing to remain in a tower cannot be moved, and those Soletaken fools should know better.’ He snorted. ‘Like any dog that’s been whipped, it is never humble for long. Stupidity returns triumphant.’

‘Hunn Raal carries word to Kharkanas in the morning,’ Calat Hustain said.

Ilgast regarded the commander with level eyes.

Trailing the woman she had named T’riss, Faror Hend saw the last of the high grasses dwindle a short distance ahead, and beyond it, worn and rotted, the range of denuded hills lying to the west of Neret Sorr. The sun was past zenith and heat shimmered in the still air. They rode clear and Faror called out to halt.

Their journey through Glimmer Fate had been uneventful, and in her exhaustion Faror had begun to believe that they wandered lost, despite her reading of the night sky, and that they might never find a way through the endless cobwebs and rustling blades. But now, at last, the Fate was behind them. She dismounted, legs weak beneath her. ‘We must rest for a time,’ she said. ‘I wager your horse is tireless, but mine is not.’

The woman slipped down from the grass-bound beast, stepped away. The simulacrum stood motionless, a woven sculpture too robust, too raw to be elegant. The faint wind against its angular form made a soft chorus of whistles. Red and black ants swarmed its neck, emerging from some hidden root-nest.

Faror Hend drew free the heavy water bag for her horse, loosened the leather mouth and set it down for the beast to drink. She drank from her own waterskin and then offered it to T’riss.

The woman approached. ‘Vitr?’

Startled, Faror Hend shook her head. ‘Water. Against the thirst.’

‘I will try it, then.’

Faror watched the woman drink, tentatively at first, and then eagerly. ‘Not too much too quickly, else you sicken.’

T’riss lowered the skin, her eyes suddenly bright. ‘The ache in my throat is eased.’

‘I imagine Vitr did not manage the same.’

The woman frowned, glanced back at the forest of high grass. ‘An excess of vitality,’ she said, ‘can burn the soul.’ She looked again to Faror. ‘But this water, it pleases me. I imagine it in full coolness, about my limbs. Tell me, is there water in abundance?’

‘In places, yes. In others, no. The hills to the south were once green, but when the last of the trees were cut down the soil died. There remains a single spring, which we must now ride to. It is, however, a risk. There are outlaws — they first became a problem during the wars. Men and women who refused to join the legions and saw opportunity once the soldiers departed. Such militias as a town or village mustered were too small to extend patrols beyond the settlement’s outskirts.’

‘These outlaws command the spring?’

‘Like us, they depend upon it. When a troop of Wardens or a well-armed caravan arrive to make use of the water, they hide. We are but two, and they will see in that an invitation to make trouble.’

‘Do they wish to rob us, Faror Hend?’

The Warden looked back at the grass horse. ‘They may have cause to hesitate. Otherwise, we must fight to protect ourselves.’

‘I will see this spring, this place of abundant water. Are you rested, Faror Hend?’

‘No. Feed for the horse, and then for us.’

‘Very well.’

Faror Hend regarded her. ‘T’riss, you seem new to your… your form. This body you wear and its needs. Water. Food. Do you know what you were before?’

‘Tonight,’ T’riss said, ‘I will dream of water.’

‘Do you not understand my meaning?’

‘Dreams in the Vitr are… unpleasant. Faror Hend, I begin to understand this world. To make, one must first destroy. The grasses I made use of are even now losing their life, in this my mount, and in these my clothes. We dwell in the midst of destruction. This is the nature of this world.’

‘You are indeed a stranger,’ Faror observed. ‘A visitor. Do you come with a purpose?’

‘Do you?’ T’riss asked. ‘Have you its knowing upon your birth? This purpose you speak of?’

‘One comes to discover the things that one must do in a life,’ Faror replied.

‘Then what you do is your purpose for being, Faror Hend?’

‘No,’ she admitted. ‘Not always. Forgive me, but I saw you as a harbinger. Created by someone or something unknown, for a cause — and come among us for a reason. But your challenge shames me. None of us knows our own purpose — why we were born, the reason that sets us here. There are many meanings to each life, but none serve to ease the coldest question of all, which is why? We ask it of the Abyss, and no answer arrives but the echo of our own cry.’

‘I meant no challenge, Faror Hend. Your words give me much to think about. I have no memories of the time before.’

‘Yet you recognize Azathanai.’

But T’riss frowned. ‘What is Azathanai?’

Faror Hend blinked, and then her eyes narrowed. ‘There is knowledge hidden within you, T’riss. Hidden with intent. It pushes your thoughts away. It needs you unknowing.’

‘Why would it do that?’

I can think of but one reason. You are dangerous. ‘I don’t know, T’riss. For now, I am taking you to Kharkanas. The problem you pose is well beyond me.’

‘The Vitr is your enemy.’

Faror had turned to feed her horse; now she shot T’riss a sharp look over a shoulder. ‘Is it?’

But the strange woman’s face was blank, her eyes wide and innocent. ‘I believe I am hungry.’

‘We will eat, and then ride on.’

T’riss was as enamoured of food as she had been of water, and would have devoured all that remained of their supplies if not for a word from Faror Hend. The Warden thought to question her guest further, but did not know where to start. The child-like innocence in her seemed to exist like islands, and the seas surrounding them were deep, fathomless. And each island proved barren once reached, while between them, amidst dark tumultuous waves, Faror floundered. But one thing seemed clear: T’riss was losing knowledge, as if afflicted by a disease of the mind, a Loss of Iron; or perhaps the new body she had taken — this woman’s form with its boyish proportions — was imposing its own youthful ignorance. And in the absence of what she had been, something new was emerging, something avid in its appetites.

They mounted up and resumed the journey. The landscape around them was level, dotted here and there by thorny brush, the soil cracked and shrivelled by drought — as it had been since Faror had first joined the Wardens. She sometimes wondered if Glimmer Fate was feeding on the lands surrounding it, drawing away its sustenance as would a river-leech snuggling warm flesh; and indeed, might not this sea of black grasses mark the shallows of the Vitr itself, evidence of the poison seeping out?

Faror Hend’s gaze fell upon her companion, who still rode ahead, the beast beneath T’riss creaking and still leaking dust, dirt and insects. Is she the truth of the Vitr? Is this the message we are meant to take from her? Ignorant of us and indifferent to our destruction? Is she to be the voice of nature: that speaks without meaning; that acts without reason?

But then, if this were true, why the need for a messenger at all? The Sea of Vitr delivered its truth well enough, day after day, year upon year. What had changed? Faror’s eyes narrowed on T’riss. Only her. Up from the depths, cast upon this shore. Newborn and yet not. Alone, but Finarra spoke of others — demons.

The hills drew nearer as the afternoon waned. They met no other riders; saw no signs of life beyond the stunted shrubs and the aimless pursuits of winged insects. The sky was cloudless, the heat oppressive.

The rough ground ahead slowly resolved itself in deepening shadows, the clawed tracks of desiccated, sundered hillsides, the gullies where runoff had once thundered down but now only dust sifted, stirred by dry winds.

Faror’s eyes felt raw with lack of sleep. The mystery posed by T’riss had folded up her mind like a tattered sheet of vellum. Hidden now, all the forbidden words of desire; and even her concern for the fate of the captain — as well as that of Spinnock Durav — was creased and obscured, tucked away and left in darkness.

Closer now, she made out a trail cutting into the ridgeline. It was clear that T’riss had seen it as well, for she guided her mount towards it.

‘Be wary now,’ Faror Hend said.

The woman glanced back. ‘Shall I raise us an army?’

‘What?’

T’riss gestured. ‘Clay and rock, the dead roots beneath. Armed with slivers of stone. Below the deep clays there are bones, as well, and the husks of enormous insects all wonderfully hued.’

‘Can you make anything from the land surrounding you?’

‘If it had occurred to me,’ she replied, reining in, ‘I could have made guardians from the grasses, but in shape only that which I have seen. A horse, or one such as you and me.’

‘Yet you fashioned a sword with which to defend yourself, before we met.’

‘This is true. I cannot explain that, unless I have perhaps seen such a weapon before, only to have since forgotten. It seems my memory is flawed, is it not?’

‘I believe so, yes.’

‘If we are many, the outlaws will avoid us. So you said.’

‘I did.’ Faror hesitated, and then said, ‘What power do you draw upon, T’riss, in the fashioning of such creatures? Does it come from the Vitr?’

‘No. The Vitr does not create, it destroys.’

‘Yet you came from it.’

‘I was not welcome there.’

This was new. ‘Are you certain of that?’

T’riss was still for a moment, and then she nodded. ‘It assailed me. Age upon age, I fought. There was no thought but the struggle itself, and this struggle, I think, consumed all that I once was.’

‘Yet something returns to you.’

‘The questions you would not ask have given me much to think about — no, I do not read your mind. I can only guess them, Faror Hend, but I see well the battles they wage upon your countenance. Even exhaustion cannot dull your unease. I remember the pain of the Vitr: it remains, like a ghost that would swallow me whole.’

‘Whence comes your power, then?’

‘I do not know, but it delivers pain upon this world. I dislike this, but if necessity demands, I will use it.’

‘Then I would rather you did not, T’riss. The world knows enough pain as it is.’

To that T’riss nodded.

‘I suspect now,’ Faror resumed, ‘that you are Azathanai. That you sought to war against the Vitr, or, perhaps, that you set out seeking its source, its purpose. In the battle you waged, much of yourself was lost.’

‘If this is true, Faror Hend, then my only purpose is my own — none other seeks to guide me, or indeed use me. Are you relieved? I am. Do you think that I will return to myself?’

‘I don’t know. It is a worthy hope.’

T’riss turned back and nudged her mount forward.

Faror Hend followed.

The trail was well used, and not long ago a score of shod horses had travelled it, coming round from the west along the range’s edge, the most recent hoofprints heading in the same direction as the two riders.

‘I think we shall find company at the spring,’ said Faror Hend, moving up alongside T’riss. ‘But not outlaws.’

‘Friends?’

Faror’s nod was cautious. ‘A troop, I think. Perhaps a militia, out from Neret Sorr, or Yan Shake to the south.’

‘Let us see.’

They rode on.

The path twisted between crags, climbing steeply in places before levelling out across the spine of the first line of hills. Ahead, a short distance away, the ruins of a gate marked the pass. Off to one side was a lone blockhouse collapsed on two sides, revealing a gut crowded with broken masonry, tiles and withered timbers from the roof. The scatter of shattered tiles crunched under the hoofs of Faror’s plodding horse as they rode past. She saw her mount’s nostrils flare, followed by a pricking of its ears. ‘Not far now,’ she said quietly.

Beyond the gate, they traversed the remnants of a cobbled road, the surface buckled in places; in others the cobbles buried under white dirt made silver in the dying light. Shortly later, they came within sight of the spring, a green-fringed pond half encircled by pale-trunked trees. Figures moved about and horses could be seen, tethered to a long rope strung between two ironwood boles.

T’riss reined in. ‘I smell blood.’

The words chilled Faror. The men she could see were all dressed in light grey robes, hitched up round their legs to reveal supple sheaths of leather armour cladding their thighs, knees and shins. The bulk of their upper bodies hinted at more of the same beneath the thin wool. Single-bladed axes hung from rope belts at their hips. The men were bareheaded, their hair shaggy, wild.

A dozen or so were busy digging graves, while others slowly converged upon that impromptu burial ground, dragging corpses splashed in blood.

T’riss pointed at one of the dead bodies. ‘Outlaws?’

Faror Hend nodded. Two robed figures were approaching. The larger of the two by far was thick-limbed, the muscles of his shoulders slung down as if by their own weight. His nose, twisted and flattened, dominated his weathered face, but the blue eyes were bright as they fixed on T’riss’s mount. Lying across this man’s broad back was a two-handed axe, single-bladed and spiked, over which he rested his hands.

His companion was almost effete in comparison, his skin pale and his features watery in the manner of the oft-ill. The short axe tucked behind his belt bore a shattered haft, and the man’s forearms were almost black with blood up to the elbows.

‘Death rides their breath,’ T’riss said in a cool voice. ‘Are these your kin?’

‘Monks of the Yannis Monastery,’ Faror replied. ‘We are within the demesne of Mother Dark. This is Kurald Galain.’

‘They took no prisoners.’

Close to thirty slain outlaws — men, women and children — now lay beside the gravediggers. Off to one side of the pond, a makeshift village pushed through the trees, shacks like open sores, doorways gaping, possessions abandoned. Woodsmoke drifted.

The smaller of the two monks spoke to Faror, ‘Warden, your arrival is well timed. Had you come here yesterday, you’d be the sport of little boys by now. I am Lieutenant Caplo Dreem, commanding this troop of Yan Shake. And this drooling fool at my side is Warlock Resh.’

Resh addressed T’riss, his voice melodious, like water on stone. ‘Welcome, Azathanai. That is a fine horse you’ve made, but I wonder, can you hear its screams?’

T’riss turned to Faror Hend and her expression was grave. ‘It seems that I shall be delayed somewhat in my journey to Kharkanas.’

‘Not too long I should imagine,’ the warlock said. ‘Yan Shake is on the way to the Wise City, after all.’

Faror Hend straightened. ‘Excuse me, but this woman is in my charge. I will deliver her to Kharkanas, and without delay.’

Caplo cleared his throat, as if embarrassed. ‘Your pardon, but you must be Faror Hend. Calat has fifty Wardens out looking for you, not to mention Kagamandra Tulas, who happened to be visiting your commander’s camp. Your presence is required by your commander, at once. To any who might come upon you, such was the message you were to receive.’

‘This guest,’ said Resh, with little in the way of welcome in his eyes as they held unwavering upon T’riss, ‘is now under the protection of the Yan Shake.’

‘I will convey my protest to Calat Hustain,’ said Faror Hend, furious — but it was the best she could manage, so confounded were her thoughts. Kagamandra Tulas? Has he come for me? How dare he! I am a Warden of the Outer Reaches, not some wayward child!

T’riss spoke to her. ‘My friend, it seems that we must part. For your company, I thank you.’

‘This sits well with you?’ Faror asked her, hands tight on the saddle horn to still their tremble.

‘If I tire of their company, I will continue on to Kharkanas, to meet Mother Dark. With respect to my person, I am safe enough. This warlock thinks much of himself, but he poses no threat to me.’

Caplo coughed. ‘Excuse me, but please, there is no threat in any of this. We are returning south, and without question Mother Sheccanto Derran will wish to meet this Azathanai, thus requiring a brief stay in Yan Shake. It is but a courtesy, I assure you.’

‘You’d best keep it so,’ Faror snapped.

T’riss was now studying the lieutenant. ‘I see you are well acquainted with blood, sir.’

‘I am, Azathanai. This band of cut-throats have well earned their fate, I assure you. Unpleasant tasks-’

‘And the children?’ T’riss asked. ‘Were they too cut-throats?’

‘Clay in twisted hands,’ Caplo replied. ‘They fought alongside their kin. The newborn were slain by their own, when we would have welcomed such waifs into our monastery.’

‘Despair raises high walls,’ Resh said, shrugging. ‘Lieutenant, the Azathanai spoke in truth. She has immense sorcery within her, like a child waiting to be born. Best not twist her hands.’

‘We shall display the utmost courtesy.’

‘Then I shall ask of you a favour,’ T’riss said to Caplo. ‘Provide Faror Hend with an escort, and perhaps a fresher horse. I would no harm come to her now that she must return to her camp.’

‘Unnecessary,’ Faror said. ‘But thank you, T’riss-’

‘T’riss!’ grunted the warlock, eyes widening. ‘No gift from the Vitr, this woman!’

Faror Hend sighed, ‘And in your denial you reveal what?’ She faced Caplo again. ‘Lieutenant, in the message you received from the Wardens, was there word of Captain Finarra Stone?’

‘Yes. She will recover. But if there is cause for concern now, it must be for your betrothed, who rides with haste to the very shore of the Vitr itself.’

‘That is his decision.’ Even as she said it, she saw Caplo’s brows lift.

‘Be assured that he does not do so alone,’ the lieutenant continued, once again looking embarrassed. ‘A troop of Wardens accompany him, as does Sharenas Ankhadu.’

‘Sharenas Ankhadu?’

‘Your commander entertained guests — I am sure I mentioned that, did I not? No matter. We met Captain Hunn Raal upon the road, as he rode with three spare mounts for Kharkanas. Of his mission, alas, we know nothing.’ But now his innocent gaze settled upon T’riss, and then he smiled.

Abyss take all these games! ‘Was there word of Captain Finarra Stone’s companion?’

‘Safe and sound, I understand, though physically restrained from riding out in search of you.’

She thought she hid well her reaction to that, but then Resh said, ‘A cousin, yes? This thickness of blood so inspires.’ In his tone there was both amusement and faint derision.

Caplo cleared his throat. ‘In any case, do rest with us this night, Warden. I see you are near to collapse-’

‘I am well enough.’

‘Spare pity for your horse, then, who so quivers beneath you.’

She studied him, but his innocent expression did not waver, not for an instant. ‘I dislike sleeping in a place of close death.’

‘As do we all, but our warlock here will see to the quelling of despairing spirits. None of us will succumb to fevers of the soul-’

‘No matter how stained your hands,’ T’riss cut in, dismounting and, ignoring them all, walking towards the water. ‘It flows quiet,’ she murmured, ‘does it not?’ Throwing off her makeshift garments, she strode naked into the water.

Faror Hend asked, ‘Must you gape so, lieutenant?’

The shacks were torn down to provide firewood for the cookfires. Meals were prepared while monks went in twos and threes into the water, to bathe away the day’s slaughter. None seemed too concerned if there was blood in the water they then drank. With a young monk attending to her horse, Faror Hend accepted the offer of a spare tent and made her own camp a short distance from the others. She had not yet decided if she liked Caplo Dreem. Warlock Resh, on the other hand, was a man used to his size. There were people, men and women both, who lived awkwardly in their selves, whether timorous of the space they took, or imagining themselves other than what they were and so prone to colliding with or breaking things. In the manner of walking was revealed a host of truths.

In the outlier camps of the Wardens, where so many misfits found a home, Faror often took note of their diffident first arrival, carrying with them the wounds of isolation, ridicule or social neglect; only to see that frailty gradually fall away as each, in time, found welcome. Confidence was a seed that could grow in any soil, no matter how impoverished. She had seen as much again and again.

No such weaknesses attended Warlock Resh of the Yan Shake. Instead, in presence alone he bullied. In demeanour he challenged. She had felt herself bridling the moment she set eyes upon him, and was determined to stand fast against him. Years ago she would have quailed, retreated with eyes downcast. Now, as a Warden of the Outer Reaches, she had met the mocking in his eyes with flat resolve. Men like him crowded the gutters of the world.

She built her own modest fire, to make tea, and was not displeased when T’riss, still dripping from her extended stay in the water, joined her.

‘Faror Hend, are these men who sleep with men? Do they abjure women and so consort only with their brethren?’

Faror smiled. ‘Some are like that. Others are not. The Shake monasteries are two sects. These are the Yan, Sons of the Mother. There also exist the Yedan, Daughters of the Father. Many sons are lifebound to daughters — a kind of marriage although not in the manner one usually views marriage. The lifebound can choose to lie with whomever they please. They can live apart and never attend to one another. But upon their deaths, they share a single grave.’

‘What deity demands this of them?’

‘None.’ Faror Hend shrugged. ‘I am not the one to ask. They are peculiar to my eyes, but of their martial prowess I have no doubt.’

‘It seems that the ability to fight is important in this world, Faror Hend.’

‘It has been and always will be, T’riss. We are savages in disguise, and let no pomp or indolence deceive you. At any moment we can bare our teeth.’

T’riss sat down opposite the Warden, her expression thoughtful. ‘Is civilization nothing but an illusion, then?’

‘Crowd control.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘That’s all civilization is, T’riss. A means by which we manage the proliferation of our kind. It increases in complexity the more of us there are. Laws keep us muzzled and punishment delivers the necessary message when those laws are broken. Civilizations in decline are notable when certain of their members escape justice, and do so with impunity.’

‘Are these a soldier’s thoughts, Faror Hend?’

‘My mother and father lived scholarly lives. An aberration among the Duravs. Both were killed by a Jheleck raiding party, murdered in their home, which was then set aflame. The fate of my younger sisters was, alas, far worse.’

‘And to answer such cruelty, you took up the sword.’

‘I fled, if truth be known. What worth knowledge when the savage bares teeth? Thus, I fight to defend civilization, but know well the ephemeral nature of that which I defend. Against ignorance there is no front line. Against viciousness no border can hold. It breeds as readily behind your back as elsewhere.’

‘What of life’s pleasures? Its joys, its wonders?’

Faror Hend shrugged. ‘Equally ephemeral, but in the instance, drink deep. Ah, the tea is ready.’

The two-handed axe thumped to the ground and a moment later Warlock Resh joined it, grunting and taking a moment to crook his neck to each side. ‘Killing gives me a headache,’ he said in a low rumble.

‘But dying hurts more,’ Caplo replied. He twisted in his seat to regard the two women at the distant fire. ‘I am prone to pettiness.’

‘You are political.’

Caplo glanced back at Resh. ‘I just said that.’

‘Calat Hustain demands her immediate return? Utter rubbish.’

‘Not entirely. I’m sure he does. In any case, I see some value in our being the ones to deliver the Azathanai to Kharkanas. Besides, Mother Sheccanto felt this one’s arrival.’

‘Felt the twist of her sorcery, you mean. As did I. The ground convulses beneath her. This delivery may earn revile.’

‘That can prove useful, too.’

‘And this is the talent of your mind, Caplo: to stand firm on all sides of a matter.’

‘I accept the possibility, dear warlock, that we invite a viper into our nest. But then, we are hardly chicks waving stubby wings.’

‘Speak for yourself. I keep checking to see that I’m not sitting in my own shit.’

‘You’ve been doing that for years, Resh. This Azathanai — T’riss — is claimed as a spume-child of the Vitr, a most sordid birth for all her physical charms. What threat does she pose? What possible value the voicing of that threat? What portent her stated desire to travel to Kharkanas?’

‘On these three legs you will totter, Caplo Dreem.’

‘On three legs so do we all.’

‘Sheccanto will lather you in grease and send you into the Citadel, if only to see from which crack you squirt back out. And this gives purpose to your life?’

‘The Shake serve Kurald Galain. Note how Hunn Raal shied from our regard. He sought out Calat Hustain to the cause of Urusander, but not us. And, upon the other flank, when last did a nobleborn make formal — or even informal, Abyss fend — visit to our Mother or Father?’

‘All anticipate our neutrality — why would you take offence from their expectation, Caplo, when it shall clearly prove accurate?’

‘Offence lies in the assumption. The nest is sure, but how firm the perch upon the branch? How solid the roots of the tree?’

‘I am of two minds,’ Resh said, sighing as he leaned back on his hands. ‘Eager to pluck unknown fruit. Yet chary of its taste. Does this define temptation?’

‘No answer tempts my tongue. Thus, I leave you unassuaged.’

‘Magic is awakening. I feel its heat. I tremble to its beating heart. I grow still as death upon hearing the slither of vipers. Twigs raise scant obstacle. Our lofty height proves no barrier. Someone is bleeding, somewhere.’

‘Mother Dark?’

Resh snorted. ‘Her power is too cold for fire, too black for warmth. Hers is a heart yet to drum awake. In her company, even the vipers are blind.’

‘Then will she blind our guest, or will our guest come in fire and refutation?’

‘Truth?’

‘Truth.’

‘I imagine to each other they will have very little to say.’

Overhead the swirl of stars was bright, modest in its fiery light, bold in its unlit absence. Caplo studied it for a time as his brethren settled down to sleep, and then said, ‘Let us take a fresh grip upon the weapon and spare nothing in our charge upon a new slope, no matter its bristling facade. Note you the Warden’s intrigue?’

Resh yawned. ‘Her cousin is reputed fair indeed, although too winning for my tastes.’

‘Not one to succumb to your insistence, then? I am sure Spinnock Durav will little spare the loss.’

‘Her betrothed cleaves a forest of black grass in search for her.’

‘Slays myriad wolves and less handsome denizens.’

‘Seeks a suitable hole in which to drain ill Vitr Sea.’

Caplo sighed. ‘And sets siege upon her blandish indifference.’

‘All to no avail. Perhaps there is a thieving bird eyeing the stone mantel, where unknown words flow.’

‘Words not yet written.’

‘Some things need no chisel, no carver’s hand.’

‘True enough, O warlock. But I think this Azathanai has other purpose, not aligned to Faror Hend. Besides, dear T’riss has not a mason’s talent, nor one’s stolid comportment.’

Resh looked up, heavy brows lifting. ‘You think not? Peruse yon knotted horse. Think not too hard on it, lest your pallor grow yet more sickly. If that is even possible.’

‘Since I never heed your words, Resh, I will in fact give it further thought. But not now. All this killing has made me sleepy.’

‘Bah, while my headache clatters a plain of spears.’

The horses’ heads drooped. Sweat formed lather about their bits and made white streaks against their slick necks. They were through the forest of grass, out upon the lifeless verge with slumped knolls and rotted crags facing them. Sharenas Ankhadu had not thought such a ride possible, and these mounts were done. This thought irritated her. Kagamandra Tulas had succumbed to a kind of wilful disregard in his mad hunt for his betrothed. She glanced over at the others in the troop and saw well their drawn faces, their glazed eyes. They had gone in search of one of their own, yet no one life was worth the lives of these horses.

She never could understand the desperate elevation of a person’s value over that of other, less privileged creatures, as if every sentient mind was a lofty citadel, a self-announced virtue the loss of which staggered the world.

True, some worlds were staggered. Death’s kiss was always personal, and cold lips offered no solace. Unseeing eyes had a way of looking through and past those who dared meet them. Landscapes lost colour and breaths felt dry on the tongue. But all these feelings only stung in their mockery. They were echoes of sudden absence, the wail of the lost.

Animals knew the same grief. She had seen as much, time and again. Loss was universal. It was life’s own language, after all.

No, she was not irritated. She was furious, and when Tulas took up the reins again, she snapped out a single word. ‘No.’

He swung to face her.

‘Unless you fancy a long walk home.’

After a moment, Kagamandra slumped.

‘We have found the trail,’ Sharenas went on. ‘Leading back the way we came, although, granted, not the very same route we took. Lord Tulas, Calat Hustain dispatched these Wardens with more than one task in mind. Of course, we must discover the fate of Faror Hend. But also, we must confirm the tale of Captain Finarra Stone. We can return to this place upon our return journey, and so follow her track. But now, after a time of rest, we must set out for the shore — the trail here is plain. West.’

‘I am of a mind to leave you to it, then,’ Tulas replied.

The captain of the troop, a short, squat man of middle years named Bered, now cleared his throat, adding a dry cough before saying, ‘It is best we remain together, Lord. These are hostile lands, and for all your courage you cannot claim familiarity with it. We accepted the pace, true, but with misgivings. Now we must walk our beasts and then rest. This air is foul and will only get worse.’

‘She is my betrothed.’

‘And she is our companion. A friend to each and every one of us here. But we have great faith in her abilities, Lord Tulas. Still, should she have fallen, then no haste on our part will avail what remains of her. We will trail her, but with the expectation that the trail shall find no grisly end. In the meantime, it is as Lady Ankhadu has said: we must make for the shore.’

‘Besides,’ Sharenas added, ‘would you come this far only to deny yourself sight of the Vitr? Do you not wish to understand the purpose of Faror Hend’s duty in this land? Should you not see for yourself her avowed enemy? I will do no less, if only to honour her memory.’

He flinched at that last statement, but voiced no protest.

Tulas had tasted death’s kiss before. He could shoulder any new loss. She saw him find his resolve, like a man throwing on a cape of thorns, and saw too the hint of satisfaction, if not pleasure, in its bite. ‘Truly spoken, Sharenas Ankhadu. I am pleased that you are here.’ His lifeless gaze moved on to Bered and the other Wardens. ‘You as well. I see the strain in each of you: that you might have lost a friend. It is clear that my betrothed has found a worthy world in which to live. In all that you have already done, you do her honour.’

Bered’s reply was gruff. ‘And we expect to jest without repent in her company, Lord, in a few days.’

Tulas drew his horse to one side. ‘Will you take the lead now, captain, and read this faint trail?’

‘Thank you, Lord.’

Sharenas and Tulas waited for the others to set out, and then fell in side by side into their wake.

‘You must think me a fool,’ he muttered.

‘In matters of love-’

‘Spare all of that, Sharenas. You read well my fragile verve. This betrothal is my reward, and Faror Hend’s penance. Love does not rush between us. But I will give ease to her as best I can. My expectations are few and all chains I will cast away long before we join hands. She is welcome to take what lovers please her, and indeed to live out her days among the ranks of the Wardens. I begrudge her no decision.’

‘Yet you would give your life in her defence.’

He shot her a look. ‘Of course. She is my betrothed.’

‘Dear me,’ she replied, low, ‘you really are a fool, Tulas.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Rest your umbrage and I will speak honestly. No, I will wait for the heat to drain from your face. Listen well. This is not a question of dying for your betrothed. It is one of living instead. You should have refused the offer, knowing what you know — of yourself, of a young woman’s dreams. This was, as you say, your reward, and as such was intended as a gift to match gratitude. In turn, House Durav was badly mauled in the wars, almost unto dissolution — and for those losses, another gift was offered. Accordingly, Faror Hend had no choice. She had to accept in the name of her family — she had to accept any husband of nobility offered her. And in turn, she is expected to produce heirs.’ She studied him carefully, and then continued, ‘It may be that you are gone. That all that remains of you is flesh and bone. But that will serve. Do you understand my meaning?’

‘Why did you choose to accompany us? On this search?’

She grimaced. ‘I admit to cruel curiosity. But there is so little left of you, Tulas, that the game palls in the deed. I was as much the fool here as you, I fear. So, let us smooth the sands between us and begin anew, if you will have that.’

His nod was understandably cautious.

She went on. ‘If friends have left you, then I will be your companion. If companionship stings too much, then nod to my occasional smile, the meeting of my gaze. With me you can speak, on any matter, and I in turn avow myself a secure repository of your secrets.’

‘And what of your secrets, Sharenas Ankhadu?’

‘Alas, mostly venal, I admit. But if you enquire, you shall have them in abundance.’

To her astonishment, the weathered face creased in a smile. ‘It is said that among the three, you are the cleverest.’

She snorted. ‘Among the three that’s hardly a triumph of wit.’

‘Will you side with Urusander?’

‘You waste little time, Tulas.’

Tulas made a strange sound, and then said, ‘Time? In abundance it is no more than preparation. In short supply it is every necessary deed. We are hoarders of time’s wealth, yet worshippers of its waste.’

‘You have spent years now, preparing to die, Tulas. A waste? Most assuredly.’

‘I’ll bear the cut of your tongue and wipe away what blood may flow.’

She looked ahead through the grainy gloom. Another day was past and the time of failing light was upon them. ‘Calat Hustain was a wall, against which Hunn Raal flung arguments. Stone after stone, shattering, raining down. His words were futile as dust. It was glorious.’

‘Ilgast Rend was a bear among wolves, yet the wolves saw it not.’

‘You knew his purpose?’

‘I surmised. He is a conservative man, and only grows more hardened in his ways. Whatever he said to Calat was all the bulwark the commander needed and as you say: the walls did not so much as tremble.’

‘My sister and cousin will back Urusander, if only to wound Draconus. Better a husband than a consort, if she is to rule us all.’

‘Children cleave to the security of a formal union in the matter of parents,’ said Tulas. ‘It is in their nature to dislike their mother’s lover, if that is all he is. There is a way among the Jheleck, when they have veered into their wolf form, that males are taken by a fever of violence and they set out to slay the pups of their rivals.’

Sharenas thought about that, and then smiled. ‘We do the same and call it war.’

‘No other reasons serve?’

She shrugged. ‘Forms and rules serve to confound what is in essence both simple and banal. Now, you ask which way I will fall. I have thought about it, yet am still undecided. And you?’

‘I shall side with peace.’

‘Who among any of us would claim otherwise?’

‘Many speak of peace, yet their hearts are torrid and vile. Their one love is violence, the slaying of enemies, and in the absence of true enemies, they will invent them. I wonder, how much of this hatred for Draconus comes from base envy?’

‘I have wondered the same,’ Sharenas admitted.

They rode on for a time then, silent. The caustic air, so near the as yet unseen Vitr, burned in the throat, made raw the eyes. They passed the carcasses of slain wolves, the beasts scaled rather than furred, and though only days old already the hide was crumbling, the jutting bones gnawed by the very air.

Deep into the night Bered called a halt. It was a wonder to Sharenas that the Wardens had managed to follow a trail this long. Now the captain dismounted and walked back to her and Tulas. ‘Here, Finarra Stone emerged from among the rocks, coming from the shore. Her steps were laboured, her stride unsteady. We will rest here, as best we can in this foul atmosphere, and approach the Vitr with the dawn. Lady Sharenas, Lord Tulas, will you join us in a meal?’

The sun was like a wound in the sky, reflecting dully on the tranquil surface of the Vitr Sea. They were arrayed in a row upon the high bank, looking down through a scatter of pocked boulders. Just up from the shore sprawled an enormous, headless carcass. Close to it was the mangled remains of Finarra Stone’s horse.

‘She spoke true, then,’ Sharenas said. ‘But how is it that a creature with its head cut away was able to live on, much less launch an attack?’

Bered, his face pale and drawn tight, dismounted and closed a gauntleted hand on the sword at his belt. ‘Selad, Stenas, Quill, walk your horses with me. Lances out.’

Tulas grunted and then said, ‘Captain, the beast is clearly dead. Its flesh rots. Its organs are spilled out and sun-cracked.’

Not replying, Bered set out down the makeshift trail between the boulders. The three named Wardens accompanied him, each picking his own path.

Tulas slipped down from his horse and followed the captain.

Pulling her gaze away, Sharenas stared out upon the Vitr. Its placid mien belied its evident malice. Rising on her stirrups, she scanned the length of shoreline, first to the west, and then to the east. She frowned. ‘There is something there,’ she said, and then pointed. ‘A shadow, half in, half out of the water. No boulder could long survive that.’

One of the Wardens near her, second in rank behind Bered, guided his horse down to the left, out on to the strand. Sharenas glanced back at Bered and the others. They had reached the two carcasses, and Bered, sword sheathed, was pulling loose the saddle from the dead horse. He’d already retrieved Finarra’s weapons and delivered them to one of his Wardens. Tulas stood a few paces back, watching.

Her chest felt tight, much like after a night with the pipe, and she could feel vehemence in the fumes flowing against her exposed skin. Eyes stinging, she set out after the veteran. Joining him on the strand she said, ‘Nothing untoward with the captain. It seems the creature is finally dead. Let us ride to examine our find, and then we can be quit of this place.’

‘The Vitr yields no detritus, Lady Sharenas.’

‘It seems that now it does.’

The observation made him clearly unhappy. Sighing, he nodded. ‘Quickly then, as you say.’

They kicked their mounts into a slow canter. The sharp sands beneath the horses’ hoofs sounded strangely hollow.

Four hundred or so paces ahead, the object casting the shadow looked angular, tilted like a beached ship, but far more massive than any ship Sharenas had seen — although in truth she had only seen ships in illustrations, among Forulkan books and hide paintings, and scale was always dubious in such renderings, so eager were the artists to magnify personages aboard such craft.

From one of the two spars something like sailcloth hung down in torn shrouds. The other spar was broken halfway down its length, tilted with its tip buried in the sand.

But as they drew closer, both riders slowed their mounts.

Not a ship.

The Warden’s voice was weak with disbelief. ‘I thought them tales. Legends.’

‘You imagine Mother Dark succumbed to invention? She walked to the End of Darkness, and stood on a spar surrounded in chaos. And when she called upon that chaos, shapes emerged from the wildness.’

‘Is it dead, do you think? It must be dead.’

Illustrators had attempted to make sense of Mother Dark’s vague descriptions. They had elected to draw inspiration from a winged lizard that had once dwelt in abundance in the Great Blackwood, before the trees in which they nested were all cut down. But such forest denizens were small, not much larger than a month-old hunting hound. They had been called Eleint.

The spars were the bones of wings, the sailcloth thin membrane. The sharp angles were jutting shoulder blades, splayed hips. At the same time, this was so unlike the beast that had attacked Finarra Stone as to belong to someone else’s nightmare. It massed three times the size, for one.

Dragon. Thing of myth, the yearning for flight made carnate. Yet… see its head, the length of its neck so like a serpent’s body. And those jaws could devour a horse entire. See its eyes, smeared black in blood like tears.

The Warden reined in. ‘Captain Bered must see this.’

‘Ride back,’ said Sharenas. ‘I will examine it more closely.’

‘I would advise against that, milady. Perhaps it is a quality of the Vitr that nothing dead stays dead.’

She shot him a look. ‘An intriguing notion. Go on. I intend to be careful, as I happen to greatly value my life.’

He swung his horse round, kicked it into a canter, and then a gallop.

Facing the dragon again, she rode closer. At fifty paces her mount baulked, so she slipped down from the saddle and hobbled the horse.

The giant beast was lying on its side. Its flank bore wounds, as of ribs punching out through the thick, scaled hide, but she could see no thrust of white bone from any of them, and there were scores. The huge belly, facing her, had been sliced open. Entrails were spilled out in a massive heap, and these had been slashed and chopped at, savaged as if by a sword swung in frenzy.

Something else was lying near the belly wound, amidst disturbed sands. Sharenas approached.

Clothing. Armour, stained by acids. Discarded. A long, thin-bladed sword was lying close to the gear, black with gore. And there… footprints leading away.

Sharenas found that she was standing, motionless, unable to take another step closer. Her eyes tracked the prints up the strand to where they vanished between boulders crowding the verge.

‘Faror Hend,’ she murmured, ‘who walks with you now?’