‘Are we safe?’
The little mage blinked, distracted. ‘What? Safe? Oh yes. Provided nothing from the period that produced this desolation should find us.’ He pointed his stick. ‘This way, I believe.’
Dancer set off with him, though every direction appeared the same. ‘How can you tell?’
Kellanved pointed. ‘I sense something over there. Some sort of disruption. Something perhaps impinging into the Warren here.’
Dancer shoved his blades home in his baldrics. ‘Well, let’s hope it’s not too much of a disruption.’
They walked on. Dancer had no idea how much time passed, or how far they’d travelled. All the landscape ran together into one indistinguishable wasteland of blackened earth and blowing ash and dust. It left a taste of acrid smoke in his mouth, stung his eyes, and tricked his ears with faint ghostly brushings and moans.
He wondered if the place was haunted and decided it probably was.
After a time something changed ahead; some sort of haze blurred the distant hillsides, as of a dust storm. It appeared to be heading their way, like a moving curtain of darkness.
The two men slowed, then halted. ‘What is it?’ Dancer asked.
‘I do not know – but it isn’t natural, I assure you of that.’
‘Nothing here is natural.’ He drew out a handkerchief and tied it over his lower face.
Kellanved watched, amused. ‘It is not that sort of storm. It is like a storm among Warrens. We must be passing over a bizarre region.’ Dancer glimpsed the faint rippling about him that betrayed his raised Warren.
Dust and sand now buffeted them and the Dal Hon frowned. ‘This isn’t normal.’
Dancer turned his back to the wind. ‘Of course it isn’t!’
Kellanved shielded his eyes. ‘No. I mean it should be one or the other. Magical or natural – not both.’
‘Both?’
‘Yes. I—’ He broke off, raised his hands to his face and stared at them. He looked to Dancer, his eyes huge with dread. ‘Oh no…’
‘What is it?’ Dancer studied his own hands: dust coated them, a fine rust-red powder.
The little mage let out a wordless cry and staggered off into the shifting curtains of sand. Dancer chased after him, calling, ‘What is it?’
Lightning crackled like enormous releases of static sparks. Shadows whipped about like wind-tossed scraps. Dancer glimpsed Kellanved at the centre of this weird storm. The mage was spinning, his arms thrown wide, and he appeared to be slowly rising. The tatters of shadow seemed to be either emerging from him or eating into him; Dancer couldn’t tell which. ‘What is it?’ he yelled again, desperate.
A voice called from behind and Dancer spun; a stocky figure was advancing through the dust storm, one arm over his face, the other pointing past Dancer. ‘Knock him out!’ he bellowed. ‘Take him down before he kills us all!’
Dancer charged Kellanved, drawing a heavy knife as he did so. The lad had risen so far Dancer had to leap to reach him; he swung, blade reversed, and smacked him across the back of the head. Kellanved fell in a heap, unconscious. Dancer pressed a hand to his neck – alive, but weak.
The winds began to drop. The choking sand and fine ochre-red dust came sifting down in great long hissing banners. Seven figures emerged from the murk, all with crossbows aimed. The man who had called to Dancer closed, drawing a rag from his face; he was sunburned and grimy, in dusty, scuffed, much-repaired leather armour. Dancer drew two weapons and stood over Kellanved.
‘Alive, eh?’ the newcomer grunted. ‘Might as well finish him. Trust me, it would be a mercy.’
‘What happened?’
The fellow pointed to Kellanved. ‘He’s a mage, hey? Had his Warren raised, right? Any fool knows better than to step on to the Otataral Desert with their Warren up. His mind’s gone now. Best just to slit his throat.’
‘Touch him and I’ll kill you.’
The fellow considered Dancer for a time. ‘Fine. But I ain’t carrying him.’ He gestured. ‘This way.’
Dancer picked Kellanved up in his arms and headed in the indicated direction. The crossbowmen surrounded him while the spokesman followed. ‘Where are we?’ Dancer asked over his shoulder.
‘I done just told you. The Otataral Desert.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Land of the Seven Holy Cities. Hearda that?’
‘Yes, I’ve heard of it.’ From what Dancer could remember of the rough geography he had been taught, the lands of the Seven Holy Cities lay far to the north of the Falari archipelago, which itself lay north of Quon Tali. They had somehow wandered – or been brought – very far indeed. He wondered how on earth they would ever return; especially if Kellanved’s mind had been destroyed.
The party crossed several steep dunes, passed between cliffs of bare layered rock, and emerged on to a plateau hardpan. Ahead stood a ragged palisade of standing logs. ‘What’s this?’ Dancer asked, rather disappointed.
‘Welcome to Skullcup mine,’ the guide announced, indicating a heavy gate set in the palisade.
‘Really? What do you mine?’
The fellow’s cracked lips crooked. ‘A rare ore.’
The gate opened and Dancer was escorted through. He saw now that the palisade was huge, encompassing a large open-face pit. Far down at the base of the sloping sides, cave tunnels led off into darkness. Huts and barracks stood between the palisade and the pit edge.
‘Do your friend a favour and leave him here,’ his guide said. ‘We’ll give him a decent burial.’
‘No. What’s your name, anyway?’
‘Call me Puller. Now, put your friend down and hand over all your gear.’
Dancer set Kellanved down and straightened, his hands loose at his sides. ‘And if I don’t?’
Puller glanced to the surrounding crossbowmen. ‘Then we stick you fulla bolts and take it anyway.’
Dancer tilted his head to acknowledge the logic in that. He began unbuckling his baldrics. It broke his heart to have to hand over all his weapons, but he told himself he’d have them all back in a few days – when he escaped.
Having dropped all his own gear, he set to handing over Kellanved’s. The saddlebags were gone already, lost in the storm. The men collected the gear, then Puller motioned him towards a narrow dirt ramp that ran down into the pit below. Dancer picked up Kellanved and headed down.
Before he reached the bottom a crowd had gathered at the base of the ramp. They were a ragged, malnourished bunch of older men and women; Dancer judged that he could take them all down if push came to shove.
One squat, muscular fellow pushed to the front. He jerked a thumb at Kellanved. ‘What happened to him?’
‘Had his Warren up when he landed here.’
Every man and woman facing Dancer winced. This fellow shook his bald sun-darkened head. ‘Best to let him go, lad. Ain’t no hope.’
‘I’ll keep watch over him. If you don’t mind.’
The squat fellow rubbed a hand over his sweaty pate. ‘Well, truth is, we do mind. We’re labour here. Everyone has to make their quota in ore. No quota, no food. Understand?’
‘I’ll make it for both of us.’
The man snorted. ‘No need to ruin your health. He’ll be dead in a few days, I guarantee it. Or he’ll awaken with no mind at all.’
‘That’s my problem.’
The man’s already slit eyes narrowed. ‘See that it remains so. What’s your name?’
‘Dancer.’ The fellow snorted his disbelief. ‘Yours?’
The man gave a hungry, almost brutal grin. ‘Call me Hairlock.’
Dancer glanced at the man’s bald head, and snorted in turn. Then he hefted Kellanved, asking, ‘Is there a hut or a cave we can use?’
The gathered men and women wandered off, too beaten down and starved to manage any sustained curiosity. Hairlock pointed to a wall of the pit where shallow alcoves had been carved from the soft rock, some of which were closed off by hanging flaps of tattered cloth. Dancer cast one last glance back up the ramp, thinking: Sorry, Surly, and made for the line of caves.