The T’lan Imass was awkwardly regaining its feet a dozen paces away.
Trull spat and said, ‘Had I known the door was barred, I would have knocked first. That was a damned Thelomen Toblakai.’
The Tiste Edur saw Onrack’s head snap round to stare back up at the cave.
‘What is it?’ Trull demanded. ‘He’s coming down to finish us?’
‘No,’ the T’lan Imass replied. ‘In that cave… the Warren of Tellann lingers…’
‘What of it?’
Onrack began climbing the rock slide toward the cavern’s mouth.
Hissing his frustration, Trull clambered upward and followed, slowly, pausing every few steps until he was able to find his breath once more.
When he entered the cave he gave a shout of alarm. Onrack was standing inside a fire, the rainbow-coloured flames engulfing him. And the T’lan Imass held, in its right hand, the shattered remains of another of its kind.
Trull stepped forward, then his feet skidded out from under him and he fell hard onto a bed of sharp flint chips. Pain thundered from his ribs, and it was some time before he could breathe once more. Cursing, he rolled onto his side-gingerly-then carefully climbed upright. The air was hot as a forge.
Then the cavern was suddenly dark-the strange fire had gone out.
A pair of hands closed on Trull’s shoulders.
‘The renegades have fled,’ said Onrack. ‘But they are close. Come.’
‘Right, lead on, friend.’
A moment before they emerged into the sunlight, sudden shock raced through Trull Sengar. A pair of hands.
Karsa skirted the valley side, making his way along what passed for a trail. Countless rockslides had buried it every ten paces or so, forcing him to scramble across uncertain, shifting gravel, raising clouds of dust in his wake.
On second consideration, he realized that one of the two strangers who had blocked his exit from the cave had been a T’lan Imass. Not surprising, since the entire valley, with all its quarries, mines and tombs, was a site holy to them… assuming anything could be holy to creatures that were undead. And the other-not human at all. But familiar none the less. Ah, like the ones on the ship. The grey-skinned ones I killed.
Perhaps he should retrace his route. His sword had yet to drink real blood, after all. Barring his own, of course.
Ahead, the trail cut sharply upward, out of the valley. Thoughts of having to repeat this dust-fouled, treacherous route decided him. He would save the blooding of his sword for more worthy enemies. He made his way upward.
It was clear the six T’lan Imass had not taken this route. Fortunate for them. He had lost his patience with their endless words, especially when the deeds they had done shouted louder, loud enough to overwhelm their pathetic justifications. He reached the crest and pulled himself onto level ground. The vista stretching to the southwest was as untamed as any place Karsa had yet to see in Seven Cities. No signs of civilization were apparent-no evidence at all that this land had ever been broken. Tall prairie grasses waved in the hot wind, cloaking low, rolling hills that continued on to the horizon. Clumps of low, bushy trees filled the basins, flickering dusty green and grey as the wind shook their leaves.
The Jhag Odhan. He knew, suddenly, that this land would capture his heart with its primal siren call. Its scale… matched his own, in ways he could not define. Thelomen Toblakai have known this place, have walked it before me. A truth, though he was unable to explain how he knew it to be so.
He lifted his sword. ‘Bairoth Delum-so I name you. Witness. The Jhag Odhan. So unlike our mountain fastnesses. To this wind I give your name-see how it races out to brush the grasses, to roll against the hill and through the trees. I give this land your name, Bairoth Delum.’
That warm wind sang against the sword’s rippled blade with moaning cadence.
A flash of movement in the grasses, a thousand paces distant. Wolves, fur the colour of honey, long-limbed, taller than any he had ever before seen. Karsa smiled.
He set forth.
The grasses reached to just beneath his chest, the ground underfoot hardpacked between the knotted roots. Small creatures rustled continually from his path, and he startled the occasional deer-a small breed, reaching no higher than his knees, that hissed like an arrow between the stalks as it fled.
One proved not quite fast enough to avoid his scything blade, and Karsa would eat well this night. Thus, his sword’s virgin thirst was born of necessity, not the rage of battle. He wondered if the ghosts had known displeasure at such an ignoble beginning. They had surrendered their ability to communicate with him upon entering the stone, though Karsa’s imagination had no difficulty in finding Bairoth’s sarcastic commentary, should he seek it. Delum’s measured wisdom was more difficult, yet valued all the more for that.
The sun swept its even arc across the cloudless sky as he marched on. Towards dusk he saw bhederin herds to the west, and, two thousand paces ahead, a herd of striped antelope crested a hilltop to watch him for a time, before wheeling as one and vanishing from sight.
The western horizon was a fiery conflagration when he reached the place where they had stood.
Where a figure awaited him.
The grasses had been flattened in a modest circle. A three-legged brazier squatted in its centre, filled with orange-glowing pieces of bhederin dung that cast forth no smoke. Seated behind it was a Jaghut. Bent and gaunt to the point of emaciation, wearing ragged skins and hides, long grey hair hanging in strands over a blotched, wrinkled brow, eyes the colour of the surrounding grass.
The Jaghut glanced up as Karsa approached, offering the Teblor something between a grimace and a smile, his yellowed tusks gleaming. ‘You have made a mess of that deer skin, Toblakai. I will take it none the less, in exchange for this cookfire.’
‘Agreed,’ Karsa replied, dropping the carcass beside the brazier.
‘Aramala contacted me, and so I have come to meet you. You have done her a noble service, Toblakai.’
Karsa set down his pack and squatted before the brazier. ‘I hold no loyalty to the T’lan Imass.’
The Jaghut reached across and collected the deer. A small knife flashed in his hand and he began cutting just above the animal’s small hoofs. ‘An expression of their gratitude, after she fought alongside them against the Tyrants. As did I, although I was fortunate enough to escape with little more than a broken spine. Tomorrow, I will lead you to one far less fortunate than either Aramala or myself.’
Karsa grunted. ‘I seek a Jhag horse, not an introduction to your friends.’
The ancient Jaghut cackled. ‘Blunt words. Thelomen Toblakai indeed. I had forgotten, and so lost my appreciation. The one I will take you to shall call out to the wild horses-and they will come.’
‘A singular skill.’
‘Aye, and hers alone, for it was, by and large, by her hand and her will that the horses came into being.’
‘A breeder, then.’
‘Of sorts,’ the Jaghut nodded amicably. He began peeling the hide from the deer. ‘The few of my fallen kin still alive will greatly appreciate this skin, despite the damage wrought by your ghastly stone sword. The aras deer are fleet, and clever. They never use the same trail-ha, they do not even make trails! And so one cannot lie in wait. Nor are snares of any use. And when pursued, where do they go? Why, into the bhederin herds, under the very beasts themselves. Clever, I said. Very clever.’
‘I am Karsa Orlong, of the Uryd-’
‘Yes, yes, I know. From distant Genabackis. Little different from my fallen kin, the Jhag. Ignorant of your great and noble history-’
‘Less ignorant than I once was.’