'So I see. You were of the White Faces, shaman?'
'And so I remain!'
'Yet you escaped your barrow — you eluded the binding spells of your kin, for a while at least, in any case. Do you truly believe they will welcome your return, Old One?'
'I was dragged from my barrow, fool! You are journeying to the clans — I see the truth of that in your eyes. I shall tell you my tale, mortal, and so they know the truth of all that you tell them, I shall give you my true name-'
'A bold offer, Old One. What's to prevent me from twisting you to my will?'
The creature twitched, a snarl in its tone as it replied, 'You could be no worse than my last masters. I am Talamandas, born of the First Hearth in the Knotted Clan. The first child birthed on this land — do you know the significance of that, mortal?'
'I am afraid not, Talamandas.'
'My previous masters — those damned necromancers — had worked through, mortal, were mere moments from discovering my true name — worked through, I tell you, with brutal claws indifferent to pain. With my name they would have learned secrets that even my own people have long forgotten. Do you know the significance of the trees on our barrows? No, you do not. Indeed they hold the soul, keep it from wandering, but why?
'We came to this land from the seas, plying the vast waters in dugouts — the world was young, then, our blood thick with the secret truths of our past. Look upon the faces of the Barghast, mortal — no, look upon a Barghast skull stripped of skin and muscle …'
'I've seen … Barghast skulls,' Quick Ben said slowly.
'Ah, and have you seen their like … animate?'
The wizard scowled. 'No, but something similar, squatter — the features slightly more pronounced-'
'Slightly, aye, slightly. Squatter? No surprise, we never went hungry, for the sea provided. Yet more, Tartheno Toblakai were among us …'
'You were T'lan Imass! Hood's breath! Then … you and your kin must have defied the Ritual-'
'Defied? No. We simply failed to arrive in time — our pursuit of the Jaghut had forced us to venture onto the seas, to dwell among iceflows and on treeless islands. And in our isolation from kin, among the elder peoples — the Tartheno — we changed … when our distant kin did not. Mortal,wherever land proved generous enough to grant us a birth,we buried our dugouts — for ever. From this was born the custom of the trees on our barrows — though none among my kind remembers. It has been so long …'
'Tell me your tale, Talamandas. But first, answer me this. What would you do … if I freed you of these bindings?'
'You cannot.'
'Not an answer.'
'Very well, though it be pointless. I would seek to set free the First Families — aye, we are spirits, and now worshipped by the living clans. But the ancient bindings have kept us as children in so many ways. Well meant, yet a curse none the less. We must be freed. To grow into true power-'
'To ascend into true gods,' Quick Ben whispered, his eyes wide as he stared down at the ragged figure of grasses and twigs.
'The Barghast refuse to change, the living think now as the living always did. Generation after generation. Our kind are dying out, mortal. We rot from within. For the ancestors are prevented from giving true guidance, prevented from maturing into their power — our power. To answer your question, mortal, I would save the living Barghast, if I could.'
'Tell me, Talamandas,' Quick Ben asked with veiled eyes, 'is survival a right, or a privilege?'
'The latter, mortal. The latter. And it must be earned. I wish for the chance. For all my people, I wish for the chance.'
The wizard slowly nodded. 'A worthy wish, Old One.' He held out his hand, palm up, stared down at it. 'There's salt in this clay, is there not? I smell it. Clay is usually airless, lifeless. Defiant of the tireless servants of the soil. But the salt, well. ' A writhing clump took shape on Quick Ben's palm. 'Sometimes,' he went on, 'the simplest of creatures can defeat the mightiest sorceries, in the simplest way imaginable.' The worms — red like blood, thin, long and ridged with leg-like cilia along their lengths — twisted and heaved, fell in clumps to the glyph-strewn ground. 'These are native to a distant continent. They feed on salt, or so it seems — the mines on the dry sea beds of Setta are thick with these things, especially in the dry season. They can turn the hardest pan of clay into sand. To put it another way, they bring air to the airless.' He dropped the clump onto the ground, watched as the worms spread out, began burrowing. 'And they breed faster than maggots. Ah, see those glyphs — there, on the edges? Their binding's crumbling — can you feel the loosening?'
'Mortal, who are you?'
'In the eyes of the gods, Talamandas? Just a lowly salt-worm. I'll hear your tale now, Old One. '
CHAPTER NINE
On the subcontinent of Stratem, beyond Korelri's south range, can be found a vast peninsula where even the gods do not tread. Reaching to each coast, encompassing an area of thousands of square leagues, stretches a vast plaza. Aye, dear readers, there is no other word for it. Fashion this in your mind: near-seamless flagstones, unmarred by age and of grey, almost black, stone. Rippled lines of dark dust, minuscule dunes heaped by the moaning winds, these are all that break the breathless monotony. Who laid such stones?
Should we give credence to Gothos's hoary tome, his glorious 'Folly'? Should we attach a dread name to the makers of this plaza? If we must, then that name is K'Chain Che'Malle. Who, then, were the K'Chain Che'Malle? An Elder Race, or so Gothos tells. Extinct even before the rise of the Jaghut, the T'lan Imass, the Forkrul Assail.
Truth? Ah, if so, then these stones were laid down half a million — perhaps more — years ago. In the opinion of this chronicler, what utter nonsense.
My Endless Travels
Esslee Monot (the Dubious)
'How do you measure a life, Toc the Younger? Please, darling, I would hear your thoughts. Deeds are the crudest measure of all, wouldn't you say?'
He cast her a glower as they walked. 'You suggesting that good intentions are enough, Lady?'
Envy shrugged. 'Can no value be found in good intentions?'
'What, precisely, are you trying to justify? And to me, or yourself?'
She glared, then quickened her pace. 'You're no fun at all,' she sniffed as she pulled ahead, 'and presumptuous as well. I'm going to talk with Tool — his moods don't swing!'
No, they just hang there, twisting in the wind.
Not entirely true, he realized after a moment. The T'lan Imass had showed the fullest measure of his emotions a week past. With his sister's departure. None of us are immune to tortured hearts, I guess. He rested a hand on Baaljagg's shoulder, squinted towards the distant ridgeline to the northeast, and the washed-out mountains beyond.
The ridge marked the borders of the Pannion Domin. There was a city at the foot of those mountains, or so the Lady had assured him. Bastion. An ominous name. And strangers aren't welcome. So why in Hood's name are we heading there?
Onearm's Host had effectively declared war on the theocratic empire. Tool's knowledge of the details had Toc wondering, but not doubting. Every description of the Pannion Domin simply added fuel to the likelihood of Dujek taking … umbrage. The old High Fist despised tyranny. Which is ironic, since the Emperor was a tyrant. I think. Then again, maybe not. Despotic, sure, and mono-maniacal, even slightly insane … He scowled, glanced back to the three Seguleh trailing him. Glittering eyes within hard masks. Toc resumed his study of the ridge ahead, shivering.