But Yeull was backing away, shaking his head in terrified denial, his eyes huge dark pits. ‘No, they are coming… they will never stop. Never leave me alone.’
Ussu moved to follow. ‘High Fist…’
And can you guess who leads them?
Though Ussu knew this ancient being was laughing within, savouring his power over them, he turned to regard the impassive scarred iron mask, had to ask, ‘Who?’
Your old friend, Overlord… the one some name Stonewielder.
Yeull leapt to the wheel, torch falling. ‘How do you know this?’ he demanded.
I sense what he carries at his side — an artefact unique in all existence, but for one other.
The ratcheting of the mechanism shocked Ussu as it spun under Yeull’s hand.
The spikes thrust their way irresistibly into Cherghem’s flesh — such as it was — much deeper than ever, as far as they could, and the prisoner groaned, convulsing in a shudder that shook the stone beneath their feet. Then, silence. Ussu listened for an intake of breath, heard none.
‘That’s enough from you,’ Yeull ground out, snarling. He retrieved his torch, motioned to the stairs. As they walked the Moranth commander fell back to join Ussu. ‘Think you he was lying?’
‘No. It was inevitable… just sooner than I had hoped.’
‘What must we do?’
Ussu eyed the back of the Overlord, almost invisible in the gloom. ‘More germane to my mind is the question… what will you do?’
The Moranth’s chitinous armour plates grated in an indifferent shrug. ‘I am pledged to Yeull, my commander. He orders, I obey.’
‘I see.’ Ussu did not bother disguising his relief. Over a thousand Black Moranth — our iron core. We may yet have a chance. ‘Through my contacts I will warn Mare, let them know another invasion fleet will be approaching.’ They reached the locked iron door and Overlord Yeull, waiting, jaws clenched rigid in irritation and frustrated rage. ‘With any luck,’ Ussu finished, ‘not one ship will escape them as before.’
No less than five times Tal, First of the Chase, promised her war band blood. Each time the trespassers slipped their grasp. No ambush succeeded. Not even the gathering cold slowed the passage of these foreigners across the icefields. Now the Chase, the premiere Jhek war party, must content itself with a protracted hunt across the crevasses of the Great Northern Agal.
Tal signalled a halt, pulled off her bulky fur and hide mitts. Her breath clouded the air. Hemtl, her second, stopped next to her. His furred hood and ivory eye-shield obscured his face, but she could well imagine his boyish sulk. He motioned to the tracks scuffing the snow. ‘Still they remain ahead. They must be of the demons of old, the Forkul.’
‘The Forkul would not run,’ said a third voice and Tal suppressed a jerked start of surprise — Ruk had done it again. She turned: there he stood, arms and legs all crooked, in his hides of white, hair whiter still, the pale silver of frost. ‘At least not from us,’ he finished.
‘What would you know of the Forkul?’ Hemtl demanded. Wincing, Tal turned away. You are second, Hemtl. Ruk did not seek the position. No need to remind anyone — except yourself.
Ruk was silent, allowing the wind to whisper his answer to each: More than you.
The rest of the hunt had halted a distance back and crouched, indistinguishable among the wind-blown drifts. ‘This is a waste,’ Tal said to the blinding white horizon. ‘I have lost count of the spoor we’ve passed.’
‘Five snow bear and stragglers of the Ice River herd,’ supplied Ruk.
‘The insult must be answered!’ Hemtl snarled.
Still facing away, Tal let out a long pluming breath. ‘What does the land say?’
‘Stone and rock are far away, Tal,’ said Ruk. ‘The Jaghut ice smothers all other voices.’
‘Yet?’
‘Yet there are whispers…’
She turned to the old man. Why the reluctance? His shielded gaze was turned aside. His hair blew free. Did the man not feel their old enemy’s biting cold? For the first time in the hunt Tal felt the tightening in her throat that comes with the cornering of a snow bear or a giant tusker. Who were these strangers? ‘Whispers of what?’ she breathed.
‘Of the ancestral Hold. Tellann.’
‘Impossible!’ burst out Hemtl. ‘That cannot be.’
‘Not impossible,’ answered Tal, thoughtful. ‘The Elders still walk the land. Logros, Kron, Ifayle. The path is still open — we have just lost the way.’
‘The Jag curse of ice has smothered it,’ Ruk agreed.
‘There are other ways…’ Hemtl said, his voice sullen. ‘The Broken God beckons.’
‘He is not of the land,’ Ruk answered, his dismissal complete.
Tal raised a hand to sign for a halt. ‘Ruk and I will go ahead, see if they will speak to us.’
‘Speak?’ said Hemtl. ‘To what end?’
‘Who knows?’ And she laughed to chide Hemtl. ‘Perhaps they will surrender, hey?’
Tal and Ruk jogged onward. They picked up their pace from their normal league-sustaining trot of pursuit, closing the distance between them and their quarry. After a time the change in tactics was discovered and the party of four ahead slowed then stopped, awaiting them far across the ice. Closing, she and Ruk slowed as well, came to a halt themselves. Tal held out her gloved hands. ‘Do you understand me?’ she called in Korelri.
‘We do,’ an accented voice answered from over the windswept field. ‘What is there for us to talk of?’
What was there for them to talk of? Where could she possibly start? ‘By what right do you so arrogantly cross our lands?’
The four spoke among themselves. One raised his hands to his mouth. ‘Your lands? We thought these wastes empty. Why do you chase us?’
Why? What fools these foreigners were! ‘Why? Because these are our lands! You are trespassers. You eat caribou — that is food taken from our families.’
The four spoke again. ‘We offer our apologies. But there are so many. That herd numbered thousands!’
Tal and Ruk could not help but exchange looks of exasperation. Foreigners! Elder Gods deliver them from the uncomprehending fools. Tal called across the ice, ‘Yes, so it would seem. Yet every one of those spoken for, and that all our families have! What of the herds of your lords? What if they were kept all together and someone, seeing all their number, helped himself to one seeing as they numbered so? What would then happen to him?’
‘He would be imprisoned, or maimed,’ admitted the foreign trespasser, his voice now sounding tired. ‘Very well. Come forward. Perhaps we should speak.’
Tal looked to Ruk, who nodded his assent. They found three men and one woman, all four ill dressed for the cold, shivering, the leathers under their cloaks soaked in sweat that froze into frost and ice before Tal’s eyes. How could these ill-prepared wretches have forestalled them time and again? But the spokesman, a muscular squat fellow, dark-skinned, was sitting on his haunches calmly awaiting them. Tal squatted down with him. ‘Greetings.’
‘Greetings. It would seem we owe you our apologies and reparation of some kind. That is acceptable to us if it is acceptable to you. What repayment would you require?’
Astonished, Tal glanced up at Ruk but found the man grinning at one of the strangers, a skinny youth bearing an unruly thatch of thick black hair. This one wore a brooch on his wool cloak, a silver snake or dragon over a red field. The sight of that insignia triggered a distant recognition within Tal. Thinking of that vague impression, she asked, ‘Your names, first.’
The four exchanged uncertain glances. Why the uneasiness? What could they possibly have to hide? But then the spokesman shrugged. ‘Fair enough. I am Blues. This is Fingers, Lazar, Shell. We are of the Crimson Guard.’
Tal rocked back on her heels. That name she knew. Crimson Guard — they had ruled Stratem to the south in her grandfather’s time. Warriors and mages, her grandfather had told her. War is for them as is the hunt for us. Examining the four, Tal now wondered who had let who escape back there so many times on the trail.