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Listar knelt beside Rance.
Hataras moved closer, settled a hand upon his shoulder and leaned close. ‘Punished Man. You need to understand.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t.’
‘No soul is truly alone. It only seems so, when it is the last left standing in a field of war. And that war is waged within each of us. Her twin – that shrunken, blackened corpse in the womb – it fed on every thought murdered upon awakening, or snuffed out in its sleep, where hopes unfold into dreams and dreams become nightmares. It devoured the rendered remains of stillborn ideas, sudden wants, of avarice and betrayal. Imagination, Punished Man, can be a most wicked realm.’
Vastala spoke. ‘I took from them everything. I have left them nowhere to hide.’ She paused, looked around. ‘I have made this army into a terrible thing. These soldiers. They will not hesitate. They will march into Mother’s fire if it is asked of them. They will fight all who face them. And they will die, one by one, no different from any other soldier. No different, and yet, utterly different.’ She pulled Hataras to her feet. ‘My love, we must flee. They will rise soon, in silence. They will blink. They will not meet the eyes of friend or rival. The cursed iron flinches from their touch. These soldiers, beloved, are an abomination.’
‘This is what you gave us?’ Listar demanded. ‘This is not what was asked of you! We sought a blessing!’
Vastala bared her teeth. ‘Oh, they are blessed, Punished Man. But think on this, what comes to a mortal soul, when it finds that truth is unwelcome?’ She faced Hataras again. ‘What fate the witch within the orphaned twin?’
Hataras shrugged. ‘Her possessor lies dead, its flesh gone, but the husk of its soul remains. This one,’ and she nodded at Rance, ‘must learn to reach into it, to find the sorcery residing there.’
‘Ugly magic,’ said Vastala.
‘Yes,’ Hataras agreed. ‘Ugly magic.’
Listar remained beside Rance. Looking around, he saw the army fallen, as if slain where they stood. It must have been like this when Hunn Raal poisoned them all.
The Bonecasters had already departed the clearing. He felt the absence of their touch as a sharp ache somewhere deep inside. So easy their abandonment of me. No, I do not understand Dog-Runner ways.
Then his gaze caught movement, and he turned to see a woman stepping out from the command tent. She stood, swaying slightly, looking out upon the thousands of motionless soldiers, lying in poses no different from death, and the weapons remained silent. The only sound Listar could hear was the soft wind, carrying with it the last of the afternoon’s warmth.
Abyss take me, that must be Toras Redone.
Listar climbed to his feet. He made his way towards her. When she saw him she flinched and took a step back. ‘No more ghosts,’ she said.
‘They are alive,’ Listar replied, slowing his steps. ‘All of them. It is not what it seems.’
Her lips curled in a wretched smile. ‘Nor am I.’
‘There were Bonecasters among us,’ Listar said. ‘A ritual.’
She studied him with red-rimmed eyes, from a face bleak and desolate. ‘And what did this ritual achieve, beyond the collapse of my soldiers?’
He hesitated, and then said, ‘Sir, forgive me. I do not know.’
BOOK FOUR
The Most Honourable Man
TWENTY-TWO
THE SEA FADED INTO MISTS BEHIND THEM, AND BELOW A VAST rolling plain appeared. Skillen Droe tilted the cant of his wings and began descending. The landing was rougher than K’rul had expected and he tumbled from his companion’s clutches, coming to a stop against the edge of a ring of stones mostly hidden by yellow grasses.
‘There is the dust of a settlement ahead,’ Skillen Droe said, folding his wings. ‘I am of no mind to invite arrows and curses, and besides, I weary of flight.’
Groaning, K’rul sat up. ‘We return to our world,’ he said, looking around. ‘We are in the lands of the Jheleck.’ He paused and eyed Skillen Droe. ‘I suppose they don’t like you either. I can’t recall if you’ve mentioned them already.’
‘It is not in my nature to offend people. Endeavouring to do well invariably yields unexpected consequences.’
‘And the Jheleck?’
Skillen Droe shrugged his sharp-angled shoulders. ‘Taking offence is all too often the retreat of a petty mind.’
‘Passive aggression, is what you mean,’ said K’rul, pushing himself to his feet. ‘The act of taking offence becomes a weapon, and its wielder feels empowered by the false indignation. That said, I doubt this is what afflicted the Jhelarkan.’ He tottered for a moment before recovering his balance. ‘My legs are half asleep and my skull is empty of blood. I am in need of a meal, I think, but the walk will do some good. An encampment, you say?’
