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Beside her, T’riss was clad once more in her strange armour of woven reeds and grass. Hardly proof against the chill, but the Azathanai woman seemed unaffected by such things. Her long blonde hair hadn’t seen a comb in a long while, leaving it knotted, ratty and wild, lending her an air of quiet madness, and Threadbare had come to believe that the unkempt halo of hair mimicked the scattered thoughts of the woman herself.
The cave that had been their refuge was far behind them now, as Threadbare’s impatience finally succeeded in wearing down the Azathanai’s distracted indifference. They had fallen into a kind of rapport on this journey. Threadbare found most of it nonsensical, but she had gleaned enough to feel a growing urgency, as if something terrible was about to happen.
‘Tell me again,’ she said, resuming her assault upon her c
ompanion’s obfuscation, ‘what is so important about the Valley of Tarns?’
‘The spirits whisper the name,’ T’riss replied.
‘Yes, so you keep saying.’
‘And you know where it is. So we ride there.’
‘Right.’ Threadbare considered for a moment, and then said, ‘You see, it’s like this, Azathanai. I don’t argue against the idea that ghosts exist. That is, I’ve never seen one. But even so, some places where people died badly, well, they stink of it, no matter how long ago it all was. It’s not a stink you smell with your nose. It’s some other kind of stink. And it seeps straight in and makes you feel awful. In any case, these spirits you keep listening to – are they ghosts?’
‘Your words make them cringe. The world wears down. What once were mountains are now hills. Rivers change their paths. Cliff-sides crumble, forests rise and then disappear again. There are different kinds of life, and some of them move too slowly for you to even see. Unless you’ve been away, returning only to discover that nothing is as it once was.’
‘How fascinating,’ Threadbare replied. ‘This thing about ghosts and spirits, though. You see, I’m of a mind to think that ghosts have nothing useful to say, nothing good, nothing pleasing. I figure that, mostly, they’re miserable things, trapped halfway between one place and the other. I wouldn’t follow any advice from that quarter, is what I’m saying.’
‘Coming back,’ the woman riding beside her said, ‘foments a crisis. Has everything truly changed? Those rivers, the forests and the worn-down crags? Or is it just the world of the one who returns that has changed? The world inside her, that is. And so an argument begins, between the soul and this rock, or that hill, those trees. This sorcerous night, so powerful in shrouding the day. Anger builds, frustration mounts. Denial becomes a fever, and that fever begins to rage.’
The day was drawing to a close. Somewhere to the south was the rumble of thunder, a strange thing for the season. Threadbare caught the occasional flash of lurid light, flickering through the heavy clouds that grew darker by the moment. ‘What do the spirits care about the Valley of Tarns? What’s happening there?’
‘They speak of an old man in a ditch. A boy is with him, and toy soldiers fight on the floor of the ditch. The old man casts the die. Soldiers fall. A most ferocious battle, and in the boy’s mind he can see it all, every detail. He can hear the screams of the wounded and the dying. He can see the faces filled with fear, or pain, or grief. But the old man crows with every victory, even as tears track down his lined cheeks.’
‘The spirits told you all this?’
‘They watch. It is all they can do. But events far away have stirred them awake. Now they walk the earth, helpless. The time for their own war is yet to come.’
The first stinging spatter of sleet bit at Threadbare’s face. Ahead, the clouds were unleashing their slivers of frozen rain in slanted columns that marched across the land. She pointed to the south. ‘Azathanai, is any of this natural? That thunder and lightning – is that happening at the valley?’
T’riss reined in suddenly, forcing Threadbare to pull hard on the braided reins of her own golem, swinging it round to face the Azathanai in time to see the woman twist in the woven saddle, tilting her face upward …
… as three dragons burst from the heavy cloud cover behind them, low enough for both Threadbare and her companion to feel the roiling wall of air buffet them an instant before the enormous creatures sailed overhead.
Turning, Threadbare’s gaze followed the dragons as they sailed southward into the storm. Her mouth was dry, her chest tight. She shot T’riss a wild, frantic look. ‘What in the Abyss are we riding into?’
‘Do you hear laughing?’ the Azathanai asked, her brows lifting. ‘The dead are laughing even as they weep. Why is that, I wonder?’
‘You wonder? You fucking wonder? What is all this, damn you?’
T’riss shrugged. ‘Oh, Light and Dark never liked each other. Worse than Sky and Earth. But, as must be obvious to anyone who cares to consider such matters, Life and Death rule us all. Unless, of course, Death forgets itself. I fear that has occurred. Death had forgotten itself. The ghosts are here and still here, because they can’t find the gate.’ She shook her head, as if exasperated. ‘What a mess.’
‘What’s happening at the Valley of Tarns?’
‘A battle. A battle is happening. The one everyone expected, but few wanted. Or so they claimed. But the truth is, bloodlust is a plague, and it has found your people. Oh well.’
Swearing, Threadbare yanked her mount around and, eyes narrowing to slits, glared into the sleet and the roiling clouds of the south. Driving her heels into the flanks of the golem snapped twigs and branches, but the creature surged forward, and in moments reached a gallop.
A short time later T’riss caught up with her, and swung a bright face to Threadbare. ‘I had no idea they could go so fast!’ she shouted, and then yelped with laughter.
‘Get away from me, you lying witch!’
Surprise flashed in the Azathanai’s face. ‘I never lied, my dear, I but confused. There is a difference, you know!’
‘Why, damn you?’
‘Well, to keep you alive, I suppose. I like you, Threadbare. I like you a lot.’
