Things writhed just beneath the lad’s skin. Long worm-like lengths twisted and squirmed all up and down his legs, arms, stomach and chest.
‘What is this?’ Golan breathed, impressed. Even a touch fearful.
The ranking surgeon’s expression was flat and dull, as if the man had been driven beyond all feeling, all empathy. ‘They are as you suggested. A form of worm infestation. Similar, I believe, to the infamous Ganari-worm that has been eradicated from our lands, only a far more virulent offshoot. Unlike its cousins, this one does not spare its hosts. These worms are consuming the lad from the inside out.’
At that moment Golan wanted nothing more than to flee the tent. He even felt his stomach tightening in nausea — a feeling he’d thought squeezed from him long ago. Pride in his position, however, demanded that he display nothing. Thus he simply nodded in what he hoped resembled scholarly appreciation of an interesting phenomenon. He clasped his hands at his back. ‘They were in the water, then?’ he asked, his voice a touch hoarse and faint.
‘I believe so. As far as I can establish, this lad was among those who assembled the rafts. He and his coworkers spent a great deal of time standing in the water.’
Golan’s throat choked almost closed, and he grasped the table edge behind him to keep from falling. All the labourers. And the soldiers. Had they not all taken it in turns to wade in to help?
The surgeon was studying Golan closely, a bloodied hand raised to help. He appeared to understand that his commander now grasped the severity of the situation and nodded, grimly. ‘Indeed.’
‘We must find the infected. Isolate them.’
The surgeon’s face remained bleak. ‘I would think it more of a mercy if you would order the yakshaka to-’ The man gaped, his gaze fixed beyond Golan, his eyes growing huge.
Golan heard wet things slipping and slithering to the ground behind him. The tiny hairs of his arms stood up straight and icy fingers traced their nails up his spine. His training took hold immediately and he turned, steadily, having withdrawn into Thaumaturg calmness of mind.
The youth’s body was a horror of thousands of wriggling worms, all writhing free of his flesh from every inch of skin. They even emerged squirming and questing blindly from his eyes, ears, mouth and nostrils. They slithered free to tumble and fall and snake off under the lips of the tent.
Golan heard the surgeon fall insensate behind him. Coolly, he raised a hand and the sagging shape of bones and limp skin amid its forest of twisting parasites burst into sizzling blue and white flames. It was the least he could do for the lad, though, in truth, it was more like housecleaning.
He turned to the prone form of the surgeon, used his toe to flick aside a few of the worms nosing his body. ‘Get up, man,’ he urged. ‘We’ve work to do. We must segregate the infected. Come.’
The surgeon groaned, flailing. Golan nudged him with his toe. ‘Come, man. We-’
Golan broke off, for distantly, across the encampment, here and there, rose shrill screams of agony and uncomprehending terror — the shrieks of those being eaten alive from within.
* * *
In the quiet of the gloomy chamber Osserc blinked rapidly, coming to himself. He peered about quickly, a touch panicked. All was as before: the monkey creature lay asleep at the table, its head down, snoring contentedly, drool dripping from its open mouth. Across the gouged slats of the tabletop, Gothos still sat immobile. His knotted hands lay flat before him. His roped iron-grey hair hung like moss to his shoulders. It was as if the Jaghut was carved from granite.
He’d been thinking of his youth among the Tiste and the halls of his father’s hold. All so different from now. So much lost. It was all he could do to hold on to even a fraction of it. He’d always been of the mind that one must look back to know how to proceed. Yet now this creature sitting opposite seemed to be suggesting that holding on to the past — being guided by the past — was wrong. A self-limiting trap.
Odd to hear such things coming from a Jaghut, of all creatures. Though they always did have a pragmatic streak. For his part he never truly understood them. Perhaps there can be no true understanding between the races. A downturned smile pulled at his lips. The historical record attests that such relations hold little promise for understanding.
Very well. The lesson is to be guided by the past without being trapped by it. A pithy homily. Why be guided by lessons of the past? For wisdom, of course. Ah. Here we approach the meat of the matter. Wisdom.
Not something usually associated with his name.
Anomander, now, that was another thing. Wise beyond his years, everyone thought him. The wisdom of Anomander. Whereas Osserc … well, few mentioned wisdom and Osserc in the same breath.
What, then, had he gathered? Knowledge. A great deal of knowledge. He had wandered the very shores of creation. Tasted the blood of the Eleint. Plumbed the depths of the Abyss itself. Studied the verges of the Realms. He had questioned the Azathanai repeatedly — though he came away with little to show for it. And now he had even investigated the Azath. Few could boast of as thorough an interrogation of the underlying truths of existence.
Yet what had all this study and probing and ruthless examination taught him? He considered his hands on the table before him. He turned them over to inspect the lined palms.
Only his appalling ignorance.
He might have assembled a truly impressive archive of facts, yet one area remained a dark chasm before him. Self-knowledge. The sort of exploration that inflicted true pain. Was this why he’d so … studiously … avoided it? And how then could he be puzzled as to why he did not understand anyone else when he did not know himself? Some would argue that was plainly obvious.
He remembered, then, the time L’oric had been trapped within the shrinking fragment of a shattered realm. He’d had to rescue the fool. Then, he’d felt only anger at the lad’s stupidity, resentment at the intrusion and embarrassment that one of his should have been so careless. Of course he’d communicated none of this to L’oric.
Now, reflecting back, it struck him that what the lad had been doing was in fact emulating him. That, if anyone was to blame, it was he for bringing into being such exploratory recklessness and pushing of boundaries. For his utter neglect and lack of guidance.
Osserc felt a hot sharp stabbing in his chest and his breath came short and tight. He clutched the wooden slats as if he would fall. Across the table Gothos’ gaze, hidden deep within his curtain of hair, shifted, glittering like sunken wells.
If this be the price of self-knowledge I want none of it. It is just too much … Not the errors of the forefathers revisited. Not that. Too painful by far.
So — is the judgement that I have learned nothing? That I stand now as an even poorer example than my own poor father? Perhaps so. Perhaps so.
The eternal question then, that we return to once again, is how to proceed from this datum …
The head of the monkey creature, the Nacht, popped up from the table. Blinking, it peered about suspiciously. Across the table Gothos’ hands drew in closer to his body. The talon-like nails raked lines in the wood.
‘What is it?’ Osserc asked. His voice sounded shockingly loud in the silence.
The Jaghut turned his head to the hall leading to the front door. ‘Something …’
Osserc then heard a sound. It appeared to be coming from the front — a scratching and tearing noise. It was oddly dim, or muted. He stood away from the table and headed up the hall. The sound, whatever it might be, was coming from outside. Osserc regarded the barrier of the thick planks of the front door, the beaten iron handle. He turned back to peer up the hall; Gothos had stood as well and now regarded him, his arms crossed.