Karsa slowly lifted his head, eyes travelling up the battered cliff-face, to find the harsh, bestial face of Urugal, there, among its kin. The pitted gaze seemed fixed upon him and Karsa thought he saw avid pleasure in those dark pools. Indeed, he was certain of it, and would describe it as truth to Delum and Bairoth, and to Dayliss, so that she might voice her blessing, for he so wished her blessing, her cold words… I, Dayliss, yet to find a family’s name, bless you, Karsa Orlong, on your dire raid. May you slay a legion of children. May their cries feed your dreams. May their blood give you thirst for more. May flames haunt the path of your life. May you return to me, a thousand deaths upon your soul, and take me as your wife.
She might indeed so bless him. A first yet undeniable expression of her interest in him. Not Bairoth-she but toyed with Bairoth as any young unwedded woman might, for amusement. Her Knife of Night remained sheathed, of course, for Bairoth lacked cold ambition-a flaw he might deny, yet the truth was plain that he did not lead, only follow, and Dayliss would not settle for that.
No, she would be his, Karsa’s, upon his return, the culmination of his triumph that was the raid on Silver Lake. For him, and him alone, Dayliss would unsheathe her Knife of Night.
May you slay a legion of children. May flames haunt the path of your life.
Karsa straightened. No wind rustled the leaves of the birch trees encircling the glade. The air was heavy, a lowland air that had climbed its way into the mountains in the wake of the marching sun, and now, with light fading, it was trapped in the glade before the Faces in the Rock. Like a breath of the gods, soon to seep into the rotting soil.
There was no doubt in Karsa’s mind that Urugal was present, as close behind the stone skin of his face as he had ever been. Drawn by the power of Karsa’s vow, by the promise of a return to glory. So too hovered the other gods. Beroke Soft Voice, Kahlb the Silent Hunter, Thenik the Shattered, Halad Rack Bearer, Imroth the Cruel and Siballe the Unfound, all awakened once more and eager for blood.
And I have but just begun on this path. Newly arrived to my eightieth year of life, finally a warrior in truth. I have heard the oldest words, the whispers, of the One, who will unite the Teblor, who will bind the clans one and all and lead them into the lowlands and so begin the War of the People. These whispers, they are the voice of promise, and that voice is mine.
Hidden birds announced the coming of dusk. It was time to leave.
Delum and Bairoth awaited him in the village. And Dayliss, silent yet holding to the words she would speak to him.
Bairoth will be furious.
The pocket of warm air in the glade lingered long after Karsa Orlong’s departure. The soft, boggy soil was slow to yield the imprint of his knees, his moccasined feet, and the sun’s deepening glare continued to paint the harsh features of the gods even as shadows filled the glade itself.
Seven figures rose from the ground, skin wrinkled and stained dark brown over withered muscles and heavy bones, hair red as ochre and dripping stagnant, black water. Some were missing limbs, others stood on splintered, shattered or mangled legs. One lacked a lower jaw while another’s left cheekbone and brow were crushed flat, obliterating the eye-socket. Each of the seven, broken in some way. Imperfect.
Flawed.
Somewhere behind the wall of rock was a sealed cavern that had been their tomb for a span of centuries, a short-lived imprisonment as it turned out. None had expected their resurrection. Too shattered to remain with their kin, they had been left behind, as was the custom of their kind. Failure’s sentence was abandonment, an eternity of immobility. When failure was honourable, their sentient remnants would be placed open to the sky, to vistas, to the outside world, so that they might find peace in watching the passing of eons. But, for these seven, failure had not been honourable. Thus, the darkness of a tomb had been their sentence. They had felt no bitterness at that.
That dark gift came later, from outside their unlit prison, and with it, opportunity.
All that was required was the breaking of a vow, and the swearing of fealty to another. The reward: rebirth, and freedom.
Their kin had marked this place of internment, with carved faces each a likeness, mocking the vista with blank, blind eyes. They had spoken their names to close the ritual of binding, names that lingered in this place with a power sufficient to twist the minds of the shamans of the people who had found refuge in these mountains, and on the plateau with the ancient name of Laederon.
The seven were silent and motionless in the glade as the dusk deepened. Six were waiting for one to speak, yet that one was in no hurry. Freedom was raw exultation and, even limited as it was to this glade, the emotion persisted still. It would not be long, now, until that freedom would break free of its last chains-the truncated range of vision from the eye-sockets carved into the rock. Service to the new master promised travel, an entire world to rediscover and countless deaths to deliver.
Urual, whose name meant Mossy Bone and who was known to the Teblor as Urugal, finally spoke. ‘He will suffice.’
Sin’b’alle-Lichen For Moss-who was Siballe the Unfound, did not hide the scepticism in her voice. ‘You place too much faith in these fallen Teblor. Teblor. They know naught, even their true name.’
‘Be glad that they do not,’ said Ber’ok, his voice a rough rasp through a crushed throat. Neck twisted and head leaning to one side, he was forced to turn his entire body to stare at the rock-face. ‘In any case, you have your own children, Sin’b’alle, who are the bearers of the truth. For the others, lost history is best left lost, for our purposes. Their ignorance is our greatest weapon.’
‘Dead Ash Tree speaks the truth,’ Urual said. ‘We could not have so twisted their faith were they cognizant of their legacy.’
Sin’b’alle shrugged disdainfully. ‘The one named Pahlk also… sufficed. In your opinion, Urual. A worthy prospect to lead my children, it seemed. Yet he failed.’
‘Our fault, not his,’ Haran’alle growled. ‘We were impatient, too confident of our efficacy. Sundering the Vow stole much of our power-’
‘Yet what has our new master given of his, Antler From Summer?’ Thekist demanded. ‘Naught but a trickle.’
‘And what do you expect?’ Urual enquired in a quiet tone. ‘He recovers from his ordeals as we do from ours.’
Emroth spoke, her voice like silk. ‘So you believe, Mossy Bone, that this grandson of Pahlk will carve for us our path to freedom.’
‘I do.’
‘And if we are disappointed yet again?’
‘Then we begin anew. Bairoth’s child in Dayliss’s womb.’
Emroth hissed. ‘Another century of waiting! Damn these long-lived Teblor!’
‘A century is as nothing-’
‘As nothing, yet as everything, Mossy Bone! And you know precisely what I mean.’
Urual studied the woman, who was aptly named Fanged Skeleton, recalling her Soletaken proclivities, and its hunger that had so clearly led to their failure so long ago. ‘The year of my name has returned,’ he said. ‘Among us all, who has led a clan of the Teblor as far along our path as I have? You, Fanged Skeleton? Lichen For Moss? Spear Leg?’
No-one spoke.
Then finally Dead Ash Tree made a sound that might have been a soft laugh. ‘We are as Red Moss, silent. The way will be opened. So our new master has promised. He finds his power. Urual’s chosen warrior already possesses a score of souls in his slayer’s train. Teblor souls at that. Recall, also, that Pahlk journeyed alone. Yet Karsa shall have two formidable warriors flanking him. Should he die, there is always Bairoth, or Delum.’