When the bear appeared and rushed towards them, she was not afraid. It wanted the children, that much was obvious, but the grown-ups attacked and drove it off. Her people were strong, fearless. They ruled this world.
Until one morning she awoke to find herself alone. Forcing herself to her hind legs, helpless whimpering coming from her throat in jolts of pain, she scanned the land in all directions-
And saw the giant. Bare above the waist, the deep hue of sun-darkened skin almost entirely obscured beneath white paint-paint that transformed his chest, shoulders and face into bone. His eyes, as he walked closer, were black pits in the caked mask skull. He carried weapons: a long spear, a sword with a broad, curved blade. The fur of the four-legged people was wrapped about his hips, and the small but deadly knives strung in a necklace about the warrior’s neck, they too belonged to her people.
Frightened, angry, she bared her teeth at the stranger, even as she cowered in the fold of a small hummock-nowhere to run, knowing he could catch her effortlessly. Knowing that yet another of her worlds had shattered. Fear was her bronze box, and she was trapped, unable to move.
He studied her for a time, cocking his head as she snapped and snarled. Then slowly crouched down until his eyes were level with her own.
And she fell silent.
Remembering… things.
They were not kind eyes, but they were-she knew-like her own. As was his hairless face beneath that deathly paint.
She had run away, she now recalled, until it seemed her fleeing mind had outstripped her flesh and bone, had darted out into something unknown and unknowable.
And this savage face, across from her, was slowly bringing her mind back. And she understood, now, who the four-legged people were, what they were. She remembered what it was to stand upright, to run with two legs instead of four. She remembered an encampment, the digging of cellar pits, the first of the sod-walled houses. She remembered her family-her brother-and the night the demons came to steal it all away.
After a time of mutual silent regard, he straightened, settled the weapons and gear about himself once more, then set out.
She hesitated, then rose.
And, at a distance, she followed.
He walked towards the rising sun.
Scratching at the scarred, gaping hole where one eye had been, Toc watched the children running back and forth as the first cookfires were lit. Elders hobbled about with iron pots and wrapped foodstuffs-they were wiry, weathered folk, but days of marching had dulled the fire in their eyes, and more than a few snapped at the young ones who passed too close.
He saw Redmask, trailed by Masarch and Natarkas and another bearing the red face-paint, appear near the area laid out for the war leader’s yurt. Seeing Toc, Redmask approached.
‘Tell me, Toc Anaster, you flanked our march on the north this day-did you see tracks?’
‘What sort do you mean?’
Redmask turned to Natarkas’s companion. ‘Torrent rode to the south. He made out a trail that followed an antelope track-a dozen men on foot-’
‘Or more,’ the one named Torrent said. ‘They were skilled.’
‘Not Letherii, then,’ Toe guessed.
‘Moccasined,’ Redmask replied, his tone betraying slight irritation at Torrent’s interruption. ‘Tall, heavy.’
‘I noted nothing like that,’ said Toc. ‘Although I admit 1 was mostly scanning horizon lines.’
‘This place shall be our camp,’ Redmask said after a moment. ‘We will meet the Letherii three leagues from here, in the valley known as Bast Fulmar. Toc Anaster, will you stay with the elders and children or accompany us?’
‘I have had my fill of fields of battle, Redmask. I said I’d found myself a soldier again, but even an army’s train needs guards, and that is about all I am up to right now.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe from now on.’
The eyes in that scaled mask held on Toe for a half-dozen heartbeats, then slowly turned away. ‘Torrent, you too will stay here.’
The warrior stiffened in surprise. ‘War Leader-’
‘You will begin training those children who are close to their death nights. Bows, knives.’
Torrent bowed, stiffly. ‘As you command.’
Redmask left them, trailed by Natarkas and Masarch.
Torrent glanced over at Toc. ‘My courage is not broken,’ he said.
‘You’re young still,’ he replied.
‘You will oversee the younger children, Toc Anaster. That and nothing more. You will keep them and yourself out of my way.’
Toe had had enough of this man. ‘Torrent, you rode at your old war leader’s side when you Awl abandoned us to the Letherii army. Be careful of your bold claims of courage. And when I came to you and pleaded for the lives of my soldiers, you turned away with the rest of them. I believe Redmask has just taken your measure, Torrent, and if I hear another threat from you I will give you reason to curse me-with what will be your last breath.’
The warrior bared his teeth in a humourless smile. ‘All I see in that lone eye, Toe Anaster, tells me you are already cursed.’ He pivoted and walked away.
Well, the bastard has a point. So maybe I’m not as good at this give and take as I imagined myself to be. For these Awl, it is a way of life, after all. Then again, the Malazan armies are pretty good at it, too-no wonder I never really fit.
A half-dozen children hurried past, trailed by a mud-smeared toddler struggling to keep up. Seeing the chattering mob vanish round a tent, the toddler halted, then let out a wail.
Toc grunted. Aye, you and me both.
He made a rude sound and the toddler looked over, eyes wide. Then laughed.
Eye socket fiercely itching once more, Toe scratched for a moment, then headed over, issuing yet another rude noise. Oh, look at that-innocent delight. Well, Toc, take your rewards where and when you can.
Redmask stood at the very edge of the sprawling encampment, studying the horizon to the south. ‘Someone is out there,’ he said in a low voice.
‘So it seems,’ Natarkas said. ‘Strangers-who walk our land as if they owned it. War Leader, you have wounded Torrent-’
‘Torrent must learn the value of respect. And so he will, as weapon master to a score of restless adolescents. When next he joins us, he will be a wiser man. Do you challenge my decisions, Natarkas?’
‘Challenge? No, War Leader. But at times I will probe them, if I find the need to understand them better.’
Redmask nodded, then said to the warrior standing a short distance away, ‘Heed those words, Masarch.’
‘So I shall,’ the young warrior replied.
‘Tomorrow,’ said Redmask, ‘I lead my warriors to war. Bast Fulmar.’
Natarkas hissed, then said, ‘A cursed valley.’
‘We will honour the blood spilled there three hundred years ago, Natarkas. The past will die there, and from there on we shall look only to a new future. New in every way.’
‘This new way of fighting, War Leader, I see little honour in it.’
‘You speak true. There is none to be found. Such is necessity.’
‘Must necessity be surrender?’
Redmask looked across at the warrior whose face was painted in the likeness of his own mask. ‘When the ways surrendered hold naught but the promise of failure, then yes. It must be done. They must be cast away.’
‘The elders will find that difficult to accept, War Leader.’
‘I know. You and I have played this game before. This is not their war. It is mine. And I mean to win it.’
They were silent then, as the wind, a dirge through dead grasses, moaned ghostly across the land.
Chapter Eleven
Sea without water spreads white bones crumbled flat and bleached like parchment where I walked.
But this scrawl scratching my wake is without history bereft of raiment to clothe my fate.