Down a bank of mud, into a charnel pit of rotting corpses, the bloated bodies of men and horses, someone singing plaintively in the distance.
A burning forest.
The corridor of a palace or temple – dozens of robed people fleeing with shrieks – and once more he tore through them. Human blood filling his mouth, the taste appallingly sweet. Dragging bodies down from behind, crunching through skulls – weak fists thumping into his flanks—
Somewhere deep inside him, he loosed a sob, tearing himself free – and once more the world shifted, a barren tundra now, someone kneeling beside a boulder, head lifting, eyes meeting his.
‘Stop this. Now. Child of Treach, you lose yourself to the beast’s blood.’
A woman, her long black hair thick and glossy as a panther’s hide, her face broad, the cheekbones high and flaring, her amber eyes filled with knowing. A few rags of caribou skin for clothes, despite the frigid air.
‘When you find me,’ she continued, ‘it will not be as you imagine. We shall not meet as lovers. We shall not desire the same things. It may be we shall fight, you and me.’
He crouched, sides heaving, muscles trembling, but the blind rage was fading.
She made an odd gesture with one hand. ‘A cat leaps, takes the life of a bird. Another takes the life of a child playing in the garden. This is what a cat does, do you deny this? Is there a crime in these scenes? Perhaps. For the bird, the crime of carelessness, incaution. The child? An inattentive parent? An ill-chosen place to dwell in?
‘The chicks in their nest cry out for a mother who will not return. Her death is their deaths. The mother grieves her loss, but perhaps there will be another child, a new life to replace the one lost. Tell me, Gruntle, how does one measure these things? How does one decide which life is the more precious? Are feelings apportioned according to intelligence and self-awareness? Does a tiny creature grieve less deeply than one of greater … stature?
‘But is it not natural to rage for vengeance, for retribution? Does the dead bird’s mate dream of murder?
‘Child of Treach, you have taken more than just children, on this hard path of yours. In your wake, much grief now swirls. Your arrival was inexplicable to their senses, but the proof of your presence lay in pools of blood.
‘Be the weapon of random chance if you must. Be the unimaginable force that strikes down with no reason, no purpose. Be the taker of lives.
‘I will await you, at the end of this path. Will we discuss vengeance? With fang and claw?’
At the threat a low growl rumbled from his chest.
Her smile was sad. She gestured again—
Blinking, Gruntle found himself on his hands and knees, stony ground under him. He coughed and then spat to clear gobs of thick blood from his mouth, reached up and wiped his wet lips – on the back of his hand a red smear and strands of human hair. ‘Gods below,’ he muttered. ‘That was a mistake.’
The warrens were falling apart. Where was I going? What was I running from? But he remembered. Betrayals. Weaknesses. The flaws of being human – he’d sought an escape. A headlong plunge into mindlessness, fleeing from all manner of remorse and recrimination. Running away.
‘But what is the point?’ he said under his breath. To forget is to forget myself. Who I am, and that I must not surrender. If I do, I will have nothing left.
Ah, but still … to be blameless. A cat above the tiny carcass of a bird. Above the corpse of a child.
Blameless.
But the bastards hunting me down don’t care about that. A child has died. Mothers bow in wretched grief. Weapons are taken in hand. The world is a dangerous place; they mean to make it less so. They yearn to die ancient and withered in straw beds, at the end of a long life, with skins upon their walls proclaiming their bravery.
Well then, come to me if you must. To your eyes I am a monstrous tiger. But in my mind, I have a man’s cunning. And yes, I know all about vengeance.
He could see now where his path was taking him. Trake’s deadly gift was turning in his hands, finding a new, terrible shape. ‘You would set yourselves apart, then? Not animal. Something other. Very well, then there will be war.’
Brushing at his eyes, he climbed slowly to his feet. Admire the beast. He is brave. Even as he charges your spear. And should you then stand above my corpse, note well your own bravery, but in my lifeless eyes see this truth: what we have shared in this clash of courage, friend, was not a thing of sentience or intelligence. Skill and luck may be triumphant, but these are nature’s gifts.
Confuse this at your peril.
‘Treach, hear me. I will fight this war. I see its … inevitability. I will charge the spear.’ Because I have no choice. He bared his teeth. ‘Just make my death worthwhile.’
Somewhere ahead, she awaited him. He still did not know what that meant.
The veil between human and beast was shredded, and he found himself looking out from both sides. Desperation and madness. Oh, Stonny, I cannot keep my promise. I am sorry. If I could but set my eyes upon your face one more time. He sighed. ‘Yes, woman, to answer your cruel question, the bird’s mate dreams of murder.’
The tears kept returning. Blurring his vision, streaming down his scarred, pitted cheeks. But Mappo forced himself onward, fighting each step he took. Two wills were locked in battle. The need to find his friend. The need to flee his shame. The war was now a thing of pain – there had been a time, so long ago now, when he had not shied from self-regard; when, for all the deceits guiding his life, he had understood the necessity, the sharp clarity of his purpose.
He stood between the world and Icarium. Why? Because the world was worth saving. Because there was love, and moments of peace. Because compassion existed, like a blossom in a crack of stone, a fulsome truth, a breathtaking miracle. And Icarium was a weapon of destruction, senseless, blind. Mappo had given his life to keeping that weapon in its scabbard, peace-strapped, forgotten.
In the name of compassion, and love.
Which he had just walked away from. Turning his back upon children, so as to not see the hurt in their eyes, that hardening flatness as yet another betrayal beset their brief lives. Because, he told himself, their future was uncertain, yet still alive with possibilities. But if Icarium should awaken, and no one is there to stop him, those possibilities will come to an end. Does this not make sense? Oh yes, indeed it made sense.
And still, it was wrong. I know it. I feel it. I can’t hide from it. If I harden myself to compassion, then what am I trying to save?
And so he wept. For himself. In the face of shame, grief burned away. In the face of shame, he began to lose who he was, who he had always believed himself to be. Duty, pride in his vow, his sacrifice – it all crumbled. He tried to imagine finding Icarium, his oldest friend. He tried to envision a return to the old ways, to his words of deception in the name of love, to the gentle games of feint and sleight of hand that they played to keep horrifying truths at bay. Everything as it once was, and at the core of it all Mappo’s willingness to surrender his own life rather than see the Lifestealer’s eyes catch flame.
He did not know if he could do that any more. A man’s heart must be pure for such a thing, cleansed of all doubts, sufficient to make death itself a worthy sacrifice. But the solid beliefs of years past had now broken down.