The Tiste Andii wore their armour. They wore their gear for fighting, for killing. Nimander did not need a glance back to know the transformation and what it did to the expressions on all but one of the faces of those trailing behind him. Skintick, whose smile had vanished, yet his eyes glittered bright, as if fevered. Kedeviss, ever rational, now wore a mask of madness, beauty twisted into something terrible: Nenanda, for all his postures of ferocity, was now ashen, colourless, as if the truth of desire soured him with poison. Desra, flushed with something like excitement. Only Aranatha was unchanged. Placid, glassy-eyed with concentration, her features somehow softer, blurred.
Skintick and Kedeviss carried Clip between them. Nenanda held over one shoulder the man’s weapons, his bow and quiver, his sword and knife belt — all borne on a single leather strap that could be loosed in a moment should the need arise.
They had slipped past buildings in which worshippers danced, starved limbs waving about, distended bellies swaying — doors had been left open, shutters swung back to the night. Voices moaned in disjointed chorus. Even those faces that by chance turned towards the Tiste Andii as they moved ghostly past did not awaken with recognition, the eyes remaining dull, empty, unseeing.
The air was warm, smelling of rancid salt from the dying lake mixed with the heavier stench of putrefying corpses.
They reached the edge of the central square, looked out across its empty expanse. The altar itself was dark, seemingly lifeless.
Nimander crouched down, uncertain. There must be watchers. It would he madness to think otherwise. Could they reach the altar before some hidden mob rushed forth to accost them? It did not seem likely. They had not seen Kallor since his march to the altar the previous day. Nenanda believed the old man was dead. He believed they would find his body, cold and pale, lying on the tiled floor somewhere within the building. For some reason, Nimander did not think that likely.
Skintick whispered behind him, ‘Well? It’s nearing dawn, Nimander.’
What awaited them? There was only one way to find out. ‘Let’s go.’
All at once, with their first strides out into the concourse, the air seemed to swirl, thick and heavy. Nimander found he had to push against it, a tightness forming in his throat and then his chest.
‘They’re burning the shit,’ Skintick hissed. ‘Can you smell it? The kelyk-’
‘Quiet.’
Fifteen, twenty paces now. Silence all around. Nimander set his eyes on the entrance to the altar, the steps glistening with dew or something far worse. The black glyphs seemed to throb in his eyes, as if the entire structure was breathing. He could feel something dark and unpleasant in his veins, like bubbles in his blood, or seeds, eager to burst into life. He felt moments from losing control.
Behind him, hard gasping breaths — they were all feeling this, they were all-
‘Behind us,’ grunted Nenanda.
And to the sides, crowds closing in from every street and alley mouth, slowly, dark shapes pushing into the square. They look like the scarecrows, cut loose from their stakes — Mother’s blessing-
Forty strides, reaching the centre of the concourse. Every avenue closed to them now, barring that to the building itself.
‘We’re being herded,’ said Kedeviss, her voice tight. ‘They want us inside.’
Nimander glanced back, down upon the limp form of Clip, the man’s head hanging and hair trailing on the ground. Clip’s eyes were half open. ‘Is he still alive?’
‘Barely,’ said Kedeviss.
Hundreds of figures drew yet closer, blackened eyes gleaming, mouths hanging open. Knives, hatchets, pitchforks and hammers dangled down from their hands. The only sound that came from them was the shuffle of their bared feet.
Twenty paces now from the steps. To the right and left, and in their wake, the worshippers in the front lines began lifting their weapons, then those behind them followed suit.
‘Skintick,’ said Nimander, ‘take Clip yourself. Aranatha, his weapons. Desra, ward your sister. Kedeviss, Nenanda, prepare to rearguard — once we’re inside, hold them at the entrance.’
Two against a thousand or more. Fanatics, fearless and senseless — gods, we are unleashed.
He heard a pair of swords rasp free of scabbards. The sound sliced through the air, and it was as if the cold iron touched his brow, startling him awake.
The crowd was close now, a bestial growl rising.
Nimander reached the first step. ‘Now!’
They rushed upward. Skintick was immediately behind Nimander, Clip on his hunched back as he gripped one wrist and one thigh. Then Aranatha, flowing up the steps like an apparition, Desra in her wake. Nenanda and Kedeviss, facing the opposite way with swords held ready, backed up more slowly.
The front ranks of worshippers moaned and then surged forward.
Iron rang, clashed, thudded into flesh and bone. Nimander plunged through the entranceway. There was no light — every torch in its sconce had been capped — yet his eyes could penetrate the gloom, in time to see a score of priests rushing for him.
Shouting a warning, Nimander unsheathed his sword-
The fools were human. In this darkness they were half blind. He slashed out, saw a head roll off shoulders, the body crumpling. A back swing intercepted an arm thrusting a dagger at his chest. The sword’s edge sliced through wrist bones and the severed hand, still gripping the weapon, thumped against his chest before falling away. Angling the sword point back across his torso, Nimander stabbed the one-handed priest in the throat.
In his peripheral vision he caught Clip’s form rolling on to the floor as Skintick freed his arms to defend himself.
The sickly sound of edge biting meat echoed in the chamber, followed by the spatter of blood across tiles.
Nimander stop-thrust another charging priest, the point pushing hard between ribs and piercing the man’s heart. As he fell he sought to trap the sword but Nimander twisted round and with a savage tug tore his weapon free.’
A knife scraped the links of his chain hauberk beneath his left arm and he pulled away and down, cross-stabbing and feeling the sword punch into soft flesh. Stomach acids spurted up the blade and stung his knuckles. The priest folded round the wound. Nimander kicked hard into his leg, shin-high, breaking bones. As the man sagged away, he pushed forward to close against yet another one.
Sword against dagger was no contest. As the poor creature toppled, sobbing from a mortal wound, Nimander whipped his sword free and spun to meet the next attacker.
There were none left standing.
Skintick stood nearby, slamming his still bloodied sword back into the scabbard at his belt, then crouching to retrieve Clip. Desra, weapon dripping, hovered close to Aranatha who, unscathed, walked past, gaze fixed on the set of ornate doors marking some grand inner entranceway. After a moment Desra followed.
From the outer doors the frenzied sounds of fighting continued, human shrieks echoing, bouncing in crazed cacophony. Nimander looked back to see that Kedeviss and Nenanda still held the portal, blood and bile spreading beneath their boots to trace along the indents and impressions of the tiles. Nimander stared at that detail, transfixed, until a nudge from Skintick shook him free.
‘Come on,’ Nimander said in a rasp, setting out into Aranatha’s wake.
Desra felt her entire body surging with life. Not even sex could match this feeling. A score of insane priests rushing upon them, and the three of them simply cut them all down. With barely a catch of breath — she had seen Nimander slaughter the last few, with such casual grace that she could only look on in wonder. Oh, he believed himself a poor swordsman, and perhaps when compared to Nenanda, or Kedeviss, he was indeed not their equal. Even so — Bastion, your children should never have challenged us. Should never have pushed us to this.