Chapter Eight

 

He stepped down then

among women and men,

the sigil stripped

in her foul cleansing

there on the blood-soaked sand

spilled the lives

of Emperor and First Sword—

so tragic this treachery . . .

He was of the Old Guard,

commanding the honed edge

of Empire’s fury,

and so in stepping down

but not away

he remained the remembrance

before her eyes, the curse

of conscience she would not stand.

A price was placed before him

that he glanced over in first passing

unknowing and so unprepared

in stepping down among women

and men, he found what

he’d surrendered and damned

its reawakening . . .

THE BRIDGEBURNERS
TOC THE YOUNGER

 

A quarter-hour before dawn the sky held the color of iron shot through with streaks of rust. Sergeant Whiskeyjack squatted on a dome of bedrock up from the pebble beach, gazing out over the misty calm surface of Lake Azur. Far to the south, on the lake’s opposite shore, rose the faint glow of Darujhistan.

The mountain crossing of the night just past had been unpleasant, the Quorl tossed about in the midst of three warring thunderheads. It was a miracle no one had been lost. The rain had since stopped, leaving the air cool and clammy.

He heard the sound of boots accompanied by a clicking noise behind him. Whiskeyjack turned and straightened. Kalam and a Black Moranth approached, picking their way through the mossy tumble of rocks at the base of the slope. Behind them rose the shadowed redwood forest, the patched trunks standing like bearded sentinels against the mountainside. The sergeant drew a deep breath of the chill morning air.

“Everything’s fine,” Kalam said. “The Green Moranth delivered as ordered, and more. Fiddler and Hedge are two happy sappers.”

Whiskeyjack raised an eyebrow. He turned to the Black Moranth. “I thought your munitions were getting scarce.”

The creature’s face remained in shadow beneath the hinged helmet. The words that came from it seemed born from a cavern, hollow and faintly echoing. “Selectively, Bird That Steals. You are well known to us, Bridgeburner. You tread the enemy’s shadow. From the Moranth, assistance will never be scarce.”

Surprised, Whiskeyjack looked away, the skin tightening around his eyes.

The Moranth continued. “You asked of the fate of one of our kind. A warrior with but one arm, who fought at your side in the streets of Nathilog many years ago. He lives still.”

The sergeant took a deep breath of the sweet forest air. “Thank you,” he said.

“We wish that the blood you next find on your hands is your enemy’s, Bird That Steals.”

He frowned, then gave a brusque nod and turned his attention back to Kalam.

“What else?”

The assassin’s face became expressionless. “Quick Ben’s ready,” he said.

“Good. Gather the others. I’ll be laying out my plan.”

“Your plan, Sergeant?”

“Mine,” Whiskeyjack said firmly. “The one devised by the Empress and her tacticians is being rejected, as of now. We’re doing it my way. Get going, Corporal.”

Kalam saluted then left.

Whiskeyjack stepped down from the rock, his boots sinking into the moss. “Tell me, Moranth, might a squadron of your Black be patrolling this area two weeks from now?”

The Moranth’s head swiveled audibly toward the lake. “Such unscheduled patrols are common. I expect to command one myself in two weeks’ time.”

Whiskeyjack gazed steadily at the black-armored warrior standing beside him. “I’m not quite sure how to take that,” he said eventually.

The warrior faced him. “We are not so unalike,” he said. “In our eyes deeds have measure. We judge. We act upon our judgments. As in Pale, we match spirit with spirit.”

The sergeant frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Eighteen thousand seven hundred and thirty-nine souls departed in the purge of Pale. One for each Moranth confirmed as a victim of Pale’s history of enmity toward us. Spirit with spirit, Bird That Steals.”

Whiskeyjack found he had no response. The Moranth’s next words shook him deeply.

“There are worms within your empire’s flesh. But such degradation is natural in all bodies. Your people’s infection is not yet fatal. It can be scoured clean. The Moranth are skilled at such efforts.”

“How exactly,” Whiskeyjack paused, choosing his words carefully, “do you intend this scouring?” He recalled the wagons piled with corpses winding out of Pale, and struggled against the ice tingling along his spine.

“Spirit with spirit,” the Moranth answered, returning his attention to the city on the south shore. “We depart for now. You will find us here in two weeks’ time, Bird That Steals.”

Whiskeyjack watched the Black Moranth walk away, pushing through the thicket surrounding the clearing where his riders waited. A moment later he heard the rapid thud of wings, then the Quorl rose above the trees. The Moranth circled once overhead, then turned north, slipping between the bearded boles and heading upslope.

The sergeant sat down on the bedrock again, his eyes on the ground as the members of his squad arrived, hunkering down around him. He remained silent, seeming unaware that he had company, his brow furrowed and jaw bunching as he ground his molars with a slow, steady precision.

“Sarge?” Fiddler said quietly.

Startled, Whiskeyjack looked up. He drew a deep breath. Everyone had gathered with the exception of Quick Ben. He’d leave Kalam to fill in the wizard later. “All right. The original plan’s been scrapped, since it was intended to get us all killed. I didn’t like that part, so we’ll do it my way and hopefully get out alive.”

“We ain’t going to mine the city gates?” Fiddler asked, glancing at Hedge.

“No,” the sergeant answered. “We’ll put those Moranth munitions to better use. Two objectives, two teams. Kalam will lead one, and with him will be Quick Ben and . . .” he hesitated “. . . and Sorry. I’ll lead the other team. The first task is to get into the city unnoticed. Out of uniform.” He looked to Mallet. “I take it the Green delivered?”

The healer nodded. “It’s a local make, all right. Eighteen-foot fisher, four oars, should get us across the lake easy enough. Even a couple of nets included.”

“So we’ll do some fishing,” Whiskeyjack said. “Coming into the harbor without a catch would look suspect. Anybody here ever fished?”

There was silence, then Sorry spoke up. “I have, a long time ago.”

Whiskeyjack stared at her, then said, “Right. Pick whoever you need for that.”

Sorry smiled mockingly.

Whiskeyjack pulled his gaze from hers with an oath under his breath. He eyed his two saboteurs. “How much munitions?”

“Two crates,” Hedge replied, adjusting his leather cap. “Cussers all the way down to Smokers.”

“We could cook a palace,” Fiddler added, shifting about excitedly.

“Good enough,” Whiskeyjack said. “All right, everyone listen and pay attention, or we won’t come out of this alive . . .”

In a secluded glade in the forest, Quick Ben poured white sand in a circle and sat down in its center. He took five sharpened sticks and set them in a row before him, pushing them to various depths in the loam. The center stick, the highest, rose about three feet; the ones on either side stood at two feet and the outer ones at a foot.

The wizard uncoiled a yard’s length of thin gut string. He took one end and fashioned a scaled-down noose, which he tightened over the center stick near the top. He ran the line to the left, looping it once over the next shaft, then crossed over to the right side and looped it again. He brought the string across to the far left stick, muttering a few words as he did so. He wrapped it twice and brought it over to the far right stick, where he tied a knot and cut the trailing string.

Quick Ben leaned back and folded his hands on his lap. A frown creased his brow. “Hairlock!” An outer stick twitched, turned slightly, then fell still. “Hairlock!” he barked again. All five shafts jerked. The center one bent toward the wizard. The string tautened and a low-pitched hum emanated from it.

A cold wind swept across Quick Ben’s face, stripping away the beads of sweat that had gathered in the last minute. A rushing sound filled his head, and he felt himself falling through dark caverns, their unseen walls ringing in his ears as if iron hammers clanged against the rock. Flashes of blinding silver light stung his eyes and the wind pulled at the skin and flesh of his face.

In some shielded part of his mind he retained a sense of distance, of control. Within this calm he could think, observe, analyze. “Hairlock,” he whispered, “you’ve gone too far. Too deep. This Warren has swallowed you and will never spit you out. You’re losing control, Hairlock.” But these thoughts were for him alone; he knew the puppet was still distant.

He watched himself continue, spinning, whirling through the Caverns of Chaos. Hairlock was compelled to match him, only upward. Abruptly he found himself standing. Beneath his feet the black rock seemed to swirl, cracked here and there in its slow convolutions by bright, glowing red.

Looking around, he saw that he stood on a spar of rock, rising at an angle, its jagged apex a dozen feet in front of him. Turning, his gaze followed the spar as it sank down and out of sight, lost to billowing yellow clouds. A moment of vertigo gripped Quick Ben. He tottered, then, as he regained his balance, he heard a chuckle behind him. He turned to see Hairlock perched atop the apex, his wooden body smeared and scorched, the doll’s clothing ripped and frayed.

Quick Ben asked, “This is the Spar of Andii, isn’t it?”

Hairlock’s round head bobbed. “Halfway. Now you know how far I have gone, Wizard. To the very foot of the Warren, where power finds its first shape, and all is possible.”

“Just not very likely,” Quick Ben said, eyeing the marionette. “How does it feel, standing in the middle of all that creation but unable to touch it, to use it? It’s too alien, isn’t it? It burns you with every reach.”

“I’ll master it,” Hairlock hissed. “You know nothing. Nothing.”

Quick Ben smiled. “I’ve been here before, Hairlock.” He scanned the swirling gases around them, scudding on contrary winds. “You’ve been lucky,” he said. “Though they are few in number, there are creatures who call this realm home.” He paused and turned his smile on the puppet. “They dislike intruders—have you seen what they do to them? What they leave behind?” The wizard’s smile broadened at seeing Hairlock’s involuntary jerk. “So you have,” he said quietly.

“You are my protector,” Hairlock snapped. “I’m bound to you, Wizard! The responsibility is yours, nor will I hide the fact if I am taken.”

“Bound to me, indeed.” Quick Ben lowered himself to his haunches. “Good to hear your memory’s come back. Tell me, how fares Tattersail?”

The puppet slumped, looking away. “Her recovery is a difficult one.”

Quick Ben frowned. “Recovery? From what?”

“The Hound Gear tracked me.” Hairlock shifted uneasily. “There was a skirmish.”

A scowl grew on the wizard’s face. “And?”

The puppet shrugged. “Gear fled, sorely wounded by a mundane sword in the hands of that captain of yours. Tayschrenn then arrived, but Tattersail had slipped into unconsciousness by then, so his search for answers was thwarted. But the fire of suspicion has been stoked beneath him. He sends out his servants, and they stalk the Warrens. They hunt for signs of who and what I am. And why. Tayschrenn knows your squad is involved, he knows you’re trying to save your own skins.” The puppet’s mad gaze flickered. “He wants you all dead, Wizard. And as for Tattersail, perhaps he hopes her fever will kill her so he won’t have to—but there is much he’d lose if she died without his questioning her first. No doubt he’d seek out her soul, he’d pursue what she knows into Hood’s own realm, but she’d know enough to be elusive.”

“Shut up for a minute,” Quick Ben ordered. “Back to the beginning. You said Captain Paran stabbed Gear with his sword?”

Hairlock scowled. “I did. A mortal weapon—it shouldn’t have been possible. He may well have dealt the Hound a fatal wound.” The puppet paused, then growled, “You’ve not told me everything, Wizard. There are gods involved in this. If you keep me in such ignorance I might well stumble into the path of one of them.” He spat. “A slave to you is bad enough. Do you think you could challenge a god for mastery of me? I’d be taken, turned, perhaps even . . .” Hairlock unsheathed one of his small knives “. . . used against you.” He advanced a step, a dark glitter in his eyes.

Quick Ben raised an eyebrow. Inside, his heart lurched in his chest. Was it possible? Would he not have detected something? A flavor, a hint of immortal presence?

“One last thing, Wizard,” Hairlock murmured, taking another step. “Tattersail’s fever crested just this night past. She screamed something about a coin. A coin that had spun, but now it has fallen, it has bounced, it has entered someone’s hand. You must tell me about this coin—I must have your thoughts, Wizard.” The puppet stopped suddenly and looked down at the knife in his hand. Hairlock hesitated, seeming confused, then sheathed the weapon and squatted. “What’s so important about a coin?” he growled. “Nothing. The bitch raved—she was stronger than I had thought.”

Quick Ben froze. The puppet seemed to have forgotten that the wizard was present. The thoughts he now heard were Hairlock’s own. He realized he was looking through the shattered window into the puppet’s insane mind. And it was there that all the danger lay. The wizard held his breath as Hairlock continued, its eyes fixed on the clouds below.

“Gear should have killed her—would have, if not for that idiot captain. What irony, he now tends to her and puts his hand to his sword whenever I seek to come near. He knows I would snuff her life in an instant. But that sword. What god plays with this fool noble?” The puppet spoke on, but his words dwindled into inaudible mumbles.

Quick Ben waited, hoping for more, though what he’d already heard was enough to set his heart pounding. This mad creature was unpredictable, and all that held him in check was a tenuous control—the strings of power he’d attached to Hairlock’s wooden body. But with this kind of madness came strength—enough strength to break those strings? The wizard was no longer as sure of his control as he had been.

Hairlock had fallen silent. His painted eyes still flickered with black flame—the leaking of Chaotic power. Quick Ben took a step forward.

“Pursue Tayschrenn’s plans,” he commanded, then he kicked hard. The toe of his boot struck Hairlock’s chest and sent the puppet spinning. Hairlock flew out over the edge, then fell downward. His outraged snarl dwindled as he disappeared into the yellow clouds.

Quick Ben drew a deep breath of the thick, stale air. He hoped that his abrupt dismissal had been enough to skew Hairlock’s recollections of the past few minutes. Still, he felt those strings of control growing ever more taut. The more this Warren twisted Hairlock, the more power he would command.

The wizard knew what he’d have to do—Hairlock had given it to him, in fact. Still, Quick Ben wasn’t looking forward to it. The taste of sour bile rose into his mouth and he spat over the ledge. The air stank of sweat and it was a moment before he realized it was his own. He hissed a curse. “Time to leave,” he muttered. He raised his arms.

The wind returned with a roar, and he felt his body flung up, up into the cavern above, then the next. As the caverns blurred by, a single word clung to his thoughts, a word that seemed to twist around the problem of Hairlock like a web.

Quick Ben smiled, but it was a smile responding to terror. And the word remained, Gear, and with that name the wizard’s terror found a face.

Whiskeyjack rose amid silence. The expressions arrayed around him were sober, eyes downcast or fixed elsewhere, closed into some personal, private place where swam the heaviest thoughts. The lone exception was Sorry, who stared at the sergeant with bright, approving eyes. Whiskeyjack wondered who was doing the approving within those eyes—then he shook his head, angry that something of Quick Ben and Kalam’s suspicions had slipped into his thoughts.

He glanced away, to see Quick Ben approaching. The wizard looked tired, an ashen tint to his face. Whiskeyjack’s gaze snapped to Kalam.

The assassin nodded. “Everyone, look alive,” he said. “Load up the boat and get it ready.”

Mallet leading the way, the others headed down to the beach.

Waiting for Quick Ben to arrive, Kalam said, “The squad looks beat, Sergeant. Fiddler, Trotts, and Hedge moved enough dirt in those tunnels to bury the Empire’s dead. I’m worried about them. Mallet—he seems to be holding together, so far . . . Still, whatever Sorry knows about fishing, I doubt any one of us could row their way out of a bathtub. And we’re about to try crossing a lake damn near big as a sea?”

Whiskeyjack’s jaw tightened, then he forced a casual shrug into his shoulders. “You know damn well that any Warren opening anywhere near the city will likely be detected. No choice, Corporal. We row. Unless we can rig up a sail.”

Kalam grunted. “Since when does the girl know about fishing?”

The sergeant sighed. “I know. Came out of nowhere, didn’t it?”

“Bloody convenient.”

Quick Ben reached the dome of rock. Both men fell silent at seeing his expression.

“I’m about to propose something you’re going to hate,” the wizard said.

“Let’s hear it,” Whiskeyjack replied, in a voice empty of feeling.

Ten minutes later the three men arrived on the slick pebbled beach, both Whiskeyjack and Kalam looking shaken. A dozen yards from the water’s edge sat the fisher boat. Trotts was straining on the rope attached to the prow hook, gasping and moaning as he leaned forward with all his weight.

The rest of the squad stood in a clump off to one side, quietly discussing Trotts’s futile efforts. Fiddler chanced to look up. Seeing Whiskeyjack marching toward them, he blanched.

“Trotts!” the sergeant bellowed.

The Barghast’s face, woad tattoos stretched into illegibility, turned to Whiskeyjack with wide eyes.

“Let go of the rope, soldier.”

Kalam released an amused snort behind Whiskeyjack, who glared at the others. “Now,” he said, his voice harsh, “since one of you idiots convinced everyone else that loading all the equipment into the boat when it’s still on shore was a good idea, you can all man the rope and drag it into the lake—not you, Trotts. You get inside, get comfortable, there at the stern.” Whiskeyjack paused. He studied Sorry’s expressionless face. “From Fiddler and Hedge I expect this, but I thought I put you in charge of setting things up.”

Sorry shrugged.

Whiskeyjack sighed. “Can you rig us a sail?”

“There’s no wind.”

“Well, maybe there will be!” Whiskeyjack said, exasperated.

“Yes,” Sorry answered. “We have some canvas. We’ll need a mast.”

“Take Fiddler and make one. Now, the rest of you, get this boat into the water.”

Trotts climbed inside and sat down at the stern. He stretched out his long legs and draped an arm over the splashboard. He bared his filed teeth in what might have been a smile.

Whiskeyjack turned to a grinning Kalam and Quick Ben. “Well?” he demanded. “What’re you waiting for?”

The grins died.