Reaper's Gale

‘Which part?’

‘Such a large alliance, for one. Also, the extent of thei: rage. I wonder what crime the K’Chaih Che’Malle committed to warrant such retaliation.’

‘I know the answer to that,’ came a sibilant whisper from behind them, and Seren turned, squinted down at the insubstantial wraith crouched there.

‘Wither. I was wondering where you had gone to.’

‘Journeys into the heart of the stone, Seren Pedac. Into the frozen blood. What was their crime, you wonder, Silchas Ruin? Why, nothing less than the assured a

Silchas Ruin said, without turning, ‘Beware the frozen blood, Wither. It can still take you.’

The wraith hissed a laugh. ‘Like an ant to sap, yes. Oh, but it is so seductive, Master.’

‘You have been warned. If you are snared, I ca

The wraith slithered past them, flowed up the ragged steps.

Seren adjusted the leather satchel on her shoulders. ‘The Fent carried supplies balanced on their heads. Would that I could do the same.’

‘The vertebrae become compacted,’ Silchas Ruin said, ‘resulting in chronic pain.’

‘Well, mine are feeling rather crunched right now, so I’m alraid I don’t see much difference.’ She began the climb. ‘You know, as a Soletaken, you could just-’

‘No,’ he said as he followed, ‘there is too much bloodlust In the veering. The draconean hunger within me is where lives my anger, and that anger is not easily contained.’

She snorted, unable to help herself.

‘You are amused, Acquitor?’

‘Scabandari is dead. Fear has seen his shattered skull. You were stabbed and then imprisoned, and now that you are free, all that consumes you is the desire for vengeance-against what? Some incorporeal soul? Something less than a wraith? What will be left of Scabandari by now? Silchas Ruin, yours is a pathetic obsession. At least Fear Sengar seeks something positive-not that he’ll find it since you will probably a

‘Acquitor, my anger is more complicated than you believe.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘The future you set before us is too simple, too confined. I suspect that when we arrive at our destination, nothing will proceed as you anticipate.’

She grunted. ‘I will accept that, since it was without doubt the case in the village of the Warlock King. After all, the fallout was the conquest of the Letherii Empire.’

‘Do you take responsibility for that; Acquitor?’

‘I take responsibility for very little, Silchas Ruin. That much must be obvious.’

The steps were steep, the edges worn and treacherous. As they climbed, the air thi

They found a ledge a third of the way up where they could gather to rest. Among the scatter of rubble on the shelf were remnants of metopes, cornices and friezes bearing carvings too fragmented to be identifiable-suggesting that an entire facade had once existed directly above them. The scaffolding became a true ladder here, and off to the right, three man-heights up, gaped the mouth of a cave, rectangular, almost door-shaped.

Udinaas stood regarding that dark portal for a long time, before he turned to the others. ‘I suggest we try it.’

‘There is no need, slave,’ replied Fear Sengar. ‘This trail is straightforward, reliable-’

‘And getting icier the higher we go.’ The Indebted grimaced, then laughed. ‘Oh, there’re songs to be sung, are! there, Fear? The perils and tribulations, the glories of suffering, all to win your heroic triumph. You want the! elders who were once your grandchildren to gather the clan round the fire, for the telling of your tale, a lone warrior’s quest for his god. I can almost hear them now, describing the formidable Fear Sengar of the Hiroth, brother to the Emperor, with his train of followers-the lost child, the inveterate Letherii guide, a ghost, a slave and of course the white-ski

Seren watched the man climbing the rungs. When he came opposite the cave mouth, he reached out until one hand gripped the edge of stone, then followed with a foot, stretching until the probing tip of his moccasin settled on the ledge. Then, in a swift shifting of weight, combined with a push away from the ladder, he fluidly spun on one leg, the other swinging over empty air. Then stepping inward, pulled by the weight of the satchel on his back, into the gloom, of the entrance.

‘Nicely done,’ Silchas Ruin commented, and there was something like amusement in his tone, as if he had enjoyed the slave’s poking at Fear Sengar’s sententious self-importance, thus revealing two edges to his observation. ‘I urn of a mind to follow him.’

‘Me, too,’ said Kettle.

Seren Pedac sighed. ‘Very well, but I suggest we use ropes between us, and leave the showing off to Udinaas.’

The mouth of the cave revealed that it had been a corridor, probably leading out onto a balcony before the facade had sheared off. Massive sections of the walls, riven through with cracks, had shifted, settled at conflicting angles. And every crevasse, every fissure on all sides that Seren could see, seethed with the squirming furred bodies of bats, awakened now to their presence, chittering and moments from panic. As Seren set her pack down, Udinaas moved beside her.

‘Here,’ he said, his breath pluming, ‘light this lantern, Acquitor-when the temperature drops my hands start going numb.’ At her look he glanced over at Fear Sengar, then said, ‘Too many years reaching down into icy water. A slave among the Edur knows little comfort.’

‘You were fed,’ Fear Sengar said.

‘When a bloodwood tree toppled in the forest,’ Udinaas said, ‘we’d be sent out to drag it back to the village. Do you remember those times, Fear? Sometimes the trunk would shift unexpectedly, slide in mud or whatever, and crush a slave. One of them was from our own household-you don’t recall him, do you? What’s one more dead slave? You Edur would shout out when that happened, saying the bloodwood spirit was thirsty for Letherii blood.’

‘Enough, Udinaas,’ Seren said, finally succeeding in lighting the lantern. As the illumination burgeoned, the bats exploded from the cracks and suddenly the air was filled with frantic, beating wings. A dozen heartbeats later the creatures were gone.

She straightened, raising the lantern.

They stood on a thick mouldy paste-guano, crawling with grubs and beetles-from which rose a foul stench.