you witnessed the things you describe?’
Rusk shrugged. ‘War rides the winds and lifts the hackles. We see you wound yourselves, and we wait to strike.’
Ville grunted. ‘So much for keeping your word!’
‘We fear for the safety of our pups, Bordersword. Just as you would your own.’
‘With you upon our borders,’ Ville retorted, ‘we had cause for fear.’
‘But that is done now,’ Rusk said, still grinning. ‘We live with the new peace, Bordersword. The peace of empty villages and empty lands. Often, we look upon your hunting packs, as they travel with impunity across our homeland, seeking the last of the wild beasts. And when those beasts are gone, what shall the Jheleck eat? Grass?’ He nodded. ‘Peace, yes, plenty of that, written in bleached bones in old camps.’
Galak hacked at a hind joint.
‘You have pups with you,’ Rint said, nodding at the others.
‘I teach them how to hunt, and so we all learn to go hungry, and come to understand all that we have lost. One day, they will be savage killers, and this night they take your scent and will keep it for all time.’
Feren said, ‘If you are going hungry, why offer any to us?’
Rusk scowled. ‘A host can do no less. But you Tiste do not comprehend honour. Only four days ago, the Borderswords gathered and rode out on to our land. They have word of a bhederin herd coming down from the north, and would make slaughter. They ride past our villages and laugh as they race our warriors to kill-sites. And when they have killed hundreds of the beasts, will they offer any to us? No. They will claim those carcasses as their own and take the meat, hides and bones away. We watch. We smile. And we vow to remember all that we see.’
‘The Bordersword villages need meat for the winter,’ Ville said.
‘And long before the war, you took all you could from our lands, and so we made war-’
‘And lost it!’
Rusk smiled again and nodded. ‘We lost, and you may believe that you won. But when all the beasts are gone, will your victory fill your bellies? Will it taste any less bitter than our defeat? What you own you must nurture. But you Tiste do not understand that. All that you own you use, until it is used up, and then you cast your vision past your borders, and scheme to take again, this time from others.’
‘I have hunted on your lands,’ Ville said. ‘I saw no nurture passing through your kill-sites.’
‘Then you did not look carefully enough. We take the weak and leave the strong.’
‘You took every beast,’ Ville said.
Rusk laughed. ‘We were defeated. We learned your ways of killing, but we found the winters long when we had naught but ghosts to hunt. You killed thousands of us. You made us few, and the irony of that is that it returned us to our old ways. And now we breed but rarely, and keep only the strongest pups. And when at last all the Tiste are dead, then we shall nurture the herds, until their numbers are vast once more, and we will make each new day the same as the day past, for all time, and know contentment.’ He held up his hands. ‘So we dream. But then your hunters pour over the border and the wise ones among us see the truth awaiting us. Yours is the language of death, and it will speak to us.’
Meat sizzled on skewers over the fire. The night had drawn close. Rint pushed away Rusk’s words and stared into the flames. He thought he could see the witch’s face, twisting with pain, the mouth opened to an endless shriek he could not hear but felt in his bones. He had wanted to spend this night alone, saying little and quick to take to his bedding. Instead, he found himself face to face with a filthy half-beast who smiled a smile devoid of humour, and whose dark eyes belonged to a wolf.
‘Rusk,’ said Galak, ‘when did you see the Bordersword hunters?’
‘Hunters, butchers, skinners, bone-splitters. Dogs, horses, mules and oxen pulling wagons. On another day their numbers would make them an army. They rode armed and wary, with scouts tracking our own hunters.’ He waved a greasy hand. ‘Days past now.’
‘How many days? Five? Ten?’
Rusk sat forward, forearms on the knees of his crossed legs, and offered Galak that same, hard smile. ‘We have kin, scouting your lands. They move at night and remain hidden. We have seen armies on this side of the river. One rode into Abara Delack. Another gathers in the hills of House Dracons-’
‘That one is the Lord’s own,’ said Galak. ‘You evade answering, Rusk.’
‘I am indifferent to your need, Bordersword. I tell you what I choose to tell you. Your civil war has begun. We rejoice and sniff the wind for smoke, and look to the skies for the carrion birds. You killed us before, but now you kill each other and this pleases us.’
It was not long before the carcass was stripped down to the bones. Galak rolled up the antelope’s hide and offered it to Rusk, along with the antlers and the long bones. Grunting, the Jhelarkan leader gestured to his hunters and as one they rose.
‘Your company is bitter,’ he announced. ‘We return to the night. Remember our generosity, Borderswords, and tell the tale of this meeting to your hunters, so that they may at last understand courtesy.’
‘It is a thought,’ Rint allowed, ‘that we might work best together. To hunt the great herds and to share in the bounty.’
‘Rint, there are no great herds.’
The figures withdrew from the fire’s light, and in moments were gone.
Ville spat into the flames. ‘I think he lied,’ he said in a growl. ‘About those armies. He would stir us to alarm and fear.’
Galak said, ‘We well know that there is an army at House Dracons, Ville, just as he described. He may have thrown more than a few truths into his words to us.’
‘And Abara Delack? Why would any army, rebel or otherwise, occupy Abara Delack?’
‘We don’t know,’ Rint said, wanting to end this debate. ‘We’ve been away for too long. There is no point in speculating. Listen, our bellies are full for the first time in months. Let us sleep now, with the aim of riding hard on the morrow.’
‘I hope,’ said Ville, ‘the hunt went well.’
Lieutenant Risp studied the blockish silhouette that was Riven Keep. The solitary tower, which rose from a clutter of lower buildings huddled around it, showed a single, faint light, coming from a room on the top floor, just beneath the peaked roof. There was a low wall, she had been told, surrounding this ancient fort, marked by banked revetments. To assault Riven Keep an army would find itself descending steep ditches forming a treacherous maze beyond the walls, all under arrow fire from the revetments, and crowding into chokepoints where the ground underfoot would be uneven and even retreat would prove impossible. It was well, she concluded, that they were not facing an enemy aware of the threat drawing close.
The village below Riven Keep formed a half-circle round the hill, and these houses sprawled to the very edges of community pastureland. Risp could smell the smoke in the cool night air. Twisting in her saddle, she squinted at the waiting soldiers of her own troop. Weapons were drawn but held at rest across saddles and thighs. No one spoke and the only sound came from the occasional shift or snort from a horse. Beyond her unit waited others, all equally silent, gathered in mounted squares in the basins to either side of the road.
Upon the road itself, Captain Esthala led the centre unit, with her husband further along to the woman’s right. The thought of that still left a bitter taste in Risp’s mouth, but she told herself that Silann was not her problem, and if Esthala continued to refuse to do what was needed, well, she would answer to Hunn Raal. For once, Risp was relieved to find herself outranked. Better still, Esthala’s ambitions were now doomed: she would never be promoted, or welcomed among the higher ranks in the Legion.
Stupid woman. All for the sake of love. All for a fool better suited to hoeing vegetables than swinging a sword. Not only didn’t you execute him; you didn’t even demote him, or throw him out. Instead, we must all suffer his incompetence and pray to the Abyss that it doesn’t kill us. When she took over command here…
The sergeant cleared his throat and edged his mount up to her side. ‘Sir, this doesn’t sit well with some of us.’
And I know which, too. Your days are numbered, sergeant. You and your old cronies. ‘We must divide our enemies,’ she said, shrugging. ‘Deceit is an essential component of military tactics. Furthermore, what creditable commander does not take advantage of surprise, or the miscalculations of the enemy?’
