and tools, either flint knives or the complex mechanisms of the K'Chain Che'Malle. In any case, the question is, were any of those the children of the earth? Well, of course, all are to one degree or another. Any beings of bone, muscle and blood partake of Mother Earth. Only those of the Eldest, those of most ancient lineage, entities born of pure energy such as some believe the Elder Gods, or the Eleint, what you call “dragons”, may stand apart in that. Aside from such beings, what of the Thelomen, the Toblakai, the Teblor or Trell? What of their many kinds? Well, these are the varied descendants of one common ancestor. The first children of the earth. Those of my race, the Thel Akai. Those Who Speak.’
‘Quite the story,’ Kyle said, again with the unthinking innocence of youth.
Ereko gave an easy shrug. ‘Oh, yes. I may be lying, or more likely self-deluded by memories twisted over the ages. But I lived through those times. I was there when an isolated flowering of civilization of your people arose on Jacuruku. And I suppose it was my people's nurturing that helped things along — not that I say we gave you civilization as some Jaghut claim they have — no, we merely advised and supported. In any case, in time a warlord arose. One who showed a genius and a lust for conquering all his surrounding states. We were not a warlike people, not in the least, but we lent our support against him. We raised our voices in opposition, gave succour to his enemies. For that we earned his eternal enmity. He swore to wipe us from the face of the earth. And he almost succeeded. Of my people only I remain.’
‘I'm sorry,’ Kyle breathed. He was staring out over the waves, squinting against the glitter of dawn's light from the ice. Ereko thought him half-awake.
‘Thank you. Since then, for the most part, your race has been kind to me.’
‘Who was this warlord?’
‘Who was he? Ah, yes. He became King, of course. Eventually even his own people became so sickened by his cruelty that they attempted to rid themselves of him. And thereby they brought great misery to this world. But that is a story too long to be told now. Let us say he anointed himself with the name High King. Originally, his name was Kallor.’
Stalker sat up, draped his long forearms across his folded legs. ‘I've heard the name Kallor.’
Ereko shrugged. ‘No doubt there are others named such.’
‘He was mentioned among the Guard. An ally of Brood against the Malazans in Genabackis. They called him the “Warlord”.’
Again an easy shrug. ‘This world has seen too many warlords.’
Crouched on his haunches, Toc the Elder took up a handful of the dark rich prairie soil and rubbed it in his hands. He held it to his nose and inhaled the rich scent of humus. No matter what might come, success or failure of this toss of the bones, he was thankful that he would see it here in his adopted homeland. He would offer up a blessing for that gift to Wind, Earth and the ancient spirits of the land. At some point in his younger days — he wasn't sure when it had happened — but at some time he'd fallen in love with the plains landscape. Some he knew found it empty and desolate — the Great Central Desert, many called it in Tali and Unta, even Heng, here right upon its doorstep. Yet to him it was far from empty. To him it was in fact full of a grim yet enthralling grandeur. This, to his mind, was the key to why so many professed their dislike. The simple truth was that it was too big for those small people.
He stood, stretched his back and nodded his assent to the waiting atamans and message riders. Choss waited at the flaps of the command tent and they embraced. ‘Almost all together again,’ Choss said, grinning behind his thick gold and russet beard.
‘Almost.’
Toc greeted the atamans and they all reclined on the blankets within. Trays of sweetmeats and flatbreads made the rounds. ‘Firstly,’ Toc said, dipping his hands in a water bowl, ‘may I thank the gathered atamans for the trust and honour they have been generous enough to place upon me. And secondly, may I apologize that the walls of Heng yet stand.’
The atamans spoke all at once, dismissing any need for an apology. Ataman Ortal, of the Black Ferret Assembly, raised his hands to speak. ‘Warlord, it was understood from the beginning that we would not take the city immediately. You asked us to wait for allies to arrive. And now they are here — now we need wait no longer. Now we will attack together.’
Toc exchanged a glance with Choss, shifted his seat and selected a handful of grapes. ‘I wish it were so simple, Ortal. Our allies from Tali have brought many men, yes, but not enough to take Heng.’
Gazes moved to Choss. ‘Not enough?’ said Ortal. ‘Then why come at all? Explain.’
‘We ask for further patience,’ Choss said with a grimace. ‘We have more men coming.’
‘More? From where?’ asked the Plains Lion Assembly ataman, Redden Brokeleg. ‘Wait, you say. This is your answer for everything. Where can these warriors be coming from? There are no more in all your lands. You may have as many men and women as there are blades of grass, yet they would be useless when there is no will to fight.’
The other atamans all shouted their disapproval of such harsh words. Toc raised his hands to speak. ‘… If I may… Redden, your words are strong but I hear them. Are they yours or do you speak for other voices that I have heard are raised against our alliance?’
All eyes turned to Redden. He shrugged his indifference, dug at the bare earth with a stick. ‘I merely speak openly what others only dare tell their Hands.’
‘And what are these things?’ Toc asked.
‘There are those who heard promises of great booty but have found none. Promises of honour in fighting but who sully themselves riding down women and children. Who see Seti blood spilled to further the ambitions of outlanders… as it was in the past.’
‘The Wildman of the foothills,’ sneered Imotan, the White Jackal shaman sitting cross-legged to one side.
Redden nodded his agreement. ‘Yes. The Wildman. He speaks against all alliances.’ He raised his gaze to Toc. ‘Especially those with Malazans.’
‘He should have been slain long ago,’ Imotan growled.
‘You are welcome to try,’ Redden said with an easy shrug. ‘He is coming.’
The shaman's face darkened. ‘What? Here?’
‘Yes.’ The stick scoured a line in the dirt. ‘He calls for all warriors to rally to him. Some say he means to challenge for leadership…’
‘Of what Assembly is he?’ Toc asked.
An insouciant shrug. ‘Who is to know? He renounces all such bonds — he names them chains upon the mind and body.’
For a time no one spoke. Toc shook his head. ‘I wish it were so easy, but you cannot turn your back upon the world — it will not go away. You must adjust to change. Or be consumed by it… In any case,‘ he bowed to Redden, ‘my thanks, friend, for bringing this news to us. We all have much to think about. I ask for further patience and I promise you this, many more men are close. Very close. Enough to take Heng. They will be arriving soon.’ He bowed to the gathering and all answered in kind.
After the hugs and assurances of loyalty, Toc was left with Choss and Imotan, the White Jackal shaman. Servants lit lamps against the gathering darkness. Toc listened to the susurrus of the field crickets.
‘What more do we know about this Wildman?’ Choss asked Imotan.
The shaman waved a clawed hand dismissively. His sun-darkened face puckered in distaste. ‘Very little. He is called this because he emerged from the woods and they say he's as hairy as a wild bhederin.’
Choss poured himself a glass of wine. ‘Just what we need — some fiery prophet denouncing all contact with outlanders. You Seti are ill-served by him, I think, Imotan. What does he expect? You're inviting the world to bite your arse when you stick your head in the sand.’
‘Colourful but accurate,’ said Toc. He eyed Imotan and his mouth drew down in thought. ‘Perhaps some demonstration of fighting spirit is called for. We should contact our people in Heng. A coordinated, targeted attack…’
‘Would be a waste of resources,’ Choss countered, waving the glass dismissively.
‘An investment in improved relations.’
‘Damned expensive.’
