‘Required, I think.’
Choss's thick, expressive brows rose and fell. He scratched his beard in thought. ‘Well. I'll pull something together.’
‘Good.’ Toc stood. ‘We are finished, then?’
Grunting, Imotan pushed himself up with an effort. ‘I am too old for these long talking sessions, I think.’ Choss offered an arm but the old man waved him off.
‘What of you?’ Choss asked him. ‘I'd think you'd agree with this Wildman.’
The old shaman assented, bobbing his head in approval. ‘Oh, yes, I agree with most of what he says… But for one thing — he does not have the sympathy of our people's spirits. They whisper to me that Heng must be besieged. That out of this will come the salvation of our people. So, in this you and I are allies. And I will fight him with all the resources at my command.’
‘I see. Thank you.’
‘Do not thank me, Choss. It is chance only. We might just as easily have been enemies.’ And smiling he left the tent to be surrounded by his white-cloaked bodyguard.
Choss clasped hands with Toc. ‘Well, on that reassuring note…’
‘Let me know what you've cooked up.’
‘Aye.’
Toc watched Choss go, waving his lieutenants to him, then raised his chin to a man in studded leather armour, a blackened iron helmet and a long mailed skirt. The ivory grips of twin sabres curved bright at his sides. The man approached, bowing, ‘Sir?’
‘Captain Moss, you've heard talk of this Seti Wildman?’
‘Yes, sir. I have.’
‘Who is he? Where is he? Track him down and report back.’
Captain Moss saluted. ‘Sir.’ He jogged down the gentle hillside. As he went, he called to his troop, ‘Mount up!’
Toc remained for a time in the tent opening testing the night air. It carried a hint of the stink of Li Heng, now a glow on the southern horizon. Toc smiled at his own conceit; here he was, son of a nameless speck of a hamlet in Bloor, naming the Seti prairie his home and damning cities as stinking shitpits. He wrinkled his nose… still, it did smell of shit. He supposed he'd been away from all human settlements for too long. He thought he could also detect a distant pine stand — the sap would be thickening. Autumn was coming. They didn't have much time.
It was worse than Cowl's most pessimistic forebodings: the instant they entered the Warren he scrambled to raise the most potent pro-tecrions he could muster. Yet even now, sheltered from direct exposure, he could feel the rabid energies gnawing at his wards. Should they corrode their way through, he and Skinner would not last a heartbeat. Here, at the most far-flung reaches of Thyr, within sight of the effects of Kurald Liosan, Elder Light, inaccessible and far more inhospitable than all the other elders.
He crouched with Skinner within the shadows of a narrow, deep ravine of cracked, baked earth. Overhead, curtains and streamers of energy lashed and snapped across a blinding white sky. Cowl imagined he could almost hear them singing.
‘You prefer this to Chaos?’ Skinner growled.
‘I preferred to
‘You are too cautious. Why not Shadow, or Tellann?’
‘Too crowded. And eyes are everywhere. Here there are no eyes.’ He gestured the way ahead. The two shuffled along, wincing against the raging storm of energies above.
‘What do you mean, no eyes?’
‘Can't you feel it? This place is wild, feral. It is without a guiding presence.’
‘What of Father Light?’
Cowl raised an arm across his face. ‘Well, if you must cite the first mover, the prime originator, then, yes, I suppose he is here, yes.’ He pinched shut his dazzled eyes, grimacing. ‘If only in spirit.’
‘I mistrust it. I have heard the air is poisoned. That those who come here die of it later.’
‘It's not the air that's poisonous,’ Cowl said, and he took a right-hand turn where the ravine met another, wider channel. This way.’
‘You said something about crowds?’ Skinner said.
Cowl turned. Skinner was pointing to the channel's dry dirt floor: a Path. Twins’ laughter! How had he missed that? Damn. He waved Skinner on.
They followed the channel for some time. How long Cowl could not be sure, of course; no sun rose or fell, nor was there any discernible change in the natural variations in the streamers and coronas of unleashed energy lashing across the sky. They had reached a position, roughly, where his instincts told him he might attempt to reach out to the churning power to manipulate an opening, when four figures suddenly stepped out in front of them.
Surprised, Cowl stopped short; obviously, he could not count on his heightened senses and perceptions here in this inimical place. The figures wore a kind of white enamelled armour, now caked in dust, and pale yellow cloaks. Their features reminded him of Tiste Andii, though the hair of each hung white and long. One barked something in their own tongue. Cowl signed his lack of comprehension.
A wave from one and the spokesman tried again, ‘You understand us now, worm?’
Cowl gave a half-bow. ‘Greetings, honored Liosan.’
‘Relinquish your arms and armour, trespassers. You are now our slaves.’
Cowl turned to Skinner — the full iron helm, blackened yet glittering as if dusted in sand, disguised the man's face but Cowl could imagine the raised brows. In answer, Skinner waved Cowl aside and advanced upon the four.
Perhaps it was incomprehension, or an inability to accept what was occurring, but Skinner was able to close on the first two before they acted to draw their weapons. As the nearest went for his grip the Avowed commander grasped that arm and swung the Liosan aside to crash into the defile wall, bringing down a rain of baked clay soil as jagged as kiln-dried potsherds. The second he backhanded aside into the other wall. Both slumped unconscious. The remaining two, swords readied, raised their white triangular shields. Skinner continued to close, still empty- handed. The first swung, the curved creamy blade striking an upraised armoured forearm and shattering into brittle shards. The Liosan gaped in unbelieving amazement. A punch from Skinner drove his shield into his chest and knocked him backwards from his feet; he lay stunned. The remaining Liosan sliced Skinner's chest but the blade merely skittered from the Avowed's glinting deep-crimson armour. An arm lashed out to clout the Liosan across the side of his helmeted head, spinning him from his feet. Without pausing, Skinner stepped over the fallen Liosan. Cowl followed, not even bothering to look down.
After a time one of the Liosan sat up groggily. He yanked off his helmet and threw it to the dirt. ‘Brother Enias, I am coming dangerously close to losing my faith.’
A second sat up, coughing, and gingerly pressing his chest. ‘Hold on to your faith, Brother Jorrude. These are tests, are they not, of its strength?’
‘Well, I cannot speak for you, Brother Enias, but I am tested sorely.’
Groans sounded from the other two and Jorrude helped them to their feet. ‘And who were they?’ he demanded of Enias.
‘I know not. Humans yet, though I smell vows, pacts and patronage about them. Enough that they insult us by trespassing with impunity.’
‘We must follow! Bring justice to them!’ said a third.
Jorrude retreived his helmet, brushed dust from it. ‘Perhaps it would be best that we continue our quest… what think you, Brother Enias?’
‘Yes, Brother Jorrude. Satisfying though justice may be, we ought not to neglect our purpose. Father Light has turned his face from us brothers! Some failure or lack within ourselves or our ancestors has severed our connection. We must find a way to bring the warmth of his gaze upon us once more.’ Brother Enias adjusted his armour, wincing.
‘Yes, Brother Enias,’ the other three recited.
Cowl waited until enough distance lay between him and the Liosan — guards, or fellow travellers like themselves, or whoever they may have been — before deciding to try to exit Thyrllan. He did not look forward to it;
