Deadhouse Gates

Legana Breed stepped back and collapsed in a column of dust. The column twisted, spinning in on itself. The air on all sides stirred, then swept inward, pulled to the whirling emanation. A moment later the wind fell away and Legana Breed was gone. The remaining T'lan Imass turned and lifted their gazes skyward.

Felisin was never certain whether she only imagined seeing the T'lan Imass reassume his form upon striking the heart of that wound, a tiny, seemingly insignificant splayed figure that was quickly swallowed in the inky darkness. A moment later the wound's edges seemed to flinch, faint waves rippling outward. Then the lesion began folding in on itself.

Hentos Ilm continued staring upward. Finally she nodded. 'Sufficient. The wound is bridged.'

Stormy slowly lowered the flint sword's point until it rested on the deck.

A beat-up old veteran, knocked down cynical, just another of the Empire's cast- offs. He was clearly overwhelmed. Insufficient, she said. Indeed.

'We shall go now,' Hentos Ilm said.

Stormy shook himself. 'Bonecaster!'

There was obvious disdain in her tone as she said, 'Legana Breed claimed his right.'

The marine did not relent. 'This 'bridging' … tell me, is it a thing of pain?'

Hentos Ilm's shrug was an audible grate of bones, her only answer.

'Stormy-' Gesler warned, but his companion shook his head, descended to the main deck. As he approached the Bonecaster, another T'lan Imass stepped forward to block him.

'Soldier!' Gesler snapped. 'Stand off!'

But Stormy only moved back to clear space as he raised the flint sword.

The T'lan Imass facing him closed again, the motion a blur, one arm shooting out, the hand closing on Stormy's neck.

Cursing, Gesler pushed past Felisin, his own hand finding the sword's grip at his side. The corporal slowed when it became obvious that the T'lan Imass was simply holding Stormy. And the marine himself had gone perfectly still. Quiet words slipped between them. Then the undead warrior released his grip and stepped back. Stormy's anger had vanished. Something in the set of his shoulders reminded Felisin of Heboric.

All five T'lan Imass began to dissolve.

'Wait!' the mage shouted, rushing forward. 'How in Hood's name do we get out of here?'

It was too late. The creatures were gone.

Gesler rounded on Stormy. 'What did that bastard tell you?' he demanded.

The soldier's eyes were wet — shocking Felisin — as he turned to his corporal.

Gesler whispered, 'Stormy…'

'He said there was great pain,' the man muttered. 'I asked How long? He said For ever. The wound heals around him, you see. She couldn't command, you see. Not for something like that. He volunteered-' The man's throat closed up, then. He spun away, bolted through the gangway and out of sight.

'Clanless,' Heboric said from the forecastle. 'As good as useless. Existence without meaning …'

Gesler kicked one of the severed heads across the deck. Its uneven thumping was loud in the still air. 'Who still wants to live for ever?' he growled, then spat.

Truth spoke, his voice quavering. 'Didn't anybody else see?' he asked. 'The Bonecaster didn't — I'm sure of it, she didn't…'

'What're you going on about, lad?' Gesler demanded.

'That T'lan Imass. He tied it to his belt. By the hair. His bear cloak hid it.'

'What?'

'He took one of the heads. Didn't anybody else see?'

Heboric was the first to react. With a wild grin he leapt down to the main deck, making for the galley. Even as he plunged through the doorway Kulp was clambering down to the first oar deck. He disappeared from view.

Minutes passed.

Gesler, still frowning, went to join Stormy and the ex-priest.

Kulp returned. 'One of them's dead as a post,' he said.

Felisin thought to ask him what it all meant, but a sudden exhaustion swept the impulse away. She looked around until she saw Baudin. He was at the prow, his back to everything … to everyone. She wondered at his indifference. Lack of imagination, she concluded after a moment, the thought bringing a sneer to her lips. She made her way to him.

'All too much for you, eh, Baudin?' she asked, leaning beside him on the arching rail.

'T'lan Imass were never nothing but trouble,' he said. 'Always two sides to whatever they did, maybe more than two. Maybe hundreds.'

'A thug with opinions.'

'You set your every notion in stone, lass. No wonder people always surprise you.'

'Surprise? I'm way past surprise, thug. We're in something, every one of us. There's more to come, so you can forget about thinking of a way out. There isn't one.'

He grunted. 'Wise words for a change.'

'Don't soften up on me,' Felisin said. 'I'm just too tired to be cruel. Give me a few hours' sleep and I'll be back to my old self.'

'Planning ways to murder me, you mean.'

'Keeps me amused.'

He was silent a long moment, eyes on the meaningless horizon ahead, then he turned to her. 'You ever think that maybe what you are is what's trapping you inside whatever it is you're trapped inside?'

She blinked. There was a glint of sardonic judgement in his small, beastlike eyes. 'I'm not following you, Baudin.'

He smiled. 'Oh yes, you are, lass.'

CHAPTER TEN

It is one thing to lead by example with half a dozen soldiers at your back. It is wholly another with ten thousand.

Life of Dassem Ultor

Duiker

It had been a week since Duiker came upon the trail left by the refugees from Caron Tepasi. They had obviously been driven south to place further strain on Coltaine's stumbling city in motion, the historian thought. There was nothing else in this ceaseless wasted land. The dry season had taken hold, the sun in the barren sky scorching the grasses until they looked and felt like brittle wire.

Day after day had rolled by, yet Duiker still could not catch up with the Fist and his train. The few times he had come within sight of the massive dust cloud, Reloe's Tithansi outriders had prevented the historian from getting any closer.

Somehow, Coltaine kept his forces moving, endlessly moving, driving for the Sekala River. And from there? Does he make a stand, his back to the ancient ford?

So Duiker rode in the train's wake. The detritus from the refugees diminished, yet grew more poignant. Tiny graves humped the old encampments; the short-bones of horses and cattle lay scattered about; an oft-repaired but finally abandoned wagon axle marked one departure point, the rest of the wagon dismantled and taken for spares. The latrine trenches reeked beneath clouds of flies.

Places where skirmishing had occurred revealed another story. Amidst the naked, unrecovered bodies of Tithansi horsewarriors were shattered Wickan lances, the heads removed. Everything that could be reused had been stripped from the Tithansi bodies: leather thongs and straps, leggings and belts, weapons, even braids of hair.