Brood grunted. 'Perhaps we should have reconsidered Dujek's disposition of the Black Moranth-'
'Ah, they too are emplaced, precisely where Onearm wanted them to be.' Crone hesitated, turning first one eye then the other towards Caladan Brood. 'One unusual detail must be uttered now, Warlord. Will you hear it?'
'Very well.'
'The Seer wages a war to the south.'
Brood's head snapped up.
'Aye,' Crone nodded. 'My children have seen Domin armies, routed and retreating north. To Outlook itself. The Seer has unleashed formidable sorceries against the unknown enemy. Rivers of ice, walls of ice. Blistering cold, winds and storms — it has been a long time since we have witnessed said particular warren unveiled.'
'Omtose Phellack. The warren of the Jaghut.'
'Even so. Warlord, you seem less surprised by that than I had anticipated.'
'Of a war to the south, I am indeed surprised, Crone.' He rose, drawing a fur blanket about his shoulders, and began pacing. 'Of Omtose Phellack … no, I am not surprised.'
'Thus. The Seer is not as he seems.'
'Evidently not. Rake and I had suspicions…'
'Well,' Crone snapped, 'had I known them I would have more closely examined the situation at Outlook. Your recalcitrance wounds us all.'
'We'd no proof, Crone. Besides, we value your feathered hide too highly to risk your close approach to an unknown enemy's fastness. It is done. Tell me, does the Seer remain in Outlook?'
'My kin were unable to determine that. There are condors in the area, and they did not appreciate our presence.'
'Why should mundane birds cause you trouble?'
'Not entirely mundane. Aye, mortal birds are little more than feathered lizards, but these particular condors were more lizard than most.'
'The Seer's own eyes?'
'Possibly.'
'That could prove troublesome.'
Crone shrugged with her wings half crooked. 'Have you some slivers of meat? I hunger.'
'There's leftover goat from supper in the refuse pit behind the tent.'
'What? You would have me eat from a
'You're a damned raven, Crone, why not?'
'Outrage! But if that's all there is…'
'It is.'
Clucking to contain her fury, Crone hopped towards the tent's back wall. 'Take me as an example in the future,' she murmured as she began edging her way under the fabric.
'What do you mean?' Brood asked behind her.
She ducked her head back inside, opened her beak in a silent laugh, then replied, 'Did I lose my temper?'
Growling, he stepped towards her.
The Great Raven squawked and fled.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The First Child of the Dead Seed
dreams of a father's dying breath
and hears in eternal refrain
the scream trapped in his lungs —
Dare you step behind his eyes
even for a moment?
The First Child of the Dead Seed
leads an army of sorrow
down hunger's bone-picked road
where a mother dances and sings —
Dare you walk in his steps
and dearly hold her hand?
The First Child of the Dead Seed
is sheathed in the clutter of failed armour
defending him from the moment of birth
through years of dire schooling —
Do not dare judge him hard
lest you wear his skin.
K'alass
The Tenescowri rose like an inexorable flood against every wall of the city. Rose, then swept over, a mass of humanity driven mad by hunger. Gate barricades buckled to the pressure, then gave way.
And Capustan drowned.
Four hundred paces from the barracks, Itkovian wheeled his blood-spattered mount. Figures reached up from below, clawed along the horse's armoured limbs. The beast, in cold fury, stamped down repeatedly, crushing bones, caving in chests and heads.
Three Manes of Grey Swords surrounded the Shield Anvil where they had been cut off from the barracks atop the gentle hill that was the cemetery of pillars. Most of those upright coffins had been toppled, shattering to spill their mouldy, cloth-wrapped contents, now jumbled among their cousins in death.
Itkovian could see the barracks gate, against which bodies were piled high — high enough to climb, which is what scores of Tenescowri were doing, clambering up towards the flanking revetments only to be met by the serrated blades of long-handled pikes. Pikes that killed, that wounded peasants who made no effort to defend themselves, that whipped back and forth trailing banners of blood and gore.
Itkovian had never witnessed such a horrifying sight. For all his battles, for all the terrors of combat and all that a soldier could not help but see, the vision before him swept all else from his mind.
As peasants fell back, tumbled their way down the slope of corpses, women leapt at the men among them, tore at their clothing, pinned them in place with straddled legs and, amidst blood, amidst shrieks and clawing fingers, they raped them.
Along the edges of the dead and dying, others fed on their kin.
Twin nightmares. The Shield Anvil was unable to decide which of the two shook him the most. His blood flowed glacial cold in his veins, and he knew, with dread verging on panic, that the assault had but just begun.
Another wave surged to close with the hapless band of Grey Swords in the cemetery. To all sides, the wide avenues and streets were packed solid with frenzied Tenescowri. All eyes were fixed on Itkovian and his soldiers. Hands reached out towards them, no matter what the distance, and hungrily clawed the air.
Locking shields, the Grey Swords reformed their tattered square surrounding the Shield Anvil. It would be swallowed, Itkovian well knew, as it had been only moments earlier, yet, if his silent soldiers could do as they had done once before, the square would rise again from the sea of bodies, cutting its way clear, flinging the enemy back, clambering atop a newly made hill of flesh and bone. And, if Itkovian could remain on his horse, he would sweep his sword down on all sides, killing all who came within his reach — and those whom he wounded would
