Your child? You claim to be Trake’s mother, do you?
He sensed a flash of irritation. ‘First Swords, First Empire, First Heroes — we were a people proud of such things, for all the good it did us. I have birthed many children. Most of them are now dead.’
So is Trake.
‘First Heroes were chosen, Mortal Sword, to become gods, and so escape death. All that he surrendered that day on the Plains of Lamatath was his mortal flesh. But like any god, he cannot risk becoming manifest, and so he created you. His Mortal Sword, the weapon of his will.’
Remind me to thank him for that.
‘You must stand aside here,’ she said. ‘The Eleint are coming. If you seek to oppose them, you will die, Mortal Sword.’
No, what you fear is that I shall succeed.
‘I will not permit that.’
Then it is you and I who shall fight in this cavern, as I have seen in my dreams-
‘Dreams? You fool. I was trying to warn you.’
Black fur … blood, a dying breath — woman, these were not your sendings.
‘There is little time left! Gruntle, do not challenge this!’ She lifted her arms out to the sides. ‘Look at me! I am Kilava Onass, a Bonecaster of the Imass. I defied the Ritual of Tellann, and my power beggars that of your human gods. What will occur here not even I can prevent — do you understand me? It is … necessary …’
He had expected such words, but still his hackles rose. It’s what we always hear, isn’t it? From generals and warlords and miserable tyrants. Justifying yet another nightmare epoch of slaughter. Of suffering, misery and despair. And what do we all do? We duck down and weather it. We tell ourselves that this is how it must be — I stood on the roof of a building, and all around me people were dying. And by my hand — gods! That building wept blood!
For what? They all died — the whole fucking city — all those people — they just died anyway!
I told Trake he chose wrongly. I was never a soldier — I despise war. I detest all the sordid lies about glory and honour — you, Kilava, if you have lived as long as you say you have, if Trake is your get, then you have seen a child of yours kneel to war — as if war itself was a damned god!
But still, you want him to live — you want your child-god, your First fucking Hero, to go on, and on. Wars without end. And the sword shall swing down and they shall fall — for ever more!
‘Gruntle, why are you here?’
He advanced, feeling the blood within him rise to a boil. Haven’t you guessed? I’m going to fight. I’m going to bring your son down — here and now. I’m going to kill the bastard. An end to the god of slaughter, of horror, of rape-
Kilava howled in sudden rage, vanished inside a blur of darkness. Veered into a panther as huge as Gruntle himself, she coiled to spring.
In his mind, he saw a single, quick nod. Yes. Baring his fangs, Gruntle lunged to meet her.
Far to the northeast, something glittered. Mappo stood studying it for a long time, as the sun swelled the horizon behind him, and then slunk, red and sullen, down past the edge of the world. That distant, flashing fire held on for a while longer, like burning hills.
He drew the waterskin from his sack, drank deep, and then crouched down to probe his lacerated feet. The soles of the boots had been torn away by the fierce assault of crystal shards. Since noon he had been trailing blood, each smear vanishing beneath a frenzied clump of cape-moths, as if flowers sprang from his every footprint. Such is the gift of life in this tortured place. He drew a deep breath. The muscles of his legs were like clenched fists beneath him. He could not push on for much longer, not without a full night of rest.
But time is running out.
Mappo drank once more and then stored the waterskin. Shouldering the pack, he set off. Northeast.
The Jade Spears slashed a path into the night sky, and green light bled down, transforming the desert floor into a luminescent sea. As he jogged, Mappo imagined himself crossing the basin of an ocean. The bitter cold air filled his lungs, biting like ice with each indrawn breath. From this place, he knew, he would never surface. The thought disturbed him and with a growl he cast it from his mind.
As he ran, shooting stars raced and flared overhead, growing into an emerald storm, criss-crossing the heavens. He thought that, if he listened carefully enough, he might hear them, hissing like steam as they skipped, and then igniting with a crack of thunder once they began their final descent. But the rasping was only his own breath, the thunder nothing but the drum of his own heart. The sky stayed silent, and the burning arrows remained far, far away.
The sorrow in his soul had begun to taste sour. Aged and dissolute, moments from crumbling. He did not know what would come in its wake. Resignation, as might find a fatally ill man in his last days? Or just an exultant eagerness to see it all end? At the moment, even despair seemed too much effort.
He drew closer, eyes fixing on what seemed a range of tall crystals, green as glacial ice, rising to command the scene ahead. His exhausted mind struggled to make sense of it. Something … order, a pattern …
Oh, gods, I’ve seen its like before. In stone.
Icarium-
Immortal architect, builder of monuments, you set out to challenge the gods, to defy the weavers of time. Maker of what cannot die, but with each edifice you raise the things that you need the most — the memories the rest of us guard so zealously — and they arrive stillborn in your hands. Each one as dead as the one before.
And look at us, we who would pray to forget so much — our regrets, our foolish choices, the hurts we delivered over a lifetime — we think nothing of this gift, this freedom we see as a cage, and in our rattling fury we wish that we were just like you.
Raiser of empty buildings. Visionary of silent cities.
But how many times could he remind Icarium of friendship? The precious comfort of familiar company? How many times could he fill once more all those empty rooms? My friend, my bottomless well. But should I tell you the truth, then you would take your own life.
Is that so bad a thing? With all that you have done? Is it?
And now you are threatened. And helpless. I feel this. I know it as truth. I fear that you will be awakened, in all your rage, and that this time there will be more than just humans within reach of your sword. This time there will be gods.
Someone wants you, Icarium, to be their weapon.
But … if I reach you first, I could awaken you to who you are. I could speak the truth of your history, friend. And when you set the point of the dagger to your chest, I could stand back. Do nothing. I could honour you with the one thing I still had — myself. I could be the witness to your one act of justice.
I could talk you into killing yourself.
Is it possible? That this is where friendship can take us?
What would I do then?
I would bury you. And weep over the stones. For my loss, as friends will do.
The city was his genius — Mappo could see that truth in every line — but as he drew closer, squinting at the strangely flowing light and shadows in the facets of crystal, he saw evidence of occupation. His steps slowed.
Broken husks of fruit, fragments of clothing, the musty smell of dried faeces.
The sun was beginning to rise — had it been that far? He approached the nearest, broadest avenue. As he passed between two angular buildings, he froze at a flicker of movement — there, reflected from a facet projecting from the wall to his right. And as he stared, he saw it again.
