‘Onrack, you are closed to us.’
He lifted his gaze. Monok Ochem stood before him. ‘Yes, Bonecaster. I am closed to you. Do you doubt me?’
‘I would know your thoughts.’
‘They are… insubstantial.’
Monok Ochem cocked his head. ‘None the less.’
Onrack was silent for a long moment. ‘Bonecaster. I remain bound to your path.’
‘Yet you are severed.’
‘The renegade kin must be found. They are our… shadows. I now stand between you and them, and so I can guide you. I now know where to look, the signs to seek. Destroy me and you shall lose an advantage in your hunt.’
‘You bargain for… persistence?’
‘I do, Bonecaster.’
‘Tell us, then, the path the renegades have taken.’
‘I shall… when it becomes relevant.’
‘Now.’
‘No.’
Monok Ochem stared down at the warrior, then swung away and returned to the circle.
Tellann commanded that place now. Tundra flowers had erupted from the mud, along with lichen and mosses. Blackflies swarmed at ankle height. A dozen paces beyond stood the four Tiste Liosan, their enamel armour glowing in the strange magenta light.
Trull Sengar watched from a position fifteen paces to Onrack’s left, his arms tightly crossed about himself, a haunted expression on his lean face.
Monok Ochem approached the seneschal. ‘We are ready, Liosan.’
Jorrude nodded. ‘Then I shall begin my prayers, Undead Priest. And there shall be proof that our Master, Osric, is far from lost to us. You shall know his power.’
The bonecaster said nothing.
‘And when,’ Trull asked, ‘shall I start spraying blood around? Which one of you has the pleasure of wounding me?’
‘The choice is yours,’ Monok Ochem replied.
‘Good. I choose Onrack-he’s the only one here I’m prepared to trust. Apologies to those of you who might take offence at that.’
‘That task should be mine,’ Seneschal Jorrude said. ‘Blood lies at the heart of Osric’s power-’
Onrack was alone noting the slight start from the bonecaster at that, and the warrior nodded to himself. Much answered with those words. ‘-and indeed,’ Jorrude continued, ‘I shall have to spill some of my own as well.’
But Trull Sengar shook his head. ‘No. Onrack… or no-one.’ And he then uncrossed his arms, revealing a clay ball in each hand.
There was a snort from Jorrude, and the Liosan named Enias growled, ‘Grant me leave to kill him, Seneschal. I shall ensure that there is no shortage of Edur blood.’
‘Do so, and I guarantee the same lack of shortage,’ Trull responded, ‘concerning Liosan blood. Bonecaster, do you recognize these munitions?’
‘They are known by the Malazans as cussers,’ answered Ibra Gholan, the clan leader. ‘One will suffice, given our collective proximities.’
Trull grinned over at the T’lan Imass warrior. ‘Even that dhenrabi skin on your shoulders won’t help much, will it?’
‘True,’ Ibra Gholan replied. ‘While armour is not entirely ineffectual, such value invariably proves wanting.’
Monok Ochem turned to the seneschal. ‘Agree to the stipulation,’ he said. ‘Begin your prayers, Liosan.’
‘Such commands are not for you to utter,’ Jorrude snarled. He glared at Trull. ‘You, Edur, have much to learn. We shall create this gate, and then there will come a reckoning.’
Trull Sengar shrugged. ‘As you like.’
Adjusting his bloodstained cloak, the seneschal strode into the centre of the circle. Then he lowered himself onto his knees, chin settling onto his chest, closing his gleaming, silver eyes.
Blackflies formed a humming cloud around him. Whatever link existed between Jorrude and his god proved both strong and swift. Gold fire flickered into life here and there beyond the circumference of the circle. The remaining three Tiste Liosan returned to their own camp and began packing.
Monok Ochem strode into the circle, followed by the two clansmen Haran Epal and Olar Shayn. The clan leader faced Onrack and said, ‘Guard your companion close, if you would he survive. Cleave to that singular concern, Onrack. No matter what you might witness.’
‘I shall,’ Onrack replied. In many essential matters, the warrior realized, he had no need for a binding of souls with his kin… to know their minds. He strode to Trull Sengar. ‘Follow me,’ he instructed. ‘We must now enter the circle.’
The Tiste Edur scowled, then nodded. ‘Take the box of munitions, then. My hands are full.’
Trull had fixed straps to the box. Onrack collected it then led his companion into the circle.
The three Liosan had completed breaking their camp and were now saddling their white horses.
The fires continued flickering in and out of existence around the periphery, none large enough to pose a threat. But Onrack could sense the approach of the Liosan god. Or at least the outermost layers of its disguise. Cautious, mistrustful-not of the seneschal, of course-but for this to work, the hidden spirit would have to come to this realm’s very edge.
And when Jorrude offered up his own blood, the bridge of power between him and his god would be complete.
The thud of horse hoofs announced the arrival of the other three Liosan, the four mounts in tow.
Onrack drew forth from beneath rotted furs a small crescent-shaped obsidian knife, single-edged on the inward-curving line, and held it out to Trull. ‘When I so instruct you, Trull Sengar, cut yourself. A few drops will suffice.’
The Tiste Edur frowned. ‘I thought you were-’
‘I would not be distracted, in the moment of crossing.’
‘Distracted?’
‘Say nothing. Attend to yourself.’
His frown deepening, Trull crouched to return the two cussers to the box, affixed the lid once more and slung the contrivance over a shoulder, then straightened and accepted the stone blade.
The flames were now growing, unbroken immediately beyond the inscribed ring. Kurald Thyrllan, but the ascendant shaping it remained unseen. Onrack wondered at its nature. If these Liosan were any indication, it found sustenance from purity, as if such a thing was even possible. Intransigence.
The simplicity of blood, a detail whispering of antiquity, of primeval origins. A spirit, then, before whom a handful of savages once bowed. There had been many such entities, once, born of that primitive assertion of meaning to object, meaning shaped by symbols and portents, scratchings on rock-faces and in the depths of caves.
No shortage… but tribes died out, were winnowed out, were devoured by more powerful neighbours. The secret language of the scratchings, the caves with their painted images that came alive to the pounding of drums- those most mysterious cathedrals of thunder… all lost, forgotten. And with that fading away of secrets, so too the spirits themselves dwindled, usually into oblivion.
That some lingered was not surprising to Onrack. Even unto usurping the faith of a new tribe. What was new to the warrior, rising like a tightness into his desiccated throat, was the sense of… pathos.
