Tool gestured at the valley below. ‘Is this not eloquent enough?’
‘Buy our loyalty with the truth, Onos Toolan. Gift us all with an even measure.’
The sun was low on the horizon when the two scouts were brought into Maral Eb’s presence where he sat beside a dung fire over which skewers of horse meat sizzled. The scouts were both young and he did not know their names, but the excitement he observed in their faces awakened his attention. He pointed to one. ‘You shall speak, and quickly now-I am about to eat.’
‘A Senan war-party,’ the scout said.
‘Where?’
‘We were the ones backtracking the Snakehunters’ trail, Warchief. They are camped in a hollow not a league from here.’
‘How many?’
‘A hundred, no more than that. But, Warchief, there is something else-’
‘Out with it!’
‘Onos Toolan is with them.’
Maral Eb straightened. ‘Are you certain? Escorted by a mere hundred? The fool!’
His two younger brothers came running at his words and Maral Eb grinned at them. ‘Stir the warriors-we eat on the march.’
‘Are you sure of this, Maral?’ his youngest brother asked.
‘We strike,’ the warchief snarled. ‘In darkness. We kill them all. But be certain every warrior understands-no one is to slay Tool. Wound him, yes, but not unto death-if anyone gets careless I will have him or her skinned alive and roasted over a fire. Now, quickly-the gods smile down upon us!’
The Barahn warchief led his four thousand warriors across the rolling plains at a ground-devouring trot. One of the two scouts padded twenty paces directly ahead, keeping them to the trail, whilst others ranged further out on the flanks. The moon had yet to rise, and even when it did, it would be weak, shrouded in perpetual haze- these nights, the brightest illumination came from the jade streaks to the south, and that was barely enough to cast shadows.
The perfect setting for an ambush. None of the other tribes would ever know the truth-after all, with Tool and a hundred no doubt elite warriors dead the Senan would be crippled, and the Barahn Clan would achieve swift ascendancy once Maral Eb attained the status of Warleader over all the White Face Barghast. And was it not in every Barahn warrior’s interest to hide the truth? The situation was ideal.
Weapons and armour were bound, muffled against inadvertent noise, and the army moved in near silence. Before long, the lead scout hurried back to the main column. Maral Eb gestured and his warriors halted behind him.
‘The hollow is two hundred paces ahead, Warchief. Fires are lit. There will be pickets-’
‘Don’t tell me my business,’ Maral Eb growled. He drew his brothers closer. ‘Sagal, take your Skullsplitters north. Kashat, you lead your thousand south. Stay a hundred paces back from the pickets, low to the ground, and form into a six-deep crescent. There is no way we can kill those sentinels silently, so the surprise will not be absolute, but we have overwhelming numbers, so that will not matter. I will lead my two thousand straight in. When you hear my war-cry, brothers, rise and close. No one must escape, so leave a half hundred spread wide in your wake. It may be we will drive them west for a time, so be sure to be ready to wheel your crescents to close that route.’ He paused. ‘Listen well to this. Tonight, we break the most sacred law of the White Faces-but necessity forces our hand. Onos Toolan has betrayed the Barghast. He dishonours us. I hereby pledge to reunite the clans, to lead us to glory.’
The faces arrayed before him were sober, but he could see the gleam in their eyes. They were with him. ‘This night shall stain our souls black, my brothers, but we will spend the rest of our lives cleansing them. Now, go!’
Onos Toolan sat beside the dying fire. The camp was quiet, as his words of truth now sank into hearts like the flames, flaring and winking out.
The stretch of ages could humble the greatest of peoples, once all the self-delusions were stripped away. Pride had its place, but not at the expense of sober truth. Even back on Genabackis, the White Faces had strutted about as if unaware that their culture was drawing to an end; that they had been pushed into inhospitable lands; that farms and then cities rose upon ground they once held to be sacred, or rightly theirs as hunting grounds or pasture lands. All around them, the future showed faces ghastlier and more deadly than anything white paint could achieve-when Humbrall Taur had led them here, to this continent, he had done so in fullest comprehension of the extinction awaiting his Barghast should they remain on Genabackis, besieged by progress.
Prophecies never touched on such matters. By nature, they were proclamations of egotism, rife with pride and bold fates. Humbrall Taur had, however, managed a clever twist or two in making use of them.
Tool’s breath caught and he lifted his head. He reached out and settled one hand down on the packed earth, and then slowly closed his eyes.
The Imass rose, turned to the nearest other fire. ‘Bakal.’
The warrior looked over. ‘Warleader?’
‘Draw your dagger, Bakal, and come to me.’
The warrior did not move for a moment, and then he rose, sliding the gutting knife from its scabbard. He walked over, cautious, uncertain.
The warrior, eyes wide, slowly backed away. Others had caught the words and were now rising, converging.
Tool closed on Bakal once again. ‘Be quick, Bakal-if you value your life and the lives of every one of your kin here. You must slay me-now!’
‘Warleader! I will not-’
Tool’s hands snapped out, closed on Bakal’s right hand and wrist.
The warrior gasped, struggled to tug free, but against Tool’s strength, he was helpless. The Imass pulled him close. ‘Remember-shout out my death, it is your only hope-’
Bakal sought to loosen his grip on his knife, but Tool’s huge, spatulate hand wrapped his own as would an adult’s a child’s. The other, closed round his wrist, dragged him inexorably forward.
The blade’s tip touched Tool’s leather armour.
Whimpering, Bakal sought to throw himself backward-but the imprisoned arm did not move. He tried to drop to his knees, and his elbow dislocated with a pop. He howled in pain.
The other warriors-who had stood frozen-suddenly rushed in.
But Tool gave them no time. He drove the dagger into his chest.
Sudden, blinding pain. Releasing Bakal’s wrist, he staggered back, stared down at the knife buried to its hilt in his chest.
There was shouting all round him now-horror, terrible confusion, and then, on his knees, Bakal lifted his head and met Tool’s gaze.
The Imass had lost his voice, but he sought to implore the man with his eyes.
Death-he had forgotten its bitter kiss.
Night-stained faces crowded above him, paint white as bone.
He could hear shouting, alarms rising from the Senan encampment. Cursing, Maral Eb straightened, saw the sentinels clearly now-all running back into the camp.
‘Damn the gods! We must charge-’
‘Listen!’ cried the scout. ‘Warchief-listen to the words!’
‘What?’
And then he did. His eyes slowly widened.
Voices howled in answer.
The Barahn warchief led his warriors down into the hollow.
To claim his prize.
Hetan woke in the night. She stared upward, eyes wide but unseeing, until they filled with tears. The air in the yurt was stale, darkness heavy and suffocating as a shroud.
