Dust of Dreams

and were pulled flat as the tendons grew taut. An arm was knitted together, scores of finger bones clumping at the end of the wrist.

Rotting meat bound the vertebrae into a serpentine curl. Ribs sank into indentations on the sides of the sternum and lifted it clear of the ground.

When the Slashes were gouging the horizon to the southeast, and the wind was dying in fitful gusts, a body lay on the grasses. Fragments of skin joined to enclose it, each seam knitting like a scar. Strands of hair found root on the pate of the skull.

As the wind fell away, there was the distant sound of singing. An old woman’s rough, enfeebled voice, and in the music of that song there were fists closed into tight knots, there was muscle building to terrible violence, and faces immune to the sun’s heat and life’s pity. The voice ensorcelled, drawing power from the land’s deepest memories.

Dawn crept to the horizon, bled colour into the sky.

And a T’lan Imass rose from the ground. Walked, with slow, unsteady strides, to the fire-annealed flint sword left lying close to the Barghast pyre. A withered but oversized hand reached down and closed about the grip, lifting the weapon clear.

Onos T’oolan faced southeast. And then set out.

He had a people to kill.

Chapter Sixteen

Sower of words out from the hungry shade
The seeds in your wake drink the sun
And the roots burst from their shells-
This is a wilderness of your own making,
Green chaos too real to countenance
Your words unravel the paths and blind the trail
With crowding boles and the future is lost
To the world of possibilities you so nurtured
In that hungry shade-sower of words
Heed the truth they will make, for all they
Need is a rain of tears and the light of day

THE EASE OF SHADOWS (SIMPLE WORDS)

BEVELA DELIK

Desecration’s gift was silence. the once-blessed boulder, massive as a wagon, was shattered. Nearby was a sinkhole at the base of which a spring struggled to feed a small pool of black water. The bones of gazelle and rodents studded the grasses and the stones of the old stream bed that stretched down from the sinkhole’s edge, testament to the water’s poison.

This silence was crowded with truths, most of them so horrid in nature as to leave Sechul Lath trembling. Shoulders hunched, arms wrapped about his torso, he stared at the rising sun. Kilmandaros was picking through the broken rock, as if pleased to examine her own handiwork of millennia past. Errastas had collected a handful of pebbles and was tossing them into the pool one by one-each stone vanished without a sound, leaving no ripples. These details seemed to amuse the Errant, if the half-smile on his face was any indication.

Sechul Lath knew enough to not trust appearances when it came to an Elder God infamous for misdirection. He might be contemplating his satisfaction at the undeniable imperative of his summons, or he might be anticipating crushing the throat of an upstart god. Or someone less deserving. He was the Errant, after all. His temple was betrayal, his altar mocking mischance, and in that temple and upon that altar he sacrificed mortal souls, motivated solely by whim. And, perhaps, boredom. It was the luxury of his power that he so cherished, that he so wanted back.

But it’s done. Can’t you see that? Our time is over with. We cannot play that game again. The children have inherited this world, and all the others we once terrorized. We squandered all we had-we believed in our own omnipotence. This world-Errastas, you cannot get back what no longer exists.

‘I will have my throne,’ you said. And the thousand faces laying claim to it, each one momentarily bright and then fading, they all just blur together. Entire lives lost in an instant’s blink. If you win, you will have your throne, Errastas, and you will stand behind it, as you once did, and your presence will give the lie to mortal ambitions and dreams, to every aspiration of just rule, of equity. Of peace and prosperity.

You will turn it all into dust-every dream, nothing but dust, sifting down through their hands.

But, Elder God, these humans-they have left you behind. They don’t need you to turn to dust all their dreams. They don’t need anyone else to do that. ‘This,’ he said, facing Errastas, ‘is what we should intend.’

The Errant’s brows rose, his solitary eye bright. ‘What, pray tell?’

‘To stand before our children-the young gods-and tell them the truth.’

‘Which is?’

‘Everything they claim as their own can be found in the mortal soul. Those gods, Errastas, are not needed. Like us, they have no purpose. None at all. Like us, they are a waste of space. Irrelevant.’

The Errant’s hands twitched. He flung away the pebbles. ‘Is misery all we get from you, Knuckles? We have not yet launched our war and you’ve already surrendered.’

‘I have,’ agreed Sechul Lath, ‘but that is a notion you do not fully understand. There is more than one kind of surrender-’

‘Indeed,’ snapped the Errant, ‘yet the face of each one is the same-a coward’s face!’

Knuckles eyed him, amused.

Errastas made a fist. ‘What,’ he said in a low rasp, ‘is so funny?’

‘The one who surrenders to his own delusions is, by your terms, no less a coward than any other.’

Kilmandaros straightened. She had taken upon herself the body of a Tel Akai, still towering above them but not quite as massively as before. She smiled without humour at the Errant. ‘Play no games with this one, Errastas. Not bones, not words. He will tie your brain in knots and make your head ache.’

Errastas glared at her. ‘Do you think me a simpleton?’

The smile vanished. ‘Clearly, you think that of me.’

‘When you think with your fists, don’t complain when you appear to others as witless.’

‘But I complain with my fists as well,’ she replied. ‘And when I do, even you have no choice but to listen, Errastas. Now, best be careful, for I feel in the mood for complaining. We have stood here all night, whilst the ether beyond this place has stirred something to life-my nerves are on fire, even here, where all lies in lifeless ruin. You say you have summoned the others. Where are they?’

‘Coming,’ the Errant replied.

‘How many?’

‘Enough.’

Knuckles started. ‘Who defies you?’

‘It is not defiance! Rather-must I explain myself?’

‘It might help,’ said Sechul Lath.

‘I am not defied by choice. Draconus-within Dragnipur it’s not likely he hears anything. Grizzin Farl is, I think, dead. His corporeal flesh is no more.’ He hesitated, and then added with a scowl, ‘Ardata alone has managed to evade me, but she was never of much use anyway, was she?’

‘Then where-’

‘I see one,’ Kilmandaros said, pointing to the north. ‘Taste of the blood, she was wise to take that shape! But oh, I can smell the stench of Eleint upon her!’

‘Restrain yourself,’ Errastas said. ‘She’s been dead too long for you to smell anything.’

‘I said-’

‘You imagine, nothing more. Tiam’s daughter did not outlive her mother-this thing has embraced the Ritual of Tellann-she is less than she once was.’

‘Less,’ said Knuckles, ‘and more, I think.’

Errastas snorted, unaware of Sechul Lath’s deliberate mockery.

Kilmandaros was visibly shaking with her fury. ‘It was her,’ she hissed. ‘Last night. That singing-she awakened the ancient power! Olar Ethil!’

Sechul Lath could see sudden worry on the Errant’s face. Already, things were spiralling out of his control.

A voice spoke behind them. ‘I too felt as much.’

They turned to see Mael standing beside the sinkhole. He had an old man’s body and an old man’s face and the watery eyes he fixed on the Errant were cold. ‘This is already unravelling, Errant. War is like that-all the players lose control. “Chaos takes the sword.’ ”

Errastas snorted a second time. ‘Quoting Anomander Rake? Really, Mael. Besides he spoke that in prophecy. The other resonances came later.’

‘Yes,’ muttered Mael, ‘about that prophecy…’

Sechul Lath waited for him to continue but Mael fell silent, squinting now at Olar Ethil. She had long ago chosen the body of an Imass woman, wide-hipped, heavy-