went on with the alchemist. Fifty yards or so of flat muddy beach stood between them.
Six men in his way. That was too many. Never mind the dozen or so coming up behind and the rest still scattered along the banks of the river.
‘Nezak?’ He looked the rider in the eye.
Nezak’s face said he knew this was the end. ‘What we should have done,’ he said, ‘was hold the path. In those rocks, with bows, we could have held them until we ran out of arrows.’
Jasaan nodded. He was probably right about that. But Jasaan had counted the arrows and Nezak hadn’t.
The outsiders on the beach downstream charged, shouting their heads off. The ones between Jasaan and the falls held their ground. They were shouting too now. Jasaan put away the bow and took out his axe. He felt something let go inside him, all the tension slipping away. For once he felt calm.
‘I’ll hold them as long as I can.’ Nezak’s voice was hoarse.
‘I will sing your name to my ancestors,’ said Jasaan, and he charged towards the cliffs, at the outsiders who stood ready to meet him.
60
The dragon circled high above the Raksheh. Above the caves and the strange thing that lay beneath them. A taste of the old sorcery. A lingering of something mighty. Tastes like those from the sky-home, but faded and pure, not mingled with the bitterness of the broken god and That Which Came First.
The Aardish Caves. The Moonlight Garden. This had been one of their places, long ago. Not one the dragon remembered, but it could feel the presence of its kind. Something waiting. Its time with its silver rider had been so brief yet so full of fire.
Little ones came. It felt their thoughts. And the water worm, blind, dumb and dull, a tiny creature, made at the beginning of the half-gods’ path towards their final creations.
Us.
It peered at the little ones. It was hungry. Always hungry.
And then, in among the mindless noise, it saw what it was searching for, faint, half-hidden, as if wrapped in a fading mist.
The one that had killed its mate. The little one had come at last.
It tucked in its wings and fell towards the earth and the tiny little sliver of silver that was the old forest river.
61
He followed the alchemist’s trail. When he lost it, he followed the river into the forest. If you knew where someone was going, tracking them wasn’t hard, and so he found her again, this time with a whole band of outsiders, walking to a handful of boats on the river. He watched for a while, wondering whether he should kill them all here and now or whether to wait until later. They were many, too many to be sure he’d win. He could see, as he watched, that the shit-eaters meant to take her where she wanted to go.
She’d be safer surrounded by so many. They’d do his work for him. Quicker and easier if he only had to fend for himself.
As the days of following them up the river passed, he began to realise he was following someone else as well. Little signs at first. A footprint in the mud. The freshly cut stump of a branch. Then a fire pit. When he saw the fire pit and saw how it was made, he knew he was following another Adamantine Man. Made him pay attention that, and he watched out for the signs more closely.
Three men. One Guardsman and two others. It was the Guardsman who interested him. He found each one of their camps, stopped and looked it over. There was something familiar about the way they were made. More than just another Adamantine Man. Someone he knew.
Jasaan?
Impossible. They’d gone their separate ways up on the moors, many months and a thousand miles away. Chances of either of them getting back somewhere safe hadn’t been good. He’d always assumed Jasaan was dead.
He kept pace with the boats on the river, letting them stay a mile or so ahead but never too far. In the mornings he woke early and ran until he caught sight of them. Then he let them pull away and caught them again in the afternoon. Never close enough to be seen, never so far away that he might lose them if they left the river.
He knew for sure when he caught up with the Adamantine Man and his companions. He watched them unseen. It was Jasaan. Of all people. With two riders who were just slowing him down. By the state of them, Jasaan should have abandoned them days ago.
Jasaan. He almost went up and asked him what in the name of Vishmir’s cock he was doing out here. But then he saw. When the alchemists had come to the Pinnacles, they’d had Adamantine Men with them. Jasaan must have been one of them. Sent with the alchemist, and now she’d gone missing and so he’d come looking for her. Sort of thing he’d do. The amazing thing was that Jasaan had got back to the Purple Spur in the first place.
Why he had riders with him, now that was another matter. And why were they still with him when they were in such a bad way? Skjorl crept close and watched and listened as they talked. The riders seemed to know something about these caves the alchemist wanted to find. They were close too. They’d seen the outsiders on the river and now they meant to get ahead and set an ambush. All well and good if you had half a dozen Adamantine Men armed with bows. A pair of half-dead riders, well, that would be a valiant effort but there were far too many shit-eaters. Jasaan ought to know better.
He kept himself hidden and followed their forced march to the waterfall. He let Jasaan go ahead with his riders, gone from half-dead to well past three quarters by now, and watched them climb. Jasaan would set his ambush along the path among the rocks. Two riders with bows. He’d put them high up to fire down at the shit- eaters as they reached the beach. Then Jasaan would be waiting. He’d take them down one by one as they tried to climb, keeping them from reaching his archers. It was a good place for an ambush and it might even work. A determined handful could hold back a lot of men at a place like this.
Would work even better, Skjorl thought, with a second Adamantine Man waiting to take the shit-eaters from behind.
When the boats finally came, he watched it all unfold. Waited for the arrows to start but they never did, and then Jasaan was running at six shit-eaters at once while the rider who could barely walk any more was standing to face a round dozen. The rider was going to die — most of the shit-eaters would just go right on past him — and then Jasaan would die too. A perfectly good place for an ambush and Jasaan had pissed it away. Bloody typical, but by then Skjorl was already on his feet, already running.
The shit-eaters weren’t in the hurry they ought to have been. Three stopped to take down the rider. The rest raced after Jasaan. Skjorl sprinted. He ran silently up behind one of the three facing the rider and swung Dragon- blooded, cutting his first man clean in two. Left the others for the rider. He screamed now, roared and yelled to make the others look round, to make them see him and quail and pause and run away, but the waterfall was so loud they didn’t even hear him. Either that or they thought he was one of their own.
The alchemist and the shit-eaters carrying her were scrambling up the path through the rocks. Jasaan hit the men barring his way like the whip of a dragon’s tail, smashing his way between them with sheer force, swinging his axe so that none of them dared go near. Straight through them, but that wasn’t enough. They’d cut him down from behind if he tried to climb the rocks. He had to make himself some space.
Or someone did.
