Ian Esslemont - Blood and Bone

Jatal stopped to peer back to Scarza. Flakes of ash dusted the half-Trell from head to foot. They even rested on his eyelashes. Scarza’s gaze was steady on the distant figure. Without a word, Jatal changed direction to follow the survivor.

As they drew close, some noise or instinct alerted the figure and it spun, straightening, to confront them. Jatal looked upon a horrifyingly wounded Warleader who was, he now knew, the demon out of his own legendary past: the self-proclaimed High King, Kallor himself. The man weaved drunkenly, a hand on the grip of the bastard sword still at his side. His coat of mail hung from him in torn and blackened tatters of metal links. The flesh beneath oozed, blistered and raw. His beard had been half burned away, as had his hair, leaving seared livid skin behind. One eye was swollen closed, weeping a clear fluid. Dried mud and ash caked him.

Recognition gleamed in his one good eye and he snorted and waved his contempt. ‘You cannot kill me,’ he grated. His voice was so hoarse as to be almost inaudible.

‘I see that now,’ Jatal answered, just as hoarse and breathless. ‘I see that all the ancient curses heaped upon you still hold.’

Kallor growled deep in his throat at that, hawked up a mouthful of catarrh, and spat aside. ‘I will break them yet.’

Merciless gods! All because of you and your damned curses … ‘You thought them gone, didn’t you?’ Jatal opened his arms to indicate the blasted surroundings. ‘All this because you wished to end it. Is that not so?’

The High King actually shrugged. ‘It seemed a good bet. The sword Draconus swore upon is broken. Sister of Cold Nights is broken. Those who cursed me are all slipping away — as they should have long ago.’

‘Damn you,’ Jatal breathed, utterly overcome with horror.

Kallor laughed a dry hack, wiped his mouth, his hand coming away gleaming with blood. ‘So, you too would add to my burden. Is that it? You are quite done then?’

‘Almost.’

‘Oh? You cannot kill me. You curse me. We are done, I should think.’

‘Yes,’ Jatal answered wearily. He felt so tired of it all. So ready to throw it all aside. ‘We will leave you crawling in the dust, Kallor. Which is where you belong, curse or no curse. But first I would have one boon from you.’

The High King raised his flame-scarred head to better examine him. His one good eye gleamed as if touched by madness. ‘A boon? In truth? And what can I grant you?’

Scarza edged forward to touch Jatal’s elbow. ‘Lad …’ he urged, ‘don’t.’

Jatal gently shook his touch away. ‘What you lack the courage to grant yourself … release.’

Kallor lurched forward. His livid features darkened even further in fury. He raised a fist to Jatal. ‘You think I have not tried? You think I meekly …’ He cut himself off, choking. He straightened. His gaze eased back into its familiar condescension. ‘They will not be the end of me. I will break them, or go of my own choosing.’

Jatal nodded his understanding. ‘I agree, High King. That is why I am here. I ask that you release me. My love awaits.’

Kallor’s breath hissed from him in a long slow exhalation of amazement, and he flinched back a step. ‘Well done, Prince Jatal of the Hafinaj. You win your way and in so doing you succeed where I am cursed to fail. Well done.’ He drew his bastard sword and held it upright before him in salute.

Scarza pushed forward. ‘Now, lad,’ he said, ‘think of what she’d want. You don’t really think she’d-’

Jatal gently urged the half-Trell aside. ‘It is all right, Scarza. She awaits me. I must join her. There is nothing else left for me.’

Scarza had to turn his face away. He squeezed his eyes against the tears that warmed his cheeks.

Kallor cried out: ‘So join her!’ and a foot stamped the ground.

Scarza spun to see a length of the wide bastard sword blade extending from Jatal’s back. The lad grunted something. His knees bent and he slid backwards off the slick blade. Scarza caught him in his arms. ‘Lad!’ he croaked, shocked. ‘You didn’t need to …’ But Jatal could not answer; Kallor’s thrust had been true. Scarza hugged the body to him.

Kallor sheathed the blade. ‘What now, Scarza?’ he asked. ‘I am headed north. Join me. Draconus is free, they say. I will find him and squeeze the life from him.’

Scarza just shook his head. He could not find the words for the depth of callousness, the astounding lack of … humanity.

‘No?’ Kallor continued. ‘The pay will be far better this time, I promise.’

Scarza merely turned away and started walking.

‘What is this?’ Kallor called. ‘You are walking away? Don’t be a fool! Drop that carrion and join me. You know I cannot be defeated. Scarza! Come back. I demand — I order you to return!’ He bellowed after him: ‘Scarza! Do as I say!’

Scarza walked on. He hugged the cooling body to his chest. The ash flakes stuck to his wet face. What could one say? Even after all this — in the sight of such devastation — the man still had not learned a thing. Perhaps that was his true curse. His overriding inner curse.

He could never learn.

* * *

The clouds had cleared from the sky. The layer of pulverized stone, soot, and ash lay as a smooth blanket. With evening, rainclouds swept in from the east and a light drizzle fell. It dimpled the ash and hissed where it met heated rock beneath.

A swirl of wind emerged from nowhere with a gust of displaced air that blew the ash in all directions. A man now stood amid the dispersing dust. He brushed it from his green cloak as he set off walking with a brisk purposeful stride.

The ground he trod lay as a broad shallow bowl, or crater. It crackled beneath his boots, flash-heated to a thin glass-like layer of sintered earth. The man scanned the flattened surroundings: a plain of emptiness apart from the gusting curtains of ash and pulverized stone. He brushed the powder from his arms and shoulders and continued on.

A distance off, a humped shape revealed another occupant of this otherworld of drifting flakes of falling soot. The man hurried forward. He found a woman, mostly naked, kneeling over a prostrate body in blackened and seared trousers and shirt. The woman straightened and pushed back her unkempt mane of tousled hair. She wore a wrap at her breasts and loins. To one side lay a small chest, like a jewellery case.

Ignoring the woman, the man knelt at the body’s side, pressed a hand to its neck to check for a pulse.

‘Greetings, L’oric, son of Osserc,’ the woman said, backing away.

‘And you, Spite, daughter of Draconus,’ the man answered, and he let out a breath of relief as he kept his hand on the fallen one’s neck. ‘He lives.’

‘Yes,’ Spite answered as she continued to back away. ‘Astonishingly. He lives still. Despite all this. He lives still.’

With some effort, L’oric managed to turn the prostrate figure over, revealing the pale hair and skin of a Tiste Liosan. ‘You are surprised?’ he asked, eyeing the woman.

‘By his survival? Or by his actions?’

‘The latter more,’ L’oric mused. ‘As I am.’

‘Yes.’ She frowned down at the unconscious man. ‘Your father … interceded … took it upon himself.’

‘Yes.’

She raised her puzzled gaze to L’oric. ‘Why?’

‘I do not know at this time. Perhaps he will eventually explain.’ He shook his head. ‘But more likely not.’ He pointed aside. ‘And that?’

Spite grunted a harsh exhalation, muttering beneath. She picked up the small chest and opened the top, tipping it. Black powder spilled forth to disperse in the weak wind. ‘A failed errand. Wishful thinking.’ She cast the box into the distance.