Devoured, trapped in ice. A Jaghut arrived, Mappo, to make certain that none escaped.'
Mappo nodded. Icarium's descriptions had led him to conclude much the same sequence of events. Like the sky keep itself, the mechanism was built to fly, borne aloft by some unknown sorcery. 'If we are to find level ground,' he said, 'it shall have to be within the keep.'
The Jhag smiled. 'Is that a glimmer of anticipation in your eyes? I am beginning to see the Mappo of old, I suspect. Memory or no, you are no stranger to me, and I have been much chagrined of late, seeing you so forlorn. I understood it, of course – how could I not? I am what haunts you, friend, and for that I grieve. Come, shall we find our way inside this fell keep?'
Mappo watched Icarium stride past, and slowly turned to follow him with his eyes.
Icarium, the Builder of Mechanisms. Where did such skills come from?
He feared they were about to find out.
****
The monastery was in the middle of parched, broken wasteland, not a village or hamlet within a dozen leagues in either direction along the faint tracks of the road. On the map Cutter had purchased in G' danisban, its presence was marked with a single wavy line of reddishbrown ink, upright, barely visible on the worn hide. The symbol of D' rek, Worm of Autumn.
A lone domed structure stood in the midst of a low-walled, rectangular compound, and the sky over it was dotted with circling vultures.
Beside him and hunched in the saddle, Heboric Ghost Hands spat, then said, 'Decay. Rot. Dissolution. When what once worked suddenly breaks.
And like a moth the soul flutters away. Into the dark. Autumn awaits, and the seasons are askew, twisting to avoid all the unsheathed knives. Yet the prisoners of the jade, they are forever trapped.
There, in their own arguments. Disputes, bickering, the universe beyond unseen – they care not a whit, the fools. They wear ignorance like armour and wield spite like swords. What am I to them? A curio.
Less. So it's a broken world, why should I care about that? I did not ask for this, for any of this…'
He went on, but Cutter stopped listening. He glanced back at the two women trailing them. Listless, uncaring, brutalized by the heat. The horses beneath them walked with drooped heads; their ribs were visible beneath dusty, tattered hide. Off to one side clambered Greyfrog, looking fat and sleek as ever, circling the riders with seemingly boundless energy.
'We should visit that monastery,' Cutter said. 'Make use of the well, and if there's any foodstuffs-'
'They're all dead,' Heboric croaked.