And it spoke. ‘ Bridgeburner. Raraku waits for you. Do not turn back now .’
‘Who are you?’ Strings demanded. ‘Who speaks?’
‘ I am of this land, now. What I was before does not matter. I am awakened . We are awakened. Go to join your kin. In Raraku-where he will find you. Together, you must slay the goddess. You must free Raraku of the stain that lies upon it .’
‘My kin? Who will I find there?’
‘ The song wanders, Bridgeburner. It seeks a home. Do not turn back. ’
All at once the presence vanished. The butterflies rose skyward, spinning and swirling into the sunlight. Higher, ever higher…
Small hands clutched at him, and he looked down. Nether stared up at him, her face filled with panic. Two paces behind her stood Nil, his arms wrapped about himself, his eyes filling with tears.
Nether was screaming. ‘Why you? We have called and called! Why you !?’
Shaking his head, Strings pushed her away. ‘I–I don’t know!’
‘What did he say? Tell us! He had a message for us, yes? What did he say?’
‘For you? Nothing, lass-why, who in Hood’s name do you think that was?’
‘Sormo E’nath!’
‘The warlock? But he-’ Strings staggered another step back. ‘ Stop that damned singing !’
The Wickans stared.
And Strings realized that neither was singing-neither could have been-for it continued, filling his head.
Nether asked, ‘What singing, soldier?’
He shook his head again, then turned and made his way back towards camp. Sormo had no words for them. Nor did he. Nor did he want to see their faces-their helpless desperation, their yearning for a ghost that was gone-gone for ever. That was not Sormo E’nath. That was something else-Hood knows what. ‘We are awakened.’ What does that mean? And who’s waiting for me in Raraku? My kin-I’ve none, barring the Bridgeburners-gods below! Quick Ben? Kalam? One, or both ? He wanted to scream, if only to silence the song that whispered through his head, the dreadful, painfully incomplete music that gnawed at his sanity.
Raraku, it seemed, was not yet done with him. Strings silently railed. Damn all of this !
To the north, through the smoky wreaths of the encampment, the mantled hills of Vathar seemed to unfurl the sun’s golden light. On the ridge behind him, the wolves began howling.
Gamet settled back in the saddle as his horse began the descent towards the river. It had not been long enough for the land to entirely swallow the victims of the slaughter that had occurred here. Bleached bones gleamed in the sandy mud of the shoreline. Fragments of cloth, pieces of leather and iron. And the ford itself was barely recognizable. Remnants of a floating bridge were heaped on it on the upstream side, and on this barrier more detritus had piled. Sunken, waterlogged wagons, trees, grasses and reeds, now anchored by silts, a hulking, bowed mass that had formed a kind of bridge. To the Fist’s eye, it seemed the whole thing was moments from breaking loose.
Scouts had crossed it on foot. Gamet could see a score of mud-smeared Seti on the opposite side, making their way up the steep slope.
The forests on both sides of the river were a mass of colour, their branches festooned with strips of cloth, with braids and painted human bones that twisted in the wind.
Mesh’arn tho’ledann. The Day of Pure Blood . Upstream, on either bank for as far as he could see, long poles had been thrust into the mud at angles so that they hung over the swirling water. The carcasses of sheep and goats hung from them. From some the blood still drained, whilst others were well along in their rot, seething with flies, capemoths and carrion birds. Small white flecks rained down from the sacrificed animals, to which fish swarmed, and it was a moment before Gamet realized what those flecks were-maggots, falling into the river.
Captain Keneb drew his horse alongside Gamet’s own as they approached the bank. ‘That’s not mud binding that flotsam, is it? Oh, a little silt and sand, but mostly-’
‘Blood, aye,’ Gamet muttered.
They were trailing the Adjunct, who was flanked by Nil and Nether. The three reached the water’s edge and halted their mounts. Behind Gamet and Keneb, the front companies of the 10th Legion were on the slope, within sight of the river and its ragged bridge.
‘Those sacrifices, do you think they were done to welcome us, Fist? I can’t imagine such slaughter to be ongoing-the herds would be wiped out in no time.’
‘Some have been here a while,’ Gamet observed. ‘But you must be right, Captain.’
‘So we would cross a river of blood. If these damned tribes consider that gesture an honourable one, then the Queen has stolen their sanity. This notion of seeing the world metaphorically has ever driven me to distraction. The Seven Cities native sees everything differently. To them, the landscape is animate-not just the old notion of spirits, but in some other, far more complicated way.’