‘We shall be travelling south,’ Onrack said. ‘Before long, we shall reach the tree line, and the snow will turn to rain.’
‘That sounds even more miserable.’
‘Our journey, Trull Sengar, shall be less than a handful of days and nights. And in that time we shall travel from tundra to savanna and jungle.’
‘Do you believe we will reach the First Throne before the renegades?’
Onrack shrugged. ‘It is likely. The path of Tellann will present to us no obstacles, whilst that of chaos shall slow our enemies, for its path is never straight.’
‘Never straight, aye. That notion makes me nervous.’
Ah. That is what I am feeling . ‘A cause for unease, granted, Trull Sengar. None the less, we are faced with a more dire concern, for when we reach the First Throne we must then defend it.’
Ibra Gholan led the way, Monok Ochem waiting until Onrack and the Tiste Edur passed by before falling in step.
‘We are not trusted,’ Trull Sengar muttered.
‘That is true,’ Onrack agreed. ‘None the less, we are needed.’
‘The least satisfying of alliances.’
‘Yet perhaps the surest, until such time as the need passes. We must remain mindful, Trull Sengar.’
The Tiste Edur grunted in acknowledgement.
They fell silent then, as each stride took them further south.
As with so many tracts within Tellann, the scars of Omtose Phellack remained both visible and palpable to Onrack’s senses. Rivers of ice had gouged this landscape, tracing the history of advance and, finally, retreat, leaving behind fluvial spans of silts, rocks and boulders in screes, fans and slides, and broad valleys with basins worn down to smooth-humped bedrock. Eventually, permafrost gave way to sodden peat and marshland, wherein stunted black spruce rose in knotted stands on islands formed by the rotted remains of ancestral trees. Pools of black water surrounded these islands, layered with mists and bubbling with the gases of decay.
Insects swarmed the air, finding nothing to their liking among the T’lan Imass and the lone mortal, though they circled in thick, buzzing clouds none the less. Before long, the marshes gave way to upthrust domes of bedrock, the low ground between them steep-sided and tangled with brush and dead pines. The domes then merged, creating a winding bridge of high ground along which the four travelled with greater ease than before.
It began to rain, a steady drizzle that blackened the basaltic bedrock and made it slick.
Onrack could hear Trull Sengar’s harsh breathing and sensed his companion’s weariness. But no entreaties to rest came from the Tiste Edur, even as he increasingly used his spear as a staff as they trudged onward.
Forest soon replaced the exposed bedrock, slowly shifting from coniferous to deciduous, the hills giving way to flatter ground. The trees then thinned, and suddenly, beyond a line of tangled deadfall, plains stretched before them, and the rain was gone. Onrack raised a hand. ‘We shall halt here.’
Ibra Gholan, ten paces ahead, stopped and swung round. ‘Why?’
‘Food and rest, Ibra Gholan. You may have forgotten that these number among the needs of mortals.’
‘I have not forgotten, Onrack the Broken.’
Trull Sengar settled onto the grasses, a wry smile on his lips as he said, ‘It’s called indifference, Onrack. I am, after all, the least valuable member of this war party.’
‘The renegades will not pause in their march,’ Ibra Gholan said. ‘Nor should we.’
‘Then journey ahead,’ Onrack suggested.
‘No,’ Monok Ochem commanded. ‘We walk together. Ibra Gholan, a short period of rest will not prove a great inconvenience. Indeed, I would the Tiste Edur speak to us.’
‘About what, Bonecaster?’
‘Your people, Trull Sengar. What has made them kneel before the Chained One?’
‘No easy answer to that question, Monok Ochem.’
Ibra Gholan strode back to the others. ‘I shall hunt game,’ the warrior said, then vanished in a swirl of dust.
The Tiste Edur studied the fluted spearhead of his new weapon for a moment, then, setting the spear down, he sighed. ‘It is a long tale, alas. And indeed, I am no longer the best choice to weave it in a manner you might find useful-’
‘Why?’
‘Because, Monok Ochem, I am Shorn. I no longer exist. To my brothers, and my people, I never existed.’
‘Such assertions are meaningless in the face of truth,’ Onrack said. ‘You are here before us. You exist. As do your memories.’
‘There have been Imass who have suffered exile,’ Monok Ochem rasped. ‘Yet still we speak of them. We must speak of them, to give warning to others. What value a tale if it is not instructive?’