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.
Cutter studied the old man, then grunted. 'Explains the vultures. But we still need water.'
The Destriant of Treach gave him an unpleasant smile.
Cutter understood the meaning of that smile. He was becoming heartless, inured to the myriad horrors of this world. A monastery filled with dead priests and priestesses was as… nothing. And the old man could see it, could see into him. His new god is the Tiger of Summer, Lord of War. Heboric Ghost Hands, the High Priest of strife, he sees how cold I have become. And is… amused.
Cutter guided his horse up the side track leading to the monastery.
The others followed. The Daru reined in in front of the gates, which were closed, and dismounted. 'Heboric, do you sense any danger to us?'
'I have that talent?'
Cutter studied him, said nothing.
The Destriant clambered down from his horse. 'Nothing lives in there.
Nothing.'
'No ghosts?'
'Nothing. She took them.'
'Who?'
'The unexpected visitor, that's who.' He laughed, raised his hands. '
We play our games. We never expect… umbrage. Outrage. I could have told them. Warned them, but they wouldn't have listened. The conceit consumes all. A single building can become an entire world, the minds crowding and jostling, then clawing and gouging. All they need do is walk outside, but they don't. They've forgotten that outside exists.
Oh, all these faces of worship, none of which is true worship. Never mind the diligence, it does naught but serve the demon hatreds within.
The spites and fears and malice. I could have told them.'
Cutter walked to the wall, leading his horse. He climbed onto its back, perched on the saddle, then straightened until he was standing.
The top of the wall was within easy reach. He pulled himself up. In the compound beyond, bodies. A dozen or so, black-skinned, mostly naked, lying here and there on the hard-packed, white ground. Cutter squinted. The bodies looked to be… boiling, frothing, melting. They roiled before his eyes. He pulled his gaze away from them. The domed temple's doors were yawning open. To the right was a low corral surrounding a low, long structure, the mud-bricks exposed for two thirds of the facing wall. Troughs with plaster and tools indicated a task never to be completed. Vultures crowded the flat roof, yet none ventured down to feast on the corpses.