Having drawn closer until flanked by the hooped frames of two huts, the cats halted, the one on the left sitting down on its haunches, and then flopping on to the thin snow and rolling on to its back.
Tension eased from Gruntle. Hungry for company . He faced the cave once more, and then slipped into the darkness. Instead of bitter cold, he felt heat, gusting damp and fetid from further within.
She is here. She is waiting for me .
Oh, how I have waited for this moment. Trake, I never asked for this. I never asked for you. And when you chose me, I told you, again and again, it was a mistake. Stonny, if you could see me now, you’d understand. You’d know the why … of all of this .
I can almost see it – that one, quick nod – to tell me it’s all right. I won’t be coming back, but it’s all right. We both know there are some places you can’t come back from. Not ever .
He considered sembling and then decided against it. She would meet him as she chose, but he was Trake’s Mortal Sword – at least on this day. A voice whispered inside him, distant, hollow, commanding him to turn round, to flee this place, but he ignored it.
The crevasse narrowed, twisting, before opening out into a vast, domed cavern.
She stood facing him, a squat, muscular woman cloaked in the fur of a panther, but otherwise naked. Her hooded eyes held glints of gold, her round face was framed in thick, long black hair. Her broad, full-lipped mouth was set, unwelcoming.
Behind her, on a cracked hump of stone, was the ruin of a house. Walls had caved in and it seemed that an ancient tree had grown up from beneath the structure, shattering the foundations, but the tree was now dead. Sorrow drifted down from the broken edifice, bitter to Gruntle’s senses.
Above it, just under the dome, steam roiled, the clouds lit from behind – as if the cavern’s roof was glowing, hot enough to melt the stone. Staring up at this manifestation, Gruntle felt on the verge of falling upward – pulled into a realm unimaginably vast. Vast, yes, but not empty .
She spoke in his mind, that now familiar deep, liquid voice. ‘ Starvald Demelain, Mortal Sword, now commanding this place, transforming the very stone itself. No other gate remains. As for you … is this your god’s panic? You should not be here. Tell him, Mortal Sword – tell my child – I will not permit your interference .’
Your child? You claim to be Trake’s mother, do you?
He sensed a flash of irritation. ‘ First Swords, First Empire, First Heroes – we were a people proud of such things, for all the good it did us. I have birthed many children. Most of them are now dead .’
So is Trake .
‘ First Heroes were chosen, Mortal Sword, to become gods, and so escape death. All that he surrendered that day on the Plains of Lamatath was his mortal flesh. But like any god, he cannot risk becoming manifest, and so he created you. His Mortal Sword, the weapon of his will .’
Remind me to thank him for that .
‘ You must stand aside here ,’ she said. ‘ The Eleint are coming. If you seek to oppose them, you will die, Mortal Sword .’
No, what you fear is that I shall succeed .
‘ I will not permit that .’
Then it is you and I who shall fight in this cavern, as I have seen in my dreams —
‘ Dreams? You fool. I was trying to warn you .’
Black fur … blood, a dying breath – woman, these were not your sendings .
‘ There is little time left! Gruntle, do not challenge this! ’ She lifted her arms out to the sides. ‘ Look at me! I am Kilava Onass, a Bonecaster of the Imass. I defied the Ritual of Tellann, and my power beggars that of your human gods. What will occur here not even I can prevent – do you understand me? It is … necessary …’
He had expected such words, but still his hackles rose. It’s what we always hear, isn’t it? From generals and warlords and miserable tyrants. Justifying yet another nightmare epoch of slaughter. Of suffering, misery and despair. And what do we all do? We duck down and weather it. We tell ourselves that this is how it must be – I stood on the roof of a building, and all around me people were dying. And by my hand – gods! That building wept blood!
For what? They all died – the whole fucking city – all those people – they just died anyway!
I told Trake he chose wrongly. I was never a soldier – I despise war. I detest all the sordid lies about glory and honour – you, Kilava, if you have lived as long as you say you have, if Trake is your get, then you have seen a child of yours kneel to war – as if war itself was a damned god!