Deadhouse Landing

‘That is outside my purview.’

The creature fairly leapt into the air. ‘What? Purview? They trespass! Vandalize! Fall upon them and rend them bone from bone!’

‘No.’

‘No? It is what you do. None have defeated you! Exult in your supremacy, Edgewalker!’

‘You have no idea what it is I do, Koro.’

‘Faugh! Your passivity is infuriating! If you will not act then at least set Telorast and Curdle upon them.’

‘No.’

‘No?’ the creature fairly squawked. ‘No? Why ever not?’

‘Because I do not want them eaten. Not yet, in any case.’

Koro hopped in animated circles. ‘Bah! Do you guard or not?’

‘I do – in my own manner.’

‘Infuriating!’ And Koro leapt into the air.

‘Do not interfere,’ the skeletal figure called after it. ‘Save at my order.’

The creature flapped away, though its torn membranous wings did not appear in any way adequate to keep it aloft.

The desiccated corpse, Edgewalker, regarded the flat umber horizon in the direction of the gate to the Scarred Lands. It adjusted the hang of the sheathed sword at its side, dust sifting from the cracked leather belt, and continued its slow limping walk.

*   *   *

Dancer fell into what felt like a heap of ash. Sooty black dust that marked him like charcoal. To one side Kellanved sat coughing. Dancer stood and faced the gate, weapons raised.

‘It will not pursue us,’ Kellanved said, his voice hoarse.

‘Why not?’

‘I believe because it has not been summoned.’

‘We didn’t summon them before.’

Kellanved slapped the dust from his chest and sleeves. ‘Oh, we did! By invoking Shadow.’

Dancer eased his stance. ‘Ah. I see.’ He turned a full circle. Gentle rolling hills all round, bare, wind-blown, with scarves of ash and dust masking the distances. ‘Another garden spot you’ve managed to find for us. Why couldn’t it be an orchard, or a vineyard?’

Kellanved tapped his walking stick in the dirt. ‘Don’t blame me. All this is the legacy of ancient war, violence, and curses.’ He nodded to himself as he examined the blasted hillsides. ‘Yes. Curses. They linger even now.’

‘Are we safe?’

The little mage blinked, distracted. ‘What? Safe? Oh yes. Provided nothing from the period that produced this desolation should find us.’ He pointed his stick. ‘This way, I believe.’

Dancer set off with him, though every direction appeared the same. ‘How can you tell?’

Kellanved pointed. ‘I sense something over there. Some sort of disruption. Something perhaps impinging into the Warren here.’

Dancer shoved his blades home in his baldrics. ‘Well, let’s hope it’s not too much of a disruption.’

They walked on. Dancer had no idea how much time passed, or how far they’d travelled. All the landscape ran together into one indistinguishable wasteland of blackened earth and blowing ash and dust. It left a taste of acrid smoke in his mouth, stung his eyes, and tricked his ears with faint ghostly brushings and moans.

He wondered if the place was haunted and decided it probably was.

After a time something changed ahead; some sort of haze blurred the distant hillsides, as of a dust storm. It appeared to be heading their way, like a moving curtain of darkness.

The two men slowed, then halted. ‘What is it?’ Dancer asked.

‘I do not know – but it isn’t natural, I assure you of that.’

‘Nothing here is natural.’ He drew out a handkerchief and tied it over his lower face.

Kellanved watched, amused. ‘It is not that sort of storm. It is like a storm among Warrens. We must be passing over a bizarre region.’ Dancer glimpsed the faint rippling about him that betrayed his raised Warren.

Dust and sand now buffeted them and the Dal Hon frowned. ‘This isn’t normal.’

Dancer turned his back to the wind. ‘Of course it isn’t!’

Kellanved shielded his eyes. ‘No. I mean it should be one or the other. Magical or natural – not both.’

‘Both?’

‘Yes. I—’ He broke off, raised his hands to his face and stared at them. He looked to Dancer, his eyes huge with dread. ‘Oh no…’

‘What is it?’ Dancer studied his own hands: dust coated them, a fine rust-red powder.

The little mage let out a wordless cry and staggered off into the shifting curtains of sand. Dancer chased after him, calling, ‘What is it?’

Lightning crackled like enormous releases of static sparks. Shadows whipped about like wind-tossed scraps. Dancer glimpsed Kellanved at the centre of this weird storm. The mage was spinning, his arms thrown wide, and he appeared to be slowly rising. The tatters of shadow seemed to be either emerging from him or eating into him; Dancer couldn’t tell which. ‘What is it?’ he yelled again, desperate.

A voice called from behind and Dancer spun; a stocky figure was advancing through the dust storm, one arm over his face, the other pointing past Dancer. ‘Knock him out!’ he bellowed. ‘Take him down before he kills us all!’

Dancer charged Kellanved, drawing a heavy knife as he did so. The lad had risen so far Dancer had to leap to reach him; he swung, blade reversed, and smacked him across the back of the head. Kellanved fell in a heap, unconscious. Dancer pressed a hand to his neck – alive, but weak.