Reaper's Gale

Thus, a lone set of footprints now, tracking along that wall, a shadow diminished to almost nothing beneath the tall, olive-skinned warrior, who paused to look skyward as a flock of unfamiliar birds skittered across the blue gap, then continued on until he reached the far end, where a huge barred gate blocked the way into the street beyond. The figures of guards were just visible beyond the thick, rust-pitted bars. Icarium halted facing that gate, stood motionless, the sunlight bleaching him as if the Jhag had just stepped out from the frieze on his left, as faded and worn as any hero of antiquity.

But no, not a hero. Not in anyone’s eyes. Not ever. A weapon and nothing more. Yet… he lives, he breathes, and when something breathes, it is more than a weapon. Hot blood in the veins, the grace of motion, a cavort of thoughts and feelings in that skull, awareness like flames in the eyes. The Nameless Ones had knelt on the threshold of stone for too long. Worshipping a house, its heaved grounds, its echoing rooms-why not the living, breathing ones who might dwell within that house? Why not the immortal builders? A temple was hallowed ground not to its own existence but to the god it would honour. But the Nameless Ones did not see it that way. Worship taken to its absurd extreme… yet perhaps in truth as primitive as leaving an offering in a fold of rock, of blood-paint on that worn surface… oh, I am not the one for this, for thoughts that chill the marrow of my soul.

A Gral, cut and scarred by the betrayals. The ones that wait in every man’s shadow-for we are both house and dweller. Stone and earth. Blood and flesh. And so we will haunt the old rooms, walk the familiar corridors, until, turning a corner, we find ourselves facing a stranger, who can be none other than our most evil reflection.

And then the knives are drawn and a life’s battle is waged, year after year, deed after deed. Courage and vile treachery, cowardice and bright malice.

The stranger has driven me back, step by step. Until I no longer know myself-what sane man would dare recognize his own infamy? Who would draw pleasure from the sensation of evil, satisfaction from its all too bitter rewards? No, instead we run with our own lies-do 1 not utter my vows of vengeance each dawn? Do 1 not whisper my curses against all those who wronged me?

And now I dare judge the Nameless Ones, who would wield one evil against another. And what of my place in this dread scheme?

He stared across at Icarium, who still faced the gate, who stood like a statue, blurred behind ripples of heat. My stranger. Yet which one of us is the evil one?

His predecessor, Mappo-the Trell-had long ago left such struggles behind, Taralack suspected. Choosing to betray the Nameless Ones rather than this warrior before the gate. An evil choice? The Gral was no longer so sure of his answer.

Hissing under his breath, he pushed himself from the wall and walked the length of the compound, through waves of heat, to stand at the Jhag’s side. ‘If you leave your weapons,’ Taralack said, ‘you are free to wander the city.’

‘Free to change my mind?’ Icarium asked with a faint smile.

‘That would achieve little-except perhaps our immediate execution.’

‘There might be mercy in that.’

‘You do not believe your own words, Icarium. Instead, you speak to mock me.’

‘That may be true, Taralack Veed. As for this city,’ he shook his head, ‘I am not yet ready.’

‘The Emperor could decide at any moment-’

‘He will not. There is time.’

The Gral scowled up at the Jhag. ‘How are you certain?’

‘Because, Taralack Veed,’ Icarium said, quiet and measured as he turned to walk back, ‘he is afraid.’

Staring after him, the Gral was silent. Of you? What does he know? Seven Holies, who would know of this land’s history? Its legends? Are they forewarned of Icarium and all that waits within him?

Icarium vanished in the shadow beneath the building entranceway. After a dozen rapid heartbeats, Taralack followed, not to reclaim the Jhag’s dour companionship, but to find one who might give him the answers to the host of questions now assailing him.

Varat Taun, once second in command to Atri-Preda Yan Tovis, huddled in a corner of the unfurnished room. His only reaction to Yan Tovis’s arrival was a flinch. Curling yet lighter in that corner, he did not lift his head to look upon her. This man had, alone, led Taralack Veed and Icarium back through the warrens-a tunnel torn open by unknown magic, through every realm the expedition had traversed on their outward journey. The Atri-Preda herself had seen the blistering wound that had been the exit gate; she had heard its shrieking howl, a voice that seemed to reach into her chest and grip her heart; she had stared in disbelieving wonder at the three figures emerging from it, one dragged between two…

No other survivors. Not one. Neither Edur nor Letherii.