Trull had fixed straps to the box. Onrack collected it then led his companion into the circle.
The three Liosan had completed breaking their camp and were now saddling their white horses.
The fires continued flickering in and out of existence around the periphery, none large enough to pose a threat. But Onrack could sense the approach of the Liosan god. Or at least the outermost layers of its disguise. Cautious, mistrustful-not of the seneschal, of course-but for this to work, the hidden spirit would have to come to this realm’s very edge.
And when Jorrude offered up his own blood, the bridge of power between him and his god would be complete.
The thud of horse hoofs announced the arrival of the other three Liosan, the four mounts in tow.
Onrack drew forth from beneath rotted furs a small crescent-shaped obsidian knife, single-edged on the inward-curving line, and held it out to Trull. ‘When I so instruct you, Trull Sengar, cut yourself. A few drops will suffice.’
The Tiste Edur frowned. ‘I thought you were-’
‘I would not be distracted, in the moment of crossing.’
‘Distracted?’
‘Say nothing. Attend to yourself.’
His frown deepening, Trull crouched to return the two cussers to the box, affixed the lid once more and slung the contrivance over a shoulder, then straightened and accepted the stone blade.
The flames were now growing, unbroken immediately beyond the inscribed ring. Kurald Thyrllan, but the ascendant shaping it remained unseen. Onrack wondered at its nature. If these Liosan were any indication, it found sustenance from purity, as if such a thing was even possible. Intransigence. Simplicity .
The simplicity of blood, a detail whispering of antiquity, of primeval origins. A spirit, then, before whom a handful of savages once bowed. There had been many such entities, once, born of that primitive assertion of meaning to object, meaning shaped by symbols and portents, scratchings on rock-faces and in the depths of caves.
No shortage… but tribes died out, were winnowed out, were devoured by more powerful neighbours. The secret language of the scratchings, the caves with their painted images that came alive to the pounding of drums-those most mysterious cathedrals of thunder… all lost, forgotten. And with that fading away of secrets, so too the spirits themselves dwindled, usually into oblivion.
That some lingered was not surprising to Onrack. Even unto usurping the faith of a new tribe. What was new to the warrior, rising like a tightness into his desiccated throat, was the sense of… pathos.
In the name of purity, the Liosan worship their god. In the name of… of nostalgia, the god worships what was and shall never again return.
The spilling of blood was the deadliest of games.
As is about to be seen.
A harsh cry from the seneschal, and the flames rose into a wall on all sides, raging with unbridled power. Jorrude had laid open his left palm. Within the circle, a swirling wind rose, laden with the smells of a thaw-of spring in some northern clime.
Onrack turned to Trull. ‘Now.’
The Tiste Edur slashed the obsidian blade across the edge of his left hand, then stared down disbelieving at the gash-clear, the flesh neatly parted, frighteningly deep.
The blood emerged a moment later, welling forth, red roots racing and branching down his grey-skinned forearm.
The gate seemed to tear itself open, surrounding the group within the circle. Spiralling tunnels reached outward from it, each seeming to lead on into eternity. A roar of chaos on the flanks, miasmic grey fire in the spaces between the portals. Onrack reached out to catch a reeling Trull Sengar. The blood was spraying out from his left hand, as if the Edur’s entire body was being squeezed by some unseen, but unrelenting pressure.
Onrack glanced over-to see Monok Ochem standing alone, head tilted back as the winds of Tellann whipped the silver-tipped fur around his unhelmed head. Beyond the bonecaster, a momentary glimpse of Ibra Gholan, Olar Shayn and Haran Epal vanishing down a tunnel of fire.
The seneschal’s companions were now running towards their master’s prone, unconscious body.
Satisfied that the others were occupied-temporarily unmindful-Onrack dragged Trull close until their bodies made contact, the T’lan Imass managing a one-armed embrace. ‘Hold on to me,’ he rasped. ‘Trull Sengar, hold on to me-but free your left hand.’
Fingers clutched at Onrack’s ragged cloak, began dragging with growing weight. The T’lan Imass relinquished his one-armed hug and snapped out his hand-to close on Trull’s. The blood bit like acid into flesh that had forgotten pain. Onrack almost tore his grip free in the sudden, overwhelming agony, but then he tightened his hold and leaned close to the Tiste Edur. ‘ Listen! I, Onrack, once of the Logros but now stranger to the Ritual, avow service to Trull Sengar of the Tiste Edur. I pledge to defend your life. This vow cannot be sundered. Now, lead us from here! ’
