Karsa shook his head. Not just me, Bairoth Gild. But you yourself. Do you deny it ?
‘ No, Warleader. We do not. Thus, we accept what you offer .’ Karsa knew that he alone could see the ghosts of his friends at this moment, as they seemed to dissolve, reduced to pure will, that then flowed down into the flint. Flowed, to find a shape, a form of cohesion…
Awaiting… He swept dust and grit from the roughened surface, then closed both hands about the short-sword’s stubby grip. He lifted the weapon high, fixing his gaze upon the battered striking platform, then drove the pommel down. A strange snapping sound-
Then Karsa was leaping forward, short-sword flung aside, down through the air, spinning as he dropped. His knees flexed to absorb the impact, even as he raised his hands to intersect the toppling spear of flint.
A spear almost as tall as the Teblor himself.
It fell away from the pillar, a flattened shard, and settled into his hands. A warm lick on his palms, and suddenly blood was running down his forearms. Karsa quickly backed up, lowering the blade to the floor. When he drew his hands away he saw that they had been cut down to the bone. Clever Bairoth, to drink my blood to seal the bargain .
‘You… surpass us,’ Halad whispered.
Karsa went to his pack and drew out a bundle of field dressings and a sewing kit. There would be no infection, of course, and he would heal swiftly. Still, he would need to close the cuts before he could hope to begin work on the huge blade’s edges, and hack out a grip of sorts.
‘We shall invest the weapon,’ Urugal announced behind him. ‘So that it cannot be broken.’
Karsa nodded.
‘We shall make you the Eighth God of the Teblor.’
‘No,’ he replied as he began working on his left hand. ‘I am not as you, Urugal. I am not Unbound. You yourself closed the chains about me. By your own hands, you saw to it that the souls of those I have slain will pursue me eternally. You have shaped my haunting, Urugal. Beneath such a curse, I can never be unbound.’
‘There is place for you none the less,’ Urugal said, ‘in the House of Chains.’
‘Aye. Knight of Chains, champion of the Crippled God.’
‘You have learned much, Karsa Orlong.’
He stared down at his bloodied hands. ‘I have, T’lan Imass. As you shall witness.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
How many times, dear traveller, will you walk the same path?
Kayessan
To the north, the dust of the imperial army obscured the forest-mantled hills of Vathar. It was late afternoon, the hottest part of the day, when the wind died and the rocks radiated like flatstones on a hearth. Sergeant Strings remained motionless beneath his ochre rain cloak, lying flat as he studied the lands to the southwest. Sweat streamed down his face to prickle in his iron-shot red beard.
After a long moment studying the mass of horse warriors that had emerged out of the dusty odhan in their wake, Strings lifted a gloved hand and gestured.
The others of his squad rose from their places of concealment and edged back from the crest. The sergeant watched them until they reached cover once more, then slid around and followed.
Endless skirmishes with raiders these last weeks, beginning just outside Dojal, with more heated clashes with Kherahn Dhobri tribes at Tathimon and Sanimon… but nothing like the army now trailing them. Three thousand warriors, at the very least, of a tribe they’d not seen before. Countless barbaric standards rose above the host, tall spears topped with ragged streamers, antlers, horns and skulls. The glitter of bronze scale armour was visible beneath the black telabas and furs, as well as-more prolific-a strange greyish armour that was too supple to be anything but hide. The helms, from what Strings could make out with the distance, looked to be elaborate, many of them crow-winged, of leather and bronze.
Strings slid down to where his squad waited. They’d yet to engage in hand-to-hand combat, their sum experience of fighting little more than firing crossbows and occasionally holding a line. So far … so good . The sergeant faced Smiles. ‘All right, it’s settled-climb on that miserable horse down below, lass, and ride to the lieutenant. Looks like we’ve got a fight coming.’
Sweat had tracked runnels through the dust sheathing her face. She nodded, then scrambled off.
‘Bottle, go to Gesler’s position, and have him pass word to Borduke. I want a meeting. Quick, before their scouts get here.’
‘Aye, Sergeant.’
After a moment, Strings drew out his waterskin and passed it to Corporal Tarr, then he tapped Cuttle on the shoulder and the two of them made their way back to the ridge.
