A few moments later he stood outside, feeling strangely weighed down, by nothing less than an old man's kind, forgiving nature. He stood for a while, unmoving, watching the locals hurrying past. Like ants in a kicked nest. And the next kick is going to be a killer …
Stonny watched Gruntle leave, then turned to Keruli. 'You said you had instructions for me?'
'Our friend the captain has a difficult path ahead.'
Stonny scowled. 'Gruntle doesn't walk difficult paths. First sniff of trouble and he's off the opposite way.'
'Sometimes there is no choice.'
'And what am I supposed to do about it?'
'His time is coming. Soon. I ask only that you stay close to him.'
Her scowl deepened. 'That depends on him. He has a talent for not being found.'
Keruli turned back to tend the oven. 'I'd rather think,' he murmured, 'that his talent is about to fail him.'
Torchlight and diffuse sunlight bathed the array of dugout canoes and their wrapped corpses. The entire pit had been exposed, gutting most of the Thrall's floor — the granite pillar with its millstone cap standing alone in the very centre — to reveal the crafts, crushed and cluttered like the harvest of an ancient hurricane.
Hetan knelt, head bowed, before the first dugout. She had not moved in some time.
Itkovian had descended to conduct his own close examination of the remains, and now moved with careful steps among the wreckage, Cafal following in silence. The Shield Anvil's attention was drawn to the carving on the prows; while no two sets were identical, there was a continuity in the themes depicted — scenes of battle at sea, the Barghast clearly recognizable in their long, low dugouts, struggling with a singular enemy, a tall, lithe species with angular faces and large, almond-shaped eyes, in high-walled ships.
As he crouched to study one such panel, Cafal murmured behind him, 'T'isten'ur.'
Itkovian glanced back. 'Sir?'
'The enemies of our Founding Spirits. T'isten'ur, the Grey-Skinned. Demons in the oldest tales who collected heads, yet kept the victims living … heads that remained watchful, bodies that worked ceaselessly. T'isten'ur: demons who dwelt in shadows. The Founding Spirits fought them on the Blue Wastes…' He fell silent, brow knitting, then continued, 'The Blue Wastes. We had no understanding of such a place. The shouldermen believed it was our Birth Realm. But now … it was the sea, the oceans.'
'The Barghast Birth Realm in truth, then.'
'Aye. The Founding Spirits drove the T'isten'ur from the Blue Wastes, drove the demons back into their underworld, the Forest of Shadows — a realm said to lie far to the southeast …'
'Another continent, perhaps.'
'Perhaps.'
'You are discovering the truth behind your oldest legends, Cafal. In my home of Elingarth, far to the south of here, there are stories of a distant continent in the direction you have indicated. A land, sir, of giant firs and redwoods and spruce — a forest unbroken, its feet hidden in shadows and peopled with deadly wraiths.
'As Shield Anvil,' Itkovian resumed after a moment, returning his attention once more to the carvings, 'I am as much a scholar as a warrior. T'isten'ur — a name with curious echoes. Tiste Andii, the Dwellers in Darkness. And, more rarely mentioned, and then in naught but fearful whispers, their shadow-kin, the Tiste Edur. Grey-skinned, believed extinct — and thankfully so, for it is a name sheathed in dread. T'isten'ur, the first glottal stop implies past tense, yes? Tlan, now T'lan — your language is kin to that of the Imass. Close kin. Tell me, do you understand Moranth?'
Cafal grunted. 'The Moranth speak the language of the Barghast shouldermen — the holy tongue — the language that rose from the pit of darkness from whence all thought and all words first came. The Moranth claim kinship with the Barghast — they call us their Fallen Kin. But it is they who have fallen, not us. They who have found a shadowed forest in which to live. They who have embraced the alchemies of the T'isten'ur. They who made peace with the demons long ago, exchanging secrets, before retreating into their mountain fastnesses and hiding for ever behind their insect masks. Ask no more of the Moranth, wolf. They are fallen and unrepentant. No more.'
'Very well, Cafal.' Itkovian slowly straightened. 'But the past refuses to remain buried — as you see here. The past hides restless truths, too, unpleasant truths as well as joyous ones. Once the effort of unveiling has begun … Sir, there is no going back.'
'I have reached that understanding,' the Barghast warrior growled. 'As my father warned us — in success, we shall find seeds of despair.'
