And so all doubt, all distrust, shall vanish.
For from those things, no sweet bliss can be wrung.
From overhead, a spatter of cold rain, and the deep rumble of thunder.
The storm would soon be upon them. 'I am rested enough,' Taralack said, rising. 'A long march awaits us-'
'There is no need,' Icarium said behind his hands.
'What do you mean?'
'The sea. It is filled with ships.'
The lone rider came down from the hills shortly after the ambush.
Barathol Mekhar, his huge, scarred and pitted forearms spattered with blood, rose from his long, silent study of the dead demon. He was wearing his armour and helm, and he now drew out his axe.
Months had passed since the T'lan Imass had appeared – he'd thought them long gone, gone even before old Kulat wandered off in his newfound madness. He had not realized – none of them had – that the terrible, undead creatures had never left.
The party of travellers had been slaughtered, the ambush so swiftly executed that Barathol had not even known of its occurrence – until it was far too late. Jhelim and Filiad had suddenly burst into the smithy, screaming of murder just beyond the hamlet. He had collected his weapon and run with them to the western road, only to find the enemy already departed, their task done, and upon the old road, dying horses and motionless bodies sprawled about as if they had dropped from the sky.
Sending Filiad to find the old woman Nulliss – who possessed modest skill as a healer – Barathol had returned to his smithy, ignoring Jhelim who trailed behind him like a lost pup. He had donned his armour, taking his time. The T'lan Imass, he suspected, would have been thorough. They would have had leisure to ensure that they had made no mistakes. Nulliss would find that nothing could be done for the poor victims.
Upon returning to the west road, however, he was astonished to see the ancient Semk woman shouting orders at Filiad from where she knelt at the side of one figure. It seemed to Barathol's eyes as he hurried forward, that she had thrust her hands into the man's body, her scrawny arms making motions as if she was kneading bread dough. Even as she did this, her gaze was on a woman lying nearby, who had begun moaning, legs kicking furrows in the dirt. From her, blood had spilled out everywhere.
Nulliss saw him and called him over.
Barathol saw that the man she knelt beside had been eviscerated.
Nulliss was pushing the intestines back inside. 'For Hood's sake, woman,' the blacksmith said in a growl, 'leave him be. He's done. You' ve filled his cavity with dirt-'
'Boiling water is on the way,' she snapped. 'I mean to wash it out.'
She nodded towards the thrashing woman. 'That one is stabbed in the shoulder, and now she's in labour.'
'Labour? Gods below. Listen, Nulliss, boiling water won't do, unless you mean to cook his liver for supper tonight-'
'Go back to your damned anvil, you brainless ape! It was a clean cut – I've seen what boars can do with their tusks and that was a whole lot worse.'
'Might've started clean-'
'I said I mean to clean it! But we can't carry him back with his guts trailing behind us, can we?'
Nonplussed, Barathol looked round. He wanted to kill something. A simple enough desire, but he already knew it would be thwarted and this soured his mood. He walked over to the third body. An old man, tattooed and handless – the T'lan Imass had chopped him to pieces. So.
He was their target. The others were simply in the way. Which is why they cared nothing whether they lived or died. Whereas this poor bastard couldn't be more dead than he was.
After a moment, Barathol made his way towards the last victim in sight. From the hamlet, more people were on the way, two of them carrying blankets and rags. Storuk, Fenar, Hayrith, Stuk, all looking somehow small, diminished and pale with fear. Nulliss began screaming orders once more.
Before him was sprawled a demon of some kind. Both limbs on one side had been sliced away. Not much blood, he noted, but something strange appeared to have afflicted the creature upon its death. It looked… deflated, as if the flesh beneath the skin had begun to dissolve, melt away into nothing. Its odd eyes had already dried and cracked.
'Blacksmith! Help me lift this one!'
Barathol walked back.
'On the blanket. Storuk, you and your brother on that end, one corner each. Fenar, you're with me on the other end-'
Hayrith, almost as old as Nulliss herself, held in her arms the rags.
'What about me?' she asked.
'Go sit by the woman. Stuff a cloth into the wound – we'll sear it later, unless the birth gives her trouble-'
