Such unpleasant thoughts were in the habit of wandering into his mind when the sun had long fled the sky, when he should have been asleep-plummeted into the drunken stupor of oblivion here in the decrepit room he had rented opposite the Harridict Tavern on this damned island. Instead he stood by the window, wide awake, listening to the cold wind creak its way through the shutters. And even if it had been a warm night, he doubted he would have opened those shutters. Better to see nothing but those weathered slats; better to be reminded that there was no way out.
The Worm of Autumn stirred in his gut; an immortal parasite and he its mortal host. The goddess was within him once more, after all these years. Again, no surprise. After all, I’m the only one left. Yet D’rek remained as no more than a presence, a faint taste on his tongue. There had been no battle of wills; but he knew it would come. The goddess needed him and sooner or later she would reach out and close a cold fist about his soul.
This was no way to be called by one’s god.
He heard skittering noises behind him and slowly closed his eyes.
‘Smells. Smells, smells, smells.’
The words were a whining whisper in Banaschar’s head.
‘That’s the problem, Telorast. With this island. With this entire continent! Oh, why did we come here? We should have stolen the bodies of two gulls, never mind these rotting stick-things with empty bellies we can’t never fill! How many rats have we killed, Telorast? Answer me!’
‘So we couldn’t eat them,’ muttered Telorast. ‘Killing them was fun, wasn’t it? Cleanest ships in the world. Enough of your complaining, Curdle. Can’t you feel how close we are?’
‘She’s walked here!’ Now there was terror in Curdle’s voice. ‘What are we doing in this place?’
Banaschar turned. The two knee-high skeletal reptiles were pacing back and forth the length of the cot, clambering awkwardly amidst the dishevelled folds of bedding. ‘A good question,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here? In my room? And who is “she”?’
Curdle’s head bobbed, jaws clacking. ‘Not-Not-Apsalar drove us away. But we need to tell someone!’
‘Anyone!’ chimed Telorast. ‘Even you!’
‘Her name is Lostara Yil,’ Banaschar said. ‘Not Not-Not-Apsalar-gods, did I just say that?’
‘ “She”,’ Curdle said, tail whipping, ‘is the one who walked here. Long ago. More long ago than you could even think of, that long ago. Telorast is mad. She’s excited, but how can anyone be excited when we’re so close to her? Madness!’
‘just because she walked here,’ Telorast said, ‘doesn’t mean she’s still hanging around. Got no big skulls to push her fist through, not for a long time, right? And look at us, Curdle. We could dance in the palm of her hand. Either one. Or both, one for me and one for you-and she wouldn’t be able to tell anything about us, not anything.’ The creature swung to face Banaschar again. ‘So there’s no reason to panic, and that’s what you need to tell Curdle, Wormfood. So, go on, tell her.’
Banaschar slowly blinked, then said, ‘There’s nothing to worry about, Curdle. Now, will you two leave? I have more brooding to do and half the night’s gone.’
Telorast’s razor-beaked head swung to Curdle. ‘See?
Everything’s fine. We’re close because we have to be. Because it’s where Edgewalker wants-’
‘Quiet!’ Curdle hissed.
Telorast ducked. ‘Oh. We have to kill him now, don’t we?’
‘No, that would be messy. We just have to hope for a terrible accident. Quick, Telorast, think of a tenible accident!’
‘I’ve never heard of Edgewalker,’ Banaschar said. ‘Relax and go away and forget thinking about killing me. Unless you want to awaken D’rek, that is. The goddess might well know who this Edgewalker is, and from that might be able to glean something of your deadly secret mission, and from that she might decide it would be better if you two were crushed into dust.’
Curdle leapt down from the cot, crept closer to Banaschar, then began to grovel. ‘We didn’t mean anything by any of that. We never mean anything, do we, Telorast? We’re most useless and tiny besides.’
‘We can smell the Worm all right,’ Telorast said, head bobbing. ‘On you. In you. Just one more dread smell hereabouts. We don’t like it at all. Let’s go, Curdle. He’s not the one we should be talking to. Not as dangerous as Not-Apsalar, but just as scary. Open those shutters, Wormfood; we’ll go out that way.’
‘Easy for you,’ Banaschar muttered, turning back to pull the slatted barriers aside. The wind gusted in like Hood’s own breath, and the reborn priest shivered.
In a flash the two reptiles were perched on the sill.
‘Look, Telorast, pigeon poo.’
Then the two creatures leapt from sight. After a moment, Banaschar closed the shutters once more. Making right his vision of the world. His world, at least.
‘Shillydan the dark’eyed man Pokes his head up for a look round Hillyman the black-clawed man Came up the well for a look round
“Well and and/” says the twelve-toed man And round down the hill he bound Still-me-hand the dead’Smile man Went bounding bound down he did bound
Shitty dan the red’Water man Croaks and kisses die lass’s brow Hillyman the blue-Cocked man-’
‘For Hood’s sake, Crump, stop that damned singing!’
The gangly sapper straightened, stared with mouth agape, then ducked down once more and resumed digging the pit. Under his breath he began humming his mad, endless swamp song.
Corporal Shard watched the dirt flying out, caught by the whipping wind in wild swirls, for a moment longer. Twenty paces beyond the deep hole and Crump’s flashing shovel squatted the low-walled stone enclosure where the squad had stashed their gear, and where now crouched Sergeant Cord, Masan Gilani, Limp and Ebron, taking shelter from the blustery wind. In a short while, Cord would call everyone to their feet, and the patrol of this part of die coast would begin.
In the meantime, Crump was digging a pit. A deep pit, just like the sergeant ordered. Just like the sergeant had been ordering every day for nearly a week now.
Shard rubbed at his numbed face, sick with worry over his sister. The Sinn he knew was gone and no sign of her remained. She’d found her power, creating something avid, almost lurid, in her dark eyes. He was frightened of her and he was not alone in that. Limp’s bad knees knocked together whenever she came too close, and Ebron made what he thought were subtle, unseen gestures of warding behind her back. Masan Gilani seemed unaffected-that at least was something, maybe a woman thing at that, since Faradan Sort had been pretty much the same.
That simple? Terrifying to men but not women? But why would that be the case?
He had no answer for that.
Crump’s humming was getting louder, drawing Shard’s attention once again. Loud enough to very nearly overwhelm the distant groans of dying ice from the other side of the strait. Worth yelling at the fool again? Maybe not.
Dirt flying out, skirling skyward then racing out on the wave of the gelid wind.
There were holes dotted along half a league of this island’s north coast. Crump was proud of his achievement, and would go on being proud, probably for ever. Finest holes ever dug. Ten, fifty, a hundred, however many the sergeant wanted, yes sir.
Shard believed that Cord’s fervent hope that one such pit would collapse, burying the damned idiot once and for all, was little more than wishful thinking.
After all, Crump digs great holes.
He heard a piping shriek from some way behind him and turned. And there she was. Sinn, the girl he used to throw onto a shoulder like a sack of tubers-a giggling sack-and rush with through room after room as her laughter turned to squeals and her legs started kicking. Straggly black hair whipping about, a bone flute in her hands, its music flung out into the bitter tumult like inky strands, as she cavorted in the face of the weather as if spider-bitten.