Can you hear me, K’rull?

No matter. You will see what there is to see, soon enough.

xx

These were, he decided, glorious times indeed.

Push it on to the next moment

Don’t think now, save it

For later when thinking will show

Its useless face

When it’s too late and worry is wasted

In the rush for cover

Push it past into that pocket

So that it relents its gnawing presence

And nothing is worth doing

In pointless grace

When all the valid suppositions

Smother your cries

Push it over into the deep hole

You don’t want to know

In case it breaks and makes you feel

Cruel reminders

When all you could have done is now past

No don’t bother

Push it well into the corner

It’s no use, so spare me the grief.

You didn’t like the cost so bright, so high

The bloodiest cut

When all you sought was sweet pleasure

To the end of your days

Push it on until it pushes back

Shout your shock, shout it

You never imagined you never knew what

Turning away would do

Now wail out your dread in waves of disbelief

It’s done it’s dead

Push your way to the front

Clawing the eyes of screaming kin

No legacy awaits your shining children

It’s killed, killed

Gone the future all to feed some holy glory

The world is over. Over.

– Siban’s Dying Confession, Siban Of Aren

We watched him approach from a league away

Staggering beneath the weight of all he held

In his arms

We thought he wore a crown but when he came near

The circlet was revealed as the skin of a serpent

Biting its tail

We laughed and shared the carafe when he fell

Cheering as he climbed back upright

In pleasing charm

We slowed into silence when he arrived

And saw for ourselves the burden he carried

Kept from harm

We held stern in the face of his relieved smile

And he said this fresh young world he had found

Was now ours

We looked on as if we were grand gods

Contemplating a host of undeserved gifts

Drawing knives

Bold with pride we cut free bloodied slices

And ate our fill

We saw him weep then when nothing was left

Backing away with eyes of pain and dismay

Arms falling

But wolves will make of any world a carcass

We simply replied with our natures revealed

In all innocence

We proclaimed with zeal our humble purity

Though now he turned away and did not hear

As the taste soured

And the betrayal of poison crept into our limbs

We watched him walk away now a league maybe more

His lonely march

His mourning departure from our kindness

His happy annihilation of our mindless selves

Snake-bit unto death

– The Last Days Of Our Inheritance, Fisher Kel That

The vast springs of the carriage slammed down to absorb the thundering impact, then, as the enormous conveyance surged back up, Gruntle caught a momentary glimpse of one of the Bole brothers, his grip torn loose, wheeling through the grainy air. Arms scything, legs kicking, face wide with bemused surprise.

His tether snapped taut, and Gruntle saw that the idiot had tied it to one of his ankles. The man plunged down and out of sight.

The horses were screaming, manes whipping in their frantic heaves forward across stony, broken ground. Shadowy figures voiced muted cries as the beasts trampled them under hoof, and the carriage rocked sickeningly over bodies.

Someone was shrieking in his ear, and Gruntle twisted round on his perch on the carriage roof, to see the other Bole brother-Jula-tugging on the tether. A foot appeared-moccasin gone, long knobby toes splayed wide as if seeking a branch-and then the shin and lumpy knee. A moment later Amby reached up, found a handhold, and pulled himself back on to the roof. Wearing the strangest grin Gruntle had ever seen.

In the half-light the Trygalle carriage raced onward, plunging through seething masses of people. Even as they carved through like a ship cutting crazed seas, rugged, rotting arms reached up to the sides. Some caught hold only to have their arms torn from their sockets. Others were pulled off their feet, and these ones started climbing, seeking better purchase.

Upon which the primary function of the shareholders was made apparent. Sweetest Sufferance, the short, plump woman with the bright smile, was now snarling, whaling with a hatchet into an outreaching arm. Bones snapped like sticks and she shouted as she kicked into a leering desiccated face, hard enough to punch the head from the shoulders.

Damned corpses-they were riding through a sea of animated corpses, and it seemed that virtually every one of them wanted to book passage.

A large brutish shape reared up beside Gruntle. Barghast, hairy as an ape, filed blackened teeth revealed in a delighted grin.

Releasing one hand from the brass rung, Gruntle tugged loose one of his cut-lasses, slashed the heavy blade into the corpse’s face. It reeled away, the bottom half of the grin suddenly gone. Twisting further round, Gruntle kicked the Barghast in the chest. The apparition fell back. A moment later someone else appeared, narrow-shouldered, the top of its head an elongated pate with a nest of mousy hair perched on the crown, a wizened face beneath it.

Gruntle kicked again.

The carriage pitched wildly as the huge wheels rolled over something big. Gruntle felt himself swinging out over the roof edge and he shouted in pain as his hand was wrenched where it gripped a rung. Clawed fingers scrabbled against his thighs and he kicked in growing panic. His heel struck something that didn’t yield and he used that purchase to launch himself back on to the roof.

On the opposite side, three dead men were now mauling Sweetest Sufferance, each one seemingly intent on some kind of rape. She twisted and writhed beneath them, chopping with her hatchets, biting at their withered hands and head-butting the ones that tried for a kiss. Reccanto Ilk then joined the fray, using a strange saw-toothed knife as he attacked various joints-shoulders, knees, elbows-and tossing the severed limbs over the side as he went.

Gruntle lifted himself on to his knees and glared out across the landscape. The masses of dead, he realized, were all moving in one direction, whilst the carriage cut obliquely into their path-and as the resistance before them built, figures converging like blood to a wound, forward momentum began inexorably to slow, the horses stamping high as they clambered over ever more undead.

Someone was shouting near the rear of the carriage, and Gruntle turned to see the woman named Faint leaning down over the side, yelling through the shut-tered window.

Another heavy blow buffeted the carriage, and something demonic roared. Claws tore free a chunk of wood.

‘Get us out of here!’

Gruntle could not agree more, as the demon suddenly loomed into view, rep-tilian arms reaching for him.

Snarling, he leapt to his feet, both weapons now in hand.

An elongated, fanged face lunged at him, hissing.

Gruntle roared back-a deafening sound-cutlasses lashing out. Edges slammed into thick hide, sliced deep into lifeless flesh, down to the bones of the demon’s long neck.

He saw something like surprise flicker in the creature’s pitted eyes, and then the head and half of the neck fell away.

Two more savage chops sent its forearms spinning.

The body plunged back, and even as it did so smaller corpses were scrambling on to it, as if climbing a ladder.

He now heard a strange sound ahead, rhythmic, like the clashing of weapons against shield rims. But the sound was too loud for that, too overwhelming, unless-Gruntle straightened and faced forward.