The Third God (62 page)

He came to a depression filled with brown paste. Its rim of limbs made it seem the remains of some gigantic crab a vast footfall had crushed. Then he saw a torso rising from it: a bag whose contents had been squeezed out to add to the paste. The vomit rose and he struggled to release his mask. Too late. His stomach pumped acid against the barrier of his mask. Vomit thrust up into his nose and oozed out under the chin. Stinging, it choked him. The mask came loose and he almost flung it away. With his free hands he scraped the filth from his face, blew his nostrils clean and gulped at the air. The noisome miasma was so thickened by the stench of decay his lungs clamped tight. Tears in his eyes, blinked clear. He was confronted by the crazed skull-grin of a face stripped by fire of its nose and lips. He doubled over and pumped more vomit out on the ground. His mask was digging into his hand. He glanced at it and saw its gold lips were rouged with filth. He pulled his cowl down over his face and cautiously looked round. The crewmen were all either being sick or reeling, sickly pale, staring blindly. He began to move on, and they staggered after him.

He walked through that realm of filth and death, his stomach clenching in dry heaves. His gaze darted from horror to horror, but there was always more. What steadied his steps was the discovery that some still lived among the dead. Of these, most had faces already greyed with death, but others looked as if they might survive. It gave him a focus: the hope of salvaging something from this atrocity.

At last he came to a region where the irregular contours of the dead gave way to rings. There the Lepers lay fallen in the hornwalls he had taught them to make. Rimmed by the ridged leather cuirasses of the half-tattooed Ichorians, the Leper formations were still unbroken. He felt a manic pride that they had withstood the Ichorian onslaught.

He reached his beacon rock and found it to be a ruined dragon tower heeled over on its roof. Its mast, now a splintered stump, propped it up. Charred and shattered, in places its bone walls had blistered, exposing its decks, spilling its entrails of pipes and ropes and furnaces. The wreck lay in an ooze of naphtha like black blood. Raising his eyes, Carnelian saw the trail of carnage the tower had made as it rolled to a halt and realized he had witnessed its meteor fall. As far as he could see, the earth was clothed by the dead and dying. A moaning exhaling from many throats stirred in him again the need to save those he could.

It was the pale corona of her hair that showed him where she lay. An Ichorian corpse half covering her had torn the shrouds from her head. Carnelian took hold of the man’s black-tattooed arm, then rolled him off. He gaped at Lily. Between her legs a still wet welling of blood glued her shrouds to her thighs and oozed out to join the gore soaking the earth so that, for a moment, it seemed it was her menstruation that had flooded the battlefield. He crouched and, gingerly, pulled aside the cloth looking for a wound. The flesh below was rosy, but whole. The blood was not hers. He moved up her body, peering into her face, smearing red finger-marks on her white hair as he carefully turned her head. A bruise there was already blackening, but under it her skull seemed unbroken. He let go of her as she groaned, eyelids fluttering open. Her ruby eyes stared at him. She frowned in a way that suggested she was not sure what she was seeing.

‘It’s me, Lily.’

Her hands fumbled at him, pushing him away. She sat up, staring around her, confused. There was a lack of comprehension in her eyes as she gazed upon the blacks and scarlets of the Ichorians interleaved with the greys of her people patterning the earth as far as she could see.

A vibration was approaching like a downpour. Lifting his head, Carnelian saw a wall of dust sweeping towards them. He offered her his hand. She took it. Carefully he pulled her up. He watched with concern as she stood, shakily, then together they turned to meet the riders.

The wall of dust began collapsing as it scudded thinning away into the north-east. A mass of riders were revealed scraping to a halt. A few of them were still coming on. When they reached the edge of the fallen they dismounted. Carnelian recognized Fern by his height and gait. He looked for and found, with relief, Krow at his side. As Fern drew closer Carnelian began to notice how dark his hands were, how stained his sleeves. Brown swathes across his chest and his right shoulder. Across his face. Dried blood – though, by the way he moved, not his own. His eyes seemed over-bright in his blood-crusted face as he took in the scale of the carnage. At last his gaze fell on Lily. ‘Are you hurt?’

She did not answer, still blind with shock. Krow had thrown back his cowl. His shrouds too were bloodstained, but only as if he had been too close when Fern had dived into a lake of blood. The rest of their companions were the same; all were staring around them at the dead. Carnelian gazed at Fern. ‘You’ve defeated the Bloodguard?’

Fern refused to look at him. Krow, gazing at him, had pity in his face, but also anger. ‘We drove them onto the road and there, against its wall, we butchered them.’

The skin around the youth’s eyes twitched as if he were seeing it again. Carnelian considered Fern’s averted gaze, wondering what it was Krow was not saying; then Fern glanced up at him and Carnelian knew how it had been. Fern’s shame connected with his own. He understood Krow’s expression. What had just happened was bound up with the massacre of the Ochre. Carnelian knew that Fern had reason to hate the Bloodguard. One of them had killed his father. It was that death and the woundings suffered that day on the road that had led to Carnelian and Osidian being taken into the Earthsky and, ultimately, to the massacre of the Ochre. Still, what a lone Ichorian had done back then could not justify such merciless destruction of his fellows; Carnelian knew in his heart that the rage Fern had unleashed on them should have fallen on Osidian, perhaps even upon himself. And now Fern recognized that he had acted like Osidian: unable to take revenge on those he truly hated, he had vented his fury on those within reach. Almost Carnelian said: But it’s different; Osidian acted in cold blood. He held his tongue. Even if he had wanted to condone massacre, Fern was in no way prepared to hear it condoned. He sought in vain for a way to offer comfort. Finally, it was his heart that spoke. ‘Fern, among this mess many are still alive. Get your men to come and search with us for those we can take back to camp. As for the dying, we can at least release them from suffering.’

Fern and Carnelian connected, wordlessly, but in a way that threatened to overwhelm them with pain. The Plainsman turned and strode back towards his men. Krow jerked Carnelian a nod and a pale smile, then followed him.

Smoke from the burning Marula dead drifted above the camp, smearing out the stars. Their casualties had been relatively light, but Carnelian, sitting at Lily’s side unmasked, was concerned Sthax’s body might be in that pyre. Morunasa had survived; Carnelian had seen him moving among his people.

Consternation among Aurum’s auxiliaries was now spreading to the Lepers. Carnelian glanced round, wearily. What he saw caused him to jump up and cover his face with his mask. Darkness was rolling towards them from the west. His heart pounded as he waited. Vast black shapes were looming up out of the night. If these were dragons the whole camp lay defenceless before them. As the campfire light found horns and bellies, their towers too became clearer. Carnelian counted their tiers, then released a sigh.

‘They’re ours,’ said Krow.

Carnelian announced he must go and talk to the Master and would be back when he could, gave Lily one last look of concern, then made for the watch-tower.

When the two Masters walked out onto Heart-of-Thunder’s brassman, Carnelian’s immediate impression was that the one holding a staff must be Osidian. The weakness evident in the other’s gait seemed more characteristic of Aurum, but as he watched them climb to the leftway, he realized the stronger of the two was Aurum.

Slightly hunched, Osidian raised his mask to Carnelian. ‘You left your legion leaderless, my Lord.’

‘Was I needed for what remained? I assumed you could handle the pursuit without my help. Is Jaspar dead?’

It was Aurum who answered. ‘Whether he is or not makes no difference. Even if he has survived, the stump that is all he has left of the Ichorian poses little threat to us.’

Carnelian regarded the old Lord. Though he still walked with his staff, he no longer leaned on it. He seemed taller and much more like the man who had come to the island. Even his voice had regained its brazen resonance.

Osidian’s hand flew up, shaping a ragged sign:
Silence!
‘You left your appointed place, my Lord.’

Carnelian was in no mood to apologize for anything. ‘I sought to do what could be done for our left wing that you caused to be trampled and incinerated by the fleeing huimur.’

‘The destruction of our enemy was my prime concern,’ Osidian said, icily.

‘As it was mine; however, I still managed to direct the flight away from my wing.’ He extended his hand, inviting Osidian to gaze over the camp. It was clear just how many fewer campfires there were than there had been before the battle. It would have been still fewer had he not brought back the wounded. His heart lingered on how the life seemed to have gone out of Lily and sadness quenched his anger. He turned to Osidian. ‘Was all this carnage worthwhile?’

‘With Imago’s failure, my mother will fall. The Great who supported her in this perilous adventure will be discredited. The Wise, already weakened, will be only too aware of what damage we could do to them should we reveal the part they played in this. This defeat is as much theirs as it is my mother’s. The Powers have no choice but to negotiate with me. Even were they not in disarray, they cannot be unaware of how exposed they are to my threat.’

‘You intend, then, that we shall march upon Osrakum?’

Osidian sketched a vague gesture. ‘I do not believe it will come to that. Once they learn of my victory, they will be able to read the board as well as I.’

Carnelian pondered this. ‘How do you intend to communicate the news to them?’

For answer Osidian raised his arm, slowly. ‘I shall send them this and its brothers.’

Hanging from his trembling fingers, a thick band of metal caught the light. It seemed a bracelet, but if so, for an arm of a girth greater even than a Master’s. A waft of iron coming off it made Carnelian look closer. Surely it was gold? He noticed the rings threaded onto its curve. Sliders. A legionary collar, then, with three broken, zero rings.

Aurum’s mask glinted in his cowl. ‘It belonged to a huimur commander. Our commanders will bring us the rest. The Lesser Chosen have little love for the Ichorians.’

Carnelian regarded the trophy. Without the skills the Wise jealously guarded there was but one way it could have been removed from its wearer’s neck.

As he followed Osidian and Aurum into the watch-tower, Carnelian glanced towards the stables ramp. It was the way back to his people and poor Lily. He yearned to be with them, but knew he was too conflicted. His confidence that the victory justified the blood price was ebbing. They would look after each other.

‘Why do you linger, my Lord?’

Carnelian gazed at Osidian with Aurum beside him and wondered how it was he had come to have these two as allies.

‘Has the Grand Sapient already been fed his elixir?’

It took a moment for Carnelian to make sense of the question. Then alarm sparked in him as he realized he had forgotten all about it. ‘The homunculus is down in the camp.’

Osidian nodded. ‘Good. I want him to wake.’

Carnelian was thrown further off-balance. ‘The Grand Sapient? Will that not be dangerous?’

Osidian made a smiling gesture that seemed somehow too soft in his hand to be convincing. ‘Have we not just broken the power of the Wise? I think we can handle one blind, old man.’

Carnelian regarded him. Could the maggots or the victory have made Osidian lose his awe of Legions? More likely this bravado was for Aurum’s sake. ‘Why do you want him awake?’

Osidian made another vague gesture. ‘During the negotiations it might prove useful to have direct access to one of the Twelve.’

Weariness overcame any further attempt at opposition Carnelian might feel he ought to make. There were already enough battles to fight. Besides, in the morning things might appear clearer.

Roaring, the vast wave sweeps in. Hunched halfway out of his dream, he stands in the deepening shadow of the rising dark wall of water bracing for the unbearable weight of its impact
.

Carnelian opened his eyes, desperate to escape. The familiar ceiling beam of the cell was an anchor against dread, but the roaring sound was still in his ears, reaching him from the nightmare’s churning depths. He sat up, realizing the sound must be real. He peered out through a slit. Down on the road the Lepers were pouring north. At the margin of their tide, the mounted auxiliaries were herding them. Fear clutched him. It was but a matter of moments before he had put on his mask and pulled his cloak around him, then he left the cell.

Emerging from behind the monolith onto the road, he paused, blinded by the morning, feeling the din as if it were his nightmare wave rearing up before him. Regaining his sight, he saw a torrent of Lepers climbing the ramp onto the road, pouring along it and swirling through the gap in the leftway wall into the land beyond, but it was a gathering of the more than twenty Lesser Chosen commanders that compelled his attention. Forbidding beings, they stood at the centre of concentric rings of prostrate Marula, marumaga legionaries and, further out, auxiliaries. As he approached, an odour of fear wafted up from the abased as they crawled from his path. It gave him the impression he was approaching a pack of predators in possession of something they had brought down. The contrast of their stillness against the Lepers’ storm of motion chilled him most.

Two of the Masters turned. Their gold faces glinting darkly in the shadow of their cowls made them seem to be peering into the world of the living from some remote, infernal realm. As the circle opened for him, he saw a mound of legionary collars piled in their midst.