Midnight Tides

Trull nodded distractedly. He stared at the distant field of ice. Remembering the feel and sound beneath his moccasins, the blast of the wind, the enervating cold. The horrifying Jheck, silent hunters who claimed a frozen world as their own. They had wanted the sword. Why?



How many Jheck could those ice-fields sustain? How many had they killed? How many wives and children were left to grieve? To starve?



There should have been five hundred of us. Then they would have left us alone.



‘Over there!’



At Midik’s shout Trull swung round, then faced in the direction Midik was pointing. Northward, where a dozen huge beasts strode, coming down from the ice, four-legged and brown-furred, each bearing long, curved tusks to either side of a thick, sinuous snout.



Ponderous, majestic, the enormous creatures walked towards the lake.



This is not our world.



A sword waited in the unyielding grip of a corpse, sheathed in waxed cloth, bound with ice. A weapon familiar with cold’s implacable embrace. It did not belong in Hannan Mosag’s hands.



Unless the Warlock King had changed.



And perhaps he has.



‘Come and eat, Trull Sengar,’ his brother called behind him.



Sisters have mercy on us, in the way we simply go on, and on. Would that we had all died, back there on the ice. Would that we had failed.



CHAPTER NINE



You may be written this way Spun in strands sewn in thread Blood woven to the child you once were Huddled in the fold of night And the demons beyond the corner Of your eye stream down A flurry of arachnid limbs Twisting and tumbling you tight To feed upon later. You may be written this way Stung senseless at the side of the road Waylaid on the dark trail And the recollections beyond the corner Of your eye suckle in the mud Dreadful fluids seeping From improbable pasts And all that might have been. You would be written this way Could you crack the carcass And unfurl once more The child you once were



Waylaid Wrathen Urut

ROLLED ONTO THE BEACH, NAKED AND GREY, THE YOUNG MAN LAY motionless in the sand. His long brown hair was tangled, snarled with twigs and strands of seaweed. Scaled birds pranced around the body, serrated beaks gaping in the morning heat.



They scattered at Withal’s arrival, flapping into the air. Then, as three black Nachts bounded down from the verge, the birds screamed and whirled out over the waves.



Withal crouched down at the figure’s side, studied it for a moment, then reached out and rolled the body onto its back.



‘Wake up, lad.’



Eyes snapped open, filled with sudden terror and pain. Mouth gaped, neck stretched, and piercing screams rose into the air. The young man convulsed, legs scissoring the sand, and clawed at his scalp.



Withal leaned back on his haunches and waited.



The screams grew hoarse, were replaced by weeping. The convulsions diminished to waves of shuddering as the young man slowly curled up in the sand.



‘It gets easier, one hopes,’ Withal murmured.



Head twisted round, large, wet eyes fixing on Withal’s own. ‘What… where…’



‘The two questions I am least able to answer, lad. Let’s try the easier ones. I’m named Withal, once of the Third Meckros city. You are here – wherever here is – because my master wills it.’ He rose with a grunt. ‘Can you stand? He awaits you inland – not far.’



The eyes shifted away, focused on the three Nachts at the edge of the verge. ‘What are those things? What’s that one doing?’



‘Bhoka’ral. Nachts. Name them as you will. As I have. The one making the nest is Pule, a young male. This particular nest has taken almost a week – see how he obsesses over it, adjusting twigs just so, weaving the seaweed, going round and round with a critical eye. The older male, over there and watching Pule, is Rind. He’s moments from hilarity, as you’ll see. The female preening on the rock is Mape. You’ve arrived at a propitious time, lad. Watch.’



The nest-builder, Pule, had begun backing away from the intricate construct on the verge, black tail flicking from side to side, head bobbing. Fifteen paces from the nest, it suddenly sat, arms folded, and seemed to study the colourless sky.



The female, Mape, ceased preening, paused a moment, then ambled casually towards the nest.



Pule tensed, even as it visibly struggled to keep its gaze on the sky.



Reaching the nest, Mape hesitated, then attacked. Driftwood, grasses and twigs flew in all directions. Within moments, the nest had been destroyed in a wild frenzy, and Mape was squatting in the wreckage, urinating.



Nearby, Rind was rolling about in helpless mirth.



Pule slumped in obvious dejection.