The Bonehunters

The Semk rushed in behind the throw. He chopped down and crossways with his left hand to bat aside her knife-arm, then thrust with the kethra, seeking her abdomen, whereupon he would tear the blade across in a disembowelling slash. None of which succeeded.



Even as he swung down with his left arm, Apsalar stepped to her right.



The heel of his hand cracked hard against her hip. Her movement away from the kethra forced the Semk to attempt to follow with the weapon.



Long before he could reach her, she had driven her knife between ribs, the point piercing the back of his heart.



With a strangled groan, the Semk sagged, slid off the knife-blade, and pitched to the floor. He sighed out his last breath, then was still.



Apsalar cleaned her weapon across the man's thigh, then began cutting away his clothing. The tattoos continued, covering every part of him.



A common enough trait among warriors of the South Clan, yet the style was not Semk. Arcane script wound across the assassin's brawny limbs, similar to the carving she had seen in the ruins outside the temple.



The language of the First Empire.



With growing suspicion, she rolled the body over to reveal the back.



And saw a darkened patch, roughly rectangular, over the Semk's right shoulder-blade. Where the man's name had once been, before it had been ritually obscured.



This man had been a priest of the Nameless Ones.



Oh, Cotillion, you won't like this at all.



****

'Well?'



Telorast glanced up. 'Well what?'



'She is a pretty one.'



'We're prettier.'



Curdle snorted. 'At the moment, I'd have to disagree.'



'All right. If you like the dark, deadly type.'



'What I was asking, Telorast, is whether we stay with her.'



'If we don't, Edgewalker will be very unhappy with us, Curdle. You don't want that, do you? He's been unhappy with us before, or have you forgotten?'



'Fine! You didn't have to bring that up, did you? So it's decided. We stay with her.'



'Yes,' Telorast said. 'Until we can find a way to get out of this mess.'



'You mean, cheat them all?'



'Of course.'



'Good,' Curdle said, stretching out along the ruined wall and staring up at the strange stars. 'Because I want my throne back.'



'So do I.'



Curdle sniffed. 'Dead people. Fresh.'



'Yes. But not her.'



'No, not her.' The ghost was silent a moment, then added, 'Not just pretty, then.'



'No,' Telorast glumly agreed, 'not just pretty.'



Chapter Two



It must be taken as given that a man who happens to be the world's most powerful, most terrible, most deadly sorceror, must have a woman at his side.



But it does not follow, my children, that a woman of similar proportions requires a man at hers.



Now then, who wants to be a tyrant?



Mistress Wu



Malaz City School of Waifs and Urchins 1152 Burn's Sleep Insubstantial, fading in and out of sight, smoky and wisp-threaded, Ammanas fidgeted on the ancient Throne of Shadow. Eyes like polished haematite were fixed on the scrawny figure standing before it. A figure whose head was hairless except for a wild curly grey and black tangle over the ears and round the back of the subtly misshapen skull.



And twin eyebrows that rivalled the fringe in chaotic waywardness, beetling and knotting to match the baffling and disquieting melee of emotions on the wrinkled face beneath them.



The subject was muttering, not quite under his breath, 'He's not so frightening, is he? In and out, off and on, here and elsewhere, a wavering apparition of wavering intent and perhaps wavering intellect – best not let him read my thoughts – look stern, no, attentive, no, pleased! No, wait. Cowed. Terrified. No, in awe. Yes, in awe. But not for long, that's tiring. Look bored. Gods, what am I thinking?



Anything but bored, no matter how boring this might be, what with him looking down on me and me looking up at him and Cotillion over there with his arms crossed, leaning against that wall and smirking – what kind of audience is he? The worst kind, I say. What was I thinking?



Well, at least I was thinking. I am thinking, in fact, and one might presume that Shadowthrone is doing the same, assuming of course that his brain hasn't leaked away, since he's nothing but shadows so what holds it in? The point is, I am well advised to remind myself, as I am now doing, the point is, he summoned me. And so here I am. Rightful servant. Loyal. Well, more or less loyal. Trustworthy. Most of the time. Modest and respectful, always. To all outward appearances, and what is outward in appearance is all that matters in this and every other world. Isn't it? Smile! Grimace. Look helpful. Hopeful. Harried, hirsute, happenstance. Wait, how does one look happenstance? What kind of expression must that one be? I must think on that. But not now, because this isn't happenstance, it's circumstance-'

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