The Bonehunters

Someone saw this coming.



Most people were blind, wilfully or otherwise. But, there were some who weren't.



So now, my prescient friend, you had better do something about it. And quick.



****

Ormulogun, trailed by his toad, stumbled into view, an overflowing leather satchel in his arms. The toad was bleating something about delusional artists and the brutal world in a tone of pessimistic satisfaction. Ormulogun tripped and fell almost at Paran's feet, the satchel tipping and spilling its contents – including scores of wooden cards, most of them blank.



'You've barely started! You damned fool!'



'Perfection!' Ormulogun shrieked. 'You said-'



'Never mind,' Paran snarled. He looked back at the eastern sky. Spears of fire were descending like rain. 'Mainland? Into the sea?' he wondered aloud. 'Or Otataral Island?'



'Maybe all three,' Noto Boil said, licking his lips.



'Well,' Paran said, crouching down and clearing a space in the sand before him, 'sea's worse. That means…' He began drawing with his index finger.



'I have some!' Ormulogun whimpered, fumbling through the cards.



Mael. I hope you're paying attention – I hope you're ready to do what needs doing. He studied the streaks he had etched in the sand. Enough?



It has to be. Closing his eyes, he focused his will. The Gate is before me'I have this one!'



The shout was loud in Paran's right ear, and even as the force of his will was unleashed, he opened his eyes – and saw, hovering before him, another cardAnd all of his power rushed into itOnto his knees, skidding on clay that deformed beneath him, hands thrusting out to catch himself. Grey air, a charnel stench, and Paran lifted his head. Before him stood a gate, a mass of twisted bones and pale, bruised flesh, dangling strands of hair, innumerable staring eyes, and beyond it was grey, murky oblivion.



'Oh, Hood.'



He was at the very threshold. He had damned near flung himself right throughA figure appeared in the portal, black-cloaked, cowled, tall. This isn't one of his servants. This is the hoary old bastard himself'Is there time for such unpleasant thoughts, mortal?' The voice was mild, only faintly rasping. 'With what is about to happen… well, Ganoes Paran, Master of the Deck of Dragons, you have positioned yourself in a most unfortunate place, unless you wish to be trampled by the multitudes who shall momentarily find themselves on this path.'



'Oh, be quiet, Hood,' Paran hissed, trying to climb to his feet, then stopping when he realized that doing so would not be a good idea. '



Help me. Us. Stop what's coming – it'll destroy-'



'Far too much, yes. Too many plans. I can do little, however. You have sought out the wrong god.'



'I know. I was trying for Mael.'



'Pointless…' Yet, even as Hood spoke that word, Paran detected a certain… hesitation.



Ah, you've had a thought.



'I have. Very well, Ganoes Paran, bargain.'



'Abyss take us – there's no time for that!'



'Think quickly, then.'



'What do you want? More than anything else, Hood. What do you want?'



And so Hood told him. And, among the corpses, limbs and staring faces in the gate, one face in particular suddenly grew animate, its eyes opening very wide – a detail neither noticed.



Paran stared at the god, disbelieving. 'You can't be serious.'



'Death is always serious.'



'Oh, enough with the portentous crap! Are you certain?'



'Can you achieve what I ask, Ganoes Paran?'



'I will. Somehow.'



'Do you so vow?'



'I do.'



'Very well. Leave here. I must open this gate.'



'What? It is open!'



But the god had turned away, and Paran barely heard Hood's reply: 'Not from this side.'



****

Chaur squealed as a hail of firestones struck the roiling waters barely a ship's-breadth away. Explosions of steam, a terrible shrieking sound tearing through the air. Cutter pushed hard on the steering oar, trying to scull the wallowing craft – but he didn't have the strength for that. The Grief wasn't going anywhere. Except, I fear, to the bottom.



Something struck the deck; a thud, splintering, reverberations trembling the entire hull, then steam was billowing from the fistsized hole. The Grief seemed to sag beneath them.



Cursing, Barathol scrambled to the breach, dragging a bundle of spare sailcloth. Even as he sought to push it down into the hole, two more stones struck the craft, one up front tearing away the prow, another – a flash of heat against Cutter's left thigh and he looked down to see steam then water gushing up.