The Bonehunters

Millions of voices, weeping, crying out, voices, filled with yearning – he could hear themAh gods, who am I? I cannot remember.



Only this. The darkness that surrounds me. We, yes, all of you – we can all wait here, in this darkness.



Never mind the pain.



Wait with me. In this darkness.



And the voices, in their millions, in their vast, unbearable need, rushed towards him.



Shield Anvil, who would take their pain, for he could remember such pain.



The darkness took them, and it was then that Heboric Ghost Hands, Shield Anvil, realized a most terrible truth.



One cannot, in any real measure, remember pain.



****

Two bodies tumbling like broken dolls onto the deck. Mappo struggled towards them, even as Spite wheeled away one more time – he could feel the dragon's agony with every ragged breath she drew, and the air was foul with the reek of scorched scales and flesh.



The rain of fire had descended in a torrent all round them, wild as a hailstorm and far deadlier; yet not one particle had struck their ship – protection gifted, Mappo realized, not by Spite, nor indeed by Iskaral Pust or Mogora. No, as the High Priest's fawning, wet kisses gave proof, some power born in that damned black-eyed mule was responsible. Somehow.



The beast simply stood, unmoving and seemingly indifferent, tail flicking the absence of flies. Slowly blinking, as if half-asleep, its lips twitching every now and then.



While the world went mad around them; while it tore that other ship to piecesMappo rolled the nearer figure over. Blood-smeared face, streams from the ears, the nose, the corners of the eyes – yet he knew this man. He knew him. Crokus, the Daru. Oh, lad, what has brought you to this?



Then the young man's eyes opened. Filled with fear and apprehension.



'Be at ease,' Mappo said, 'you are safe now.'



The other figure, a woman, was coughing up seawater, and there was blood flowing down from her left ear to track the underside of her jaw before dripping from her chin. On her hands and knees, she lifted her head and met the Trell's gaze.



'Are you all right?' Mappo asked.



She nodded, crawled closer to Crokus.



'He will live,' the Trell assured her. 'It seems we all shall live…



I had not believed-'



Iskaral Pust screamed.



Pointed.



A large, scarred, black-skinned arm had appeared over the port rail, like some slithering eel, the hand grasping, hard on the slick wood, the muscles straining.



Mappo clambered over.



The man he looked down upon was holding onto another body, a man easily as large as he was, and it was clear that the former was fast losing his strength. Mappo reached down and dragged them both onto the deck.



'Barathol,' the woman gasped.



Mappo watched as the man named Barathol quickly rolled his companion over and began pushing the water from his lungs.



'Barathol-'



'Quiet, Scillara-'



'He was under too long-'



'Quiet!'



Mappo watched, trying to remember what such ferocity, such loyalty, felt like. He could almost recall… almost. He has drowned, this one.



See all that water? Yet Barathol would not cease in his efforts, pulling the limp, flopping body about this way and that, rocking the arms, then, finally, dragging the head and shoulders onto his lap, where he cradled the face as if it was a newborn babe.



The man's expression twisted, terrible in its grief. 'Chaur! Listen to me! This is Barathol. Listen! I want you to – to bury the horses! Do you hear me? You have to bury the horses! Before the wolves come down!



I'm not asking, Chaur, do you understand? I'm telling you!'



He has lost his mind. From this, there is no recovery. I know, I know'Chaur! I will get angry, do you understand? Angry… with you! With you, Chaur! Do you want Barathol angry at you, Chaur? Do you want-'



A cough, gouting water, a convulsion, then the huge man held so tenderly in Barathol's arms seemed to curl up, one hand reaching up, and a wailing cry worked its way through the mucus and froth.



'No, no my friend,' Barathol gasped, pulling the man into a tight, rocking embrace. 'I'm not angry. No, I'm not. Never mind the horses.



You did that already. Remember? Oh, Chaur, I'm not angry.'



But the man bawled, clutching at Barathol like a child.



He is a simpleton. Otherwise, this Barathol, he would not have spoken to him in such a manner. He is a child in a man's body, this Chaur…



Mappo watched. As the two huge men wept in each other's arms.



Spite now stood beside the Trell, and as soon as Mappo became aware of her, he sensed her pain – and then her will, pushing it away with such ferocity – he dragged his gaze from the two men on the deck and stared at her.