Deadhouse Gates

The Jhag's eyes fluttered open and slowly focused on the wide, bestial face looking down on him. Puzzled recognition followed. 'Mappo Trell. My friend.'



'How do you feel, Icarium?'



He moved slightly, winced. 'I – I am injured.'



'Aye. I'm afraid I gave away my last two elixirs, and so could not properly heal you.'



Icarium managed a smile. 'I am certain, as always, that the need was great.'



'You may not think so, I'm afraid. I saved the lives of two dogs.'



Icarium's smile broadened. 'They must have been worthy beasts. I look forward to that tale. Help me up, please.'



'Are you certain?'



'Yes.'



Mappo supported Icarium as he struggled to his feet. The Jhag tottered, then found his balance. He raised his head and looked around. 'Where – where are we?'



'What do you remember?'



'I – I remember nothing. No, wait. We'd sighted a demon – an aptorian, it was, and decided to follow it. Yes, that I recall. That.'



'Ah, well, we are far to the south, now, Icarium. Cast out from a warren. Your head struck a rock and you lost consciousness. Following that aptorian was a mistake.'



'Evidently. How – how long?'



'A day, Icarium. Just a day.'



The Jhag had steadied, visibly regaining strength until Mappo felt it safe to step away, though one hand remained on Icarium's shoulder.



'West of here lies the Jhag Odhan,' the Trell said.



'Yes, a good direction. I admit, Mappo, I feel close this time. Very close.'



The Trell nodded.



'It's dawn? Have you packed up our camp?'



'Aye, though I suggest we walk but a short distance today – until you're fully recovered.'



'Yes, a wise decision.'



It was another hour before they were ready to leave, for Icarium needed to oil his bow and set a whetstone to his sword. Mappo waited patiently, seated on a boulder, until the Jhag finally straightened and turned to him, then nodded.



They set off, westward.



After a time, as they walked on the plain, Icarium glanced at Mappo. 'What would I do without you, my friend?'



The nest of lines framing the Trell's eyes flinched, then he smiled ruefully as he considered his reply. 'Perish the thought.'



As it reached into the wasteland known as the Jhag Odhan, the plain stretched before them, unbroken.



EPILOGUE



Hood's sprites are revealed



the disordered host



Whispering of deaths



in wing-flap chorus



Dour music has its own



beauty, for the song of ruin



is most fertile.



Wickan Dirge



Fisher



The young widow, a small clay flask clutched in her hands, left the horsewife's yurt and walked out into the grassland beyond the camp. The sky overhead was empty and, for the woman, lifeless. Her bare feet stepped heavily, toes snagging in the yellowed grass.



When she'd gone thirty paces she stopped and lowered herself to her knees. She faced the vast Wickan plain, her hands resting on her swollen belly, the horsewife's flask smooth, polished and warm beneath the calluses.



The searching was complete, the conclusions inescapable. The child within her was ... empty. A thing without a soul. The vision of the horsewife's pale, sweat-beaded face rose to hover before the young woman, her words whispering like the wind. Even a warlock must ride a soul – the children they claimed were no different from children they did not claim. Do you understand? What grows within you possesses . . . nothing. It has been cursed – for reasons only the spirits know.



The child within you must be returned to the earth.



She unstoppered the flask. There would be pain, at least to begin with, then a cooling numbness. No-one from the camp would watch, all eyes averted from this time of shame.



A storm cloud hung on the north horizon. She had not noticed it before. It swelled, rolled closer, towering and dark.



The widow raised the flask to her lips.



A hand swept over her shoulder and clamped onto her wrist. The young woman cried out and twisted around to see the horsewife, her breath coming in gasps, her eyes wide as she stared at the storm cloud. The flask fell to the ground. Figures from the camp were now running towards the two women.



The widow searched the old woman's weathered face, seeing fear and ... hope? 'What? What is it?'



The horsewife seemed unable to speak. She continued staring northward.



The storm cloud darkened the rolling hills. The widow turned and gasped. The cloud was not a cloud. It was a swarm, a seething mass of black, striding like a giant towards them, tendrils spinning off, then coming around again to rejoin the main body.