Logen raised his eyebrows. 'Her? Half devil?'
'Much less than half, my friend.' Bayaz chuckled. 'Euz himself was half, and his power threw up the mountains and gouged out the seas. Half could strike a horror and a desire into your blood to stop your heart. Half could blind you to look upon. Not half. No more than a fraction. But in her, there is a trace of the Other Side.'
'The Other Side, eh?' Logen looked down at the dead bird in his hand. 'So if I was to touch her, would I break the First Law?'
Bayaz chuckled. 'Now that is a sharp question. You always surprise me, Master Ninefingers. I wonder what Euz would say to it?' The Magus pursed his lips. 'I think I could find it in myself to forgive you. She however,' and Bayaz nodded his bald head at Ferro, 'would most likely cut your hand off.'
Logen lay on his belly, peering through the tall grass into a gentle valley with a shallow brook in its bottom. There was a huddle of buildings on the side nearest them, or the shells of buildings. No roofs left, nothing but the tumbledown walls, mostly no more than waist high, the fallen stones from them scattered across the valley's slopes, in amongst the waving grass. It could have been a scene out of the North. Lots of villages abandoned there, since the wars. People driven out, dragged out, burned out. Logen had watched it happen, often. He'd joined in more than once. He wasn't proud of it, but he wasn't proud of much from those times. Or any other, come to think of it.
'Not a lot left to live in,' whispered Luthar.
Ferro scowled at him. 'Plenty left to hide behind.'
Evening was coming on, the sun had dropped low on the horizon and rilled the broken village up with shadows. There was no sign of anyone down there. No sounds beyond the giggling water, the slow wind slithering through the grass. No sign of anyone, but Ferro was right. No sign didn't necessarily mean no danger.
'You had best go down there and take a look,' murmured Longfoot.
'I best?' Logen glanced sideways at him. 'You're staying here then, eh?'
'I have no talent for fights. You are well aware of that.'
'Huh,' muttered Logen. 'No talent for the sorting of fights, plenty for the finding of 'em though.'
'Finding things is what I do. I'm here to Navigate.'
'Maybe you could find me a decent meal and a bed to sleep in,' snapped Luthar, in his whining Union accent.
Ferro sucked her teeth with disgust. 'Someone's got to go,' she growled, sliding over the lip of the slope on her belly. 'I'll take the left.'
No one else moved. 'Us too,' Logen grunted at Luthar.
'Me?'
'Who else? Three's a good number. Let's go, and let's keep it stealthy.'
Luthar peered through the grass into the valley, licked his lips, rubbed his palms together. Nervous, Logen could tell, nervous but proud at the same time, like an untried boy before a battle, trying to show he's not scared by sticking his chin out. Logen wasn't fooled. He'd seen it all a hundred times before.
'You planning to wait for the morning?' he grunted.
'Just keep your mind on your own shortcomings, Northman,' hissed Luthar as he started to wriggle forward down the slope. 'You've enough of them!' The rowels of his big, shiny spurs rattled loud as he dragged himself over the edge, clumsy and unpractised, his arse sticking up in the air.
Logen grabbed hold of his coat before he got more than a stride. 'You're not leaving those on are you?'
'What?'
'Those fucking spurs! Stealthy I said! You might as well hang a bell off your cock!'
Luthar scowled as he sat up to pull them off.
'Stay down!' hissed Logen, pushing him back into the grass on his back. 'You want to get us killed?'
'Get off me!'
Logen shoved him down again, then stabbed at him with his finger to make sure he got the point. 'I'm not dying over your fucking spurs and that's a fact! If you can't keep quiet you can stay here with the Navigator.' He glowered over at Longfoot. 'Maybe you both can navigate your way into the village once we've made sure it's safe.' He shook his head and crawled down the slope after Ferro.
She was already halfway to the brook, rolling and slithering over the crumbled walls, sneaking across the spaces in between them, keeping low, hand on the grip of her curved sword, quick and silent as the wind over the plain.
Impressive, no doubt, but Logen was nobody's fool when it came to a spot of sneaking. He'd been known for it, when he was younger. Lost count of the number of Shanka, the number of men he'd come up behind. The first you'll hear of the Bloody-Nine is the blood hissing out of your neck, that used to be the rumour. Say one thing for Logen Ninefingers, say that he's stealthy.
He flowed up to the first wall, slid one leg over it, silent as a mouse. He lifted himself up, smooth as butter, keeping quiet, keeping low. His back foot caught on a set of loose stones, dragged them scraping with him. He grabbed at them, fumbled them, knocked over even more with his elbow and they clattered down loud around him. He stumbled onto his weak ankle, twisted it, squawked with pain, fell over and rolled through a patch of thistles.
'Shit,' he grunted, struggling up, one hand clutching at the hilt of his sword, all tangled up with his coat. Good thing he hadn't had it out, or he could've stuck himself through with it.
Happened to a friend of his. So busy shouting that he tripped on a tree root and cut a big piece out of his head on his own axe. Back to the mud double time.
He crouched among the fallen stones, waiting for someone to jump him. No one came. Just the wind breathing through the gaps in the old walls, the water chuckling away in the brook. He crept along beside a heap of rough stones, through an old doorway, slithered over a slumping wall, limping and gasping on his bad foot, scarcely making any effort to stay quiet any longer. There was no one there. He'd known it as soon as he fell. No way they could have missed that sorry performance. The Dogman would most likely have been weeping right about now, had he been alive. He waved up at the ridge, and a moment later he saw Longfoot stand up and wave as well.
'No one here,' he muttered to himself.
'Just as well,' hissed Ferro's voice, not more than a stride or two behind. 'You got a new way of scouting, pink. Make so much noise that they come to you.'
'Out of practice,' grunted Logen. 'Still, no harm done. No one here.'
'There was.' She was standing in the shell of one of the ruined buildings, frowning down at the ground. A burned patch in the grass, a few stones set around it. A campfire.
'No more 'n a day or two old,' muttered Logen, poking at the ashes with a finger.
Luthar walked up behind them. 'No one here after all.' He had a smug, sucked-in look on his face, like he'd somehow been right about something all along. Logen didn't see what.
'Lucky for you there isn't, or we might be stitching you together right about now!'
'I'd be stitching the fucking pair of you!' hissed Ferro. 'I ought to stitch your useless pink heads together! You're both as worthless as a bag of sand in the desert! There's tracks over there. Horses, more than one cart.'
'Merchants maybe?' asked Logen, hopefully. He and Ferro looked at each other for a moment. 'Might be better if we stay off the track from now on.'
'Too slow.' Bayaz had made it down into the village now.
Quai and Longfoot weren't far behind with the cart and the horses. 'Far too slow. We stick to the track. We'll see anyone coming in good time out here. Plenty of time.'
Luthar didn't look convinced. 'If we see them, they'll see us. What then?'
'Then?' Bayaz raised an eyebrow. 'Then we have the famous Captain Luthar to protect us.' He looked round at the ruined village. 'Running water, and shelter, of a kind. Seems like a good place to camp.'
'Good enough,' muttered Logen, already rooting through the cart for logs to start a fire of their own. 'I'm hungry. What happened to those birds?'
Logen sat, and watched the others eat over the rim of his pot.
Ferro squatted at the very edge of the shifting light from the campfire, hunched over, shadowy f
ace almost stuck right into her bowl, staring around suspiciously and shoving food in with her fingers like she was worried it might be snatched away any moment. Luthar was less enthusiastic. He was nibbling daintily at a wing with his bared front teeth, as though touching it with his lips might poison him, discarded morsels lined up carefully along the side of his platter. Bayaz chewed away with some relish, his beard glistening with gravy. 'It's good,' he muttered around a mouthful. 'You might want to consider cookery as a career, Master Ninefingers, if you should ever grow tired of…' he waved his spoon, 'whatever it is you do.'
'Huh,' said Logen. In the North everyone took their turn at the fire, and it was reckoned an honour to do it. A good cook was almost as valued as a good fighter. Not here. These were a sorry crowd when it came to minding the pot. Bayaz could just about get his tea boiled, and that was as far as he went. Quai could get a biscuit out of the box on a good day. Logen doubted whether Luthar would even have known which way up the pot went. As for Ferro, she seemed to despise the whole notion of cooking. Logen reckoned she was used to eating her food raw. Perhaps while it was still alive.
In the North, after a hard day on the trail, when the men gathered around the long fires to eat, there was a strict order to who sat where. The chief would go at the top, with his sons and the Named Men of the clan around him. Next came the Carls, in order of fame. Thralls were lucky to get their own small fires further out. Men would always have their place, and only change it when their chief offered, out of respect for some great service they'd done him, or for showing rare good bones in a fight. Sitting out of place could earn you a kicking, or a killing even. Where you sat round the fire was where you stood in life, more or less.
It was different out here on the plains, but Logen could still see a pattern in who sat where, and it was far from a happy one. He and Bayaz were close enough to the fire, but the others were further than comfort would have put them. Drawn close by the wind, and the cold, and the damp night, pushed further out by each other. He glanced over at Luthar, sneering down into his bowl as though it was full of piss. No respect. He glanced over at Ferro, staring yellow knives at him through narrowed eyes. No trust. He shook his head sadly. Without trust and respect the group would fall apart in a fight like walls without mortar.
Still, Logen had won over tougher audiences, in his time. Threetrees, Tul Duru, Black Dow, Harding Grim, he'd fought each one in single combat, and beaten them all. Spared each man's life, and left him bound to follow. Each one had tried their best to kill him, and with good reasons too, but in the end Logen had earned their trust, and their respect, and their friendship even. Small gestures and a lot of time, that was how he'd done it. 'Patience is the chief of virtues,' his father used to say, and 'you won't cross the mountains in a day.' Time might be against them, but there was nothing to be gained by rushing. You have to be realistic about these things.
Logen uncrossed his stiff legs, took hold of the water-skin and got up, walked slowly over to where Ferro was sitting. Her eyes followed him all the way across. She was a strange one, no doubt, and not just the looks of her, though the dead knew her looks were strange enough. She seemed hard and sharp and cold as a new sword, ruthless as any man that Logen could think of. You would have thought she wouldn't throw a log to save a drowning man, but she'd done more than that to save him, and more than once. Out of all of them, she was the one he'd trust first, and furthest. So he squatted down and held the skin out to her, its bulbous shadow flickering and shifting on the rough wall behind her.
She frowned at it for a moment, then frowned up at Logen. Then she snatched it off him and bent back over her pot, half turning her bony shoulders on him. Not a word of thanks, or a gesture even, but he didn't mind. You won't cross the mountains in a day, after all.
He dropped down again beside the fire, watched the flames dancing, casting shifting light across the grim faces of the group. 'Anyone know any stories?' he asked, hopefully.
Quai sucked at his teeth. Luthar curled his lip at Logen across the fire. Ferro gave no sign that she had even heard. Hardly an encouraging start.
'Not any?' No reply. 'Alright then, I know a song or two, if I can remember the words,' he cleared his throat.
'Very well!' cut in Bayaz. 'If it will save us from a song, I know hundreds of stories. What did you have it in mind to hear about? A romance? A comedy? A tale of bravery against the odds?'
'This place,' cut in Luthar. 'The Old Empire. If it was such a great nation, how did it come to this?' He jerked his head over at the crumbling walls, and what they all knew lay beyond. The miles and miles of nothing. 'A wasteland.'
Bayaz sighed. 'I could tell that tale, but we are lucky enough to have a native of the Old Empire with us on our little trip, and a keen student of history to boot. Master Quai?' The apprentice looked up lazily from the fire. 'Would you care to enlighten us? How did the Empire, once the glittering centre of the world, come to this pass?'
'That story is long in the telling,' murmured the apprentice. 'Shall I start from the beginning?'
'Where else should a man ever start?'
Quai shrugged his bony shoulders and began to speak. 'Almighty Euz, vanquisher of demons, closer of gates, father of the World, had four sons, and to each he gave a gift. To his eldest, Juvens, he gave the talent of High Art, the skill to change the world with magic, tempered by knowledge. To his second son, Kanedias, went the gift of making, of shaping stone and metal to his own purposes. To his third son, Bedesh, Euz gave the skill of speaking with spirits, and of making them do his bidding.' Quai gave a wide yawn, smacked his lips and blinked at the fire. 'So were born the three pure disciplines of magic'
'I thought he had four sons,' grumbled Luthar.
Quai's eyes slid sideways. 'So he did, and therein lies the root of the Empire's destruction. Glustrod was the youngest son. To him should have gone the gift of communing with the Other Side. The secrets of summoning devils from the world below and binding them to one's will. But such things were forbidden by the First Law, and so Euz gave nothing to his youngest son but his blessing, and we all know what those are worth. He taught the other three their share of his secrets and left, ordering his sons to bring order to the world.'
'Order.' Luthar tossed his platter down on the grass beside him and glanced disdainfully round at the shadowy ruins. 'They didn't get far.'
'At first they did. Juvens set about his purpose with a will, and bent all his power and all his wisdom to it. He found a people that pleased him, living beside the Aos, and favoured them with laws and learning, government and science. He gave to them the skills to conquer their neighbours, and made of their chief an Emperor. Son followed father, year followed year, and the nation grew and prospered. The lands of the Empire stretched as far as Isparda in the south, Anconus in the north, the very shores of the Circle Sea to the east, and beyond. Emperor followed Emperor, but always Juvens was there—guiding, advising, shaping all things according to his grand design. All was civilised, all was peaceful, all was content.'
'Almost all,' muttered Bayaz, poking at the guttering fire with a stick.
Quai gave a smirk. 'We have forgotten Glustrod, just as his father did. The ignored son. The shunned son. The cheated son. He begged all three brothers for a share of their secrets, but they were jealous of their gifts, and all three refused him. He looked upon what Juvens had achieved, and was bitter beyond words. He found dark places in the world, and in secret he studied those sciences forbidden by the First Law. He found dark places in the world, and he touched the Other Side. He found dark places, and he spoke in the tongue of devils, and he heard their voices answer him.' Quai's voice dropped down to a whisper. 'And the voices told Glustrod where to dig…'
'Very good, Master Quai,' cut in Bayaz, sternly. 'Your grip on the histories seems much improved. Let us not tarry on the details, however. We can leave Glustrod's diggings for another day.'
'Of course,' murmured Quai, his dark eyes glittering in the firelight, his gaunt face fu
ll of gloomy hollows. 'You know best, master. Glustrod laid plans. He watched from the shadows. He garnered secrets. He flattered, and he threatened, and he lied. It did not take him long to turn the weak-willed to his purposes, and the strong-willed against each other, for he was cunning, and charming, and fair to look upon. He heard the voices always, now, from the world below. They suggested that he sow discord everywhere, and he listened. They urged him to eat the flesh of men, and steal their power, and he did so. They commanded him to seek out those devil-bloods that remained in our world, spurned, hated, exiled, and make from them an army, and he obeyed.'
Something touched Logen's shoulder from behind and he near jumped in the air. Ferro was standing over him, the water-skin held out in her hand. 'Thanks,' he growled as he took it from her, pretending that his heart wasn't knocking at his ribs. He took a quick swig and banged the stopper in with his palm, then put it down beside him. When he looked up, Ferro hadn't moved. She stood there above him, looking down at the dancing flames. Logen shuffled up a step, making room. Ferro scowled, sucked her teeth, kicked at the ground, then slowly squatted down on her haunches, making sure to leave plenty of space between them. She held her hands out to the fire and bared her shining teeth at it.
'Cold over there.'
Logen nodded. These walls don't keep the wind off much.'
'No.' Her eyes swept across the group and found Quai. 'Don't stop for me,' she snapped.
The apprentice grinned. 'Strange and sinister was the host that Glustrod gathered. He waited for Juvens to leave the Empire, then he crept into the capital at Aulcus and set his well-laid schemes in motion. It seemed as if a madness swept the city. Son fought with father, wife with husband, neighbour with neighbour. The Emperor was cut down on the steps of his palace by his own sons and then, maddened with greed and envy, they turned upon each other. Glustrod's twisted army had slithered into the sewers beneath the city and rose up, turning the streets into charnel pits, the squares into slaughter yards. Some among them could take forms, stealing the faces of others.'