The Bonehunters

Or all three. In any case, as you can see, he's mending already. The broken ribs are completely healed, as is the failing liver and shattered hip. And the cracked skull. Alas, nothing can be done for the brain within it.'

'He's lost his mind?'

'I doubt he ever had one,' the god replied. 'He's worse than Urko. At least Urko has interests, peculiar and pointless as they are.'

A groan from Stormy.

Cotillion walked over to the nearest wall. 'Curious,' he said. 'This is a temple to an Elder God. Not sure which one. Kilmandaros, maybe.

Or Grizzin Farl. Maybe even K'rul.'

'A rather bloody kind of worship,' Kalam muttered.

'The best kind,' Quick Ben said, brushing dust from his clothes.

Kalam noted Cotillion's sly regard of the wizard and wondered at it.

Ben Adaephon Delat, Cotillion knows something about you, doesn't he?

Wizard, you've got too many secrets by far. The assassin then noticed the rope, still dangling from the hole far above. 'Cotillion, what did you tie the rope to?'

The god glanced over, smiled. 'A surprise. I must be going.

Gentlemen…' And he faded, then was gone.

'Your god makes me nervous, Kalam,' Quick Ben said as Stormy groaned again, louder this time.

And you in turn make him nervous. And now… He looked down at Stormy.

The rips in the leggings were all that remained of the ghastly compound fractures. Adjutant Stormy. Annealed in holy fires. Still scowling.

****
High rock, the sediments stepped and ragged, surrounded their camp, an ancient tree to one side. Cutter sat near the small dung-fire they had lit, watching as Greyfrog circled the area, evincing ever more agitation. Nearby, Heboric Ghost Hands looked to be dozing, the hazy green emanations at the ends of his wrists dully pulsing. Scillara and Felisin Younger were packing their pipes for their new sharing of a post-meal ritual. Cutter's gaze returned to the demon.

Greyfrog, what's ailing you? 'Nervous. I have intimations of tragedy, swiftly approaching.

Something… worried and uncertain. In the air, in the sands. Sudden panic. We should leave here. Turn back. Flee.'

Cutter felt sweat bead his skin. He had never heard the demon so… frightened. 'We should get off this ridge?'

The two women looked up at his spoken words. Felisin Younger glanced at Greyfrog, frowned, then paled. She rose. 'We're in trouble,' she said.

Scillara straightened and walked over to Heboric, nudged him with a boot. 'Wake up.'

The Destriant of Treach blinked open his eyes, then sniffed the air and rose in a single, fluid motion.

Cutter watched all this in growing alarm. Shit. He kicked sand over the fire. 'Collect your gear, everyone.'

Greyfrog paused in his circling and watched them. 'So imminent?

Uncertain. Troubled, yes. Need for panic? Changing of mind?

Foolishness? Uncertain.'

'Why take chances?' Cutter asked. 'There's enough light – we'll see if we can find a more defensible place to camp.'

'Appropriate compromise. Nerves easing their taut sensitivity.

Averted? Unknown.'

'Usually,' Heboric said in a rough voice, pausing to spit. 'Usually, running from one thing throws you into the path of another.'

'Well, thanks for that, old man.'

Heboric gave Cutter an unpleasant smile. 'My pleasure.'

****
The cliff-face was pocked with caves which had, over countless centuries, seen use as places of refuge, as crypts for internment of the dead, as storage chambers, and as sheltered panels for rockpaintings. Detritus littered the narrow ledges that had been used as pathways; here and there a dark sooty stain marred overhangs and crevasses where fires had been lit, but nothing looked recent to Mappo's eye, and he recognized the funerary ceramics as belonging to the First Empire era.

They were approaching the summit of the escarpment, Icarium scrambling up towards an obvious notch cut into the edge by past rains. The lowering sun on their left was red behind a curtain of suspended dust that had been raised by the passing of a distant storm. Bloodflies buzzed the air around the two travellers, frenzied by the storm's brittle, energized breath.

Icarium's drive had become obsessive, a barely restrained ferocity. He wanted judgement, he wanted the truth of his past revealed to him, and when that judgement came, no matter how harsh, he would stand before it and raise not a single hand in his own defence.

And Mappo could think of nothing to prevent it, short of somehow incapacitating his friend, of striking him into unconsciousness.