leisure.
Yes, that was a better course. Reasonable and methodical, as justice should be. He was not deliberately avoiding such a journey.
Satisfied with these arguments, Seerdomin set out to begin his night of slaughter, and here, in this city, night was without end.
The rats watched him set off. They could smell the blood on him, and more than one had been witness to the slaughter far below, and certain of these now ambled away from the ruin, heading for the world of daylight beyond the shroud.
Summoned, yes, by their master, the one known as Monkrat, an amusing enough name, implicitly contemptuous and derisive. What none of the man's associates truly understood was the truth underlying that name. Monkrat, yes. The Monk of Rats, priest and wizard, conjuror and binder of spirits. Laugh and snicker if you like . . . at your peril.
The liberators had found an enemy, and something would have to be done about that.
The city of Bastion crouched above the vast dying lake, its stolid, squat walls blackened and streaked with some kind of oil. The shanties and hovels surrounding the wall had been burned and then razed, the charred wreckage strewn down the slope leading to the cobbled road. Smoke hung above the battlements, thick and surly.
Cradling his battered hands – the reins looped loose about them – Nimander squinted up at the city and its yawning gates. No guards in sight, not a single figure on the walls. Except for the smoke the city looked lifeless, abandoned.
Riding at his side in the front of their modest column, Skintick said, 'A name like "Bastion" invites images of ferocious defenders, bristling with all manner of weapons, suspicious of every foreigner climbing towards the gates. So,' he added with a sigh, 'we must be witness here to the blessed indolence of saemankelyk, the Dying God's sweet blood.'
Memories of his time in the company of the giant mason still haunted Nimander. It seemed he was cursed with occurrences devoid of resolution, every life crossing his path leaving a swirling wake of mysteries in which he flailed about, half drowning. The Jaghut, Gothos, only worsened matters, a creature of vast antiquity seeking to make use of them, somehow, for reasons he had been too uninterested to explain.
Since we failed him.
The smell of rotting salt filled the air and they could see the bleached flats stretching out from the old shoreline, stilted docks high and dry above struggling weeds, fisher boats lying on their sides farther out. Off to their left, inland, farmsteads were visible amidst rows of scarecrows, but it looked as if there was nothing still living out there – the plants were black and withered, the hundreds of wrapped figures motionless.
They drew closer to the archway, and still there was no one in sight.
'We're being watched,' Skintick said.
Nimander nodded. He felt the same. Hidden eyes, avid eyes.
'As if we've done just what they wanted,' Skintick went on, his voice low, 'by delivering Clip, straight to their damned Abject Temple.'
That was certainly possible. 'I have no intention of surrendering him – you know that.'
'So we prepare to wage war against an entire city? A fanatic priesthood and a god?'
'Yes.'
Grinning, Skintick loosened the sword at his side.
Nimander frowned at him. 'Cousin, I don't recall you possessing such bloodlust.'
'Oh, I am as reluctant as you, Nimander. But I feel we've been pushed long enough. It's time to push back, that's all. Still, that damage to your hands worries me.'
'Aranatha did what she could – I will be fine.' He did not explain how the wounding felt more spiritual than physical. Aranatha had indeed healed the crushed bones, the mangled flesh. Yet he still cradled them as if crippled, and in his dreams at night he found himself trapped in memories of that heavy block of obsidian sliding over his fingertips, the pain, the spurting blood – and he'd awaken slick with sweat, hands throbbing.
The very same hands that had strangled Phaed – almost taking her life. The pain felt like punishment, and now, in the city before them, he believed that once more they would know violence, delivering death with terrible grace.
They reined in before the gate's archway. Sigils crowded the wooden doors, painted in the same thick, black dye that marred the walls to either side.
Nenanda spoke from the wagon's bench. 'What are we waiting for? Nimander? Let's get this over with.'
Skintick twisted in the saddle and said, 'Patience, brother. We're waiting for the official welcoming party.
The killing will have to