Dust of Dreams

She gestured, encompassing this killing field. ‘Look here—the “other” killed your god.’
    All of the K’Chain Che’Malle were facing her now.
    ‘My own people were betrayed as well. It seems,’ she added wryly, ‘we share something after all. It’s a beginning, of sorts.’ She scanned the area once more. ‘There is nothing here, for us.’
    ‘
You misunderstand, Destriant. It is here. It is all here.
’
    ‘What do you want me to do?’ She was close to tears yet again, but this time from helplessness. ‘They’re just . . . bones.’
    She started as Rythok stepped forward, massive blades lifting threateningly.
    Some silent command visibly battered the Hunter and he halted, trembling, jaws half agape.
    If she failed, she realized, they might well kill her. Cut her down as they had done Redmask, the poor fool. These creatures managed failure no better than humans. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘But I don’t believe in anything. Not gods, not anything. Oh, they might exist, but about us they don’t care. Why should they? We destroy to create. But we deny the value of everything we destroy, which serves to make its destruction easier on our consciences. All that we reshape to suit us is diminished, its original beauty for ever lost. We have no value system that does not beggar the world, that does not slaughter the beasts we share it with—as if
we
are the gods.’ She sank back down on to her knees and clutched the sides of her head. ‘Where are these thoughts coming from? It was all so much simpler, once, here—
in my mind
—so much simpler. Spirits below, I so want to go back!’
    She only realized she had been beating at her temples when two massivehands grasped her wrists and pulled down her arms. She stared up into Gunth Mach’s emerald eyes.
    And for the first time, the Daughter spoke inside her mind. ‘
Release, now. Breathe deep my breath, Destriant.
’
    Kalyth’s desperate gasping now caught a strange, pungent scent, emanating from Gunth Mach.
    The world spun. She sagged back, sprawled to the ground. As something unfolded in her skull like an alien flower, virulent, beguiling—she lost grip of her own body, was whipped away.
    And found herself standing on cold, damp stone, nostrils filling with a pungent, rank stench. Her eyes adjusted to the gloom, and she cried out and staggered back.
    A dragon reared above her, its slick scales the colour of rust. Enormous spikes pinned its forelimbs, holding the creature up against a massive, gnarled tree. Other spikes had been driven into it but the dragon’s immense weight had pulled them loose. Its wedge-shaped head, big as a migrant’s wagon, hung down, streaming drool. The wings were crumpled like storm-battered caravan tents. Fresh blood surrounded the base of the tree, so that it seemed that the entire edifice rose from a gleaming pool.
    ‘
The slayer, the Otataral Dragon, has been bound. But it will be freed . . .
’ Sag’Churok’s words echoed in her mind. ‘
They will free it.
’ Who? No matter, she realized. It would be done. This Otataral Dragon would be loosed upon the world, upon every world. A force of negation, a slayer of magic. And they would lose control of it—only mad fools could believe they could enslave such an entity.
    ‘Wait,’ she hissed, thoughts racing, ‘
wait.
Forces in opposition. Take away one—spike it to a tree—and the other is lost. It cannot exist, cannot survive looking across the Abyss and seeing nothing, no one, no
foe
. This is why you have lost your god, Sag’Churok. Or, if it still lives, it has been driven into the oblivion of insanity. Too alone. An orphan . . . just like me.’
    A revelation, of sorts. What could she make of it?
    Kalyth stared up at the dragon. ‘When you are finally freed, then perhaps your “other” will return, to engage with you once more. In that eternal battle.’ But even then, this scheme had failed before. It would fail again, because it was flawed—something was wrong, something was . . . broken. ‘
Forces in opposition, yes, that I do understand. And we each play our roles. We each fashion our “others” and chart the course of our lives as that eternal campaign, seasons of gain, seasons of loss. Battles and wounds and triumphs and bitter defeats. In comforts we fashion our strongholds. In convictions we occupy our fortifications. In violence we forge our peace. In peace, we win desolation.
’
    Somewhere far behind her,