Dust of Dreams

warrior bared his filed teeth. ‘None of us have. Again you evade my questions!’
    Behind them, close to a hundred disgruntled Senan warriors listened to their every word. But Tool would not face them. He found he could not look away fromthe sinkhole.
I could have drawn my sword. With shouts and fierce faces, enough to terrify them all. And I could have driven them before me, chased them, shrieking at seeing them run, seeing their direction shift, as the ancient rows of cairns channelled them unwittingly on to the proper path—
    —and then see them tumble over the cliff’s edge. Cries of fear, screams of pain—the snap of bones, the thunder of crushed bodies—oh, listen to the echoes of all that!
    ‘I have a question for you, Bakal.’
    ‘Ah! Yes, ask it and hear how a Barghast answers what is asked of him!’
    ‘Can the Senan afford to lose a thousand warriors?’
    Bakal snorted.
    ‘Can the Warleader of the White Face Barghast justify killing a thousand of his own warriors? Just to make a point?’
    ‘You will not survive one, never mind a thousand!’
    Tool nodded. ‘See how difficult it is, Bakal, to answer questions?’
    He set out, skirting the sinkhole’s edge, and made his way down the slope to the left—a much gentler descent into the valley, and had the beasts been clever, they would have used it. But fear drove them on, and on. Blinding them, deafening them. Fear led them to the cliff’s edge. Fear chased them into death.
    Look on, my warriors, and see me run.
    But it is not you that I fear. A detail without relevance, because, you see, the cliff edge does not care.
     
    ‘Which damned tribe is this one?’ Sceptre Irkullas asked.
    The scout frowned. ‘The traders call them the Nith’rithal—the blue streaks in their white face paint distinguish them.’
    The Akrynnai warleader twisted to ease the muscles of his lower back. He had thought such days were past him—a damned war! Had he not seen enough to earn some respite? When all he sought was a quiet life in his clan, playing bear to his grandchildren, growling as they swarmed all over him with squeals and leather knives stabbing everywhere they could reach. He so enjoyed his lengthy death-throes, always saving one last shocking lunge when all were convinced the giant bear was well and truly dead. They’d shriek and scatter and he would lie back, laughing until he struggled to catch his breath.
    By the host of spirits, he had
earned
peace. Instead, he had . . . this. ‘How many yurts did you say again?’ His memory leaked like a worm-holed bladder these days.
    ‘Six, maybe seven thousand, Sceptre.’
    Irkullas grunted. ‘No wonder they’ve devoured half that bhederin herd in the month since they corralled them.’ He considered for a time, scratching the white bristles on his chin. ‘Twenty thousand inhabitants then. Would you say that a fair count?’
    ‘There’s the track of a large war-party that headed out—eastward—a day or so ago.’
    ‘Thus diminishing the number of combatants even more—tracks, you say? These Barghast have grown careless, then.’
    ‘Arrogant, Sceptre—after all, they’ve slaughtered hundreds of Akrynnai already—’
    ‘Poorly armed and ill-guarded merchants! And that makes them strut? Well, this time they shall face true warriors of the Akrynnai—descendants of warriors who crushed invaders from Awl, Lether and D’rhasilhani!’ He collected his reins and twisted round towards his second in command. ‘Gavat! Prepare the wings to the canter—as soon as their pickets see us, sound the Gathering. Upon sighting the encampment, we charge.’
    There were enough warriors nearby to hear his commands and a low, ominous
hhunn
chant rumbled through the ranks.
    Irkullas squinted at the scout. ‘Ride back out to your wing, Ildas—ride down their pickets if you can.’
    ‘It’s said the Barghast women are as dangerous as the men.’
    ‘No doubt. We kill every adult and every youth near blooding—the children we will make Akrynnai and those who resist we will sell as slaves to the Bolkando. Now, enough talking—loosen the arrows in your quiver, Ildas—we have kin to avenge!’
    Sceptre Irkullas liked playing the bear to his grandchildren. He was well suited to the role. Stubborn, slow to anger, but as the Letherii and others had discovered, ware the flash of red in his eyes—he had led the warriors of the Akrynnai for three decades, at the head of the most-feared cavalry on the plains, and