Dust of Dreams

wolves howled, a chorus that deafened him, that drove him face-first into the frozen dirt.
Gods, my head! Stop! Stop, I beg you!
If he screamed, he could not hear it. The beasts surged on all sides, closing in and in—they wanted him.
    They wanted his blood.
    From somewhere sounded a hunter’s horn.
    Cafal leapt to his feet and ran. Ran from the world.
     
    When her sister passed the wailing boy over, Stavi clutched him to her chest. Storii moved past her as they emerged from the fissure, grasping handfuls of tawny grasses to pull her way up the slope. This range of broken hills was narrow, an island of scoured limestone, and beyond it the land levelled out, flat, with nowhere to hide. She struggled up the tattered slope, gasping, the boy beating at her face with his tiny fists.
    They were going to die. She knew that now. Their life in all its loose joy, its perfect security, was suddenly gone. She longed for yesterday, she longed for the solid presence that was her adopted father. Once more the sight of his face, a facewide and weathered, with every feature exaggerated, oversized, his soft eyes that had only ever looked upon his children with love—against the twins, it had seemed anger was impossible. Even disapproval wavered in a heartbeat. They had worked him like river clay, but they had known that beneath that clay there was a thing of iron, a thing of great power. He was a truth, resolute, unbreakable. They worked him because they knew that truth.
    Where was he now? What had happened to their mother? Why was Sathand Gril hunting them? Why was he going to kill them?
    Storii ran ahead, darting like a hare seeking cover, but there was none to be found. Ghoulish light painted the plain as the Slashes etched the night. A cruel wind cut into their faces, and the mass of storm clouds blotted out the north sky. The sight of her sister’s panic was like a knife in Stavi’s chest—the world was as broken as the hills behind them, as broken as the vicious look in Sathand’s eyes. She could have dropped that rock on his skull—she should have—but the thought of hurting him that much had horrified her. A part of her had wanted to believe that if she could manage to break his shoulder, he would give up, he would return to the camp. She knew now, bleak with despair, that such faith—that all of this could be so easily righted—was ridiculous. Her error in judgement was going to see them all killed.
    Hearing Sathand climb out of the fissure, Stavi cried out, running as fast as her legs could carry her. All at once the boy she held went quiet, and his arms wrapped tight round her neck, hands clutching her hair.
    He understood as well. Motionless as a doe in the grasses not ten paces from a hunting cat, his eyes wide, his breath panting and hot against the side of her neck.
    Tears streamed down her cheeks—he clutched her in the belief that she could protect him, that she could defend his life. But she knew she couldn’t. She wasn’t old enough. She wasn’t fierce enough.
    She saw Storii look back over a shoulder, saw her falter—
    Sathand’s heavy footfalls were closing fast.
    ‘Go!’ Stavi shrieked at her sister. ‘
Just go!
’
    Instead, Storii bent down, scooped up a rock, and then sprinted back towards them.
    Fierce sister, brave sister. You fool.
    They would die together then.
    Stavi stumbled, fell to her knees, skinning them on the grasses. The burning pain loosed more tears, and everything blurred. The boy kicked himself free—now he would run, fast as his short legs could take him—
    Instead, he stood and faced the charging warrior. The man was not a stranger, was he? No, he was kin. And in the shadow of a kinsman there was safety.
    Stavi whispered, ‘Not this time.’
     
    Sathand readied the knife in his hand, slowing now that the chase had come to an end—nowhere for them to go, was there?
    His shoulder throbbed, and sharp bolts of pain shot out from his collar bone—he couldn’t even lift that arm—she’d broken it.
    But the warrior’s rage was fading.
They did not choose their parents—who does? They’re just . . . unlucky. But that is the way of the world. Spawn of rulers inherit more than power—they inherit what happens when that power collapses. When a night of blood is unleashed, and ambition floods black as locust ink.
    He saw the stone gripped by one of the girls and nodded, pleased with her defiance. Only half her blood was Barghast, but it had awakened for this. He