Dust of Dreams

he’s smart or anything.
    ‘I can, even from this distance, breach the defences he has raised.’
    Do that. He deserves the headache.
    ‘Mortal Sword. Shield Anvil. Destriant. You three stand, you three are the mortal truths of my mother’s faith. New beliefs are born. What is an eternity spent in sleep? What is this morning of our first awakening? We honour the blood of our kin spilled this day. We honour too the fallen Nah’ruk and pray that one day they will know the gift of forgiveness.’
    You must have seen it for yourself, Matron,
Gesler said,
that those Nah’ruk are bred down, past any hope of independent thought. Those sky keeps were old. They can repair, but they cannot make anything new. They are the walking dead, Matron. You can see it in their eyes.
    Kalyth said, ‘I believed I saw the same in your eyes, Mortal Sword.’
    He grunted and then sighed.
Too tired for this. I have grieving to do.
‘You might have been right, Destriant. But we shed things like that like snake skin. You wear what you need to get through, that’s all.’
    ‘Then perhaps we can hope for the Nah’ruk.’
    ‘Hope all you like. Sinn—can they burn another gate through?’
    ‘Not for a long time,’ she replied, reaching down to collect up Roach. She cradled the foul thing in her arms, scratching it behind the ears.
    The ugly rat’s pink tongue slid in and out as it panted. Its eyes were demonic with witless malice.
    Gesler shivered.
    The Matron spoke:
‘We are without a Nest. But the need must wait. Wounds must heal, flesh must be harvested. Mortal Sword, we now pledge ourselves to you. We now serve. Among your friends, there will be survivors. We shall find them.’
    Gesler shook his head. ‘We led your army, Matron. We had our battle, but it’s over now. You don’t owe us anything. And whatever your mother believed, she never asked us, did she? Me and Stormy, we’re not priests. We’re soldiers and nothing more. Those titles you gave us—well, we’re shedding that skin too.’
    Stormy’s voice rumbled through his mind,
‘Same for me, Matron. We can find our friends on our own—you need a city to build, or maybe some other Rootedyou can find. Besides, we got Grub and Sinn, and Bent here—gods, he’s almost wagging that stub of a tail and I ain’t never seen that before. Must be all the gore on his face.’
    Kalyth laughed, even as tears streamed down her lined cheeks. ‘You two—you cannot shed your titles. They are branded upon your souls—will you just leave me here?’
    ‘You’re welcome to come with us,’ said Gesler.
    ‘Where?’
    ‘East, I think.’
    The woman flinched.
    ‘You’re from there, aren’t you? Kalyth?’
    ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Elan. But the Elan are no more. I am the last. Mortal Sword, you must not choose that direction. You will die—all of you.’ She pointed at Grub and Sinn. ‘Even them.’
    The Matron said,
‘Then we see the path before us. We shall guard you all. Ve’Gath. K’ell. J’an. Gu’Rull who still lives, still serves. We shall be your guardians. It is the new way our mother foresaw. The path of our rebirth.
    ‘Humans, welcome us. The K’Chain Che’Malle have returned to the world.’
     
    Sulkit heard her words and something stirred within her. She had been a J’an Sentinel in the time of her master’s need, but her master was gone, and now she was a Matron in her own right.
    The time had not yet come when she would make herself known. Old seeds grew within her: the first born would be weak, but that could not be helped. In time, vigour would return.
    Her master was gone. The throne was empty, barring a lone eye, embedded in the headrest. She was alone within Kalse.
    Life was bleeding into the Rooted’s stone. Strange, alien life. Its flesh and bone was rock. Its mind and soul was the singular imposition of belief.
But then, what else are any of us?
She would think on this matter.
    He was gone. She was alone. But all was well.
     
    ‘I have lost him. Again. We were so close, but now . . . gone.’
    With these words the trek staggered to a halt, as if in Mappo’s private loss all other desires had withered, blown away.
    The twins had closed on the undead wolf. Faint had a fear that death had somehow addicted them to its hoary promise. They spoke of Toc. They closed small fingers tight in the ratty fur of Baaljagg. The boy slept in Gruntle’s arms—now who could have predicted that bond? No matter, there was something in that huge man