‘Can she walk?’
‘Highness?’
Abrastal drank down the last of her wine, lifted up the goblet. ‘My third in a row. I’m not looking forward to this, and having to listen to one of my own daughters squeal like a myrid with a herder’s hand up its arse has hardly improved my mood.’
‘She’s untutored in the ways of real men,’ Spax responded. ‘Where do you want me for this?’
Abrastal gestured to one side of the tent. ‘There. Weapons drawn.’
The Warchief raised his brows, but said nothing as he walked over to where she had indicated.
‘This will be a kind of gate,’ Abrastal said, folding her legs as she settled back in her chair. ‘Things could come through, and to make matters worse it’ll be hard to make out what we’re seeing – there will be a veil between us. If the situation sours, it can be torn, either by whatever is on the other side, or by you going through.’
‘Going through? Highness—’
‘Be quiet. You are in my employ and you will do what you’re told.’
Swamp shit, we really did put her in a foul mood. Oh well . He drew his long knives and crouched down. ‘If I’d known I would have brought my axes.’
‘What do your shamans tell you, Spax, about your Barghast gods?’
He blinked. ‘Why, nothing, Firehair. Why should they? I’m the Warchief. I deal in matters of war. All that other rubbish is for them to worry over.’
‘And are they?’
‘Are they what?’
‘Worried.’
‘They’re warlocks, they’re always worried.’
‘Spax.’
He grimaced. ‘The Barghast gods are idiots. Like sixteen children locked in a small room. For days. They’ll start eating each other next.’
‘So there are sixteen of them?’
‘What? No. That was a just a number I threw out – spirits below, Firehair, you keep taking me literally – I’m Spax, remember? I make things up, to entertain myself. You want me to talk about my gods? Well, they’re worse than me. They probably made themselves up.’
‘What do your shamans say?’
Spax scowled. ‘I don’t care what they say!’
‘Is it that bad?’
He shrugged. ‘Could be our gods suddenly get smart. Could be they realize that their best chance of surviving what’s to come is to keep their heads down. Could be they can cure the world’s ills with one sweet kiss, too.’ He held up his knives. ‘But I ain’t holding my breath.’
‘Don’t pray to them, Spax. Not tonight, not now. Do you understand me?’
‘I can’t even remember the last time I prayed to them, Highness.’
Abrastal poured herself another goblet of wine. ‘Grab those furs over there. You’ll need them.’
Furs? ‘Firehair, I—’
A stain darkened the space in the centre of chamber, and an instant later bitter cold air spilled out, frosting everything in sight. The Warchief’s lungs burned with every breath. Pottery stacked against one wall cracked, then shattered, and what it contained fell out in frozen lumps.
Through pained eyes, Spax saw shapes take form within the gelid stain. In the forefront, facing Abrastal, was a short, curvaceous woman – young, he thought, though it was difficult to be sure. Felash. Is that her? Yes, must be her, who else would it be? Upon her left stood a taller woman, though the only detail he could make out was what appeared to be a glittering diamond set in her brow, from which extraordinary colours now flowed.
Then a shape coalesced to the Fourteenth Daughter’s right. Unnaturally tall, dressed in black, the hint of chain armour beneath the slashed cloak. A hood was drawn back, revealing a gaunt, demonic face. Stained tusks rose from the lower jaw, thrusting outward like curved knives. The pits of its eyes were dark. A damned Jaghut. Leaving me to wonder just how many more of my childhood terrors are real?
The Jaghut seemed to study Abrastal for a time, and then the head turned and Spax found himself staring into those lifeless pits. Withered lips peeled back, and the apparition spoke. ‘ Barghast .’ Voiced as if it was an insult.
Spax growled a low curse. Said, ‘I am Gilk. We have many enemies, all of whom fear us. You are welcome to be one of them, Jaghut.’
‘Mother,’ said the daughter. ‘I see you are well.’
Abrastal tipped her goblet. A solid lump of wine fell out. ‘Is this really necessary? I think I am frozen to my chair.’
‘Omtose Phellack, Mother – the Hold’s ancient king has returned. He stands beside me.’
