stood the lost dwelling place of the Over-Kings: Anaerthe Morn.
Milanda glimpsed small, hairless vermin scratching in the dirt before fleeing into their burrow-holes when dark-feathered carrion turned overhead, ever watchful for the blood and death that would mark their next feeding ground. She could not forget the face of the farmer’s son: the fierceness and hate in his eyes, followed by the shock then emptiness as he was struck down. Khale had saved her life, but the boy’s death made her skin crawl. It should not have happened that way.
“We are being followed,” Khale said.
“By whom?”
“I have an idea, and it is not one I like.”
“What do we do?”
“We draw them out. Take it slow across the desolation. They will come on us in the night, and I will make them wish they hadn’t.”
More killing, she thought, more death .
She wondered if it would ever end.
*
The night was dark and the sky remained as dull and overcast as ever. Milanda could not remember the last time she had seen the stars shining clear. It felt like a long time ago, even though she knew it was not. She looked at Khale and wondered how it went with him.
“Where are we going, Khale? You haven’t told me yet.”
“That’s because I don’t want to.”
“Then tell me a story, at least.”
His eyes glowed in the firelight, making her stomach lining crawl.
“Do I look like your nursemaid?” he rumbled.
“No, but you have lived a long time. You must have a lot of stories.”
Khale looked at her. The colour of his eyes seemed to shift, becoming heavy with the rheum of old age.
“Stories. Yes, my life has many ... stories. Very well,” he said, “would you like to know who I am, girl? Who I really am?”
She nodded, although she didn’t like the cruel tone edging into his voice. His demon-soul was showing itself.
“I was born when the sun in the sky was still white and newborn. I sailed the seven seas of the world and crossed its lands. I stole and I killed because that’s what I do. And then I saw her: a girl, not much older than you are and just as innocent, or so she seemed.”
“Did you fall in love?”
“No,” he said, “I raped her. I was the first man to do such a thing. I stole into her home after dark. I saw her. I liked what I saw. I took her, there and then.”
Milanda didn’t say a word as he went on. “It’s all a lie, you see. I know my legends well enough, because I made most of them up myself. I never faced Death in battle. Death is the sound of your last breath, your heart failing, no more than that. It doesn’t dress up in a black hood and go hunting for near-corpses to harvest for some golden hall in the sky. Death is your last lover and your last friend. I thought that I was Death back then, as I cut my way through life, not caring for this soul or that. I did as I pleased. So I raped her in the dirt, and she screamed at me and scratched my face.” He lifted his fingers to his face, feeling for the ghosts of old scars.
“And then she spoke before I slit her throat. She said, “You will live to see the world you have created this day, and how it will come to nothing.” It sounded like some whispered madness to me, in those days. I didn’t understand, nor think anything more of it, until the night that came after. My eyes betrayed me. They had become as you see them now. I can still hear the screams, those people screaming that I was possessed by a demon from Hell.
“Perhaps they were right. No, they were wrong. I was much worse than that. Because they hounded me and they slew me, but then I came back. I hunted them down for doing that to me. I tortured some of them for weeks, fed them their own entrails and strangled them. I spent years adrift in murder and blood.
“When I had slaughtered enough, I began to search and to study. I needed to know what had been done to me. It took a century for me to acquire the knowledge of what had happened, but I could not find the words
Milanda glimpsed small, hairless vermin scratching in the dirt before fleeing into their burrow-holes when dark-feathered carrion turned overhead, ever watchful for the blood and death that would mark their next feeding ground. She could not forget the face of the farmer’s son: the fierceness and hate in his eyes, followed by the shock then emptiness as he was struck down. Khale had saved her life, but the boy’s death made her skin crawl. It should not have happened that way.
“We are being followed,” Khale said.
“By whom?”
“I have an idea, and it is not one I like.”
“What do we do?”
“We draw them out. Take it slow across the desolation. They will come on us in the night, and I will make them wish they hadn’t.”
More killing, she thought, more death .
She wondered if it would ever end.
*
The night was dark and the sky remained as dull and overcast as ever. Milanda could not remember the last time she had seen the stars shining clear. It felt like a long time ago, even though she knew it was not. She looked at Khale and wondered how it went with him.
“Where are we going, Khale? You haven’t told me yet.”
“That’s because I don’t want to.”
“Then tell me a story, at least.”
His eyes glowed in the firelight, making her stomach lining crawl.
“Do I look like your nursemaid?” he rumbled.
“No, but you have lived a long time. You must have a lot of stories.”
Khale looked at her. The colour of his eyes seemed to shift, becoming heavy with the rheum of old age.
“Stories. Yes, my life has many ... stories. Very well,” he said, “would you like to know who I am, girl? Who I really am?”
She nodded, although she didn’t like the cruel tone edging into his voice. His demon-soul was showing itself.
“I was born when the sun in the sky was still white and newborn. I sailed the seven seas of the world and crossed its lands. I stole and I killed because that’s what I do. And then I saw her: a girl, not much older than you are and just as innocent, or so she seemed.”
“Did you fall in love?”
“No,” he said, “I raped her. I was the first man to do such a thing. I stole into her home after dark. I saw her. I liked what I saw. I took her, there and then.”
Milanda didn’t say a word as he went on. “It’s all a lie, you see. I know my legends well enough, because I made most of them up myself. I never faced Death in battle. Death is the sound of your last breath, your heart failing, no more than that. It doesn’t dress up in a black hood and go hunting for near-corpses to harvest for some golden hall in the sky. Death is your last lover and your last friend. I thought that I was Death back then, as I cut my way through life, not caring for this soul or that. I did as I pleased. So I raped her in the dirt, and she screamed at me and scratched my face.” He lifted his fingers to his face, feeling for the ghosts of old scars.
“And then she spoke before I slit her throat. She said, “You will live to see the world you have created this day, and how it will come to nothing.” It sounded like some whispered madness to me, in those days. I didn’t understand, nor think anything more of it, until the night that came after. My eyes betrayed me. They had become as you see them now. I can still hear the screams, those people screaming that I was possessed by a demon from Hell.
“Perhaps they were right. No, they were wrong. I was much worse than that. Because they hounded me and they slew me, but then I came back. I hunted them down for doing that to me. I tortured some of them for weeks, fed them their own entrails and strangled them. I spent years adrift in murder and blood.
“When I had slaughtered enough, I began to search and to study. I needed to know what had been done to me. It took a century for me to acquire the knowledge of what had happened, but I could not find the words
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