Free Blood and Bone by Ian C. Esslemont Page B

announcement. Even Jatal sat back, shocked by the daunting scale of such a proposal.
Like no raid in over a generation. Dread King … in living memory!
    Next to him Ganell bent to the right and left, spilling his wine, ‘Can it be done? Could we do that?’
    So stunned by the scheme was the princess that she sat quite heavily. His gaze unfocused, Jatal pressed his hands together, touching his fingers to his lips.
A quick dash in. Surprise. Swift flight before any response could be organized or brought to bear. It
may
work
.
    ‘You will face the Thaumaturgs,’ a new harsh voice cut through the din.
    Jatal did not look up.
But what is the garrison? And what of the yakshaka guardians? We will need intelligence
.
    A pall of quiet spread through the tent as one by one those present fell silent.
    ‘Many Thaumaturgs in the great ritual centre of Isana Pura,’ the grating voice continued.
    Frowning, Jatal peered up to see all eyes turned to the opening where a newcomer stood. What he saw squeezed the breath from him in distaste and a shudder of dread. It was a shaduwam dressed in the traditional rags of his calling. His torso was smeared in layers of dirt and caked ash painted his face white. His hair was a piled mane of unwashed tangled locks. He carried in his hands the traditional accoutrements of his calling: the staff and begging bowl. But in this one’s case, the begging bowl was an upturned human skull.
    Everyone lurched to their feet in disgust, alarm, and, it had to be admitted, atavistic fear. ‘Who allowed this abomination among us!’ demanded Sher’ Tal. ‘Guards!’
    ‘Iron and flesh are no barrier to me,’ the shaduwam grinned, revealing teeth filed to fine sharp points.
    The guards came rushing in, only to flinch in loathing from the holy man. ‘A curse comes to any who dare touch me!’ he warned.
    ‘Curse wind and wood, then, dog,’ answered Princess Andanii, and she turned to her guards: ‘Bring me my bow!’
    ‘Would you strike down your own beloved mother and father, Princess?’ the shaduwam challenged. ‘For that is what will happen should you slay me. They too shall die … and not quickly.’
    Andanii paled yet her dark eyes glared a ferocious rage.
    ‘What is it you wish?’ the Warleader called, breaking the silence.
    Ganell waved the question aside. ‘Nay! Do not invite this one into our congress, stranger. Do you not see the skull in his hands? He is no normal holy man. He is an Agon. He has enslaved his spirit to dark powers: the Fallen One, and the Demon-King, the infernal Kell-Vor.’
    ‘Kell-Vor?’ the Warleader echoed, and his lips quirked up as if amused.
    The shaduwam had been staring avidly at the foreigner all this time. His own mouth tilted as if sharing some dark secret with the man.
    The Warleader broke the gaze and shrugged his indifference. ‘Yet it seems to me we should fight sorcery with sorcery. Is that not so?’
    Sher’ Tal clawed his full beard as he examined the priest the way one would a diseased animal – with disgust and wariness. ‘If these dark ones will slay theurgist mages then it is about time they did something useful …’
    The Agon smiled, baring sharpened teeth that looked to Jatal as if eager to sink into the man.
    ‘Then it is decided,’ the Warleader said. ‘When—’
    ‘It is
not
decided!’ Princess Andanii called, interrupting him yet again. She faced the priest while making a great show of her loathing. ‘You offer to help us … yet you speak not of any price! What is it you would demand of us?’
    Many of the assembled tribal chiefs murmured in support of Andanii, including Jatal, despite their families’ traditional antipathy. He called: ‘Aye. We would have it now.’
    The priest drew himself up tall: easily as disdainful of them as they of him. ‘Gold and jewels are as coloured dust and dirt to us. Our price is one quarter of all captives.’
    ‘Blood rites!’ Ganell spat. ‘Unholy sacrifice!’
    ‘Never!’ Andanii swore,