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The incisions grew thicker, more crowded, forcing the wizard to slow his pace yet further. It was becoming difficult to find a clear space on the clay for his feet. Binding sorceries — the whispered skeins of power made manifest, here on the floor of Hood's realm.

A dozen paces ahead was a small, bedraggled object, surrounded in glyphs. Quick Ben's frown deepened as he edged closer. Like the makings of fire. sticks and twisted grasses on a round, pale hearthstone.Advertisement

Then he saw it tremble.

Ah, these binding spells belong to you, little one. Your soul, trapped. As I once did to that mage, Hairlock, someone's done to you. Curious indeed. He moved as close as he could, then slowly crouched.

'You're looking a little worse for wear, friend,' the wizard said.

The minuscule acorn head swivelled slightly, then flinched back. 'Mortal!' the creature hissed in the language of the Barghast. 'The clans must be told! I can go no further — look, the wards pursued, the wards closed the web — I am trapped!'

'So I see. You were of the White Faces, shaman?'

' And so I remain! '

'Yet you escaped your barrow — you eluded the binding spells of your kin, for a while at least, in any case. Do you truly believe they will welcome your return, Old One?'

'I was dragged from my barrow, fool! You are journeying to the clans — I see the truth of that in your eyes. I shall tell you my tale, mortal, and so they know the truth of all that you tell them, I shall give you my true name-'

'A bold offer, Old One. What's to prevent me from twisting you to my will?'

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The creature twitched, a snarl in its tone as it replied, 'You could be no worse than my last masters. I am Talamandas, born of the First Hearth in the Knotted Clan. The first child birthed on this land — do you know the significance of that, mortal?'

'I am afraid not, Talamandas.'

'My previous masters — those damned necromancers — had worked through, mortal, were mere moments from discovering my true name — worked through, I tell you, with brutal claws indifferent to pain. With my name they would have learned secrets that even my own people have long forgotten. Do you know the significance of the trees on our barrows? No, you do not. Indeed they hold the soul, keep it from wandering, but why ?

'We came to this land from the seas, plying the vast waters in dugouts — the world was young, then, our blood thick with the secret truths of our past. Look upon the faces of the Barghast, mortal — no, look upon a Barghast skull stripped of skin and muscle …'

'I've seen … Barghast skulls,' Quick Ben said slowly.

'Ah, and have you seen their like … animate ?'

The wizard scowled. 'No, but something similar, squatter — the features slightly more pronounced-'

'Slightly, aye, slightly. Squatter? No surprise, we never went hungry, for the sea provided. Yet more, Tartheno Toblakai were among us …'

'You were T'lan Imass! Hood's breath! Then … you and your kin must have defied the Ritual-'

'Defied? No. We simply failed to arrive in time — our pursuit of the Jaghut had forced us to venture onto the seas, to dwell among iceflows and on treeless islands. And in our isolation from kin, among the elder peoples — the Tartheno — we changed … when our distant kin did not. Mortal,wherever land proved generous enough to grant us a birth,we buried our dugouts — for ever. From this was born the custom of the trees on our barrows — though none among my kind remembers. It has been so long …'

'Tell me your tale, Talamandas. But first, answer me this. What would you do … if I freed you of these bindings?'

'You cannot.'

'Not an answer.'

'Very well, though it be pointless. I would seek to set free the First Families — aye, we are spirits, and now worshipped by the living clans. But the ancient bindings have kept us as children in so many ways. Well meant, yet a curse none the less. We must be freed. To grow into true power-'

'To ascend into true gods,' Quick Ben whispered, his eyes wide as he stared down at the ragged figure of grasses and twigs.

'The Barghast refuse to change, the living think now as the living always did. Generation after generation. Our kind are dying out, mortal. We rot from within. For the ancestors are prevented from giving true guidance, prevented from maturing into their power — our power. To answer your question, mortal, I would save the living Barghast, if I could.'

'Tell me, Talamandas,' Quick Ben asked with veiled eyes, 'is survival a right, or a privilege?' pqdm.com