beginning to fade.
The incandescent stream that carried him along seemed to gather speed. He was moving faster now. He smiled faintly. His journey was almost done. Soon the suffering would end. He could finally sink into oblivion.
A voice called out a name somewhere in the endless depths of space. There was something familiar about that name, but he closed his mind to it. Recognition would only invite more pain.
He was racing along now, the stars beneath him a blur. The voice repeated that word again, louder this time.
A colossal shadow seemed to envelop him.
It was a skull, so massive it filled the emptiness like a small planet. A yellow orb the size of a moon shifted slightly to regard him, and he realized with utter horror that it was an eye, rotten and filled with malevolence. The river of stars had turned a sickly colour now, a festering effluvium bleeding into the skull’s cavernous maw.
Sudden terror. He tried to scream but no sound emerged. He struggled desperately to resist the stream’s pull, to no effect. The skull would claim him at any moment.
And then he heard that voice a third time. It was quieter now, distant, but he willed himself to understand, to turn the sound into meaning.
Caw. It sounded like caw. The sound a bird makes? No, that wasn’t it. It had to be something else. It had—
The sound of beating wings; the unexpected feeling of air buffeting his face. Great talons closing around him. He caught sight of a great bird above, lifting him up and away from the skull-planet. That terrible, luminous eye swivelled upwards, watched his escape with deathly fury.
The giant bird squawked again. ‘Caw,’ it seemed to say.
Except that it wasn’t ‘caw’.
At last he remembered who he was.
He opened his eyes, whimpering in pain. He could see only darkness. Someone was holding him up. He felt a hard object being pressed against his lips. Cool liquid rushed into his parched mouth, and he almost choked before swallowing it down.
He became aware of the quiet whisper of water lapping against the side of a hull, the gentle swaying motion of a ship at sea. He had been on another voyage not long past, though it seemed a lifetime ago now.
‘Lie still,’ commanded a voice with an edge of steel.
‘Who—’ he began, but a rough finger pressed up against his lips, silencing him.
‘You will live. But the next time you awaken, you must be prepared to fend for yourself. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ he croaked.
‘Good. Rest now.’
He listened to the sounds of slow, steady footsteps and metal shackles scraping against wood fading into the distance.
This time, when sleep finally came for him, he did not dream.
Thirty-six Years Ago
The oxen had stopped moving again.
Kayne stared up at the iron sky and watched his breath mist. Any moment now the open-top wagon would resume its rickety journey west, sending fresh eruptions of agony stabbing through his injured leg. His captors had snapped off most of the shaft but the head remained wedged deep in his knee. The furs beneath him were soaked through with blood.
He had lost consciousness on three separate occasions. Each time he had awoken to a world of fresh misery. He figured a fortnight had passed since the disaster on the banks of the Icemelt, but it was hard to be sure, what with the pain clouding his brain. His stomach growled and he reached down, felt his ribs poking out through the woollen tunic he’d been given. His captors fed him meat and bread of an evening, but it wasn’t enough. He had been hungry before his capture; now he was damned near starving.
Footsteps crunched on snow nearby and a familiar face stared down at him. It was the big bastard who had saved his life back at the river.
‘We’re here,’ the burly Easterman grunted. His beard had grown bushier and was flecked with ice. Kayne felt embarrassed by his own wispy growth. He was a man grown, or close enough. Past time he wore the truth of it on his face, as a
The incandescent stream that carried him along seemed to gather speed. He was moving faster now. He smiled faintly. His journey was almost done. Soon the suffering would end. He could finally sink into oblivion.
A voice called out a name somewhere in the endless depths of space. There was something familiar about that name, but he closed his mind to it. Recognition would only invite more pain.
He was racing along now, the stars beneath him a blur. The voice repeated that word again, louder this time.
A colossal shadow seemed to envelop him.
It was a skull, so massive it filled the emptiness like a small planet. A yellow orb the size of a moon shifted slightly to regard him, and he realized with utter horror that it was an eye, rotten and filled with malevolence. The river of stars had turned a sickly colour now, a festering effluvium bleeding into the skull’s cavernous maw.
Sudden terror. He tried to scream but no sound emerged. He struggled desperately to resist the stream’s pull, to no effect. The skull would claim him at any moment.
And then he heard that voice a third time. It was quieter now, distant, but he willed himself to understand, to turn the sound into meaning.
Caw. It sounded like caw. The sound a bird makes? No, that wasn’t it. It had to be something else. It had—
The sound of beating wings; the unexpected feeling of air buffeting his face. Great talons closing around him. He caught sight of a great bird above, lifting him up and away from the skull-planet. That terrible, luminous eye swivelled upwards, watched his escape with deathly fury.
The giant bird squawked again. ‘Caw,’ it seemed to say.
Except that it wasn’t ‘caw’.
At last he remembered who he was.
He opened his eyes, whimpering in pain. He could see only darkness. Someone was holding him up. He felt a hard object being pressed against his lips. Cool liquid rushed into his parched mouth, and he almost choked before swallowing it down.
He became aware of the quiet whisper of water lapping against the side of a hull, the gentle swaying motion of a ship at sea. He had been on another voyage not long past, though it seemed a lifetime ago now.
‘Lie still,’ commanded a voice with an edge of steel.
‘Who—’ he began, but a rough finger pressed up against his lips, silencing him.
‘You will live. But the next time you awaken, you must be prepared to fend for yourself. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ he croaked.
‘Good. Rest now.’
He listened to the sounds of slow, steady footsteps and metal shackles scraping against wood fading into the distance.
This time, when sleep finally came for him, he did not dream.
Thirty-six Years Ago
The oxen had stopped moving again.
Kayne stared up at the iron sky and watched his breath mist. Any moment now the open-top wagon would resume its rickety journey west, sending fresh eruptions of agony stabbing through his injured leg. His captors had snapped off most of the shaft but the head remained wedged deep in his knee. The furs beneath him were soaked through with blood.
He had lost consciousness on three separate occasions. Each time he had awoken to a world of fresh misery. He figured a fortnight had passed since the disaster on the banks of the Icemelt, but it was hard to be sure, what with the pain clouding his brain. His stomach growled and he reached down, felt his ribs poking out through the woollen tunic he’d been given. His captors fed him meat and bread of an evening, but it wasn’t enough. He had been hungry before his capture; now he was damned near starving.
Footsteps crunched on snow nearby and a familiar face stared down at him. It was the big bastard who had saved his life back at the river.
‘We’re here,’ the burly Easterman grunted. His beard had grown bushier and was flecked with ice. Kayne felt embarrassed by his own wispy growth. He was a man grown, or close enough. Past time he wore the truth of it on his face, as a
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