It was Chemec, the warrior with the bent leg. Of all the warriors, Chemec had lived. Chemec and Camlak. Why?
Chemec knew. Chemec knew his bent leg, and knew that it had taught him all he needed to know about the art of survival. He had had to learn new ways to run, new ways to fight. It had to be Chemec that lived. No one else, save by luck.
Camlak sheathed his knife.
“It would be you,” he said. “It had to be.” There was naked bitterness in his voice.
“And you?” Chemec retaliated. “I could say the same. We are both alive instead of dead.”
It was true enough. Chemec flinched as he spoke, ready to run if Camlak remembered any one of a dozen times that Chemec had cast doubts on his manhood. Chemec had been a warrior when Camlak was yet a child. But Camlak did not remember now, and he did not react to Chemec’s words. It was all over.
After a brief silence, when Camlak would not look at Chemec, and Chemec would not look at Camlak, the crippled warrior asked: “What now?”
It was a plea for guidance—a warrior asking the decision of the Old Man, whose function was to decide. Chemec had been a warrior while Camlak was a child, but Camlak had killed the harrowhound and played the Sun in the communion of souls. Even so, Camlak was faintly surprised. He could not help but feel that perhaps Chemec was mocking him.
“Stalhelm is dead,” said Camlak. “Do what you like. Anything.”
Chemec shook his head. “I’ll come with you,” he said.
“No,” said Camlak.
Chemec did not understand. This would not have been Yami’s way. Yami would have welcomed him. It would have been Yami and Chemec, together.
“We might go east,” said Chemec. “The Ahrima will turn south.”
“North,” said Camlak.
“We go north?” Chemec deliberately misunderstood.
“The Ahrima,” said Camlak. “They will go north, into the heartland, to rip the bowels out of Shairn.”
“We go north,” suggested Chemec. “To fight.”
“No,” said Camlak again. “You go.”
Chemec was silent.
“It’s dead,” said Camlak. “It’s finished. Stalhelm is over. A memory, nothing more.”
Chemec still said nothing. He could not accept it. It was beyond him. He was getting old.
Camlak looked at the man with the twisted leg, and remembered that this had been his enemy. This man might even hate him, and hate him still. But he was ruled by the way, by the rule of the ritual.
“I don’t want you,” he said.
Chemec waited. He could do nothing but wait.
When Camlak turned away, Chemec followed him. When Camlak half-turned, Chemec dropped back, but still followed.
Camlak went north, but not to the heartland—not to fight. The heartland was well to the west of north, bordered by the vast Swithering Waste. It was into the Waste that Camlak went, heading for the great metal wall.
Chemec followed, with infinite patience.
CHAPTER 9
As Burstone turned to lock the door behind him they slipped out of the shadows, and when he turned, they were there, blocking his way and pushing close to back him up against the wall. The alley was quite dark—it existed only to hide away the door from which Burstone had come. For a moment, he thought that they might be technics, on legitimate business, wanting to go down to the distribution units and wondering what he was doing there. But that was a hopeless wish. They had been waiting. For him. They knew who he was and where he had been.
He didn’t know whether he ought to be scared or not. No one had ever interfered before. He was scared.
One of them took the key from his hand. Gently. Then he put it back into the lock, and turned it. The door eased open when it was pushed. The dim light of the machine room filtered out, throwing vague shadows across the faces of the two men.
Burstone overcame his momentary paralysis.
“Do you want something?” he asked.
“The suitcase,” said the man who held the key. He was a tall man, but that was all Burstone could be sure of. The glimmer of light wasn’t enough to let him see any facial details. It was much darker here than in the Underworld. The real stars were so faint.
He could hear the keys being clicked back and forth in the tall man’s hand.
“We just want to talk,” said the other man. Burstone became conscious that he was being held by the arm. He wrenched slightly, and felt himself released. But they still stood in his way, pinning him in the corner of the blind corridor. The door oozed shut, and the darkness became total save for the pale silver sheen of the sky, high above.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Suppose we were the police?” countered the tall man.
“Suppose you were?” said Burstone.
“That’s right,” said the other man. “You don’t have anything to fear from the police. Nothing to hide. You’re doing nothing illegal. Any man in the world is perfectly entitled to take cases full of...whatever...into the Underworld. The police wouldn’t be interested. Surprised, but not interested. So who would? Who’d be insterested, Jervis? You tell us that.”
The calmly threatening tone somehow eased Burstone’s mind. This wasn’t right. Of course it wasn’t right. They had no right. They had nothing against him. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. The way the man spoke restored Burstone’s confidence in himself. The surprise was fading. The situation was becoming known, and therefore controllable.
“What do you want?” he asked, in a cool tone which said clearly that they weren’t going to get it.
“You’ve been followed before,” said the tall man quietly.
Burstone said nothing.
“We know about that,” said the other. “He didn’t come back, did he?”
“Suppose,” the tall man said again, “we were the police.”
“I didn’t do a thing,” said Burstone, once more on the defensive, once more crawling back into a shell of fear. “Nothing.”
“He didn’t come back.”
“No,” said Burstone.
“What did you do?” demanded the tall man.
“Nothing,” repeated Burstone.
“Suppose we knew what happened to him,” said the other. “We know his name. Joth Magner. Did you know who it was? You must have, of course. You could
