“I was expecting you days ago,” Lorn said, glaring at the figure.
It turned to regard her, its face hidden in shadow beneath the yellowed bone shelf of its helmet. The helmet, she saw, was the skull-cap of some horned beast, one horn broken off at its base.
The rider arrived behind her. “Adjunct!” he called out, dismounting. He came to her side, bow still in his hand and arrow nocked. His lone eye glanced across Lorn and, seeming satisfied that her wound was not mortal, fixed on the massive but squat creature facing them. “Hood's Breath, a T'lan Imass.”
Lorn continued glaring at the T'lan Imass. “I knew you were about. It's the only thing that explains a Barghast shaman bringing himself and his hand-picked hunters into the area. He must have used a Warren to get here. So where were you?”
Toc the Younger stared at the Adjunct, amazed at her outburst. His gaze flicked back to the T'lan Imass. The last time he'd seen one was in Seven Cities, eight years past, and then it had been from a distance as the undead legions marched out into the western wastelands on some mission even the Empress could learn nothing about. At this close range, Toc eagerly studied the T'lan Imass. Not much left of it, he concluded.
Despite the sorcery, three hundred thousand years had taken their toll.
The skin that stretched across the squat man's robust bones was a shiny nut brown in colour, the texture of leather. Whatever flesh it had once covered had contracted to thin strips the consistency of oak roots-such muscles showed through torn patches here and there. The creature's face, what Toc could see of it, bore a heavy chinless jawbone, high cheeks and a pronounced brow ridge. The eye sockets were dark holes.
“I asked you a question,” Lorn grated. “Where were you?”
The head creaked as the Imass looked down at its feet. “Exploring,” it said quietly in a voice born of stones and dust.
Lorn demanded, “Your name, T'lan?”
“Onos T'oolan, once of the Tarad Clan, of the Logros T'lan. I was birthed in the autumn of the Bleak Year, the ninth son to the Cla whetted as warrior in the Sixth Jaghut War-”
“Enough,” Lorn said. She sagged wearily and Toc moved to her side Glancing up at him she scowled, “You look grim.” Then a small smile came to her lips. “But good to me.”
Toc grinned. “First things first, Adjunct. A place for you to rest.” She did not protest as he guided her to a grassy knoll near the barrow and gently pushed her to her knees. He glanced back to see the T'lan Imas still standing where it had first emerged from the ground. It had turned however, and seemed to be studying the barrow. “We must make you arm immobile,” Toc said to the worn, weathered woman kneeling befor him. “I am named Toc the Younger,” he said, squatting down.
She raised her gaze at this. “I knew your father,” she said. Her smile returned. “Also a great bowman.”
He ducked his head in reply.
“He was a fine commander too,” Lorn continued, studying the ravaged youth who was now tending to her arm. “The Empress has regretted his death-”
“Not dead for sure,” Toc interrupted, his tone tight and his single eye averted as he began removing the gauntlet from her hand. “Disappeared.
“Yes,” Lorn said softly. “Disappeared since the Emperor's death.” She winced as he pulled away the gauntlet and tossed it aside.
“I'll need some strips of cloth,” he said, rising.
Lorn watched him stride to one of the Barghast bodies. She had not known who her Claw contact would be, only that he was the last left alive among Dujek's forces. She wondered why he had veered so sharply from his father's path. There was nothing pleasant, or proud, in being Claw. Only efficiency and fear.
He took a knife to the body's tanned leather armour, slicing it back to reveal a rough woollen shirt, into which he cut. Then he returned to her side, a handful of long strips in one hand. “I didn't know you had a Imass for company,” he said, as he crouched beside her again.
“They choose their own modes of travel,” Lorn said, a hint of anger in her voice. “And come when they please. But yes, he's an integral player in my mission. She fell silent, gritting her teeth in pain as Toc slipped th rude sling over her shoulder and under her arm.
“I have little good to report,” Toc said, and he told her of Paran's disappearance, and of Whiskeyjack and his squad departing without the yJ I captain in attendance. By the time he had finished he had adjusted the sling to his own satisfaction, and sat back on his haunches with sigh.