A Sword from Red Ice

Observing Raif's disorientation, Tallal said, The buffalo women and the bird priests deal with ayah, the souls of the living. Their numbers are many. It is said that there is a herd of buffalo for every sheep." Tallal smiled gently; Raif could hear it in his voice. "It is not wise to get in their way. They can be fearsome when it comes to saving souls. When a man hears the rumble of many hooves and turns to see the buffalo stampeding it is not unlikely he will change his course."

Raif grinned. He was beginning to feel better, but he had a hunch it wouldn't last. "And the souls of the dead?"

A smoke ring of breath blew from Tallal's mouth. "Morah." The word had power. Raif felt it pump against his eardrums. Slowly, rhythmically, Tallal began to rock back and forth on the balls of his feet. "Morah is the flesh of God. Every man, woman and child who passes through this mortal world grows a portion of God within them. This we call the soul. When someone dies their soul rises to the heavens and God claims it and sets it in place. The Book of Trials foretells the day when the Maker's body is whole and he will walk amongst us and we might look upon his face. We, the Sand People, await that day with hope and deepest longing. Yet if as much as a single soul is lost God's body will remain incomplete and he will be forever unknowable.

"The Book of Trials commands the lamb brothers to seek out the lost souls of the dead. All must be counted and released. They are precious to us beyond reckoning, for they contain the substance of God.

Raif stared into the flames whilst Tallal spoke. The wood burned green and white and gave off the cold and empty smell of high places.

Listening to the lamb brother made him feel sad. Tallal had been set a task that would never be completed. His god would never come There were too many men and women out there who had lost their way and died without peace or salvation. Generations of bodies had disappeared; flesh eaten by maggots, bones dried to husks then ground into sand. How could they be saved when there was no record of their existence?

And who would save the souls of the Unmade?

Heritas Cant had said that every thousand years the creatures of the Blirflride forth to claim more men for their armies. "When a man or woman is touched by them they become Unmade. Not dead, never dead, but something different cold and craving. The shadows enter them snuffing the light from their eyes and the warmth from their hearts. Everything is lost."

Without thinking, Raif raised his hand to his shoulder. The wound, had begun to sting. If Heritas Cant was right, then countless people over thousands of centuries had been lost, their souls claimed by the Endlords. Raif glanced at Tallal. Did he know this? Was he aware of the impossibility of his task?

Tallal's gaze was level. "Once a year in the hottest month of summer, when the sand snakes grow bold and even the blister beetles search for shade, the storms come. Day falls dark as night. Rain crashes from the sky and lightning strikes. Once in a very long while when lightning touches sand it turns to glass. This glass is very rare. A thousand thunderstorms may pass overhead yet everything—the sand, the wind, the moons and the stars—must be in accordance before lightning can transform sand into glass. Stormglass is a powerful talisman. Kings and shamans covet it. It is said that when you look into it you see other storms; storms that are gathering and may come to be, storms of thunder and storms of men. My people sweep the sands for it when we travel. Like gingerroot it lies beneath the surface, out of sight, and we use acacia branches to comb the dunes as we walk the cattle. We dream of finding the perfect unbroken piece, long as a sword and clear as water. In my lifetime I have never known anyone to find such a piece. Yet still we sweep."

Tallal paused, waited for Raif to meet his gaze. "To search is to be sustained by hope. Every morning we may wake and say Perhaps today I will find what I seek. A sense of purpose is like a meal of lamb and rice; it can fill an empty man."

Raif breathed in deeply, letting the cold air steep inside his chest He wondered at what point Tallal had ceased talking about the search for stormglass and started talking about the two of them instead Glancing down at his hands, Raif saw the cold had turned them gray. His fingers felt raw, and the stump on his left hand where Stillborn had chopped off the tip of his little finger looked bald and misshapen. The wound had healed months ago, but the ridge of scar tissue left behind by the stitches would never make a pretty sight It was the price of admittance to the Maimed Men. You could not become one of them and remain whole.

Will you come back?

Raif thrust his hands into the folds of his Orrl cloak, hoping to thrust away Stillborn's words. Sunlight broke through the haze, giving off a weak silvery light that made nothing seem warmer.