The crazed weather whirled on out on that plain, and she moved through it effortlessly, round and round, this way and that, but not yet drawing closer, not yet coming for him once more.
‘Why does she wait?’ he asked. ‘She must see that I cannot withstand another assault, that I will surely fall.’
‘She would if she could,’ the Redeemer replied.
‘What holds her back?’
‘Wounds must heal, memories of pain fade.’
Seerdomin rubbed at the grit on his face. There had been dirty rain, gusting up to where they stood, but it had since wandered back down into the basin, a rotted brown curtain dragged aimlessly away.
‘Sometimes,’ said the Redeemer, ‘things leak through.’
Seerdomin grunted, then asked, ‘From where?’
‘Lives of the T’lan. So much was unleashed, so much forgotten only to be lived once again. There was anguish. There was . . . glory.’
He had not been there to witness that moment. The kneeling of the T’lan Imass. Such a thing was hard to imagine, yet it sent shivers through him none the less. A moment to shake every belief, when the world drew breath and . . . held it.
‘Did you know what to expect?’
‘They humbled me,’ said the Redeemer.
I suspect it was you who humbled them, Itkovian – yes, a mortal back then, just a mortal. No, they were the ones struck mute, filled with awe and wonder. I do not know how I know that, but I do.
. . . things leak through.
‘The madness of the weather comes from the memories of the T’lan Imass? Can you not summon them? Draw them up in ranks before you? Do you not think they would proudly accept such a thing? A way to pay you back for what you did? Redeemer, summon the spirits of the T’lan Imass – and that woman below will never reach you.’
‘I cannot. I will not. Yes, they would accept that notion. Reciprocity. But I will not. What I gave I gave freely, a gift, not an exchange. Oh, they forced one upon me, at the end, but it was modest enough – or I was weak enough then not to resist it.’
‘If you will not accept service,’ Seerdomin then said, ‘why do you seek it from me?’
‘You are free to choose,’ the Redeemer replied. ‘Defend me, or step aside and see me fall.’
‘That’s hardly a choice!’
‘True. Such things rarely are. I would send you back, but your body no longer functions. It lies on a heap of rubbish behind the pilgrim camp. Scavengers have fed, for your flesh is not poisoned as is that of the others thus disposed.’
Seerdomin grimaced, fixing eyes once more upon the High Priestess dancing on the plain. ‘Thank you for the grisly details. If I stand aside – if I watch you die – then what will happen to me? To my spirit?’
‘I do not know. If I am able, I will grieve for you then, as much as I do for the souls of all those I now hold within me.’
Seerdomin slowly turned and studied the god. ‘If she takes you – all those T’lan Imass—’
‘Will be helpless. They will succumb. All who are within me will succumb.’
‘So much for standing aside.’
‘Seerdomin. Segda Travos, you are not responsible for their fate. I am. This error is mine. I will not judge you harshly should you choose to yield.’
‘Error. What error?’
‘I am . . . defenceless. You sensed that from the very beginning – when you came to the barrow and there knelt, honouring me with your companionship. I possess no provision for judgement. My embrace is refused no one.’
‘Then change that, damn you!’
‘I am trying.’
Seerdomin glared at the god, who now offered a faint smile. After a moment, Seerdomin hissed and stepped back. ‘You ask this of me? Are you mad? I am not one of your pilgrims! Not one of your mob of would-be priests and priestesses! I do not worship you!’
‘Precisely, Segda Travos. It is the curse of believers that they seek to second-guess the one they claim to worship.’
‘In your silence what choice do they have?’
The Redeemer’s smile broadened. ‘Every choice in the world, my friend.’
Countless paths, a single place sought by all. If she could be bothered, she could think on the innumerable generations – all that rose to stand with thoughts reaching into the night sky, or plunging into the mesmerizing flames of the campfire – the hunger did not change. The soul lunged, the soul crawled, the soul scraped and dragged and pitched headlong, and in the place it desired – needed – there was this: the bliss of certainty.
Conviction like armour, eyes shining like swords; oh, the bright glory that was the end to every question, every doubt. Shadows vanished, the world raged sudden white and black. Evil dripped with slime and the virtuous stood tall as giants. Compassion could be partitioned, meted out only to the truly deserving – the innocent and the blessed. As for all the rest, they could burn, for they deserved no less.
She danced like truth unleashed. The beauty of simplicity flowed pure and sweet through her limbs, rode the ebb and sweep of her sighing breath. All those agonizing uncertainties were gone, every doubt obliterated by the gift of saemankelyk.
She had found the shape of the world, every edge clear and sharp and undeniable. Her thoughts could dance through it almost effortlessly, evading snags and tears, not once touching raw surfaces that might scrape, that might make her flinch.
The bliss of certainty delivered another gift. She saw before her a universe transformed, one where contradictions could be rightfully ignored, where hypocrisy did not exist, where to serve the truth in oneself permitted easy denial of anything that did not fit.
The minuscule mote of awareness that hid within her, like a snail flinching into its shell, was able to give shape to this transformation, well recognizing it as genuine revelation, the thing she had been seeking all along – yet in the wrong place.
Salind understood now that the Redeemer was a child god, innocent, yes, but not in a good way. The Redeemer possessed no certainty in himself. He was not all-seeing, but blind. From a distance the two might appear identical, there in that wide embrace, the waiting arms, the undefended openness. He forgave all because he could not see difference, could not even sense who was deserving and who was not.
Saemankelyk brought an end to ambiguity. It divided the world cleanly, absolutely.
She must give that to him. It would be her gift – the greatest gift imaginable – to her beloved god. An end to his ambivalence, his ignorance, his helplessness.
Soon, the time would come when she would once again seek him. The pathetic mortal soul standing in her way would not frustrate her the next time she found her weapons – no, her righteous blades would cut and slash him to pieces.
The thought made her fling her arms into the air as she whirled. Such joy! She had a gift. It was her duty to deliver it.
Whether you like it or not.
No, he could not refuse. If he did, why, she would have to kill him.
*
Bone white, the enormous beasts stood on the ridge, side on, their heads turned to watch Karsa Orlong as he cantered Havok ever closer. He sensed his horse tensing beneath him, saw the ears flick a moment before he became aware that he was being flanked by more Hounds – these ones darker, heavier, short-haired excepting one that reminded him of the wolves of his homeland, that tracked him with amber eyes.
‘So,’ Karsa murmured, ‘these are the Hounds of Shadow. You would play games with me, then? Try for me, and when we’re done few of you will leave this place, and none will be free of wounds, this I promise you. Havok, see the black one in the high grasses? Thinks to hide from us.’ He grunted a laugh. ‘The others will feint, but that black one will lead the true charge. My sword shall tap her nose first.’
The two white beasts parted, one trotting a dozen or so paces along the ridge, the other turning round and doing the same in the opposite direction. In the gap now between them, shadows swirled like a dust-devil.
Karsa c
ould feel a surge of battle lust within him, his skin prickling beneath the fixed attention of seven savage beasts, yet he held his gaze on that smudge of gloom, where two figures were now visible. Men, one bare-headed and the other hooded and leaning crooked over a knobby cane.
The Hounds to either side maintained their distance, close enough for a swift charge but not so close as to drive Havok into a rage. Karsa reined in six paces from the strangers and eyed them speculatively.
The bare-headed one was plainly featured, pale as if unfamiliar with sunlight, his dark hair straight and loose, almost ragged. His eyes shifted colour in the sunlight, blue to grey, to green and perhaps even brown, a cascade of indecision that matched his expression as he in turn studied the Toblakai.
The first gesture came from the hooded one with the hidden face, a lifting of the cane in a half-hearted waver. ‘Nice horse,’ he said.
‘Easier to ride than a dog,’ Karsa replied.
A snort from the dark-haired man.
‘This one,’ said the hooded man, ‘resists sorcery, Cotillion. Though his blood is old, I wonder, will all mortals one day be like him? An end to miracles. Nothing but dull, banal existence, nothing but mundane absence of wonder.’ The cane jabbed. ‘A world of bureaucrats. Mealy-minded, sour-faced and miserable as a reunion of clerks. In such a world, Cotillion, not even the gods will visit. Except in pilgrimage to depression.’
‘Quaintly philosophical of you, Shadowthrone,’ replied the one named Cotillion. ‘But is this one really the right audience? I can almost smell the bear grease from here.’
‘That’s Lock,’ said Shadowthrone. ‘He was rolling in something a while ago.’
Karsa leaned forward on the strange saddle that Samar Dev had had fitted for Havok back in Letheras. ‘If I am a clerk, then one prophecy will prove true.’
‘Oh, and which one would that be?’ Cotillion asked, seemingly amused that Karsa was capable of speech.
‘The tyranny of the number counters will be a bloody one.’
Shadowthrone wheezed laughter, then coughed into the silence of the others and said, ‘Hmmm.’
Cotillion’s eyes had narrowed. ‘In Darujhistan, a temple awaits you, Toblakai. A crown and a throne for the taking.’
Karsa scowled. ‘Not more of that shit. I told the Crippled God I wasn’t interested. I’m still not. My destiny belongs to me and none other.’
‘Oh,’ said Shadowthrone, cane wavering about once again, like a headless snake, ‘we’re not encouraging you to take it. Far from it. You on that throne would be . . . distressing. But he will drive you, Toblakai, the way hunters drive a man-eating lion. Straight into the spike-filled pit.’
‘A smart lion knows when to turn,’ Karsa said. ‘Watch as the hunters scatter.’
‘It is because we understand you, Toblakai, that we do not set the Hounds upon you. You bear your destiny like a standard, a grisly one, true, but then, its only distinction is in being obvious. Did you know that we too left civilization behind? The scribblers were closing in on all sides, you see. The clerks with their purple tongues and darting eyes, their shuffling feet and sloped shoulders, their bloodless lists. Oh, measure it all out! Acceptable levels of misery and suffering!’ The cane swung down, thumped hard on the ground. ‘Acceptable? Who the fuck says any level is acceptable? What sort of mind thinks that?’
Karsa grinned. ‘Why, a civilized one.’
‘Indeed!’ Shadowthrone turned to Cotillion. ‘And you doubted this one!’
Cotillion grimaced. ‘I stand corrected, Shadowthrone. If the Crippled God has not yet learned his lesson with this warrior, more lessons are bound to follow. We can leave him to them. And leave this Toblakai, too.’
‘Barring one detail,’ Shadowthrone said in a rasp. ‘Toblakai, heed this warning, if you value that destiny you would seek for yourself. Do not stand in Traveller’s path. Ever.’
Karsa’s grin broadened. ‘We are agreed, he and I.’
‘You are?’
‘I will not stand in his path, and he will not stand in mine.’
Shadowthrone and Cotillion were silent then, considering.
Leaning back, Karsa collected the lone rein. Havok lifted his head, nostrils flaring. ‘I killed two Deragoth,’ Karsa said.
‘We know,’ said Cotillion.
‘Their arrogance was their soft underbelly. Easy to reach. Easy to plunge in my hands. I killed them because they thought me weak.’
Cotillion’s expression grew mocking. ‘Speaking of arrogance . . .’
‘I was speaking,’ said Karsa as he swung Havok round, ‘of lessons.’ Then he twisted in the saddle. ‘You laugh at those coming to the Crippled God. Perhaps one day I will laugh at those coming to you.’
Cotillion and Shadowthrone, with the Hounds gathering close, watched the Toblakai ride away on his Jhag horse.
A thump of the cane. ‘Did you sense the ones in his sword?’
Cotillion nodded.
‘They were . . .’ Shadowthrone seemed to struggle with the next word, ‘. . . proud.’
And again, Cotillion could do little more than nod.
Abruptly, Shadowthrone giggled, the sound making the two new Hounds flinch – a detail he seemed not to notice.
‘Oh,’ he crooned, ‘all those poor clerks!’
‘Is that a cloud on the horizon?’
At Reccanto Ilk’s query, Mappo glanced up and followed the man’s squinting gaze. He rose suddenly. ‘That’s more than a cloud,’ he said.
Sweetest Sufferance, sitting nearby, grunted and wheezed herself upright, brushing sand from her ample behind. ‘Master Qu – ellll!’ she sang.
Mappo watched as the crew started scrabbling, checking the leather straps and fastening rings and clasps dangling from the carriage. The horses shifted about, suddenly restless, eyes rolling and ears flattening. Gruntle came up to stand beside the Trell. ‘That’s one ugly storm,’ he said, ‘and it looks to be bearing down right on us.’
‘These people baffle me,’ Mappo admitted. ‘We are about to get obliterated, and they look . . . excited.’
‘They are mad, Mappo.’ He eyed the Trell for a long moment, then said, ‘You must be desperate to have hired this mob.’
‘Why is it,’ Mappo asked, ‘that Master Quell seemed indifferent to unleashing an undead dragon into this world?’
‘Well, hardly indifferent. He said oops! At least, I think that’s what I heard, but perhaps that was but my imagination. This Trygalle Guild . . . these carriages, they must be dragging things across realms all the time. Look at yon walking corpse.’
They did so, observing in silence as the desiccated figure, holding a collection of cast-off straps and rope, stood speculatively eyeing one of the carriage’s spoked wheels.
The wind freshened suddenly, cooler, strangely charged.
One of the horses shrilled and began stamping the sand. After a moment the others caught the same feverish anxiety. The carriage rocked, edged forward. Master Quell was helping Precious Thimble through the door, hastening things at the end with a hard shove to her backside. He then looked round, eyes slightly wild, until he spied Mappo.
‘Inside you go, good sir! We’re about to leave!’
‘Not a moment too soon,’ Gruntle said.
Mappo set out for the carriage, then paused and turned to Gruntle. ‘Please, be careful.’
‘I will, as soon as I figure out what’s about to happen. Quell! What warren are we using now? And hadn’t you better get the way through opened?’
Quell stared at him. ‘Get on the damned carriage!’
‘Fine, but tell me—’
‘You idiot!’ shouted Faint from where she sat on the roof. ‘Don’t you get it?’ And she jabbed a finger at the churning black cloud now almost towering over them. ‘That’s our ride!’
‘But – wait – how—’
‘Climb aboard, you oaf, or drown!’
‘Climb aboard,’ shrieked Sweetest Sufferance, ‘and maybe drown anyway!’
Gruntle saw that the corpse had tied itself to the wheel.
Gods below, what am I doing here?
A roar exploded on the reef and Gruntle whirled round to see the gust front’s devastating arrival, a wall of thrashing, spume-crested water, rising, charging, lifting high to devour the entire island.
He lunged for the carriage. As he scrambled up the side and fumbled for the lashing, Reccanto Ilk, squinting, asked, ‘Is it here yet?’
The horses began screaming in earnest.
And all at once, the short-sighted idiot had his answer.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
You would call us weak?
Fear talks out of the side of the mouth
Each item in your list is an attack
That turns its stab upon yourself
Displaying the bright terrors
That flaw the potential for wonder
You drone out your argument
As if stating naught but what is obvious
And so it is but not in the way you think
The pathos revealed is your paucity
Of wisdom disguised as plain speak
From your tower of reason
As if muscle alone bespoke strength
As if height measures the girth of will
As if the begotten snips thorns from the rose
As if the hearthfire cannot devour a forest
As if courage flows out lost monthly
In wasted streams of dead blood
Who is this to utter such doubt?
Priest of a cult false in its division
I was there on the day the mob awoke
Storming the temple of quailing half-men
You stood gape-jawed behind them
As your teachings were proved wrong
Shrink back from true anger
Flee if you can this burgeoning strength
The shape of the rage against your postulated
Justifications is my soldier’s discipline
Toll the Hounds Page 70
