For the first time, she sensed evasiveness in the Tiste Edur as it said, ‘I have time yet, I believe. Samar Dev, there is sickness in the Sleeping Goddess.’
She flinched. ‘I know.’
‘It must be expunged, lest she die.’
‘I imagine so.’
‘Will you fight for her?’
‘I’m not a damned priestess!’ She saw the surprise on the faces of Karsa and Traveller, forced herself back from the ragged edge of anger. ‘I wouldn’t know where to start, Tulas Shorn.’
‘I believe the poison comes from a stranger’s pain.’
‘The Crippled God.’
‘Yes, Samar Dev.’
‘Do you actually think it can be healed?’
‘I do not know. There is physical damage and then there is spiritual damage. The former is more easily mended than the latter. He is sustained by rage, I suspect. His last source of power, perhaps his only source of power whilst chained in this realm.’
‘I doubt he’s in the negotiating mood,’ Samar Dev said. ‘And even if he was, he’s anathema to the likes of me.’
‘It is an extraordinary act of courage,’ said Tulas Shorn, ‘to come to know a stranger’s pain. To even consider such a thing demands a profound dispensation, a willingness to wear someone else’s chains, to taste their suffering, to see with one’s own eyes the hue cast on all things-the terrible stain that is despair.’ The Tiste Edur slowly shook its head. ‘I have no such courage. It is, without doubt, the rarest of abilities.’
None spoke then for a time. The fire ate itself, indifferent to witnesses, and in its hunger devoured all that was offered it, again and again, until night and the disinterest of its guests left it to starve, until the wind stirred naught but ashes.
If Tulas Shorn sought amiable company, it should have talked about the weather.
In the morning, the undead Soletaken was gone. And so too were Traveller’s and Samar Dev’s horses.
‘That was careless of us,’ Traveller said.
‘He was a guest,’ Samar Dev said, baffled and more than a little hurt by the betrayal. They could see Havok, standing nervously some distance off, as if reluctant to return from his nightlong hunting, as if he had been witness to something unpleasant. There was, however, no sign of violence the picket stakes remained where they had been pounded into the hard ground.
‘It wanted to slow us down,’ Traveller said. ‘One of Hood’s own, alter all.’
‘All right,’ Samar Dev glared across at a silent Karsa Orlong, ‘the fault was all mine. I should have left you two to chop the thing to bits. I’m sorry.’
But Karsa shook his head. ‘Witch, goodwill is not something that needs an apology. You were betrayed. Your trust was abused. If there are strangers who thrive on such things, they will ever remain strangers-because they have no other choice. Pity Tulas Shorn and those like it. Even death taught it nothing.’
Traveller was regarding the Toblakai with interest, although he ventured no comment.
Havok was trotting towards them. Karsa said, ‘I will ride out, seeking new mounts-or perhaps the Edur simply drove your beasts off.’
‘I doubt that,’ Traveller said.
And Karsa nodded, leaving Samar Dev to realize that he had offered the possibility for her sake, as if in some clumsy manner seeking to ease her self-recrimination. Moments later, she understood that it had been anything but clumsy. It was not her inward chastisement that he spoke to; rather, for her, he was giving Tulas Shorn the benefit of the doubt, although Karsa possessed no doubt at all-nor, it was clear, did Traveller.
Well then, I am ever the fool here. So be it. ‘We’d best get walking, then.’
In setting out, they left behind a cold hearth ringed in stones, and two saddles.
Almost two leagues away, high in the bright blue sky, Tulas Shorn rode the freshening breeze, the tatters of its wings rapping in the rush of air.
As it had suspected, the trio had made no effort to hunt down the lost horses. Assuming, as they would, that the dragon had simply obliterated the animals.
Tulas Shorn had known far too much death, however, to so casually kill innocent creatures. No, instead, the dragon had taken them, one in each massive clawed foot, ten leagues to the south, almost within sight of a small, wild herd of the same breed-one of the last such wild herds on the plain.
Too many animals were made to bow in servitude to a succession of smarter, crueller masters (and yes, those two traits went together). Poets ever wailed upon witnessing fields of slaughter, armies of soldiers and warriors frozen in death, but Tulas Shorn-who had walked through countless such scenes-reserved his sorrow, his sense of tragedy, for the thousands of dead and dying horses, war dogs, the oxen trapped in yokes of siege wagons mired in mud or shattered, the beasts that bled and suffered through no choice of their own, that died in a fog of ignorance, all trust in their masters destroyed.
The horse knows faith in the continuation of care from its master; that food and water will be provided, that injuries will be mended, that the stiff brush will stroke its hide at day’s end. And in return it serves as best it can, or at least as best it chooses. The dog understands that the two-legged members of its pack cannot be challenged, and believes that every hunt will end in success. These were truths. A master of beasts must be as a parent to a host of unruly but trusting children. Stolid, consistent, never wanton in cruelty, never unmindful of the faith in which he or she is held. Oh, Tulas Shorn was not unaware of the peculiarity of such convictions, and had been the subject of mockery even among fellow Tiste Edur.
Although such mockery had invariably faded when they had seen what had been achieved by this strange, quiet warrior with the Eleint-tainted eyes.
Gliding high above the Lamatath Plain, now scores of leagues south of the witch and her companions, Tulas Shorn could taste something in the air, so ancient, so familiar, that if the dragon had still possessed functioning hearts, why, they would have thundered. Pleasure, perhaps even anticipation.
How long had it been?
Long.
What paths did they now wander down?
Alien ones, to be sure.
Would they remember Tulas Shorn? The first master, the one who had taken them raw and half-wild and taught them the vast power of a faith that would never know betrayal?
They are close, yes.
My Hounds of Shadow.
If he’d had a single moment, a lone instant of unharried terror, Gruntle might have conjured in his mind a scene such as might be witnessed from someone in a passing ship-some craft beyond the raging storm, at the very edge of this absurd insanity. Hands gripping the ratlines, deck pitching wild in the midst of a dishevelled sea, and there, yes… something impossible.
An enormous carriage thrashing through a heaving road of foam, frenzied horses ploughing through swollen, whipped waves. And figures, clinging here and there like half-drowned ticks, and another, perched high on the driver’s bench behind the maddened animals, from whom endless screams pealed forth, piercing the gale and thunder and surge. Whilst on all sides the storm raged on, as if in indignant fury; the winds howled, rain slashing the air beneath bulging, bruised clouds; and the sea rose up in a tumult, spray erupting in tattered sheets.
Yes, the witness might well stare, agape. Aghast.
But Gruntle had no opportunity for such musing, no sweet luxury of time to disconnect his mind’s eye from this drenched, exhausted and battered body strapped tight to the roof of the carriage, this careering six-wheeled island that seemed ever tottering on the edge of obliteration. To draw one more breath was the only goal, the singular purpose of existence. Nothing else was remotely relevant.
He did not know if he was the last one left-he had not opened his eyes in an eternity-and even if he was, why, he knew he would not hold out much longer. He convulsed yet again, but there was nothing left in his stomach-gods, he had never felt so sick in all his life. The wind tore at his hair-he’d long since lost his helm-savage as clawed fin-gers, and he ducked lower. Those unseen fingers then grabbed a handful and pulled his head up.