Having confirmed that Clip’s comatose condition was unchanged, he climbed down from the wagon and returned to the scruffy mare he had been riding suite Morsko. The poor beast’s ribs had been like the bars of a cage under tattered vellum, its eyes listless and the tan coat patchy and dull. In the three days since, despite the steady riding, the animal had recovered somewhat under Nimandcr’i ministrations. He was not particularly enamoured of horses in general, but no creature deserved to suffer.
As he climbed into the worn saddle he saw Skintick standing, stepping up on to the wagon’s bench where Nenanda sat holding the reins, and shading his eyes to look southward across the empty plain.
‘See something?’
A moment, then, ‘Yes. Someone… walking.’
Up from the south? ‘But there’s nothing out there’
Kedeviss and Aranatha rose in their stirrups.
‘Let’s get going,’ Desra said from the wagon bed. ‘It’s too hot to be just sitting here.’
Nimander could see the figure now, tall for a human. Unkempt straggly grey hair fanned out round his head like an aura. He seemed to be wearing a long coat of chain, down to halfway between his knees and ankles, slitted in front. The hand-and-a-half grip of a greatsword rose above his left shoulder.
‘An old bastard,’ muttered Skintick, ‘to be walking like that.’
‘Could be he lost his horse,’ said Nenanda disinterestedly. ‘Desra is right-we should be going.’
Striding like one fevered under the sun, the stranger came ever closer. Something about him compelled Nimander’s attention, a kind of dark fascination-for what, he couldn’t quite name. A cascade of images tumbled through his mind. As if he was watching an apparition bludgeoning its way out from some hoary legend, from a time when gods struggled, hands about each other’s throats, when blood fell as rain and the sky itself rolled and crashed against the shores of the Abyss. All this, riding across the dusty air between them as the old man came up to the road. All this, written in the deep lines of his gaunt visage, in the bleak wastelands of his grey eyes.
‘He is as winter,’ murmured Skintick.
Yes, and something… colder.
‘What city lies beyond?’ the man asked.
A startled moment when Nimander realized that the stranger had spoken Tiste Andii. ‘Heath.’
The man turned, faced west. ‘This way, then, lies Bastion and the Cinnamon Track.’
Nimander shrugged.
‘You are from Coral?’ the stranger asked, scanning the group. ‘Is he still camped there, then? But no, I recognize none of you, and that would not be possible. Even so, tell me why I should not kill you all.’
That got Nenanda’s attention, and he twisted in his seat to sneer down at the old man.
But Nimander’s blood has turned to ice. ‘Because, sir, you do not know US.’’
Pale eyes settled o him. ‘You have a point, actually. Very well, instead, I would travel with you, Ride, yes, in your wagon I have worn my boots through crossing this wretched plain Tell me, have you water, decent food?’
Nenanda twisted futher to glare at Nimander. ‘Turn this fool away. He can drink our dust.’
The old man regarded Neiianda for a moment, then came back to Nimander. ‘Tie a leash on this one and we should be fine.’ And he stepped up to the wagon and, setting a foot on a spoke of the rear wheel, pulled himself up. Where he paused, frowning as he studied the prostrate form of Clip. ‘Is he ill?’ he asked Desra. ‘Are you caught with plague? No, not that-your kind rarely succumb to such things. Stop staring, child, and tell me what is wrong with this one.’
‘None of your business,’ she snapped, as Nimander had known she would. ‘If you’re going to crowd in then sit there, to give him some shade.’
Thin brows lifted, then a faint smile flickered across his withered, cracked lips. And without another word he moved to where Desra had indicated and settled down, stretching out his legs. ‘Some water, darling, if you please.’
She stared at him for a moment, then pulled loose a skin and slid it over. ‘That one’s not water,’ she said with a sweet smile. ‘It’s called kelyk. A local brew. Very popular.’
Nimander sat motionless, watching all this. He saw that Skintick and Nenanda were both doing the same.
To Desra’s words, the old man grimaced. ‘I’d rather water,’ he said, but reached for the skin anyway. Tugged free the stopper, then sniffed.
And recoiled. ‘Imperial dust!’ he said in a growl. He replaced the stopper and flung the skin to the back of the wagon. ‘If you won’t spare water then never mind, bitch. We can settle your inhospitality later.’
‘Desra,’ said Nimander as he gathered his reins, ‘give the man some water.’
‘After he called me a bitch?’
‘After you tried poisoning him with kelyk, yes.’
They set out on the road, westward. Two more days, said the last trader they had passed that morning. Past Sarn and the lesser lake. To Bastion, the city by the inland sea, a sea so filled with salt no sailor or fisher could drown in it, and where no fish could be found barring an enormous eel with the jaws of a wolf. Salt that had not been there a generation ago, but the world will change, amen.
The Abject Temple of Saemenkelyk awaited them in Bastion.
Two days, then, to meet the Dying God. And, one way or another, to wrest from it Clip’s soul. Nimander did not think the priests would just step aside for that.
Riding his mount alongside the wagon, Nimander spoke to the old man. ‘If you are going to Bastion, sir, you might want reconsider staying with us.’
‘And why is that.’ There was little in that tone even remotely interrogative.
‘I don’t think I can adequately explain why,’ Nimander replied. ‘You’ll just have to take me at my word.’
Instead the old man unslung his weapon and set it between him and Clip, then he laced his long-flngered hands behind his head and settled back, closing his eyes. ‘Wake me when it’s time to eat,’ he said.
The worn grip and nicked pommel of the greatsword, the broad cross hilt and the scarred wooden scabbard all drew Nimander’s attention. He can still use that damned weapon, ancient as he is.
Grim legends, the clangour of warring gods, yes, this gaunt warrior belonged to such things.
He collected his reins. ‘As you like, stranger.’ Nudging the mare into a trot, he glanced up to meet Skintick’s gaze as he rode past. And saw none of the usual mocking pleasure. Instead, something wan, distraught.
True, there was not much to laugh about, was there?
My unhappy kin.
Onward, then, to Bastion.
A succession of ridges stepped down towards the basin of the valley, each mark¬ing a time when the river had been wider, its cold waters churning away from dy¬ing glaciers and meltwater lakes. Now, a narrow twisting gully threaded along the distant floor, fringed by cottonwoods. Standing upon the highest ridge, Traveller looked down to the next level, where a half-dozen tipis rose, not quite breaking the high ground skyline. Figures moving about, clothed in tanned hides and skins, a few dogs, the latter now padding out to the camp’s edge closest to the slope, sharp ears and lifted noses alerted to his presence although not one barked.
A herd of horses foraged further down, a small, stocky steppe breed that Traveller had never seen before. Ochre flanks deepening to brown on the haunches, manes and tails almost black.
Down on the valley floor, some distance to the right, carrion birds were on the ground, perched on islands of dead flesh beneath the branches of cottonwoods. Other horses wandered there, these ones more familiar, trailing reins as they cropped the high grasses.
Two men walked out to the base of the slope. Traveller set out down towards them. His own escort of Hounds had left him this morning, either off on a hunt or gone for good-there was no telling which.