Dust of Dreams (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #9)

Dust of Dreams (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #9) Page 369

There. Half of him, anyway. The upper half.

And then she saw tracks, the ground scuffed, three or four paths converging to form a broader one, and that one led away from the wreckage, eastward. Survivors. But they must have been on the run, else they would have done more for their dead. Still, a few made it… for a little while longer, anyway.

She descended from the carriage and mounted the horse. ‘Sorry, friend, but it looks like you’re the last.’ Swinging the horse round, she rode back to the others.

‘How many bodies?’ Cartographer asked when she arrived.

‘Three for certain. Tracks lead away.’

‘Three, you say?’

‘That I saw. Two on the ground, one in the carriage-or, rather, bits of him left in the carriage.’

‘A man? A man in the carriage?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, dear. That is very bad indeed.’

Returning to the wreckage, Cartographer moved to stand over each victim, shaking his head and muttering in low tones-possibly a prayer-Setoc wasn’t close enough to hear his words. He rejoined her once they were past.

‘I find myself in some conflict,’ he said. ‘On the one hand, I wish I’d been here to witness that dread clash, to see Trake’s Mortal Sword truly awakened. To see the Trell’s rage rise from the deepness of his soul. On the other hand, witnessing the gruesome deaths of those I had come to know as friends, well, that would have been terrible. As much as it grieves me to say, there are times when getting what one wants yields nothing but confusion. It turns out that what one wants is in fact not at all what one wants. Worse is when you simply don’t know what you want. You’d think death would discard such trials. If only it did.’

‘There’s blood on this trail,’ said Setoc.

‘I wish that surprised me. Still, they must have succeeded in driving the demon away, in itself an extraordinary feat.’

‘How long ago did all this happen?’

‘Not long. I was lying on the ground from midmorning. I imagine we’ll find them-’

‘We already have,’ she said. ‘They’ve camped.’

She could see the faint glow of a small fire, and now figures straightening, turning to study them. The sun was almost down behind Setoc and her companions, so she knew the strangers were seeing little more than silhouettes. She raised a hand in greeting, urging her mount forward with a gentle tap of her heels.

Two of the figures were imposing: one broad and bestial, his skin the hue of burnished mahogany, his black braided hair hanging in greasy coils. He was holding a two-handed mace. The other was taller, his skin tattooed in the stripes of a tiger, and as Setoc drew closer, she saw a feline cast to his features, including amber eyes bisected by vertical pupils. The two heavy-bladed swords in his hands matched the barbed patterns of his skin.

Three others were visible, two women and a tall, young man. He was long-jawed and long-necked, with blood-matted hair. A knotted frown marred his high forehead, above dark, angry eyes. He stood slightly apart from all the others.

Setoc’s eyes returned to the two women. Both short and plump, neither one much older than Setoc herself. But their eyes looked aged: bleak, dulled with shock.

Two more survivors were lying close to the fire, asleep or unconscious.

The bestial man was the first to speak, addressing Cartographer but not in a language that Setoc recognized. The undead man replied in the same tongue, and then turned to Setoc.

‘Mappo Runt welcomes you with a warning. They are being hunted.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘Cartographer, you seem to have a talent for languages-’

‘Hood’s gift, for the tasks he set upon me. Mappo addresses me in a Daru dialect, a trader’s cant. He does so to enable his companions to understand his words, as they are Genabackan, while he is not.’

‘What is he, then?’

‘Trell, Setoc-’

‘And the striped one-what manner of creature is he?’

‘Trake’s Mortal Sword-’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Ah. Trake is the Tiger of Summer, a foreign god. Gruntle is the god’s chosen mortal weapon.’

The one Cartographer had named Gruntle now spoke, his eerie eyes fixed upon Setoc. She noted that he had not sheathed his swords, whilst the Trell had set down his mace.

‘Setoc,’ said Cartographer after Gruntle had finally finished, ‘the Mortal Sword names you Destriant of Fanderay and Togg, the Wolves of Winter. You are, in a sense, kin. Another servant of war. Yet, though Trake may view you and your Lady and Lord as mortal enemies, Gruntle does not. Indeed, he says, he holds his own god in no high esteem, nor is he pleased with… er, well, he calls it a curse. Accordingly, you are welcome and need not fear him. Conversely,’ Cartographer then added, ‘if you seek violence then he will oblige your wish.’