“But, beyond this hut… only silence.”
“A vicious tale,” commented Steck Marynd. “You should have let it die with Roud.”
“The demand was otherwise,” I replied to the man riding a few strides ahead. “In any case, the end, as you well know, is now near. Finally, she rose, heavy and weightless, chilled and almost fevered, and with her furs drawn about her she emerged into the morning light.
“Dead dogs were strewn about on the stained snow, their necks snapped. To the left of the Chief’s hut the remnants of a bonfire died in a drift of ashes and bones. The corpses of her beloved kin were stacked in frozen postures of cruel murder beside the ghastly hearth, and closer to hand laid the butchered remnants of three children.
“The sled with its mute cargo remained where he had left it, although the hides had been taken, exposing the frost-blackened body of another Fenn. Dead of a sword thrust.
“A keening cry lifting up through the numbness of her soul, she staggered closer to that sled, and she looked down upon a face years younger than that of the Fenn who had come among them. For, as is known to all, age is difficult to determine among the Tartheno Toblakai. She then recalled his tale, the battle upon the glacier, and all at once she understood-”
“What?” demanded Midge. “Understood what? Hood take you, Flicker, explain!”
“It is the hero who wins the fated battle against his evil enemy,” said I, with unfeigned sorrow. “So it is in all tales of comfort. But there is no comfort in this tale. Alas, while we may rail, sometimes the hero dies. Fails. Sometimes, the last one standing is the enemy, the Betrayer, the Kinslayer. Sometimes, dear Midge, there is no comfort. None.”
Apto Canavalian fixed upon me an almost accusatory glare. “And what,” he said, voice rough with fury, “is the moral of that story, Flicker?”
“Moral? Perhaps none, sir. Perhaps, instead, the tale holds another purpose.”
“Such as?”
Purse Snippet answered in the coldest of tones. “A warning.”
“A warning?”
“Where hides the gravest threat? Why, the one you invite into your camp. Avas Didion Flicker, you should have abandoned this tale-gods, what was Roud thinking?”
“It was the only story he knew by heart!” Brash Phluster snapped, and then he wheeled on me. “But you! You know plenty! You could have spun us a different one! Instead-instead-”
“He chooses to sicken our hearts,” Purse said. “I said I would abide, Flicker. For a time. Your time, I think, has just run out.”
“The journey has not ended yet, Lady Snippet. If firm you will hold to this bargain, then I have the right to do the same.”
“Do you imagine I remain confident of your prowess?”
I met her eyes, my lockbox of secrets cracked open-just a sliver-but enough to steal the colour from her face, and I said this, “You should be by now, Lady.”
How many worlds exist? Can we imagine places like and yet unlike our own? Can we see the crowds, the swarming sea of strangers and all those faces scratching our memories, as if we once knew them, even when we knew them not? What value building bitter walls between us? After all, is it not a conceit to shake one’s head in denial of such possibilities, when in our very own world we can find a multitude of worlds, one behind the eyes of every man, woman, child and beast you happen to meet?
Or would you claim that these are in fact all facets of the same world? A man kneels in awe before a statue or standing stone, whilst another pisses at its base. Do these two men see the same thing? Do they even live in the same world?
And if I tell you that I have witnessed each in turn, that indeed I have both bowed in humility and reeled before witless desecration, what value my veracity when I state with fierce certainty that numberless worlds exist, and are in eternal collision, and that the only miracle worth a damned thing is that we manage to agree on anything?
Nothing stinks worse than someone else’s piss. And if you do not believe me, friends, try standing in my boots for a time.
And so to this day I look with fond indulgence upon my memories of the Indifferent God, if god he was, there within the cracked pot of Arpo Relent’s head, for all the pure pleasure he found in the grip of his right hand. Its issue was one of joy, after all, and far preferable to the spiteful, small-minded alternative.
The name of Avas Didion Flicker is not entirely unknown among the purveyors of entertainment, if not culture, throughout Seven Cities, and by virtue of living as long as I have, I am regarded with some modest veneration. This has not yielded vast wealth, not by any measure beyond that of personal satisfaction at the canon of words marking a lifetime’s effort, and as everyone knows, satisfaction is a wavering measure in one’s own mind, as quick to pale as it is to glow. If I now choose to stand full behind this faint canon and its even fainter reputation, well, the stance is not precisely comfortable.
And the relevance of this humble admission? Well now, that’s the question, isn’t it?
Mortal Sword Tulgord Vise had girthed himself for battle. Weapons cluttered his scaled hands, the pearled luminescence of his armour was fair blinding in the noble light. His eyes were savage arrow-heads straining at the taut bowstring of righteous anticipation. His beard bristled like the hackled rump of a furious hedgehog. The veins webbing his nose were bursting into crimson blooms beneath the skin. His teeth gnashed with every flare of his nostrils and strange smells swirled in his wake.
The Chanter brothers walked in a three-man shieldwall, suddenly festooned with halberds and axes and two-handed and even three-handed swords. Swathed in bear skin, Tiny commanded the centre, with the seal skinned Midge on his left and the seal skinned Flea on his right, thus forming a bestial wall in need of a good wash. Relish sauntered a step behind them, regal as a pregnant queen immune to bastardly rumours (they’re just jealous).
Steck Marynd still rode ahead, crossbow at the ready. Two thousand paces ahead the trail lifted to form a rumpled ridge, and behind it was naught but sky. Flanking this ominously near horizon was a host of crooked, leaning standards from which depended sun-bleached rags flapping like the wings of skewered birds. Every dozen or so heartbeats Steck twisted round in his saddle to look upon the Chanters, who being on foot were dictating the pace of this avenging army. He visibly ground his teeth at their insouciance.
Purse Snippet, with visage fraught and drawn, cast pensive glances my way, as did Sardic Thew and indeed Apto Canavalian, but still I held my silence. Yes, I could feel the twisting, knotting strain of the Nehemothanai, possibly only moments from launching forward, but I well knew that neither Tulgord nor Steck were such fools as to abandon the alliance with the Chanters upon the very threshold of battle. By all counts, Bauchelain and Korbal Broach were deadly, both in sorcery and in hard iron. Indeed, if but a small portion of the tales we had all heard on this pilgrimage were accurate, why, the necromancers had left a trail of devastation across half the known world, and entire frothing armies now nipped at their heels.
No, the Chanters, formidable and vicious, would be needed. And what of Arpo Relent? Why, he could be host to a terrible god, and had he not promised assistance?
Yet, for all this, the very air creaked.
“Gods,” whispered Brash Phluster clawing at his hair,’let them find them! I cannot bear this!”
I fixed my placid gaze upon the broad furry back of Tiny Chanter. “Perhaps the enemy is closer than any might imagine.” So I spoke, at a pitch that might or might not reach that lumbering shieldwall. “After all, what secrets did Calap Roud possess? Did he not choose his tale after much consideration? Or so I seem to recall.”