Toll the Hounds Page 40

  ‘Be glad that you remain marginally useful to me,’ Kallor said, turning away once more.

  Kedeviss saw Nenanda glaring at the warrior’s back.

  How much time had passed? Days, perhaps weeks. Nimander stood, watching the mason build his tower. Shaping stone with fists, with round hammerstones found somewhere, with leather-wrapped wooden mallets to edge the pumice facing he had decided to add to ‘lighten the walls’.

  To accommodate the giant, the tower needed to be huge, four storeys or more to the ceiling. ‘Made with the blood of dragons, the glass of what flowed, the pumice of what foamed with dying breaths. A tower, yes, but also a monument, a grave marker. What will come of this? I know not. You were clever, Nimander, with this idea. Too clever to stay here. You must leave, when the tower vanishes, you must be within it. I will stay.’

  They repeated that argument again and again, and each time Nimander prevailed, not through brilliant reasoning, not through appealing to the Elder’s selfish desires (because it turned out he didn’t have any), but only through his refusal to surrender.

  He had nothing awaiting him, after all. Nenanda could lead the others through – he was finding his own kind of wisdom, his restraint, and with Skintick and Kedeviss to guide him, he would do well. Until such time as they reached Coral.

  Nimander had lost too many battles – he could see that in himself. Could feel every scar, still fresh, still wounding. This place would give him time to heal, if such a thing were possible. How long? Why not eternity? A chorus of wails surrounded them, an army of spirits grovelling in the ash and dust at the base of the volcanic cone. Bemoaning the end of the world – as if this world suited them just fine, when clearly it didn’t, when each one dreamed of reclaiming flesh and bone, blood and breath. They sought to assail the slope but somehow failed again and again.

  Nimander helped when he could, carrying tools here and there, but mostly he sat in the soft dust, seeing nothing, hearing only the cries from beyond the tower’s growing wall, feeling neither thirst nor hunger, slowly emptying of desire, ambition, everything that might once have mattered.

  Around him the darkness deepened, until the only light came from some preternatural glow from the pumice. The world closing in . . .

  Until—

  ‘One stone remains. This stone. The base of this low window, Nimander, within your reach. I will help you climb outside – then push the stone through, like this – but tell me, please, why can we not both leave here? I am within the tower. So are you. If I set the stone—’

  ‘Elder,’ cut in Nimander. ‘You are almost done here. Where is Gothos?’

  A look of surprise. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘He does not dare this realm, I think.’

  ‘Perhaps that is true.’

  ‘I don’t even know if this will work – if it will create for you a way out.’

  ‘I understand, Nimander. Remain inside with me. Let me set this stone.’

  ‘I don’t know where this tower will take you,’ Nimander replied. ‘Back to your realm, wherever that is, perhaps – but not my home. Nothing I know. Besides, you carved this to be pushed into place from outside – the angles—’

  ‘I can reshape it, Nimander.’

  I cannot go with you. ‘In finding out where you are, Elder, I become lost. You are the mason, the maker of the houses. It is your task. You do not belong here.’

  ‘Nor do you.’

  ‘Don’t I? There are Tiste Andii spirits out there. And Tiste Edur. Even Liosan. The ones who fell in the first wars, when dragons burst through every gate to slay, to die. Listen to them out there! They have made peace with one another – a miracle, and one I would be happy to share.’

  ‘You are not a ghost. They will take you. They will fight over you, a beginning of a new war, Nimander. They will tear you to pieces.’

  ‘No, I will reason with them—’

  ‘You cannot.’

  Despair stirred awake in Nimander, as he saw the truth of the Elder’s words. Even here, he was not welcome. Even here he would bring destruction. Yet, when they tear me limb from limb, I will die. I will become just like them. A short war. ‘Help me through the window,’ he said, pulling himself up on to the rough ledge.

  ‘As you wish. I understand, Nimander.’

  Yes, perhaps you do.

  ‘Nimander.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Thank you. For this gift of creation.’

  ‘Next time you meet Gothos,’ Nimander said as his friend pushed him through the portal, ‘punch him in the face for me, will you?’

  ‘Yes, another good idea. I will miss you. You and your good ideas.’

  He fell through on to a thick powdery slope, hastily reaching up to grip the window’s edge to keep from sliding. Behind and below voices cried out in sudden hunger. He could feel their will churning up to engulf him.

  A heavy scrape from the window and out came the final stone, end first, grinding as it was forced through. Catching Nimander by surprise. The weight pushed against his fingers where he held tight and he swore in pain as the tips were crushed, pinned – tearing one hand free left nails behind, droplets of blood spattering. He scrabbled for another handhold, then, voicing a scream, he tore loose his other arm.

  Gods, how was he going to manage this? With two mangled hands, with no firm footing, with a mob surging frantic up the slope behind him?

  Inexorable, the stone ground its way out. He brought a shoulder beneath it, felt the massive weight settling. His arms began to tremble.

  Far enough now, yes, and he reached with one hand, began pushing to one side the nearest end of the bloodslick chunk of obsidian. He could see the clever angles now, the planes and how everything would somehow, seemingly impossibly, slide into perfect position. Push, some more – not much – almost in place—

  Thousands, hundreds of thousands – a storm of voices, screams of desperation, of dismay, of terrible horror – too much! Please, stop! Stop!

  He was weakening – he would not make it – he could not hold on any longer – with a sob he released his grip and in the last moment, tottering, he pushed with both hands, setting the stone – and then he was falling, back, down, swallowed in cascading ash, stones, scouring chunks of rough pumice. Down the slope he tumbled, buried beneath ever more rubble. Hot. Suffocating. Blind. Drowning – and one flailing hand was grasped, hard, by one and then two hands – small – a woman’s hands.

  His shoulder flared in pain as that grip tightened, pulled him round. The collapsing hillside tugged at him, eager to take him – he understood its need, he sympathized, yes, and wanted to relent, to let go, to vanish in the crushing darkness.

  The hands dragged him free. Dragged him by one bloody arm. The storm of voices raged anew, closer now and closing fast. Cold fingertips scrabbled against his boots, nails clawing at his ankles and oh he didn’t care, let them take him, let them—

  He tumbled down on to damp earth. Gloom, silence but for harsh breaths, a surprised grunt from nearby.

  Rolling on to his back, coughing through a mouth caked in ash. Eyes burning—

  Desra knelt over him, her head down, her face twisted in pain as she held her arms like two broken wings in her lap. Skintick, rushing close to crouch beside him.

  ‘I thought – she—’

  ‘How long?’ Nimander demanded. ‘How could you have waited so long? Clip—’

  ‘What? It’s been but moments, Nimander. Desra – she came in, she saw into the ice – saw you—’

  Fire burned his fingers, flicked flames up his hands and into his wrists, sizzling fierce along the bones. Fresh blood dripped from dust-caked wounds where nails had been. ‘Desra,’ he moaned. ‘Why?’

  She looked up, fixed him with hard eyes. ‘We’re not finished with you yet, Nimander,’ she said in a rasp. ‘Oh no, not yet.’

  ‘You damned fool,’ Gothos said. ‘I was saving that one for later. And now he’s free.’

  Nimander twisted round. ‘You cannot
just collect people! Like shiny stones!’

  ‘Why not? My point is, I needed that one. There is now an Azath in the blood of dragons—’

  ‘The spilled blood – the blood of dead dragons—’

  ‘And you think the distinction is important? Oh, me and my endless folly!’ With sharp gestures he raised his hood once more, then turned to settle down on a stool, facing the hearth, his position a perfect match to the moment Nimander, Skintick and Kallor had first entered this place. ‘You idiot, Nimander. Dragons don’t play games. Do you understand me? Dragons play no games. Ah, I despair, or I would if I cared enough. No, instead, I will make some ashcakes. Which I will not share.’

  ‘It’s time to leave,’ Skintick said.

  Yes, that much was obvious.

  *

  ‘They’re coming now,’ Kallor said.

  Kedeviss looked but could not see any movement in the gloom of the ruin’s entrance.

  ‘It’s too late to travel – we’ll have to camp here. Make us a fine meal, Aranatha. Nenanda, build a fire. A house of sticks to set aflame – that’ll make Gothos wince, I hope. Yes, entice him out here tonight, so that I can kill him.’

  ‘You can’t kill him,’ Aranatha said, straightening in the wagon bed.

  ‘Oh, and why not?’

  ‘I need to talk to him.’

  Kedeviss watched her kin descend from the wagon, adjust her robes, then stride towards the ruin – where Skintick had appeared, helping Nimander, whose hands were dark with blood. Behind them, Desra.

  ‘That bitch sister of yours is uncanny,’ Kallor said in a growl.

  Kedeviss saw no need to comment on that.

  ‘She speaks with Gothos – why? What could they possibly say to each other?’

  Shrugging, Kedeviss turned away. ‘I think I will do the cooking tonight,’ she said.

  Dying, the Captain stared across at the giant warrior with the shattered face. Woven carpets beneath each of them, the one on which sat the Captain now sodden with blood – blood that seemed to flow for ever, as if his body was but a valve, broken, jammed open, and out it came, trickling down from wounds that would never close. He was, he realized, back where he began. Opulence surrounded him this time, rather than grit and mud and dust on the edge of a dried riverbed, but did that make any real difference? Clearly it didn’t.

  Only the dying could laugh at that truth. There were many things, he now understood, to which only the dying could respond with honest mirth. Like this nemesis warrior sitting cross-legged, hunched and glowering opposite him.

  A small brazier smouldered between them, perched on three legs. On the coals rested a squat kettle, and the spiced wine within steamed to sweeten the air of the chamber.

  ‘You shall have to knock out some of the inner walls,’ the Captain said. ‘Have the slaves make you a new bed, one long enough, and other furniture besides.’

  ‘You are not listening,’ the giant said. ‘I lose my temper when people do not listen.’

  ‘You are my heir—’

  ‘No. I am not. Slavery is an abomination. Slavery is what people who hate do to others. They hate themselves. They hate in order to make themselves different, better. You. You told yourself you had the right to own other people. You told yourself they were less than you, and you thought shackles could prove it.’

  ‘I loved my slaves. I took care of them.’

  ‘There is plenty of room for guilt in the heart of hate,’ the warrior replied.

  ‘This is my gift—’

  ‘Everyone seeks to give me gifts. I reject them all. You believe yours is wondrous. Generous. You are nothing. Your empire is pathetic. I knew village dogs who were greater tyrants than you.’

  ‘Why do you torment me with such words? I am dying. You have killed me. And yet I do not despise you for that. No, I make you my heir. I give you my kingdom. My army will take your commands. Everything is yours now.’

  ‘I don’t want it.’

  ‘If you do not take it, one of my officers will.’

  ‘This kingdom cannot exist without the slaves. Your army will become nothing more than one more band of raiders, and so someone will hunt them down and destroy them. And all you sought to build will be forgotten.’

  ‘You torment me.’

  ‘I tell you the truth. Let your officers come to kill me. I will destroy them all. And I will scatter your army. Blood to the grass.’

  The Captain stared at this monster, and knew he could do nothing. He was sinking back against his heap of pillows, every breath shallower than the last. Swathed in robes and furs, he was none the less cold. ‘You could have lied,’ he whispered.

  The man’s last words. Karsa studied the dead face for a moment longer. Then he thumped against the panel door to his left.

  It opened a crack.

  ‘Everyone leave this carriage,’ Karsa commanded. ‘Take whatever you want – but you do not have much time.’

  Then he settled back once more. Scanned the remnants of the lavish feast he had devoured – while the Captain had simply watched, smug as a rich father even as he died. But Karsa was not his son. Not his heir, no matter what the fool desired. He was Toblakai. A Teblor, and far to the north waited his people.

  Was he ready for them?

  He was.

  Would they be ready for him? Probably not.

  A long walk awaited him – there was not a single horse in this paltry kingdom that could accommodate him. He thought back to his youth, to those bright days of hard drama, crowded with omens, when every blade of grass was saturated with significance – but it was the young mind that fashioned such things. Not yet bleached by the sun, not yet worn down by the wind. Vistas were to be crossed. Foes were to be vanquished with harsh barks of fierce triumph, blood spraying in the air.

  Once, long ago it seemed now, he had set out to find glory, only to discover that it was nothing like what he had imagined it to be. It was a brutal truth that his companions then had understood so much better than he had, despite his being War Leader. Nevertheless, they had let themselves be pulled into his wake, and for this they had died. The power of Karsa’s own will had overwhelmed them. What could be learned from that?

  Followers will follow, even unto their own deaths. There was a flaw to such people – the willingness to override one’s own instinct for self-preservation. And this flaw invited exploitation, perhaps even required it. Confusion and uncertainty surrendered to simplicity, so comforting, so deadly.

  Without followers this Captain would have achieved nothing. The same the world over. Wars would disintegrate into the chaos of raids, skirmishes, massacres of the innocent, the vendetta of blood-feuds, and little else. Monuments would never be raised. No temples, no streets and roads, no cities. No ships, no bridges. Every patch of ploughed land would shrink to what a few could manage. Without followers, civilization would never have been born.

  He would tell his people all this. He would make them not his followers, but his companions. And together they would bring civilization to ruin, whenever and wherever they found it. Because, for all the good it created, its sole purpose was to breed followers – enough to heave into motion forces of destruction, spreading a tide of blood at the whim of those few cynical tyrants born to lead. Lead, yes, with lies, with iron words – duty, honour, patriotism, freedom – that fed the wilfully stupid with grand purpose, with reason for misery and delivering misery in kind.

  He had seen the enemy’s face, its twin masks of abject self-sacrifice and cold-eyed command. He had seen leaders feed on the flesh of the bravely fallen. And this is not the Teblor way. It shall not be my way.

  The sounds of looting from the rooms around him were gone now. Silence on all sides. Karsa reached down and used a hook to lift the kettle from the coals and set it down on the small table amidst the foodstuffs, the silver plates and the polished goblets.

  Then he kicked the brazier over, scattering coals on to the beautifully woven carpets, into the silks and woollen blankets, the
furs. He waited to see flames ignite.

  When the first ones began, Karsa Orlong rose and, hunched over to clear the panel door, made his way out.

  Darkness in the world beyond the camp’s cookfires. A mad profusion of stars overhead. Arrayed in a vast semi-circle facing the enormous carriage was the kingdom of the Captain. Karsa Orlong stood in front of the throne on the balcony.

  ‘The slaves are free,’ he said in a loud voice that carried to everyone. ‘The officers will divide the loot, the horses and all the rest – an equal share for all, slaves and free, soldier and crafter. Cheat anyone and I will kill you.’

  Behind him on the carriage, flames licked out from the countless windows and vents. Black smoke rose in a thickening column. He could feel the heat gusting against his back.

  ‘Come the dawn,’ he said, ‘everyone will leave. Go home. Those without a home – go find one. And know that the time I give you now is all that you will ever have. For when next you see me, when you are hiding there in your cities, I will come as a destroyer. Five years or twenty – it is what you have, what I give you. Use it well. All of you, live well.’

  And that such a farewell should be received, not as a benediction, but as a threat, marked well how these people understood Karsa Orlong – who came from the north, immune to all weapons. Who slew the Captain without even touching him. Who freed the slaves and scattered the knights of the realm with not a single clash of swords.

  The god of the Broken Face came among them, as each would tell others for the years left to them. And, so telling, with eyes wide and licking dry lips, they would reach in haste for the tankard and its nectar of forgetfulness.

  Some, you cannot kill. Some are deliverers of death and judgement. Some, in wishing you a full life, promise you death. There is no lie in that promise, for does not death come to us all? And yet, how rare the one to say so. No sweet euphemism, no quaint colloquialism. No metaphor, no analogy. There is but one true poet in the world, and he speaks the truth.

  Flee, my friends, but there is nowhere to hide. Nowhere at all.

  See your fate, there in his Broken Face.