The moon had finally clambered free of the horizon-but it was…
‘Shattered,’ Karsa said. ‘The moon has shattered. Faces in the Rock, what has happened?’
What rose now into the sky was a mass of fragments, torn apart amidst a cloud of thin rings of dust. It had expanded in its eruption and was now twice its normal size. Huge chunks were visibly spiralling away from the centre. The light it cast was sickly yet astonishingly bright.
The monstrous bear had half turned and was lifting its snout towards that dev-astated world, as if it was capable of smelling death across the span of countless leagues.
Karsa tugged at Samar Dev. ‘He’s in the city, Witch. We cannot lose him.’ She permitted him to drag her along, her hand enveloped by his.
Perched in a niche close to the gate, Chillbais tracked the one known as Traveller. The demon was shaking uncontrollably. The bellowing of Hounds, the detonations of entire buildings, the arrival of the Son of Darkness and the slaying of a god-oh, any of these could have been sufficient cause for such quivering terror. Even that ruined moon thrusting skyward to the south. Alas, however, it was none of these that had elicited the winged toad’s present state of abject extremity.
No, the source was threading through the crowd at the gate, now passing beneath the arch. The one named Traveller. Oh, he held in so much of himself, a will of such breathtaking intensity that Chillbais imagined it could, if the man so desired, reach into the heavens, close about all those spinning pieces in the sky, and remake the entire moon.
But this was not a healing power. This was not a benign will.
The Hounds howled anew, announcing all that they had sensed, all that they even now reeled away from. Goaded, they lashed out in all directions, killing with mindless frenzy. And once more madness was unleashed upon the hapless people of Darujhistan.
Oh, the master would be furious at this loss of control. Most furious.
Chillbais opened his mouth and managed an impossibly broad grin. A smile to the crazed night sky. The demon worked its way out of the niche and flapped its wings a few times to work out the folds. Then it sprang into the air.
Plunging into the milling crowd was not part of the plan, and the panic that ensued seemed out of all proportion to this modest demon’s unexpected arrival. After some hectic moments, Chillbais succeeded in flapping upward once more, bruised and scraped, scratched and scuffed, winging his way to the estate of his master.
Eager to deliver a message.
Both Karsa and Samar Dev had witnessed the demon’s plight, but neither made comment, even as it winged back up to vanish over the wall. They were rushing, Karsa Orlong imposing enough to clear a path, straight for the gate.
A short time later they stumbled through, out on to a broad avenue into which citizens streamed from every conceivable direction.
They saw Traveller sixty or so paces ahead, reaching an intersection oddly empty of refugees. Those figures nearest it were running in blind panic.
Traveller had halted. A solitary figure, bathed in the light of the shattered moon.
A Hound trotted into view on the warrior’s left. A mangled, headless torso hung in its jaws, still draining thick blood. Its lambent eyes were on Traveller, who had not moved, although it was clear that he was tracking the breast with his gaze.
Karsa unsheathed his sword and quickened his pace. Samar Dev, her heart pounding, hurried after him.
She saw the Toblakai slow suddenly, and then stop, still thirty paces from the intersection, and a moment later she saw why.
Cotillion was walking up to Traveller. Another Hound-the black one-had appeared to guard the god’s other flank.
Behind them a distant building suddenly crashed down, and in the heart of that thunder there was the sound of two beasts locked in mortal combat, neither yielding. Frail screams echoed in fragile counterpoint.
Traveller waited. Cotillion came to stand directly in front of him, and began to speak.
Samar Dev wanted to rush forward, at least to a spot from where she could overhear the god, catch whatever response Traveller delivered. But Karsa’s hand held her back, and he shook his head, saying in a murmur, ‘This is not for us, Witch.’
Traveller seemed to be refusing something, stepping back, looking away.
Cotillion pressed on.
‘He does not want it,’ Karsa said. ‘Whatever he asks, Traveller does not want it.’
Yes, she could see that. ‘Please, I need to-’
‘No.’
‘Karsa-’
‘What drives you is want, not need.’
‘Fine, then! I’m a nosy bitch-just leave me to it-’
‘No. This is between them, and so it must remain. Samar Dev, answer me this. If you could hear what they say, if you comprehended all that it might mean, would you be able to stay silent?’
She bristled, and then hissed in frustration. ‘I’m not very good at doing that, am I? All right, Karsa-but what if I did say something? What harm would that do?’
‘Leave him,’ said Karsa. ‘Leave him free to choose for himself.’
Whatever Cotillion was saying seemed to strike like physical blows, which Traveller absorbed one after another, still looking away-still clearly unable to meet the god’s eyes.
The Hound with the chewed-up torso was now eating it with all the mindless intensity common to carnivores filling their stomachs. The other beast had half turned away and seemed to be listening to that distant fight.
Cotillion was unrelenting.
For the god, for Traveller, and for Samar Dev and Karsa Orlong, the world be-yond this scene had virtually vanished. A moment was taking portentous shape, hewn one piece at a time, like finding a face in the heart of a block of stone. A mo-ment that spun on some kind of decision, one that Traveller must make, here, now, for it was obvious that Cotillion had placed himself in the warrior’s path, and would not step to one side.
‘Karsa-if this goes wrong-’
‘I have his back,’ said the Toblakai in a growl.
‘But what if-’
An inhuman cry from Traveller cut through her words, cut through every thought, slashing like a knife. Such a forlorn, desperate sound-it did not belong to him, could not, but he had thrust out one arm, as if to shove Cotillion aside.
They stood too far apart for that. Yet Cotillion, now silent, simply stepped away from Traveller’s path.
And the warrior walked past, but now it was as if each boot needed to be dragged forward, as if Traveller now struggled against some terrible, invisible tide. That ferocious obsession seemed to have come untethered-he walked as would a man lost.
Cotillion watched him go, and she saw him lift a forearm to his eyes, as if he did not want the memory of this, as if he could wipe it away with a single, private gesture.
Although she did not understand, sorrow flooded through Samar Dev. Sorrow for whom? She had no answer that made sense. She wanted to weep. For Traveller. For Cotillion. For Karsa.
The Hounds had trotted off.
She blinked. Cotillion too had disappeared.
Karsa shook himself, and then led her onward once more.
The pressure was building, leaning in on her defences. She sensed cracks, the sifting of dust. And as they stumbled along in Traveller’s wake, Samar Dev realized that the warrior was marching straight for the nexus of that power.
The taste of fear was bitter on her tongue.
