Gate of Darkness, the Wandering Hold. The demon fought for its comrades, as would a soldier pushed beyond breaking, pushed until there was nowhere else to go.
In the ash-swarmed sky above, chained dragons, Loqui Wyval and Enkarala tore swaths through the tumbling, descending storm clouds. Lightning lashed out to enwreathe them, slowly tearing them to pieces. Still they fought on. The Enkarala would not relent for they were mindless in their rage. The Loqui Wyval found strength in hearts greater than their modest proportions-no, they were not dragons; they were lesser kin-but they knew the power of mockery, of disdain. For the Enkarala, chaos itself was a contemptible thing. The dragons, many of whom had been chained since the time of Draconus, were indifferent to the Gate, to all the other squalid victims of this dread sword. They did not fight on behalf of any noble cause. No, each one fought alone, for itself, and they knew that survival had nothing to do with nobility. No alliance was weighed, no thought of fighting in concert brushed the incandescent minds of these creatures. Nothing in their nature was designed to accommodate aught but singular battle. A strength and a curse, but in these fiery, deadly clouds, that strength was failing, and the very nature of the dragons was now destroying them.
The battle raged. Annihilation was a deafening scream that drove all else from the minds of the defenders. They made their will into weapons, and with these weapons they slashed through the misshapen, argent foe, only to find yet more rising before them, howling, laughing, swords thundering on shields.
Toc had no idea where this damned horse had come from, but clearly some breathtaking will fired its soul. In its life it had not been bred for war, and yet it fought like a beast twice its weight. Kicking, stamping, jaws snapping. A Wickan breed-he was fairly certain of that-a creature of appalling endurance, it carried him into the fray again and again, and he had begun to suspect that he would fail before the horse did.
Humbling-no,
He struggled to control it as he sought to lunge once more into that wall of chaotic rage. Getting to be a miserable habit, all this dying and dying again. Of course, this would be the final time, and a better man than he would find some con-solation in that. A better man, aye.
instead, he railed. He spat into the eye of injustice, and he fought on, even as his one eyeless socket itched damnably, until it seemed to be sizzling as if eating its way into his brain.
He lost his grip on the reins, and almost pitched from the saddle as the horse galloped away from the front line of the Bridgeburners. He loosed a stream of curses-he wanted to die at their sides, he needed to-no, he was not one of them, he could not match their power, their ascendant ferocity-he had seen Trotts there, and Detoran. And so many others, and there was Iskar Jarak himself, although why Whiskeyjack had come to prefer some Seven Cities name-in place of his real one-made no sense to Toc. Not that he was of any stature to actually ask the man- gods, even had he been, he couldn’t even have got close, so tightly were the Bridgeburners arrayed around the soldier.
And now the stupid horse was taking him farther and farther away.
He saw, ahead, the Lord of Death. Standing motionless, as if contemplating guests at a damned picnic. The horse carried Toc straight for the hoary bastard, who slowly turned at the very last moment, as the horse skidded to a halt in a spray of ashes and mud.
Hood glanced down at the spatter on its frayed robes.
‘Don’t look at me!’ Toc snarled as he collected up the reins once more. ‘I was trying to get the beast going the other way!’
‘You are my Herald, Toe the Younger, and I have need of you.’
‘To do what, announce your impending nuptials? Where is the skeletal hag, anyway?’
‘You have a message to deliver-’
‘Deliver where? How? In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in a little trouble here, Hood. Gods, my eye-agh, I mean, the missing one-it’s driving me mad!’
‘Yes, your missing eye. About that-’
At that instant, Toe’s horse reared in sudden terror, as a churning cloud lunged down like an enormous fist, engulfing a dying dragon directly overhead.
Swearing, his voice rising in terror, Toe fought to regain control of the beast as cloud and dragon tumbled to one side-the dragon pulled down to the thrashing legions, which closed in and swarmed it. In moments the dragon was gone.
The horse skittered and then settled-
Only to have it bolt once more, as in a burst of cold, bitter air, something else arrived.
What good could ever come of acceding to the suggestions of a corpse? This was the sort of question Glanno Tarp was good at asking, only he’d forgotten this time and it was funny how blind gibbering terror could do that. Warrens and warrens and portals and Gates and places nobody in their right minds might want to visit no matter how special the scenery-and no, dammit, he didn’t know where they’d just ended up, but he could tell-oh yes, he could tell all right-that it wasn’t a nice place.
Horses shrilling (but then, they always did that when arriving), carriage slap-
ping down on to gritty mud in a chorus of outraged creaks, splinters and calam-COphony, slewing this way and that-and the sky was coming down in giant balls of mercury and there were dragons up there and wyval and Hood knew what else-
Chains sawing back and forth, to the sides and straight up, all emerging from the ghastliest wagon Glanno had ever seen-loaded with more bodies than seemed reasonable, much less possible.
So of course he froze up all the brakes-what else was he supposed to do? And then bodies were flying past. Sweetest Sufferance, curled up into a soft flouncy bouncy ball that landed bouncily and rolled and rolled. That snarling hulk Grun-tle, twisting in the air so that he could land on all fours-
‘You idiot! We ain’t tied ourselves! It was just dark and dark and nothing else and now you just go and drop us into-’
‘Wasn’t me, you clumsy pig!’
This argument didn’t survive the fullest comprehension of their surroundings.
Reccanto Ilk slowly sat up. ‘Holy shit.’
Glanno leapt to his feet. ‘Cartographer!’ But he’d forgotten about his splints. Yelping, he tottered, and then pitched forward on to the backs of the first two horses. They deftly stepped to either side so that he could fall a little more before getting tangled in all the crap down there, whereupon the horses eagerly moved back in an effort to crush him into the kind of pulp that could never again whip the reins.
Reccanto scrabbled to drag him back on to the bench. The splint bindings helped, although Glanno did plenty of shrieking in pain-at least he wasn’t being crushed. Moments later he fetched up again on the splintered bench.
A wretched dead-looking Jaghut was walking up to Cartographer, who, lashed to a wheel, had come to rest with his head down, eyeing the Jaghut’s muddy boots. ‘I had begun to wonder,’ the Jaghut said, ‘if you had become lost.’
Pushing Reccanto aside, Glanno worked his way round to witness this fateful meeting-oh yes, that had to be Hood himself. Why, a damned family reunione-bration!
Cartographer’s upside-down smile seemed to send a nearby rider’s horse into yet another panic, and the soldier swore impressively as he fought to quell the beast. ‘My Lord,’ Cartographer was saying, ‘we both know, surely, that what goes around comes around.’ And then he struggled feebly at his bindings. ‘And around,’ he added despondently.
Gruntle, who had staggered up to join them, now growled deep in his chest and then went to the carriage door, thumping it with a fist. ‘Master Quell!’
Hood turned to the warrior. ‘That will not be necessary, Treach-spawn. My sole requirement was that you arrive here. Now, you need only leave once more. Cartographer will guide you.’
Sweetest Sufferance was dragging a dazed Faint back up on to the carriage, dis-playing surprising strength, although the effort made her eyes bulge alarmingly, Glanno nudged Reccanto and nodded towards Sweetest. ‘That face remind you of anything?’
Reccanto squinted, and then sniggered.
‘You’re both dead,’ she hissed.
