‘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 blood- slick 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, sizzlingfierce along the hones. 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 yovrself 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-’
