Dust of Dreams

Setoc took the boy’s hand and led him close to the horse. She vaulted on to the animal’s back and reached down and lifted up the boy.

The twins set out once more on the trail. Baaljagg fell in with them.

‘Did you know,’ Cartographer said, ‘the dead still dream?’

‘No,’ said Setoc, ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Sometimes I dream that a dog will find me.’

‘A dog?’

‘Yes. A big one, as big as that one.’

‘Well, it seems your dream has come true.’

‘I hope not.’

She glanced down at him as he trudged beside the horse. ‘Why?’

‘Because, in my dream, the dog buries me.’

Thinking back to her vision of Baaljagg clawing free of the ground, she smiled. ‘I don’t think you have to worry about that, not with this dog, Cartographer.’

‘I hope you are right. I do have one question, however.’

She sighed. A corpse that won’t shut up. ‘Go on.’

‘Where are we?’

‘The Wastelands.’

‘Ah, that explains it, then.’

‘Explains what?’

‘Why, all this… waste.’

‘Have you ever heard of the Wastelands, Cartographer?’

‘No.’

‘So let me ask you something. Where did your carriage come from, and how is it you don’t even know the land you were travelling in?’

‘Given my name, it is indeed pathetic that I know so little. Of course, this land was once an inland sea, but then one might say that of countless basins on any number of continents. So that hardly amounts to brilliant affirmation of my profession. Alas, since dying, I have been forced to radically reassess all my most cherished notions.’

‘Are you ever going to answer my questions?’

‘Our arrival was sudden, but Master Quell judged it propitious. The client expressed satisfaction and indeed no small amount of astonishment. Far better this wretched land than the realm within a cursed sword, and I would hardly be one to dispute that, would I? Maps being what they are and such. Naturally, it was inevitable that we let down our guard. Ah, see ahead. Ample evidence of that.’

The tracks seemed to vanish for fifteen or twenty paces. Where they resumed wreckage lay scattered about, including half an axle.

A lost horse and a lost wheel behind them, half an axle here-how had the thing managed to keep going? And what was it doing in that gap? Flying?

‘Spirits below, Cartographer-’ and then she stopped. From her height astride the horse, she could make something out ahead. Daylight was fading, but still… ‘I see it.’

Two more stretches without tracks, then where they resumed various parts of ornate carriage lay strewn about. She saw one large section of painted wood, possibly from the roof, bearing deep gouges scored through it, as if some massive hand had been tearing the carriage to pieces. Some distance ahead rested the carriage itself, or what was left of it. The humped forms of dead horses lay thrown about to the sides.

‘Cartographer-’

‘It struck from the sky,’ the corpse replied. ‘Was it a dragon? It most assuredly was not. An enkar’al? What enkar’al could boldly lift from the ground the entire carriage and all its horses? No, not an enkar’al. Mind you, I was witness only to the first attack-tell me, Setoc, do you see anyone?’

‘Not yet,’ she replied. ‘Stavi, Storii! Hold up there.’ She lifted the boy and set him down on the ground. ‘I will ride ahead. I know it’s getting dark, but keep your eyes on the sky-there’s something up there.’ Somewhere. Hopefully not close.

The horse was nervous beneath her, reluctant to draw nearer to the carriage, but she coaxed it on.

Its fellow beasts had been torn apart, bones splintered, gouges of flesh missing. Everywhere those same thin but deep slashes. Talons. Enormous and deadly sharp.

She found the first corpse, a man. He had wrapped the ends of the traces about his forearms and both arms were horribly dislocated, almost pulled free of the shoulders. Something had slashed through his head diagonally, from above, she judged. Through his skullcap helm, down along one side of the nose and out beneath the jaw, leaving him with half a face. Just beyond him was another man, neatly decapitated-she couldn’t see the head anywhere close by.

She halted her mount a few paces from the destroyed carriage. It had been huge, six-wheeled, likely weighing as much as a clan yurt with the entire family shoved inside. The attacker had systematically dismantled it from one flank, as if eager to get within. Blood stained the edges of the gaping hole it had made.

Setoc clambered up to peer inside. No body. But a mass of something was heaped on the side that was now the floor, gleaming wet in the gloom. She waited for her eyes to adjust. Then, in revulsion, she pulled back. Entrails. An occupant had been eviscerated. Where was the rest of the poor victim? She perched herself on the carriage and scanned the area.

There. Half of him, anyway. The upper half.

And then she saw tracks, the ground scuffed, three or four paths converging to form a broader one, and that one led away from the wreckage, eastward. Survivors. But they must have been on the run, else they would have done more for their dead. Still, a few made it… for a little while longer, anyway.

She descended from the carriage and mounted the horse. ‘Sorry, friend, but it looks like you’re the last.’ Swinging the horse round, she rode back to the others.

‘How many bodies?’ Cartographer asked when she arrived.

‘Three for certain. Tracks lead away.’

‘Three, you say?’

‘That I saw. Two on the ground, one in the carriage-or, rather, bits of him left in the carriage.’

‘A man? A man in the carriage?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, dear. That is very bad indeed.’

Returning to the wreckage, Cartographer moved to stand over each victim, shaking his head and muttering in low tones-possibly a prayer-Setoc wasn’t close enough to hear his words. He rejoined her once they were past.

‘I find myself in some conflict,’ he said. ‘On the one hand, I wish I’d been here to witness that dread clash, to see Trake’s Mortal Sword truly awakened. To see the Trell’s rage rise from the deepness of his soul. On the other hand, witnessing the gruesome deaths of those I had come to know as friends, well, that would have been terrible. As much as it grieves me to say, there are times when getting what one wants yields nothing but confusion. It turns out that what one wants is in fact not at all what one wants. Worse is when you simply don’t know what you want. You’d think death would discard such trials. If only it did.’

‘There’s blood on this trail,’ said Setoc.

‘I wish that surprised me. Still, they must have succeeded in driving the demon away, in itself an extraordinary feat.’

‘How long ago did all this happen?’

‘Not long. I was lying on the ground from midmorning. I imagine we’ll find them-’

‘We already have,’ she said. ‘They’ve camped.’

She could see the faint glow of a small fire, and now figures straightening, turning to study them. The sun was almost down behind Setoc and her companions, so she knew the strangers were seeing little more than silhouettes. She raised a hand in greeting, urging her mount forward with a gentle tap of her heels.

Two of the figures were imposing: one broad and bestial, his skin the hue of burnished mahogany, his black braided hair hanging in greasy coils. He was holding a two-handed mace. The other was taller, his skin tattooed in the stripes of a tiger, and as Setoc drew closer, she saw a feline cast to his features, including amber eyes bisected by vertical pupils. The two heavy-bladed swords in his hands matched the barbed patterns of his skin.

Three others were visible, two women and a tall, young man. He was long-jawed and long-necked, with blood-matted hair. A knotted frown marred his high forehead, above dark, angry eyes. He stood slightly apart from all the others.

Setoc’s eyes returned to the two women. Both short and plump, neither one much older than Setoc herself. But their eyes looked aged: bleak, dulled with shock.

Two more survivors were lying close to the fire, asleep or unconscious.

The bestial man was the first to speak, addressing Cartographer but not in a language that Setoc recognized. The undead man replied in the same tongue, and then turned to Setoc.

‘Mappo Runt welcomes you with a warning. They are being hunted.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘Cartographer, you seem to have a talent for languages-’

‘Hood’s gift, for the tasks he set upon me. Mappo addresses me in a Daru dialect, a trader’s cant. He does so to enable his companions to understand his words, as they are Genabackan, while he is not.’

‘What is he, then?’

‘Trell, Setoc-’

‘And the striped one-what manner of creature is he?’

‘Trake’s Mortal Sword-’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Ah. Trake is the Tiger of Summer, a foreign god. Gruntle is the god’s chosen mortal weapon.’