to be honest, I can’t be bothered, and if I must shoulder through jostling crowds of skepticism, suspicion and outright disbelief, then ‘ware my spiked armour, for my path is ever sure and I will not be turned aside. Even when it takes me off the cliff’s edge, I shall spare you all one last knowing nod. As is only fair.
Is this to also claim that I have lived a life without error? Ah, but recall the beginning of this tale, and find therein my answer to that. Errors salt the earth and patched, sodden and tangled is my garden, dear friends, riotous in mischance at every crook and bend. This being said, I find my confidence unsullied nonetheless, and indeed so replete my aplomb that one cannot help but see in the wild swirling cloak of my wake the sparkle and shock of my assured stride. Nary a tremulous step, do you see?
Not yet? Then bear witness, if you will, to the harrowed closing of this most truthful tale.
“I can’t see where we’re going. Someone make this horse walk backwards. A new decree, where are the priests? Those purple-lipped perverts fiddling under their robes-oh, damn me! Now I know what they were up to!”
Once more we walked Cracked Pot Trail, and somewhere in the distance awaited the Great Descent to the river and its ferry landing. By day’s close, or so our increasingly agitated host had proclaimed. An end to this nightmare-the fevered hope was bright in Brash Phluster’s eyes, and even Apto Canavalian’s stride was a stitch quicker.
Still the heat tormented. Our water was almost gone, the pieces of Callap Roud bubbling in our bellies, and our dastardly deeds clung to our shoulders with talon and fang. It did not help that Sellup was scooping out handfuls of Nifty’s brain and making yummy sounds as she slopped the goo into her mouth.
Tulgord Vise, glancing back and taking note of this detail, twisted round to glare at Tiny Chanter. “By the Blessed Mounds, do something about her or I will.”
“No. She’s growing on me, isn’t she, Flea?”
“She is. Midge?”
“She-”
“Stop that too!”
The three brothers laughed, and Relish did, as well, stirring in me a few curdles of unease, especially the way she now walked, bold, swaggering the way curvy women did, her head held high and all those black tresses drifting around like ghostly serpents with glinting tongues testing the air. Why, I realized with a start, she really thought she was pregnant. All the signs were there.
Now, as any mother would tell you, pregnancy and freedom do not belong in the same sentence, except one indicating the loss of the latter with the closing pangs of the former. That being said, I’m no mother, nor was I in any way inclined to disavow Relish Chanter of whatever comforting notions she happened to hold at the time, and was this not considerate of me?
“Look at me! I’m Nifty Gum the famous poet!” Sellup had jammed her hand up inside the head and was moving the jaw up and down, making the teeth clack. “I say poet things! All the time! I have a new poem for everybody. Want to hear? It’s called The Lay of the Eggs! Ha ha, get it? A poem about eggs! I’m famous and everything and my brains taste like cheese!”
“Stop that,” Tulgord Vise said in a dangerous growl, one hand finding the grip of his sword.
“I have found ruts,” announced Steck Marynd from up ahead, reining in and leaning hard over his saddle as he squinted at the ground. “Carriage ruts, and heavy ones too.”
Tulgord rode up. “How long ago?” he demanded.
“A day, maybe less!”
“We’ll catch them at the ferry! At last!”
“Could be any carriage, couldn’t it?” so queried Apto Canavalian, earning vicious stares from Tulgord and the Chanter brothers. “I mean,” he stumbled on, “might not be those Nehemoth at all, right? Another pilgrim train, or-”
“Aye,” admitted Steck. “Worth keeping in mind, and we’re worn out, we are. Worn out. We can push, but not too hard.” He tilted his crossbow towards Sardic Thew. “You, tell us about this ferry. How often does it embark? How long the crossing?”
Our host rubbed his lean jaw. “Once a day, usually at dusk. There’s a tidal draw, you see, that it needs to ride across to Farrog. Reaches the docks by dawn.”
“Dusk?” Steck’s narrow eyes narrowed some more. “Can we make it, Thew?”
“With a decent pace and no halt for lunch… yes, woodsman, I would say it is possible.”
The air fairly bristled, and savage the smiles of Tiny, Midge, Flea and Tulgord Vise.
“What is all this?” demanded Arpo Relent, kicking his horse round so that he could see the rest of the party. “Are we chasing someone, then? What is he, a demon? I despise demons. If we catch him I’ll cut him to pieces. Pieces. Proclamation! The Guild of Demons is herewith disbanded, with prejudice! What, who set the city on fire? Well, put it out! Doesn’t this temple have any windows? I can’t see a damned thing through all this smoke- someone kill a priest. That always cheers me up. Ho, what’s this?”
“Your penis,” said Apto Canavalian. “And before anyone asks, no, I have no particular fascination for that word.”
“But what’s it do? Oh, now I remember. Hmmm, nice.”
“We pursue not a demon,” said Tulgord Vise, straightening to assume a virtuous pose in knightly fashion. “Necromancers of the worst sort. Evil, murderous. We have avowed that in the name of goodness they must die.”
Arpo blinked up from his blurred right hand. “Necromancers? Oh, them. Miserable fumblers, don’t know a damned thing, really. Well, I’m happy to obliterate them just the same. Did someone mention Farrog? I once lived in a city called Fan’arrogal, wonder if it’s, uh, related. On a river mouth? Crawling with demons? Ooh, see that? Ooh! New building program. Fountains!”
You will be relieved that I bit off a comment about pubic works.
Tulgord stared wide-eyed at Arpo, which was understandable, and then he tugged his horse back onto the path. “Lead us on, Marynd. I want this done with.”
Mister Must then spoke from atop the carriage. “Fan’arrogal, you said?”
Arpo was wiping his hand on his bared chest. “My city. Until the demon infestation, when I got fed up with the whole thing.” He frowned, gaze clouding. “I think.”
“After a night of slaughter that left most of the city in smouldering ruins,” Mister Must said, his eyes thinned to slits behind his pipe’s smoke. “Or so the tale went. Farrog rose up from its ashes.”
“Gods below,” whispered Sardic Thew with eyes bulging upon Arpo Relent, “you’re the Indifferent God! Returned to us at last!”
Brash Phluster snorted. “He’s a man with a cracked skull, Thew. Look what’s leaking out now, will you?”
“I’d rather not,” said Apto, quickly setting off after the Nehemothanai.
I regarded Mister Must. “Fan’arrogal? That name appears in only the obscurest histories of the region.”
Wiry brows lifted. “Indeed now? Well, had to have picked it up somewhere, didn’t I?”
“As footmen will do,” said I, nodding.
Grunting, Mister Must snapped the traces and the mules lurched forward. I stepped to one side and found myself momentarily alone, as the others had already hurried after the Nehemothanai. Well, almost alone.
“I’m Nifty Gum and I’ll do anything she says!” Clack-clack.
Ah, a fan’s dream, what?
“Kill some time,” commanded Tiny Chanter, once I had caught up.
“Her tears spilled down upon the furs when, with a final soft caress, he left the hut. The grey of dawn mocked all the colours in the world, and in this lifeless realm she sat unmoving, as a faint wind moaned awake outside. Earlier, she had listened for the sled’s runners scraping the snow, but had heard nothing. Now, she listened for the bickering among the hunting dogs, the crunch of wrapped feet as the ice over the pits was cracked open. She listened for the cries of delight upon finding the carcass of the animal the Fenn had slain.
“She listened, then, for the sounds of her life of yesterday and all the days before it, for as long as she could remember. The sounds of childhood, which in detail did not change though she was a child no longer. He was gone, a cavern carved out of her soul. He had brought dark words and bright gifts, in the way of strangers and unexpected guests.
“But, beyond this hut… only silence.”
