Dust of Dreams (131 page)

Southeast, but curving ahead, she saw.
Eastward. What is out there? What are we supposed to find?

‘Blablablabla!’ cried the boy, his loud voice—so close to one ear—making her flinch.

Baaljagg trotted out to sniff the trail.
Probably just instinct. The damned thing hasn’t even got a working nose . . . has it? Maybe it smells different things. Life, or something else.

When the twins set out on the path, the huge beast followed. The boy twisted in Setoc’s arms and she lowered him to the ground. He ran to join his sisters.

Some leader I am.

At the turn she saw skid marks, where the wagon’s wheels had spun and juddered out to the side, tearing at the ground. Here, the horse hoofs had gouged deep. But she could see no obstacle that would have forced such a manoeuvre. The way ahead ran straight for a hundred paces before jagging south again, only to twist east and then northeast.

At this Setoc snorted. ‘They were out of control,’ she said. ‘They went where the horses dragged them. This is pointless—’

Stavi spun. ‘We don’t care where they’re going!’ she shouted. ‘It doesn’t matter!’

‘But how can they help us if they can’t even help themselves?’ Setoc asked.

‘What’s so different about that?’

The bitchy little runt has a point.
‘Look at those marks—they were riding wild, crazy fast. How do you expect we’ll ever catch them?’

‘Because horses get tired.’

They resumed their journey. Tracking the aimless with purpose.
Just like growing up.

Stones crunched underfoot, the bridling heat making the gnarled stalks of the shrubs tick and creak. They were low on water. The meat of the lizards they’d eaten this morning felt dry and sour in Setoc’s stomach. Not a single cloud in the sky to give them a moment’s respite. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d seen a bird.

Noon passed, the afternoon stretching as listless as the wasteland spreading out on all sides. The track had finally straightened out on an easterly setting. Even the twins were slowing down. All of their shadows had pitched round and were lengthening when Storii cried out and pointed.

A lone horse. South of the trail by two hundred or so paces. Remnants of traces dangled down from its head. It stood on weak legs, nuzzling the lifeless ground, and its ebon flanks were white with crusted lather.

Setoc hesitated, and then said, ‘Keep Baaljagg here. I want to see if I can catch it.’

For once the twins had no complaint.

The animal was facing away but it caught some noise or scent when Setoc was still a hundred paces off and it shifted round to regard her. Its eyes, she saw, were
strange, as if swallowed in something both lurid and dark. At least the animal didn’t bolt.

Ghost wolves, stay away from me now. We need this beast.

Cautiously, she edged closer.

The horse watched. It had been eating cactus, she saw, and scores of spines were embedded in its muzzle, dripping blood.

Hungry. Starving.
She spoke in low, soothing tones: ‘How long have you been out here, friend? All alone, your companions gone. Do you welcome our company? I’m sure you do. As for those spines, we’ll do something about that. I promise.’

And then she was close enough to reach out and touch the animal. But its eyes held her back. They didn’t belong to a horse. They looked . . .
demonic.

It’s been eating cactus—how much?
She looked to where she had seen it cropping the ground.
Oh, spirits below. If all that is now in your stomach, you are in trouble.
Did it look to be in pain? How could she tell? It was clearly weary, yes, but it drew a steady and deep breath, ears flicking curiously as it in turn studied her. Finally, Setoc slowly reached out to take the frayed leather traces. When she gathered them up the animal lifted its head, as if about to prod her with its wounded muzzle.

Setoc wrapped the reins about her left hand and gingerly took hold of one of the spines. She tugged it loose. The horse flinched. That and nothing more. Sighing, she began plucking.

If she licked the blood from the spines? What would the beast think of that? She decided not to find out.
Oh, but I dearly do want to lick this blood. My mouth yearns for that taste. I can smell its warm life.

Old man, give me your skin.

When she’d removed the last spine she reached up and settled a hand on its blazoned brow. ‘Better? I hope so, friend.’

‘Mercy,’ said a thin voice in accented trader tongue, ‘I’d forgotten about that.’

Setoc stepped round the horse and saw, lying in a careless sprawl on the ground, a corpse. For an instant her breath caught—‘Toc?’

‘Who? No. Saw him, though, once. Funny eyes.’

‘Does nothing dead ever go away around here?’ Setoc demanded, fear giving way to anger.

‘I don’t know, but can you even hope to imagine the anguish people like me feel when seeing one such as you? Young, flush, with such clear and bright eyes. You make me miserable.’

Setoc drew the horse round.

‘Wait! Help me up—I’m snagged on something. I don’t mind being miserable, so long as I have someone to talk to. Being miserable without anyone to talk to is far worse.’

Really.
Setoc walked over. Studied the corpse. ‘You have a stake through your chest,’ she said.

‘A stake? Oh, a spoke, you mean. That explains it.’

‘Does it?’

‘Well, no. Things got confused. I believe, however, I am lying on a fragment of the hub, with perhaps another fragment of spoke buried deep in the earth. This is what happens when a carriage gets picked up and then dropped back down. I wonder if horses have much memory. Probably not, else this one would still be running. So, beautiful child, will you help me?’

She reached down. ‘Take my arm, then—can you manage that much? Good, now hold tight while I try and lift you clear.’

It was easier than she’d expected.
Skin and bones don’t weigh much, do they?

‘I am named Cartographer,’ said the corpse, ineffectually trying to brush dust from his rags.

‘Setoc.’

‘So very pleased to meet you.’

‘I thought I made you miserable.’

‘I delight in misery.’

She grunted. ‘You’ll fit right in. Come with me.’

‘Wonderful, where are you going?’

‘We’re going after your carriage—tell me, is everyone in it dead like you?’

Cartographer seemed to ponder the question, and then he said, ‘Probably. But let’s find out, shall we?’

The children of Onos Toolan and Hetan seemed unaffected by the arrival of yet another animated corpse. When Cartographer saw Baaljagg he halted and pointed, but said nothing.

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.’