‘Better a wild storm?’
‘I think, yes. A foe to fight. Trull Sengar, should I join this water as dust, I do not think I would return. Oblivion would take me with the promise of a struggle ended. Not what I desire, friend, for that would mean abandoning you. And surrendering my memories. Yet what does a warrior do when peace is won?’
‘Take up fishing,’ Quick Ben muttered, eyes still closed, body still wavering. ‘Now enough words from you two. This isn’t easy.’
Wavering once more in and out of existence, then, suddenly-gone.
Ever since Shadowthrone had stolen him away-when Kalam needed him the most-Quick Ben had quietly seethed. Repaying a debt in one direction had meant betraying a friend in another. Unacceptable.
Diabolical.
And if Shadowthrone thinks he has my loyalty just because he pushed Kal into the Deadhouse, then he is truly as mad as we all think he is. Oh, I’m sure the Azath and whatever horrid guardian resides in there would welcome Kalam readily enough. Mount his head on the wall above the mantel, maybe-all right, that’s not very likely. But the Azath collects. That’s what it does, and now it has my oldest friend. So, how in Hood’s name do I get him out!
Damn you, Shadowthrone.
But such anger left him feeling unbalanced, making con-centration difficult. And the skin rotting from my legs isn’t helping either. Still, they needed a way out. Cotillion hadn’t explained much. No, he’d just expected us to figure things out for ourselves. What that means is that there’s only one real direction. Wouldn’t do to have us get lost now, would it?
Slightly emboldened-a momentary triumph over diffidence-Quick Ben concentrated, his senses reaching out to the surrounding ether. Solid, clammy, a smooth surface yielding like sponge under the push of imagined hands. The fabric of this realm, the pocked skin of a ravaged world. He began applying more pressure, seeking… soft spots, weak’ nesses-I know you exist.
Ah, you are now aware of me-1 can feel that. Curious, you feel almost… feminine. Well, a first time for everything. What had been clammy beneath his touch was now simply cool. Hood’s breath, I’m not sure I like the images accompany’ ing this thought of pushing through.
Beyond his sense of touch, there was nothing. Nothing for his eyes to find; no scent in the tepid air; no sound beyond the faint swish of blood in the body-there one moment, gone the next as he struggled to separate his soul, free it to wander.
This isn’t that bad-
A grisly tearing sound, then a vast, inexorable inhalation, tearing his spirit loose-yanking him forward and through, stumbling, into acrid swirling heat, thick clouds closing on all sides, soft sodden ground underfoot. He groped forward, his lungs filling with a pungent vapour that made his head reel. Gods, what sickness is this? 1 can’t breathe-
The wind spun, drove him staggering forward-sudden chill, stones turning beneath his feet, blessed clean air that he sucked in with desperate gasps.
Down onto his hands and knees. On the rocky ground, lichen and mosses. On either side, a thinly spread forest in miniature-he saw oaks, spruce, alder, old and twisted and none higher than his hip. Dun-hued birds flitted among small green leaves. Midges closed in, sought to alight-but he was a ghost here, an apparition-thus far. But this is where we must go.
The wizard slowly lifted his head, then climbed to his feet.
He stood in a shallow, broad valley, the dwarf forest covering the basin behind him and climbing the slopes on all sides, strangely park-like in the generous spacing of the trees. And they swarmed with birds. From somewhere nearby came the sound of trickling water. Overhead, dragonflies with wingspans to match that of crows darted in their uncanny precision, feeding on midges. Beyond this feeding frenzy the sky was cerulean, almost purple near the horizons. Tatters of elongated clouds ran in high ribbons, like the froth of frozen waves on some celestial shore.
Primordial beauty-tundra’s edge. Gods, I hate tundra. But so be it, as kings and queens say when it’s all swirled down the piss’hole. Nothing to be done for it. Here we must come.
Trull Sengar started at the sudden coughing-Quick Ben had reappeared, half bent over, tears streaming from his eyes and something like smoke drifting from his entire body. He hacked, then spat and slowly straightened. Grinning.
The proprietor of the Harridict Tavern was a man under siege. An affliction that had reached beyond months and into years. His establishment, once devoted to serving the island prison’s guards, had since been usurped along with the rest of the port town following the prisoners’ rebellion. Chaos now ruled, ageing honest folk beyond their years. But the money was good.
