From somewhere in the night came the keening howl of a wolf.
Toc grunted. ‘Yes, well, it’s not as if I had the privilege of choice, is it? I wonder if any of us has. Ever.’ He raised his voice slightly, ‘You know, Torrent-yes, I see you hulking out there-it occurs to me, given the precedent, that the question of cowardice is one your Awl must face, tomorrow. I have no doubt Redmask-if he has any concerns-is thinking on that right now. Wondering. Can he bully all of you into honour?’
The vague shape that was Torrent moved off.
Toc fell silent, tossed yet another lump of rodara dung onto the fire, and thought about old friends long gone.
The lone line of scuffed footprints ended with a figure, trudging up the distant slope of clay and pebbles. That was the thing about following a trail, Hedge reminded himself. Easy to forget the damned prints belonged to something real, especially after what seemed weeks of tracking the bastard.
T’lan Imass, as he had suspected. Those splayed, bony feet dragged too much, especially with an arch so high it left no imprint. True, some bowlegged Wickan might leave something similar, but not walking at a pace that stayed ahead of Hedge for this long. Not a chance of that. Still, it was odd that the ancient undead warrior was walking at all.
Easier traversing this wasteland as dust.
Maybe it’s too damp. Maybe it’s no fun being mud. I’ll have to ask it that.
Assuming it doesn’t kill me outright. Or try to, I mean. I keep forgetting that I’m already dead. If there’s one thing the dead should remember, it’s that crucial detail, don’t you think, Fid? Bah, what would you know. You’re still alive. And not here either.
Hood take me, I’m in need of company.
Not that damned whispering wind, though. Good thing it had fled, in tatters, unable to draw any closer to this T’lan Imass with-yes-but one arm. Beat up thing, ain’t i just?
He was sure it knew he was here, a thousand pace behind it. Probably knows I’m a ghost, too. Which is why i hasn’t bothered attacking me.
I think I’m getting used to this.
Another third of a league passed before Hedge was able to draw close enough to finally snare the undead warrior’s regard. Halting, slowly turning about. The flint weapon in its lone hand was more a cutlass than a sword, its end strangely hooked. A hilt had been fashioned from the palmate portion of an antler, creating a shallow, tined bell-guard polished brown with age. Part of the warrior’s face had been brutally smashed: but one side of its heavy jaw was intact, giving its ghastly mien a lopsided cant.
‘Begone, ghost,’ the T’lan Imass said in a ravaged voice.
‘Well I would,’ Hedge replied, ‘only it seems we’re heading in the same direction.’