‘If only,’ the Seguleh replied in a grunt. ‘You don’t belong here — and if you drag that infernal carriage of yours back here any time soon, I will seek you out myself. And then Trake’s spitting kitten here can fulfil his desperate desire, hah!’ He twisted in his saddle. Other riders were approaching. ‘Look at them. My watchdogs. “Be reasonable”, indeed. Have I chopped these two interlopers to pieces? I have not. Restraint has been shown.’ He faced Gruntle and Quell once more. ‘You will confirm this, yes?’
‘Beyond you goading Gruntle here,’ Quell said, ‘yes, I suppose we can.’
‘It was a jest!’ the Seguleh shouted.
‘It was a threat,’ Quell corrected, and Gruntle was impressed by the man’s sud shy;den courage.
The Seguleh tilted his head, as if he too was casting new measure upon the mage. ‘Oh, trundle your wagon wherever you like, then, see if I care.’
Three riders mounted the summit and, slowing their horses to a walk, drew up to where waited the Seguleh, who now sat slumped like a browbeaten bully.
Gruntle started, took an involuntary step forward. ‘Toc Anaster?’
The one-eyed soldier’s smile was strained. ‘Hello, old friend. I am sorry. There may come a time for this, but it is not now.’
Gruntle edged back, blunted by Toc Anaster’s cold — even harsh — tone. ‘I–I did not know.’
‘It was a messy death. My memories remain all too sharp. Gruntle, deliver this message to your god:
Gruntle scowled. ‘Too cryptic. If you want me to pass on your words, you will have to do better than that.’
Toc Anaster’s single eye — terrifying in its lifelessness — shifted away.
‘He cannot,’ said the middle horseman, and there was something familiar about the face behind the helm’s cheekguards. ‘I remember you from Capustan. Gruntle, chosen servant of Treach. Your god is confused, but it must choose, and soon.’
Gruntle shrugged. ‘There is no point in bringing all this to me. Trake and me, we’re not really on speaking terms. I didn’t ask for any of this. I don’t even want it-’
‘Hah!’ barked the Seguleh, twisting round to face the middle rider. ‘Hear that, Iskar Jarak? Let me kill him!’
‘Save your wrath for Skinner,’ Iskar Jarak calmly replied.
‘Skinner!’ roared the Seguleh, savagely wheeling his horse round. ‘Where is he, then? I’d forgotten! Hood, you bastard — you made me forget! Where is he?’ He faced the three riders. ‘Does Toc know? Brukhalian, you? Someone tell me where he’s hiding!’
‘Who knows?’ said Iskar Jarak. ‘But there is one thing for certain.’
‘What?’ demanded the Seguleh.
‘Skinner is not here on this hill.’
‘Bah!’ The Seguleh drove spurs into his horse’s senseless flanks. The animal surged forward anyway, plunging off the hilltop and raging downslope like an av shy;alanche.
Soft laughter from Brukhalian, and Gruntle saw that even Toc was grinning — though he still would not meet his eyes. That death must have been terrible indeed, as if the world had but one answer, one way of ending things, and whatever lessons could be gleaned from that did not ease the spirit. The notion left him feeling morose.
It was a common curse to feel unclean, but that curse would be unbearable if no cleansing awaited one, if not at the moment of dying, then afterwards. Look shy;ing upon these animated corpses, Gruntle saw nothing of redemption, nothing purged — guilt, shame, regrets and grief, they all swirled about these figures like a noxious cloud.
‘If getting killed lands me with you lot,’ he said, ‘I’d rather do without.’
The one named Iskar Jarak leaned wearily over the large Seven Cities saddle horn. ‘I sympathize, truly. Tell me, do you think we’ve all earned our rest?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘You have lost all your followers.’
‘I have.’ Gruntle saw that Toc Anaster was now watching him, fixed, sharp as a dagger point.
‘They are not here.’
He frowned at Iskar Jarak. ‘And they should be, I suppose?’
Brukhalian finally spoke, ‘It is just that. We are no longer so sure.’
‘Stay out of Hood’s realm,’ said Toc Anaster. ‘The gate is. . closed.’
Master Quell started. ‘Closed? But that’s ridiculous! Does Hood now turn the dead away?’
Toc’s single eye held on Gruntle. ‘The borders are sealed to the living. There will be sentinels. Patrols. Intrusions will not be tolerated. Where we march you can’t go. Not now, perhaps never. Stay away, until the choice is taken from you.
