Steven Erikson - Crack’d Pot Trail

“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.”

“A vicious tale,” commented Steck Marynd. “You should have let it die with Roud.”

“The demand was otherwise,” I replied to the man riding a few strides ahead. “In any case, the end, as you well know, is now near. Finally, she rose, heavy and weightless, chilled and almost fevered, and with her furs drawn about her she emerged into the morning light.

“Dead dogs were strewn about on the stained snow, their necks snapped. To the left of the Chief’s hut the remnants of a bonfire died in a drift of ashes and bones. The corpses of her beloved kin were stacked in frozen postures of cruel murder beside the ghastly hearth, and closer to hand laid the butchered remnants of three children.

“The sled with its mute cargo remained where he had left it, although the hides had been taken, exposing the frost-blackened body of another Fenn. Dead of a sword thrust.

“A keening cry lifting up through the numbness of her soul, she staggered closer to that sled, and she looked down upon a face years younger than that of the Fenn who had come among them. For, as is known to all, age is difficult to determine among the Tartheno Toblakai. She then recalled his tale, the battle upon the glacier, and all at once she understood-”

“What?” demanded Midge. “Understood what? Hood take you, Flicker, explain!”

“It is the hero who wins the fated battle against his evil enemy,” said I, with unfeigned sorrow. “So it is in all tales of comfort. But there is no comfort in this tale. Alas, while we may rail, sometimes the hero dies. Fails. Sometimes, the last one standing is the enemy, the Betrayer, the Kinslayer. Sometimes, dear Midge, there is no comfort. None.”

Apto Canavalian fixed upon me an almost accusatory glare. “And what,” he said, voice rough with fury, “is the moral of that story, Flicker?”

“Moral? Perhaps none, sir. Perhaps, instead, the tale holds another purpose.”

“Such as?”

Purse Snippet answered in the coldest of tones. “A warning.”

“A warning?”

“Where hides the gravest threat? Why, the one you invite into your camp. Avas Didion Flicker, you should have abandoned this tale-gods, what was Roud thinking?”

“It was the only story he knew by heart!” Brash Phluster snapped, and then he wheeled on me. “But you! You know plenty! You could have spun us a different one! Instead-instead-”

“He chooses to sicken our hearts,” Purse said. “I said I would abide, Flicker. For a time. Your time, I think, has just run out.”

“The journey has not ended yet, Lady Snippet. If firm you will hold to this bargain, then I have the right to do the same.”

“Do you imagine I remain confident of your prowess?”

I met her eyes, my lockbox of secrets cracked open-just a sliver-but enough to steal the colour from her face, and I said this, “You should be by now, Lady.”

How many worlds exist? Can we imagine places like and yet unlike our own? Can we see the crowds, the swarming sea of strangers and all those faces scratching our memories, as if we once knew them, even when we knew them not? What value building bitter walls between us? After all, is it not a conceit to shake one’s head in denial of such possibilities, when in our very own world we can find a multitude of worlds, one behind the eyes of every man, woman, child and beast you happen to meet?