Steven Erikson - Crack’d Pot Trail

“Yes,” said Mister Must, looking down, “she does that.”

“No! It’s-it’s-”

“ ‘Ware off there, sir,” rumbled Mister Must, his stained teeth visible where they clenched the clay stem of his pipe. “I am warning you. Back off… now.”

“An old woman, is it?” Tiny sneered up at the driver. “Eats enough to shame a damned wolf!”

“Her appetites are her business-”

Steck kicked his horse closer. “Flicker-”

“By my bloody altar!” cried Arpo Relent, “I just noticed!”

Tulgord raised his sword, head whipping round. “What? What did you just-”

The pipe stem snapped between Mister Must’s teeth and he set most narrow eyes upon the Well Knight. “Let the past lie, I always say. Deep in the quiet earth, deep and-”

“I know you!” Arpo roared, and then he launched himself at Mister Must.

Something erupted, engulfing the driver in flames. Arms outstretched, Arpo plunged into that raging maelstrom. Braying, the mules lunged forward.

Tiny flung himself onto the side of the carriage, hammering at the door. An instant later Flea and Midge joined him, clambering like wild apes. Where Mister Must had been there was now a demon, monstrous, locked in a deathgrip with Arpo Relent, as flames writhed like serpents around them both.

The carriage heaved forward as the mules strained in their harnesses.

Everyone scattered from its careening path.

Tulgord Vise fought with his rearing charger, and the beast twisted, seeking to evade the mules, Arpo’s tethered horse and the crowded carriage, only to collide with Steck Marynd’s shaggy mare.

The crossbow loosed, the quarrel burying itself in the rump of Tulgord’s mount. Squealing, the beast lunged, shot forward, colliding with Steck’s horse. That creature went down, rolling over Steck Marynd and loud was the snap of one of the woodsman’s legs. Tulgord had lost grip on his reins, and now tottered perilously as his horse charged up alongside the carriage.

More flames ignited, bathing the front half of the rollicking, thundering conveyance.

Tulgord’s mount veered suddenly, throwing the Mortal Sword from the saddle, and down he went, rolling once before the front left wheel ground over him in a frenzied crunching of enameled armour, followed by the rear wheel, and then his weapon belt went taut in a snapping of leather, and off the man went, dragged in the carriage’s wake, and in spinning, curling clouds of smoke, the whole mess thundered ahead, straight for the edge of the Great Descent.

Steck Marynd was screaming in agony as his horse staggered upright once more, and the beast set off in mindless pursuit of the carriage, Tulgord’s mount and Arpo’s falling in alongside it. Relish howled and ran after them, her hair flying out to surround her head in black fronds.

Mute, we followed, stumbling, staggering.

None could miss the moment when the mad mob plunged over the crest and vanished from sight. It is an instant of appalling clarity, seared into my memory. And we saw, too, when the horses did the same, and through drifting smoke and clouds of dust we were witness to Relish Chanter finally arriving, skidding to a halt, and her horrified cry was so curdling Nifty’s head went rolling across our paths as Sellup clapped greasy hands to her rotting earholes. Relish set off down the slope and we could see her no more.

There are instances in life when no cogent thought is possible. When even words vanish and nothing rises to challenge a choke-tight throat, and each breath is a shocked torment, and all one’s limbs move of their own accord, loose as a drunkard’s, and a numbness spreads from a gaping mouth. And on all sides, the world is suddenly painfully sharp. Details cut and rend the eyes. The sheer brilliant stupidity of stones and dead grasses and clouds and twigs strewn like grey bones on the path-all this, then, strike the eye like mailed fists. Yes, there are instances in life when all this assails a person.

It was there in the face of Apto Canavalian. And in Purse Snippet’s, and even in Brash Phluster’s (behind the manic joy of his impending salvation). Sardic Thews oily hands were up at his oily lips, his eyes glittering and he led us all in the rush to the trail’s edge.

At last we arrived, and looked down.

The carriage had not well survived the plunge, its smashed wreckage heaped in the midst of flames and smoke at the distant base, three hundred steep strides down the rocky, treacherous path. Bits of it were scattered about here and there, flames licking or smoke twirling. Astonishingly, the mules had somehow escaped their harnesses and were swimming out into the twisting streams of the vast river that stretched out from a cluster of shacks and a stone jetty at the ferry’s landing. Immediately behind them bobbed the heads of three horses.

Of the demon and Arpo Relent, there was no sign, but we could see Flea’s body lying among boulders just this side of the muddy bank, and Midge’s bloody form was sprawled flat on its face two-thirds of the way down the track. Tiny, however, seemed to have vanished, perhaps inside the burning wreckage, and perhaps the same fate had taken Tulgord Vise, for he too was nowhere to be seen.

Skidding and stumbling, Relish had almost reached Midge.

And the ferry?

Fifty or more reaches out on the river, a large, flat-decked thing, on which stood four horses, and a tall carriage, black and ornate as a funeral bier. Figures standing at the stern rail were visible.

Sardic Thew, our most venerable host, was staring intently down at the burning carriage. He licked his lips. “Is she-is she?”

“Dead?” asked I. “Oh yes, indeed.”

“You are certain?”

I nodded.

He wiped at his face, and then reached a trembling hand beneath his robes and withdrew a silk bag that jingled most fetchingly. He settled its substantial weight into my palm.

I dipped my head in thanks, hid the fee beneath my cloak and then walked a half-dozen paces away to settle my gaze on that distant ferry.

Behind me a conversation began.

“Gods below!” hissed Apto Canavalian. “The Dantoc-an old woman-”

“A vicious beast, you mean,’ growled Sardic Thew. “Relations of mine got into financial trouble. Before I could assume the debts, that slavering bitch pounced. It was the daughter she wanted, you see. For her pleasure pits. Just a child! A sweet, innocent-”

“Enough!” I commanded, wheeling round. “Your reasons are you own, sir. You have said more than I need hear, do you understand?” And then I softened my eyes and fixed them upon a pale, trembling Purse Snippet. “So few, Lady, dare believe in justice. Ask our host, if you must hear more of this sordid thing. For me, and understand this well, I am what I am, no more and no less. Do I sleep at night? Most serenely, Lady. Yes, I see what there is in your eyes when you look upon me. Does redemption await me? I think not, but who can truly say, till the moment of its arrival. If you seek some softness in your self-regard, find it by measure against the man who stands before you now. And should you still find nothing of worth within you, then you can indeed have my life.”

After a time, she shook her head. That, and nothing more.

Sellup arrived. “Anybody see Nifty’s head? I lost it. Anyone?”

“Do you believe that art possesses relevance in the real world?”

“Now, that is indeed a difficult question. After all, whose art?”

To that I shrugged. “Pray, don’t ask me.”

Knives, garrotes, poison, so very crass. Oh, in my long and storied career, I have made use of them all as befits my profession, but I tell you this. Nothing is sweeter than murder by word, and that sweetness, dear friends, remains as fresh today as it did all those many years ago, on that dusty ridge that marked the end of Cracked Pot Trail.