The dog halted at a new track that led from the road, where brush had been cleared and stones left in piles to either side. When Grizzin Farl joined it, he reached down and settled a hand upon its sloped head. ‘I am sorry,’ he murmured, ‘but this is my path. My every desire is a conceit, and where the road ends is where it begins again. Providence, forgive me.’
He set off down the track. The morning air smelled of blood and putrefying meat, but the rot held that sweetness that told him that it was still relatively fresh. A day or two, no more. The dog stayed at his side as he came out upon the clearing. He studied the carriage with its open door, and then the bodies sprawled in the grasses. A fox stood over one, frozen in fear at the sight of the dog. An instant later it bolted, vanishing into the wood. The dog gave no sign of wanting to chase, instead pressing against the side of Grizzin’s leg.
He walked past the corpses, pausing every now and then to study one. He scanned the tracks of beaten-down grasses, the places where blood had spilled. Flies buzzed the ground and crows took wing, croaking as they fled his and the dog’s approach.
The estate’s entranceway was splashed black with gore and a body was lying on the threshold. Grizzin Farl continued walking, until he stood in front of the open door, and the grim offering before it.
A highborn Tiste by the richness of his garb, a man with grey hair. Crows had plucked holes through one cheek, to get at the tongue. He had fallen to at least a half-dozen wounds, and those attackers whom he had killed were heaped to either side of the steps, five in all, dragged out of the way by their comrades but otherwise ignored.
Grizzin ascended the steps and walked past more corpses on his way into the main hall. Here he found the body of a woman, a maid, and there, upon the hearthstone, another young woman, lying on her back. The blood about her left no question as to what had befallen her. He drew closer, seeing that she was upon an Azathanai hearthstone, and seeing now what the blood had obscured: she wore the traditional dress of a bride in waiting.
Hearing a sound to his right, Grizzin turned. A figure was huddled on the floor, in the far corner of the room. Its legs were drawn up under the chin, but one side of its face was pressed against the stone wall, with a stained hand up beside it, the blackened fingers splayed against the stone. Shadows hid any further detail.
Grizzin walked closer. A young man, dressed neither in the fashion of the attackers nor like those who had defended this house. There was dried blood crusting his face, blackening the entire cheek and filling the socket of his eye with darkness. He wore no helm and his hair was long, hanging in greasy strands over his brow. With each step the Azathanai took, the man flinched and pushed deeper into the corner, seeking to grind his head between the stones of the wall until skin tore.
‘I mean you no harm, friend,’ said Grizzin Farl. ‘We are alone in this place, and I would help you.’
The head swung round and Grizzin beheld what had been done to the man’s eyes.
His gaze dropped to the man’s hands, and then lifted again to that clawed, disfigured face. ‘Oh,’ he sighed, ‘that was no answer.’
The cry that broke from the man was that of a wounded animal. Grizzin moved forward. Ignoring the fists that beat at him, he took the man in his arms and held him tight, until the screams died away and the body ceased its struggles and then, slowly, sagged in his embrace.
After a time, the dog came to lie down beside them.
They had travelled through the night. Breaking fast in the saddle, they continued on as the sun climbed into the sky. When it was high overhead, the procession reached the last stretch of the road before the track.
Anomander, Hish Tulla and Silchas were in the lead, riding abreast. Behind them rode Gripp and at his side was Captain Kellaras. There was no telling how many others had since joined the procession: highborn and their servants and guards, cooks and their pot-wagons, the tent-bearers and the musicians, the poets and artists, apprentices of all sorts; Gripp had seen Silchas’s old war-time companion, Captain Scara Bandaris, moving to take up the rear with his troop. By tradition, none had spoken since the dawn, and the solemn air accompanied them as if to protect the day’s light and warmth, lest a voice shatter the peace.
Gripp’s thoughts were on the woman riding ahead of him, and when guilt drove those thoughts back he thought of the boy, Orfantal. There were fates within reach, and those beyond reach. A wise man knew the difference and Gripp wanted to be a wise man. He welcomed this silence, after the seemingly endless questions his lord had asked, seeking every detail from his recollections of the attack, the flight and the hunt and the escape that followed. Lord Anomander was never one to reveal his emotions, nor allow the extremity or depth of those feelings to tighten his throat or stilt the words he uttered. And so Gripp had no sense of his master’s reaction to his tale. At the end he but thanked Gripp for saving the hostage, and this drew Gripp’s thoughts back to the boy.
