'Yes,' Paran cut in. 'Virtually non-existent. Does that not strike you as strange, Fist?'
'The goddess herself-'
'Hurlochel reports that his outriders are seeing people, survivors, heading north and east. A pilgrimage.'
'Yes, High Fist.'
She was wavering, he saw. 'We will follow those pilgrims, Fist,' Paran said. 'We will delay another two days, during which the stores of G' danisban will be used to establish a full resupply – but only if enough remains to sustain the population still in the city. Commandeer wagons and carts as needed. Further, invite those citizens the soldiers come upon to join our train. At the very least, they will find a livelihood accompanying us, and food, water and protection.
Now, inform the captains that I will address the troops the morning of our departure – at the consecration and sealing of the barrow. In the meantime, you are all dismissed.'
The Fists saluted. Shouts from the captains stirred the ranks into motion as soldiers relaxed and began splitting up.
I should have said something to them here and now. Warned them not to expect too much. No, that wouldn't do. What does a new commander say?
Especially after the death of a great leader, a true hero? Dammit, Ganoes, you're better off saying nothing. Not now, and not much when we seal the barrow and leave the old man in peace. 'We're following pilgrims. Why? Because I want to know where they're going, that's why.' That should do. Mentally shrugging, Paran set off. In his wake followed Hurlochel and then, ten paces back, the young G'danii woman Naval D'natha, who was now, it seemed, a part of his entourage.
'High Fist?'
'What is it, Hurlochel?'
'Where are we going?'
'To visit the imperial artist.'
'Oh, him. May I ask why?'
'Why suffer such torment, you mean? Well, I have a request to make of him.'
'High Fist?'
I need a new Deck of Dragons. 'Is he skilled, do you know?'
'A subject of constant debate, High Fist.'
'Really? Among whom? The soldiers? I find that hard to believe.'
'Ormulogun has, accompanying him everywhere, a critic.'
Oh, the poor man.
The body was lying on the trail, the limbs lacerated, the tanned-hide shirt stiff and black with dried blood. Boatfinder crouched beside it.
'Stonefinder,' he said. 'In the frozen time now. We shared tales.'
'Someone cut off one of his fingers,' Karsa Orlong said. The rest of the wounds, they came from torture, except that spear-thrust, beneath the left shoulder blade. See the tracks – the killer stepped out from cover as the man passed – he was not running, but staggering. They but played with him.'
Samar Dev settled a hand on Boatfinder's shoulder, and felt the Anibar trembling with grief. 'How long ago?' she asked Karsa.
The Teblor shrugged. 'It does not matter. They are close.'
She straightened in alarm. 'How close?'
'They have made camp and they are careless with its wastes.' He unslung his flint sword. 'They have more prisoners.'
'How do you know that?'
'I smell their suffering.'
Not possible. Is such a thing possible? She looked round, seeking more obvious signs of all that the Toblakai claimed to know. A peat-filled basin was to their right, a short descent from the bedrock path on which they stood. Grey-boled black spruce trees rose from it, leaning this way and that, most of their branches bereft of needles. Glinting strands of spider's web spanned the spaces in between, like scratches on transparent glass. To the left, flattened sprawls of juniper occupied a fold in the bedrock that ran parallel to the trail. Samar frowned.
'What cover?' she asked. 'You said the killer stepped out from cover to drive that spear into the Anibar's back. But there isn't any, Karsa.'
'None that remains,' he said.
Her frown deepened into a scowl. 'Are they swathed in branches and leaves, then?'
'There are other ways of hiding, woman.'
'Such as?'
Karsa shrugged off his fur cloak. 'Sorcery,' he said. 'Wait here.'
Like Hood I will. She set off after Karsa as the Toblakai, sword held before him in both hands, moved forward in a gliding half-run. Four strides later and she had to sprint in an effort to keep up.
The jog, silent, grew swifter. Became lightning fast.
Gasping, she scrambled after the huge warrior, but he was already lost to sight.
At the sound of a sudden shriek to her left, Samar skidded to a halt – Karsa had left the trail somewhere behind her, had plunged into the forest, over jumbled, moss-slick boulders, fallen trees, thick skeins of dead branches – leaving in his wake no sign. More screams.
