‘You can’t kill him,’ Aranatha said, straightening in the wagon bed.
‘Oh, and why not?’
‘I need to talk to him.’
Kedeviss watched her kin descend from the wagon, adjust her robes, then stride towards the ruin-where Skintick had appeared, helping Nimander, whose hands were dark with blood. Behind them, Desra.
‘That bitch sister of yours is uncanny,’ Kallor said in a growl.
Kedeviss saw no need to comment on that.
‘She speaks with Gothos-why? What could they possibly say to each other?’ Shrugging, Kedeviss turned away. ‘I think I will do the cooking tonight,’ she said.
Dying, the Captain stared across at the giant warrior with the shattered face. Woven carpets beneath each of them, the one on which sat the Captain now sodden with blood-blood that seemed to flow for ever, as if his body was but a valve, broken, jammed open, and out it came, trickling down from wounds that would never close. He was, he realized, back where he began. Opulence surrounded him this time, rather than grit and mud and dust on the edge of a dried riverbed, but did that make any real difference? Clearly it didn’t.
Only the dying could laugh at that truth. There were many things, he now understood, to which only the dying could respond with honest mirth. Like this nemesis warrior sitting cross-legged, hunched and glowering opposite him.
A small brazier smouldered between them, perched on three legs. On the coals rested a squat kettle, and the spiced wine within steamed to sweeten the air of the chamber.
‘You shall have to knock out some of the inner walls,’ the captain said. ‘Have the slaves make you a new bed, one long enough, and other furniture besides.’
‘You are not listening,’ the giant said. ‘I lose my temper when people do not listen.’
‘You are my heir-’
‘No. I am not. Slavery is an abomination. Slavery is what people who hate do to others. They hate themselves. They hate in order to make themselves different, better. You. You told yovrself you had the right to own other people. You told yourself they were less than you, and you thought shackles could prove it.’
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‘You can’t kill him,’ Aranatha said, straightening in the wagon bed.
‘Oh, and why not?’
‘I need to talk to him.’
Kedeviss watched her kin descend from the wagon, adjust her robes, then stride towards the ruin-where Skintick had appeared, helping Nimander, whose hands were dark with blood. Behind them, Desra.
‘That bitch sister of yours is uncanny,’ Kallor said in a growl.
Kedeviss saw no need to comment on that.
‘She speaks with Gothos-why? What could they possibly say to each other?’ Shrugging, Kedeviss turned away. ‘I think I will do the cooking tonight,’ she said.
Dying, the Captain stared across at the giant warrior with the shattered face. Woven carpets beneath each of them, the one on which sat the Captain now sodden with blood-blood that seemed to flow for ever, as if his body was but a valve, broken, jammed open, and out it came, trickling down from wounds that would never close. He was, he realized, back where he began. Opulence surrounded him this time, rather than grit and mud and dust on the edge of a dried riverbed, but did that make any real difference? Clearly it didn’t.
Only the dying could laugh at that truth. There were many things, he now understood, to which only the dying could respond with honest mirth. Like this nemesis warrior sitting cross-legged, hunched and glowering opposite him.
A small brazier smouldered between them, perched on three legs. On the coals rested a squat kettle, and the spiced wine within steamed to sweeten the air of the chamber.
‘You shall have to knock out some of the inner walls,’ the captain said. ‘Have the slaves make you a new bed, one long enough, and other furniture besides.’
‘You are not listening,’ the giant said. ‘I lose my temper when people do not listen.’
‘You are my heir-’
‘No. I am not. Slavery is an abomination. Slavery is what people who hate do to others. They hate themselves. They hate in order to make themselves different, better. You. You told yovrself you had the right to own other people. You told yourself they were less than you, and you thought shackles could prove it.’
‘I loved my slaves. I took care of them.’
‘There is plenty of room for guilt in the heart of hate,’ the warrior replied. ‘This is my gift-’
‘Everyone seeks to give me gifts. I reject them all. You believe yours is wondrous. Generous. You are nothing. Your empire is pathetic. I knew village dogs who were greater tyrants than you.’
‘Why do you torment me with such words? I am dying. You have killed me. And yet I do not despise you for that. No, I make you my heir. I give you my kingdom. My army will take your commands. Everything is yours now.’
‘I don’t want it.’
‘If you do not take it, one of my officers will.’
‘This kingdom cannot exist without the slaves. Your army will become nothing more than one more band of raiders, and so someone will hunt them down and destroy them. And all you sought to build will be forgotten.’
‘You torment me.’
‘I tell you the truth. Let your officers come to kill me. I will destroy them all. And I will scatter your army. Blood to the grass.’
The Captain stared at this monster, and knew he could do nothing. He was sinking, back against his heap of pillows, every breath shallower than the last. Swathed in robes and furs, he was none the less cold. ‘You could have lied,’ he whispered.
The man’s last words. Karsa studied the dead face for a moment longer. Then he thumped against the panel door to his left. It opened a crack.
‘Everyone leave this carriage,’ Karsa commanded. ‘Take whatever you want-but you do not have much time.’Then he settled back once more, Scanned the remnants of the lavish feast he had devoured-while the Captain had simply watched, smug as a rich father even as he died. But Karsa was not his son. Not his heir, no matter what the fool de-sired. He was Toblakai. A Teblor, and far to the north waited his people.
Was he ready for them?
He was.
Would they be ready for him? Probably not.
A long walk awaited him-there was not a single horse in this paltry kingdom that could accommodate him. He thought back to his youth, to those bright days of hard drama, crowded with omens, when every blade of grass was saturated with significance-but it was the young mind that fashioned such things. Not yet bleached by the sun, not yet worn down by the wind. Vistas were to be crossed. Foes were to be vanquished with harsh barks of fierce triumph, blood spraying in the air.
Once, long ago it seemed now, he had set out to find glory, only to discover that it was nothing like what he had imagined it to be. It was a brutal truth that his companions then had understood so much better than he had, despite his being War Leader. Nevertheless, they had let themselves be pulled into his wake, and for this they had died. The power of Karsa’s own will had overwhelmed them. What could be learned from that?