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A snort from behind them, and then, ‘Insects. Lice. Gnats.’
Vastala glared back at Hataras. ‘A Tiste life, then. You know this. Nothing stains him.’
‘Mice, spiders, fish.’
In a flash, Vastala spun and launched herself at Hataras. Both went down scratching and snarling, biting and kicking.
Listar halted, the horses nervously gathering up around him. He squinted northward, waiting for the scrap to work through to its exhausted, sex-filled conclusion. It was not the first fight between these women. He could not recall what had set them at each other the first time, but he had stared at them, alarmed, and then bemused, as the vicious grappling soon found nipples and the tangled thatch between their legs, and before too long the struggling grew rhythmic, with moans and gasps instead of snarls, and he had looked away then, his face burning.
These were the women he was escorting to the Hust Legion, the women who were meant to give shape to a ritual of some kind of absolution. Beyond the unlikelihood of success, Listar was troubled by such notions of forgiveness. Some things did not deserve what captains Prazek and Dathenar sought.
He knew Rance had been the killer in the camp. He had awaited her knife, and would have welcomed it. Instead, she had danced around him, until the anticipation left holes burning in his gut. And then he had been sent away, out into the wild plains of the south, as if there’d been no thought of his fleeing, running away from all that he was.
The women were now coupling, in the way that women did when together, each with her face in the other’s crotch. At least, he assumed that was a typical position, although he could not be certain. A few other times, fingers had been involved.
They would be at this for some time. Sighing, he looked away, drew off his satchel and crouched down, unclasping the flap. Hands upon horseflesh. A judgement of meat. No wonder they run with dogs, not horses. He drew out the makings of a meal and set to preparing it. ‘We are not far from the camp,’ he said.
As he expected, neither woman replied.
‘We’re not eating the horses. You two were supposed to ride with me, to deliver us quickly to the Hust camp. We are short of time.’
Hataras lifted her head, licked her lips and then said, ‘A ritual of cleansing, yes. Stains taken away. You ride, we run.’
Vastala rolled over and sat up. ‘The Ay now hunt. Mother will provide.’
Studying the two of them as they recovered, their flushed faces and glowing cheeks, the wetness of sex on their sloping, almost non-existent chins, he said, ‘This Mother you speak of, the one you cry out to when … when doing what you just did. She is your goddess?’
Both women laughed. Hataras climbed to her feet. ‘Womb of fire, the promise that devours.’
‘Child Spitter. Swollen Spring.’
‘Guardian of the Dreamer. False Mother.’
‘Deadly when spurned,’ Vastala said. ‘We appease to keep her claws sheathed. She is masked, is Mother, but the face of blood-kin is a lie. Azathanai.’
‘Azathanai,’ echoed Hataras, nodding. ‘She keeps the Dreamer asleep. The longer the sleep, the weaker we become. Soon, Dog-Runners will be no more. One dream ends. Another begins.’
‘Mother whispers of immortality,’ said Vastala, making a face. ‘A path out from the dream. Let her sleep, she says.’
‘We do not fear Mother,’ added Hataras, walking over to run a hand along a horse’s flank. ‘We fear only the Jaghut.’
Listar frowned. ‘The Jaghut? Why?’
‘They play with us. Like Azathanai, only more clumsy. They think us innocent—’
‘Children,’ Vastala cut in.
‘But look into our eyes, Punished Man. See our knowing.’
‘The Dreamer birthed us and we are content. Our lives are short.’
‘But fullest.’
‘We struggle to eat and stay warm.’
‘But love is never a stranger.’ Hataras stepped away from the horse and approached Listar. ‘Punished Man, will you wait with others? Or we give you ritual now? We end torment in soul.’
‘How, Bonecaster? How will you do such a thing, to any of us?’
