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Osserc saw Ardata glance at him, and then she shrugged. ‘I own him not.’
‘But you do! A dying man resurrected!’
‘Oh, very well. Take him then, but leave him alive.’
‘Of course,’ Telorast said, smirking. ‘We apprehend your need for him.’
Curdle now turned to Osserc and smiled. ‘Your time is short, mortal. Reach now for all that may give you pleasure. There is no sweeter intensity than your final days.’
Frowning, Osserc took a step towards Ardata. ‘What is she talking about? What have you planned for me, Ardata?’
‘We need a soul,’ she replied. ‘To seal the gate.’
‘A soul? Mine?’
Her eyes were level. ‘It is a worthy end, Osserc. One other thing to consider:
it is not permanent – nothing is. Sooner or later, you will be spat out, to find yourself unchanged from the day of your imprisonment. Ages might well have past. You may find yourself standing on a world you do not even recognize, an entire realm to explore. More than that, Son of Liosan, you will possess power such as you would never have known before. Even within the maw of a gate and in the midst of agony, power is exchanged.’
He stared at her in disbelief. ‘Agony? To be spat out from centuries of that – I would be a madman!’ He looked quickly to Curdle and Telorast, and then back to Ardata. ‘Find another! Use Kanyn Thrall!’
She slowly shook her head. ‘I value him more than I do you, Tiste. Besides, Curdle spoke true. I own your life, for it was I who returned it to you.’ She turned to Curdle and Telorast. ‘Eleint, give him pleasure, enough delights to sustain him for a time. But be quick about it – I have a lover to find.’
* * *
There were three Jhelarkan. They had veered two days past, loping to keep pace as Scabandari pushed his exhausted horse onward, northward, well away from the caustic fumes of the Vitr Sea to the east.
At midday of this third day, his horse stumbled, and in an instant the three shaggy, black-furred giant wolves closed in. Even as his mount righted itself, he brought his lance around to meet the leap of the wolf on his right. The point drove into the beast’s chest with a ripping, snapping sound, the heavy iron blade breaking ribs as it sank deep.
The impact yanked the lance’s shaft from his grip, but the leather butt on the saddle held – long enough to pull the entire saddle on to the horse’s flank, taking the warrior with it. He heard the shaft splinter beneath the bowing weight of the dying wolf.
In that time, a second wolf closed its massive jaws around the left hindquarter of the horse, using its own weight to drag the animal down. The third and last Jheleck hunter lunged under the horse’s neck, snapping up to tear open the beast’s throat. Screaming, the horse collapsed beneath the onslaught.
Scabandari threw himself clear of his toppling, thrashing mount, his ears filling with its mortal screams. Rolling, he regained his feet, dragging free his sword even as the third wolf spun round to launch itself at him.
His backhand swing caught the creature on its right shoulder, enough to push its momentum to one side – the jaws snapped empty air a hand’s breadth from his face, hot blood and warm spit spraying against his right cheek. Stepping further round, he plunged the sword’s point behind the Jheleck’s shoulder blade, pushing hard to reach the heart.
Coughing, the Jheleck fell on to its side, the motion nearly pulling the sword from Scabandari’s grip. Regaining his hold – frantically unaware of where the last wolf was – he tugged the weapon free and staggered back.
Growling, the last wolf crouched over the dead horse.
The Tiste cursed under his breath. ‘Content with that, are you? Well, I’m not.’ He advanced.
The wolf held its ground until the last moment, only to suddenly wheel and dart away, ten or twelve long strides, before spinning round again.
Cursing a second time, Scabandari approached his dead mount. With one eye on the circling wolf, he retrieved what he could of his supplies, including the last two water-skins strapped to the saddle. Neither had burst with the animal’s fall – the one source of satisfaction in this whole travail thus far.
Finally, with the skins over one shoulder, his bedroll, blanket and the remnants of dried foodstuffs in a pack slung over the other shoulder, he slowly backed away, sword held at the ready.
When he had moved some distance from the kill-site, he saw the wolf close in to feed on the horse carcass.
A true wolf would linger here for days, gorging itself on meat. But this Jheleck would desire vengeance for the slaying of its two kin. It would resume tracking him before too long. The next attack, the warrior guessed, would come at night.
He trudged on, ever northward. The trail he had been following was more or less gone, but it had been unrelenting in its northerly push, and so he felt confident that he remained on Osserc’s heels.
Close to dusk, he came upon Osserc’s dead horse, untouched by scavengers and only now bloating in the chill, dry winter air. Wayward winds from the east brought with them the biting acid of the Vitr – the shoreline had drawn closer here.
He made a cursory examination of the carcass. Osserc had taken no meat from the beast, which seemed an odd oversight, but he had collected up the saddle and tack, which was downright bizarre. Shaking his head, he continued on.
