Dust of Dreams

by Steven Erikson

  At her outburst, Silchas frowned. ‘Speak what you are hiding, bonecaster.’

  ‘Gesture for gesture? Very well. Errastas has summoned the Elders. Sechul Lath, Kilmandaros, Mael—and now Draconus—yes! When you hide yourselves so well you yield your touch on this trembling world—you become blind. Your brother is dead, Silchas Ruin. Dragnipur is shattered. Draconus is loose upon the realm, Darkness in his hands—and what does his old lover see now that she sets eyes upon us all once more? Have you greeted your mother yet, Silchas? Have you felt her touch upon your brow? I thought not. She grieves for the son she cherished the most, I think. In whom the black flames of her love burned brightest. She reserves true spite and contempt for—’

  Torrent’s backhanded swing caught her full in the face, hard enough to knock her from her feet, falling in a clatter of bones. As he loomed over her, he found he’d drawn his sword. ‘Spite, witch? Well, you’d know of it better than anyone. Now shut that bony jaw and keep it shut.’

  Her black pitted eyes seemed to fix upon his own as if bearing claws, but he did not flinch. Destruction? You scrawny bitch, I fear only its escape. He stepped back and shot Silchas a glance.

  The man looked so wounded it was a wonder he was still standing. He had wrapped his arms about his own torso, curled in and shrunken. The liquid that leaked down from his eyes traced crimson glints down his hollowed cheeks. Torrent saw Ryadd, his face ravaged with distress, take a step towards his companion, and then he wheeled to advance on Olar Ethil.

  Torrent stepped into his path. ‘Go back,’ he said. ‘Now is not the time. Console your friend, Ryadd. I will lead her away from here.’

  The young warrior trembled, his eyes incandescent with fury. ‘She will not—’

  ‘Heed me? She will. Ryadd, the attacks are over—’

  He started, eyes widening. ‘Attacks.’ Then he nodded. ‘Yes, I see. Yes.’ He nodded again, and then turned round, ready to give his youthful strength to an old man suddenly broken.

  And so he surpasses, and leadership now belongs to him. Simple as that. Torrent sheathed his sword and swung up on to his horse. He gathered the reins, shot one last withering look upon Olar Ethil—who’d yet to move—and then kicked his mount into motion.

  On to the trail of the wagon, east and south. He did not look back, but after a time he saw a spinning cloud of dust lift from a nearby rise. She was with him. I see you, sweet as crotch rot, but will you even admit I probably just saved your sorry sack?

  Didn’t think so.

  As the sun painted gold the brutal facing of the stone tower, a figure of gold and bronze stood above another who knelt, bowed forward over his thighs with his face in his hands.

  Neither moved until long after the sun set and darkness claimed the sky.

  There had been an old man among the Barghast, brain-addled and prone to drag on to his shoulders a tattered, mangy wolf hide, and then fall to his hands and knees, as if at last he had found his true self. A beast incapable of speech beyond yips and howls, he would rush in amongst the camp dogs, growling, until he had subdued every bewildered, cowering animal. He had sought to do other things as well, but Setoc found even the memory of those to be too pitiful and painfully pathetic to revisit.

  The giant plains wolf, Baaljagg, reminded her of that old man. Hide patched and rotted, in places hanging in mangled strips. Its muzzle was perpetually peeled back, revealing the massive oak-hued teeth and fangs, as if the entire world deserved an eternal challenge. The creature’s black pitted eyeholes haunted her, speaking to her in eloquent silence: I am death, they said. I am your fate and the fate of all living things. I am what is left behind. Departed from the world, I leave you only this.

  She wondered what had happened to that old man, to make him want to be a wolf. What wound stuck in his mind made him lose all sense of his true self? And why was there no going back, no finding that lost self? The mind held too many secrets. The brain was a sack of truths and their power, hiding there inside, was absolute. Twist one truth into a lie, and a man became a wolf. His flesh and bones could only follow, straining to reshape themselves. Two legs to four, teeth to fangs: new forms and new purposes to give proof to the falsehood.

  But such lies need not be so obvious as that old man with his broken brain, need they? The self could become lost in more subtle ways, could it not? Today I am this person. Tomorrow I am another. See the truths of me? Not one is tethered. I am bound to no single self, but unleashed into a multitude of selves. Does this make me ill? Broken?

  Is this why I can find no peace?

  The twins walked five paces in front of her. They were one split in two. Sharp-eyed round faces peering into the mirror, where nothing could hide. Truths could bend but not twist.

  I willingly followed Toc Anaster, even as I resented it. I have my very own addiction and it is called dissatisfaction. And each time it returns, everyone pays. Cafal, I let you down. I cried out my own failure of faith—I forced you to flee me. Where are you now, my soft-eyed priest?

  Baaljagg’s dead eyes fixed on her again and again as they walked. She lagged behind the twins. The boy’s weight was making the muscles of her arms burn. She would have to set him down again, and so their pace would suddenly slow to a crawl. Everyone was hungry—even an undead wolf could find little to chase down out here. The withered grasses of the plains were long behind them now. Soil had given way to stones and hard-packed clay. Thorny shrubs clung here and there, their ancient trunks emerging from beds of cacti. Worn watercourses revealed desiccated pieces of driftwood, mostly no more substantial than the bones of her forearm; but occasionally they came upon something far larger, long and thick as a leg, and though she could not be certain she thought that they showed signs of having been worked. Boreholes large enough to insert a thumb—though of course to do so would invite a spider’s bite or a scorpion’s sting—and the faint scaly signs of adze marks. But none of these ancient streams could have borne a boat of any kind, not even a skiff or raft. She could make no sense of any of it.

  The north horizon hinted at high towers of stone, like mountains gnawed through from every side, leaving the peaks tottering on narrow spires. They made her uneasy, as if warning her of something. You are in a land that gives nothing. It will devour you, and there is no end to its vast hunger.

  They had made a terrible mistake. No, she’d made it. He was leading us east, so we will go east. Why was he leading us in that direction? Stavi, I have no idea.

  But here is a truth I have found inside myself. All that dissatisfaction? It’s not at Toc. It’s not at anyone. It’s with me. My inability to find peace, to trust it when I do find it, and to hold on to it.

  This addiction feeds itself. It may be incurable.

  Another rutted watercourse ahead—no . . . Setoc’s eyes narrowed. Two ruts, churned up by horse hoofs. A track. The twins had seen the same, for they suddenly ran ahead, halting and looking down. Setoc didn’t catch their words but both turned as she arrived, and in their faces they saw a hardening determination.

  Storii pointed. ‘It goes that way. It goes that way, Setoc.’

  ‘So will we,’ Stavi added.

  Southeast, but curving ahead, she saw. Eastward. What is out there? What are we supposed to find?

  ‘Blablablabla!’ cried the boy, his loud voice—so close to one ear—making her flinch.

  Baaljagg trotted out to sniff the trail. Probably just instinct. The damned thing hasn’t even got a working nose . . . has it? Maybe it smells different things. Life, or something else.

  When the twins set out on the path, the huge beast followed. The boy twisted in Setoc’s arms and she lowered him to the ground. He ran to join his sisters.

  Some leader I am.

  At the turn she saw skid marks, where the wagon’s wheels had spun and juddered out to the side, tearing at the ground. Here, the horse hoofs had gouged deep. But she could see no obstacle that would have forced such a manoeuvre. The way ahead ran straight for a hundred paces before ja
gging south again, only to twist east and then northeast.

  At this Setoc snorted. ‘They were out of control,’ she said. ‘They went where the horses dragged them. This is pointless—’

  Stavi spun. ‘We don’t care where they’re going!’ she shouted. ‘It doesn’t matter!’

  ‘But how can they help us if they can’t even help themselves?’ Setoc asked.

  ‘What’s so different about that?’

  The bitchy little runt has a point. ‘Look at those marks—they were riding wild, crazy fast. How do you expect we’ll ever catch them?’

  ‘Because horses get tired.’

  They resumed their journey. Tracking the aimless with purpose. Just like growing up.

  Stones crunched underfoot, the bridling heat making the gnarled stalks of the shrubs tick and creak. They were low on water. The meat of the lizards they’d eaten this morning felt dry and sour in Setoc’s stomach. Not a single cloud in the sky to give them a moment’s respite. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d seen a bird.

  Noon passed, the afternoon stretching as listless as the wasteland spreading out on all sides. The track had finally straightened out on an easterly setting. Even the twins were slowing down. All of their shadows had pitched round and were lengthening when Storii cried out and pointed.

  A lone horse. South of the trail by two hundred or so paces. Remnants of traces dangled down from its head. It stood on weak legs, nuzzling the lifeless ground, and its ebon flanks were white with crusted lather.

  Setoc hesitated, and then said, ‘Keep Baaljagg here. I want to see if I can catch it.’

  For once the twins had no complaint.

  The animal was facing away but it caught some noise or scent when Setoc was still a hundred paces off and it shifted round to regard her. Its eyes, she saw, were strange, as if swallowed in something both lurid and dark. At least the animal didn’t bolt.

  Ghost wolves, stay away from me now. We need this beast.

  Cautiously, she edged closer.

  The horse watched. It had been eating cactus, she saw, and scores of spines were embedded in its muzzle, dripping blood.

  Hungry. Starving. She spoke in low, soothing tones: ‘How long have you been out here, friend? All alone, your companions gone. Do you welcome our company? I’m sure you do. As for those spines, we’ll do something about that. I promise.’

  And then she was close enough to reach out and touch the animal. But its eyes held her back. They didn’t belong to a horse. They looked . . . demonic.

  It’s been eating cactus—how much? She looked to where she had seen it cropping the ground. Oh, spirits below. If all that is now in your stomach, you are in trouble. Did it look to be in pain? How could she tell? It was clearly weary, yes, but it drew a steady and deep breath, ears flicking curiously as it in turn studied her. Finally, Setoc slowly reached out to take the frayed leather traces. When she gathered them up the animal lifted its head, as if about to prod her with its wounded muzzle.

  Setoc wrapped the reins about her left hand and gingerly took hold of one of the spines. She tugged it loose. The horse flinched. That and nothing more. Sighing, she began plucking.

  If she licked the blood from the spines? What would the beast think of that? She decided not to find out. Oh, but I dearly do want to lick this blood. My mouth yearns for that taste. I can smell its warm life.

  Old man, give me your skin.

  When she’d removed the last spine she reached up and settled a hand on its blazoned brow. ‘Better? I hope so, friend.’

  ‘Mercy,’ said a thin voice in accented trader tongue, ‘I’d forgotten about that.’

  Setoc stepped round the horse and saw, lying in a careless sprawl on the ground, a corpse. For an instant her breath caught—‘Toc?’

  ‘Who? No. Saw him, though, once. Funny eyes.’

  ‘Does nothing dead ever go away around here?’ Setoc demanded, fear giving way to anger.

  ‘I don’t know, but can you even hope to imagine the anguish people like me feel when seeing one such as you? Young, flush, with such clear and bright eyes. You make me miserable.’

  Setoc drew the horse round.

  ‘Wait! Help me up—I’m snagged on something. I don’t mind being miserable, so long as I have someone to talk to. Being miserable without anyone to talk to is far worse.’

  Really. Setoc walked over. Studied the corpse. ‘You have a stake through your chest,’ she said.

  ‘A stake? Oh, a spoke, you mean. That explains it.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘Well, no. Things got confused. I believe, however, I am lying on a fragment of the hub, with perhaps another fragment of spoke buried deep in the earth. This is what happens when a carriage gets picked up and then dropped back down. I wonder if horses have much memory. Probably not, else this one would still be running. So, beautiful child, will you help me?’

  She reached down. ‘Take my arm, then—can you manage that much? Good, now hold tight while I try and lift you clear.’

  It was easier than she’d expected. Skin and bones don’t weigh much, do they?

  ‘I am named Cartographer,’ said the corpse, ineffectually trying to brush dust from his rags.

  ‘Setoc.’

  ‘So very pleased to meet you.’

  ‘I thought I made you miserable.’

  ‘I delight in misery.’

  She grunted. ‘You’ll fit right in. Come with me.’

  ‘Wonderful, where are you going?’

  ‘We’re going after your carriage—tell me, is everyone in it dead like you?’

  Cartographer seemed to ponder the question, and then he said, ‘Probably. But let’s find out, shall we?’

  The children of Onos Toolan and Hetan seemed unaffected by the arrival of yet another animated corpse. When Cartographer saw Baaljagg he halted and pointed, but said nothing.

  Setoc took the boy’s hand and led him close to the horse. She vaulted on to the animal’s back and reached down and lifted up the boy.

  The twins set out once more on the trail. Baaljagg fell in with them.

  ‘Did you know,’ Cartographer said, ‘the dead still dream?’

  ‘No,’ said Setoc, ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Sometimes I dream that a dog will find me.’

  ‘A dog?’

  ‘Yes. A big one, as big as that one.’

  ‘Well, it seems your dream has come true.’

  ‘I hope not.’

  She glanced down at him as he trudged beside the horse. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, in my dream, the dog buries me.’

  Thinking back to her vision of Baaljagg clawing free of the ground, she smiled. ‘I don’t think you have to worry about that, not with this dog, Cartographer.’

  ‘I hope you are right. I do have one question, however.’

  She sighed. A corpse that won’t shut up. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘The Wastelands.’

  ‘Ah, that explains it, then.’

  ‘Explains what?’

  ‘Why, all this . . . waste.’

  ‘Have you ever heard of the Wastelands, Cartographer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So let me ask you something. Where did your carriage come from, and how is it you don’t even know the land you were travelling in?’

  ‘Given my name, it is indeed pathetic that I know so little. Of course, this land was once an inland sea, but then one might say that of countless basins on any number of continents. So that hardly amounts to brilliant affirmation of my profession. Alas, since dying, I have been forced to radically reassess all my most cherished notions.’

  ‘Are you ever going to answer my questions?’

  ‘Our arrival was sudden, but Master Quell judged it propitious. The client expressed satisfaction and indeed no small amount of astonishment. Far better this wretched land than the realm within a cursed sword, and I would hardly be one to dispute that, would I? Maps being what they are and such. Nat
urally, it was inevitable that we let down our guard. Ah, see ahead. Ample evidence of that.’

  The tracks seemed to vanish for fifteen or twenty paces. Where they resumed wreckage lay scattered about, including half an axle.

  A lost horse and a lost wheel behind them, half an axle here—how had the thing managed to keep going? And what was it doing in that gap? Flying?

  ‘Spirits below, Cartographer—’ and then she stopped. From her height astride the horse, she could make something out ahead. Daylight was fading, but still . . . ‘I see it.’

  Two more stretches without tracks, then where they resumed various parts of ornate carriage lay strewn about. She saw one large section of painted wood, possibly from the roof, bearing deep gouges scored through it, as if some massive hand had been tearing the carriage to pieces. Some distance ahead rested the carriage itself, or what was left of it. The humped forms of dead horses lay thrown about to the sides.

  ‘Cartographer—’

  ‘It struck from the sky,’ the corpse replied. ‘Was it a dragon? It most assuredly was not. An enkar’al? What enkar’al could boldly lift from the ground the entire carriage and all its horses? No, not an enkar’al. Mind you, I was witness only to the first attack—tell me, Setoc, do you see anyone?’

  ‘Not yet,’ she replied. ‘Stavi, Storii! Hold up there.’ She lifted the boy and set him down on the ground. ‘I will ride ahead. I know it’s getting dark, but keep your eyes on the sky—there’s something up there.’ Somewhere. Hopefully not close.

  The horse was nervous beneath her, reluctant to draw nearer to the carriage, but she coaxed it on.

  Its fellow beasts had been torn apart, bones splintered, gouges of flesh missing. Everywhere those same thin but deep slashes. Talons. Enormous and deadly sharp.