‘You have no idea, old man.’
‘I think you should have died long ago.’
‘More times than I can count. Started with a piece of a moon. Then a damned puppet, then… oh, never mind.’
‘Torrent says you will run. In the end. He says your courage is broken.’
Toc looked down into the flames. ‘That may well be,’ he said.
‘He will kill you then.’
‘Assuming he can catch me. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s ride a horse.’
With a snarl, the elder stormed off.
‘Courage,’ Toc muttered to himself. ‘Yes, there is that. And maybe cowardice truly is bred in the very bones.’ Because let’s face it, Arxaster was no cold iron. Nor hot, for that matter.
From somewhere in the night came the keening howl of a wolf.
Toc grunted. ‘Yes, well, it’s not as if I had the privilege of choice, is it? I wonder if any of us has. Ever.’ He raised his voice slightly, ‘You know, Torrent-yes, I see you hulking out there-it occurs to me, given the precedent, that the question of cowardice is one your Awl must face, tomorrow. I have no doubt Redmask-if he has any concerns-is thinking on that right now. Wondering. Can he bully all of you into honour?’
The vague shape that was Torrent moved off.
Toc fell silent, tossed yet another lump of rodara dung onto the fire, and thought about old friends long gone.
The lone line of scuffed footprints ended with a figure, trudging up the distant slope of clay and pebbles. That was the thing about following a trail, Hedge reminded himself. Easy to forget the damned prints belonged to something real, especially after what seemed weeks of tracking the bastard.
T’lan Imass, as he had suspected. Those splayed, bony feet dragged too much, especially with an arch so high it left no imprint. True, some bowlegged Wickan might leave something similar, but not walking at a pace that stayed ahead of Hedge for this long. Not a chance of that. Still, it was odd that the ancient undead warrior was walking at all.
Easier traversing this wasteland as dust.
Maybe it’s too damp. Maybe it’s no fun being mud. I’ll have to ask it that.
Assuming it doesn’t kill me outright. Or try to, I mean. I keep forgetting that I’m already dead. If there’s one thing the dead should remember, it’s that crucial detail, don’t you think, Fid? Bah, what would you know. You’re still alive. And not here either.
Hood take me, I’m in need of company.
Not that damned whispering wind, though. Good thing it had fled, in tatters, unable to draw any closer to this T’lan Imass with-yes-but one arm. Beat up thing, ain’t i just?
He was sure it knew he was here, a thousand pace behind it. Probably knows I’m a ghost, too. Which is why i hasn’t bothered attacking me.
I think I’m getting used to this.
Another third of a league passed before Hedge was able to draw close enough to finally snare the undead warrior’s regard. Halting, slowly turning about. The flint weapon in its lone hand was more a cutlass than a sword, its end strangely hooked. A hilt had been fashioned from the palmate portion of an antler, creating a shallow, tined bell-guard polished brown with age. Part of the warrior’s face had been brutally smashed: but one side of its heavy jaw was intact, giving its ghastly mien a lopsided cant.
‘Begone, ghost,’ the T’lan Imass said in a ravaged voice.
‘Well I would,’ Hedge replied, ‘only it seems we’re heading in the same direction.’
‘That cannot be.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you do not know where I am going.’
‘Oh, perfect Imass logic. In other words, absurd idiocy. No, I don’t know precisely where you are going, but it i| undeniably to be found in the same direction as where I am headed. Is that too sharp an observation for you?’
‘Why do you hold to your flesh?’
‘The same reason, I suppose, why you hold on to what’s left of yours. Listen, I am named Hedge. I was once a soldier, a Bridgeburner. Malazan marines. Are you some cast-off from Logros T’lan Imass?’
The warrior said nothing for a moment, then, ‘I was once of Kron T’lan Imass. Born in the Season of Blood-from-the-Mountain to the clan of Eptr Phinana. My own blood arrived on the shores of Jagra Til. I am Emroth.’
‘A woman?’
A clattering, uneven shrug.
‘Well, Emroth, what are you doing walking across Hood’s forgotten ice-pit?’
‘There is no pit here.’
‘As you say.’ Hedge looked round. ‘Is this where abandoned T’lan Imass go, then?’
‘Not here,’ Emroth replied. Then the cutlass lifted and slowly pointed.
Ahead. The direction Hedge had decided to call north. ‘What, are we headed towards a huge pile of frozen bones, then?’
Emroth turned and began walking once more.
Hedge moved up alongside the undead creature. ‘Were you beautiful once, Emroth?’
‘I do not remember.’
‘I was hopeless with women,’ Hedge said. ‘My ears are too big-yes, that’s why I wear this leather cap. And I got knobby knees. It’s why I became a soldier, you know. To meet women. And then I discovered that women soldiers are scary. I mean, a lot more scary than normal women, which is saying something. I guess with you Imass, well, everyone was a warrior, right?’
‘I understand,’ Emroth said.
‘You do? Understand what?’
‘Why you have no companions, Hedge of the Bridgeburners.’
‘You’re not going to turn into a cloud of dust on me, are you?’
‘In this place, I cannot. Alas.’
Grinning, Hedge resumed, ‘It’s not like I died a virgin or anything, of course. Even ugly bastards like me-well, so long as there’s enough coin in your hand. But I’ll tell you something, Emroth, that’s not what you’d call love now, is it? So anyway, the truth of it is, 1 never shared that with anybody. Love. I mean, from the time I stopped being a child, right up until I died.
‘Now there was this soldier, once. She was big and mean. Named Detoran. She decided she loved me, and showed it by beating me senseless. So how do you figure that one? Well, I’ve got it worked out. You see, she was even less lovable than me. Poor old cow. Wish I’d understood that at the time. But I was too busy running away from her. Funny how that is, isn’t it?
‘She died, too. And so I had a chance to, you know, talk to her. Since we found ourselves in the same place. Her problem was, she couldn’t put enough words together to make a real sentence. Not thick, much, just inarticulate. People like that, how can you guess what’s in their mind? They can’t tell you, so the guessing stays guessing and most of the time you’re so wrong it’s pathetic. Well, we worked it out, more or less. I think. She said even less as a ghost.
‘But that’s the thing with it all, Emroth. There’s the big explosion, the white, then black, then you’re stirring awake all over again. A damned ghost with nowhere worthwhile to go, and all you’re left with is realizations and regrets. And a list of wishes longer than Hood’s-’
‘No more, Hedge of the Bridgeburners,’ Emroth interjected, the tremor of emotion in its voice. ‘I am not a fool. I comprehend this game of yours. But my memories are not for you.’
Hedge shrugged. ‘Not for you either, I gather. Gave them all away to wage war against the Jaghut. They were so evil, so dangerous, you made of yourselves your first victims. Kind of a backwards kind of vengeance, wouldn’t you say? Like you went and done their work for them. And the real joke is, they weren’t much evil or dangerous at all. Oh, maybe a handful, but those handful earned the wrath of their kin real fast-often long before you and your armies even showed up. They could police themselves just fine. They flung glaciers at you, so what did you do to defeat that? Why, you made your hearts even colder, even more lifeless than any glacier. Hood knows, that’s irony for you.’
‘I am unbound,’ Emroth said in a rasp. ‘My memories remain with me. It is these memories that have broken me.’