Imminent oblivion did not seem so bad, as far as Ditch was concerned. He was being dragged by the chain shackled to his right ankle. Most of his skin had been scraped away — the white bone and cartilage of his remaining elbow, studded with grit, was visible within haloes of red. His knees were larger versions, and the shackle was slowly carving through his ankle and foot bones. He wondered what would happen when that foot was finally torn off — how it would feel. He’d lie there, motionless at last, perhaps watching that shackle tumble and twist and stutter away. He’d be. . free.
The torment of this existence should not include pain. That was unfair. Of course, most of that pain was fading now — he was too far gone to curl and flinch, to gasp and sob — but the memories remained, like fire in his skull.
Pulled onward over loose stones, their sharp edges rolling up his back, gouging new furrows through the pulped meat, knuckling against the base of his skull to tear away the last few snarls of hair and scalp. And as the chain snagged, only to give and twist him round, he stared again and again upon that storm in their wake.
Songs of suffering from the groaning wagon somewhere ahead, an unending chorus of misery ever drifting back.
Too bad, he reflected, that the huge demon had not found him in the moments following his collapse, had not lifted him to its shoulder — not that it could carry any more than it already had been carrying. But even if it had done little more than drag him to one side, then the edge of the wagon’s massive wheel would not have crushed his right arm and shoulder, grinding both into pulp until only threads of gristle were all that held it to his body. After that, all hopes — faint as they had been — of rising again to add his strength to the procession had vanished. He had become yet one more dead weight, dragged in the wake, adding to the suf shy;fering of those who trudged on.
Nearby, almost parallel to him, a huge chain sheathed in moss ended in the remnants of a dragon. Wings like tattered sails, spars snapped and dangling, the mostly skinless head dragged behind a shredded neck. When he had first seen it he had been shocked, horrified. Now, each time it came into view, he felt a wave of dread. That such a creature should have failed was proof of the desperate ex shy;tremity now plaguing them.
Anomander Rake had stopped killing. The legion was failing. Annihilation edged ever closer.
Life fears chaos. It was ever thus. We fear it more than anything else, because it is anathema. Order battles against dissolution. Order negotiates cooperation as a mechanism of survival, on every scale, from a patch of skin to an entire menagerie of interdependent creatures. That cooperation, of course, may not of essence be necessarily peaceful — a minute exchange of failures to ensure greater successes.
Yes, as I am dragged along here, at the very end of my existence, I begin to understand. .
See me, see this gift of contemplation.
Rake, what have you done?
A calloused hand closed about his remaining arm, lifted him clear of the ground, and he was being carried forward, closer to that crawling wagon.
‘There is no point.’
‘That,’ replied a deep, measured voice, ‘is without relevance.’
‘I am not worth-’
‘Probably not, but I intend to find you room on that wagon.’
Ditch hacked a ragged laugh. ‘Just tear my foot off, good sir, and leave me.’
‘No. There may be need for you, mage.’
Need? Now that was an absurd thing to say. ‘Who are you?’
‘Draconus.’
Ditch laughed a second time. ‘I looked for you. . seems centuries ago, now.’
‘Now you have found me.’
‘I thought you might know a way of escaping. Now, isn’t that funny? After all, if you had, you would not still be here, would you?’
‘That seems logical.’
An odd reply. ‘Draconus.’
‘What?’
‘Are you a logical man?’
‘Not in the least. Now, here we are.’
The sight that greeted Ditch as he was heaved round to face forward was, if anything, even more terrifying than anything else he had witnessed since arriving in the accursed realm of Dragnipur. A wall of bodies, projecting feet jammed amongst staring faces, the occasional arm hanging out, twitching, dripping sweat. Here a knee, there a shoulder. Tangles of sodden hair, fingers with dagger-long nails. Human, demon, Forkrul Assail, K’Chain Che’Malle, others of natures Ditch could not even identify. He saw one hand and forearm that appeared to be made entirely of metal, sockets and hinges and rods and a carapace of iron skin visible in mottled, pitted patches. Worse of all were the staring eyes, peering from faces that seemed to have surrendered every possible expression, leaving behind some shy;thing slack and dull.
‘Make space up top!’ bellowed Draconus.
Cries of ‘No room!’ and ‘Nowhere left!’ greeted him.
Ignoring such protests, Draconus began climbing the wall of flesh. Faces twisted in rage and pain, eyes widened in affronted disbelief, hands clawed at him or beat him with fists, but the huge warrior was indifferent to all of it. Ditch could feel the man’s enormous strength, an implacable certainty to every movement that bespoke something unconquerable. He was awed into silence.
Higher they climbed, and shadows raced in crazed patterns now in the churn shy;ing glare of the storm, as if the natural gloom of the world clung close to its sur shy;face, and here, high above it, the air was clearer, sharper.
The rocking crawl of the wagon below was felt now in the swaying of the wall near the top, a motion groaned out in the slick shifting of flesh and in a wavering song of dull, rhythmic moans and grunts. The wall finally sloped inward, and Ditch was tugged over hummocks of skin, the bodies so tight-packed that the surface be shy;neath him seemed solid, an undulating landscape, sheathed in sweat and flecks of ash and grime. Most of those lying here had settled on their stomachs, as if to stare at the sky — that would vanish for ever as soon as the next body arrived — was too much to bear.
Draconus rolled him into a depression between two backs, one facing one way, the other in the opposite direction. A man, a woman — the sudden contact with the woman’s soft flesh as he was wedged against her startled an awakening in Ditch and he cursed.
‘Take what you can, mage,’ said Draconus.
Ditch heard him leaving.
He could make out distinct voices now, odd nearby sounds. Someone was scrabbling closer and Ditch felt a faint tug on his chain.
‘Almost off, then. Almost off.’
Ditch twisted round to see who had spoken.
A Tiste Andii. He was clearly blind, and both sockets bore the terrible scarring of burns — only deliberate torture could be that precise. His legs were gone, stumps visible just below his hips. He was dragging himself up alongside Ditch, and the mage saw that the creature held in one hand a long sharpened bone with a blackened point.
‘Plan on killing me?’ Ditch asked.
The Tiste Anclii paused, lifted his head. Straggly black hair framed a narrow, hollowed-out face. ‘What sort of eyes do you have, friend?’
‘Working ones.’
A momentary smile, and then he squirmed closer.
Ditch managed to shift round so that his ruined shoulder and arm were be shy;neath him, freeing his undamaged arm. ‘It’s crazy, but I still intend to defend my shy;self. Though death — if it even exists here — would be a mercy.’
‘It doesn’t,’ replied the Tiste Andii. ‘I could stab you for the next thousand years and do nothing more than leave you full of holes. Full of holes.’ He paused and the smile flickered once more. ‘Yet I must stab you anyway, since you’ve made a mess of things. A mess, a mess, a mess.’
‘I have? Explain.’
‘There’s no point, unless you have eyes.’
‘I have them, you damned fool!’