Still, he knew them, and they were his brothers.
Mortal souls of Raraku. Raraku, the land that had bound them together. Bound them all, as was now clear, beyond even death.
Fiddler was unmindful of how it looked, of what the others thought, upon seeing the three men close to a single embrace.
The horses clambered up the slope to the ridge. Where their riders reined them in, and one and all turned to stare at the yellow, foaming seas churning below. A moment later a squat four-eyed demon scrabbled onto the summit to join them.
The Lord of Summer had lent wings to their horses-Heboric could admit no other possibility, so quickly had they covered the leagues since the night past. And the beasts seemed fresh even now. As fresh as Greyfrog.
Though he himself was anything but.
‘What has happened?’ Scillara wondered aloud.
Heboric could only shake his head.
‘More importantly,’ Felisin said, ‘where do we go now? I don’t think I can sit in the saddle much longer-’
‘I know how you feel, lass. We should find somewhere to make camp-’
The squeal of a mule brought all three around.
A scrawny, black-skinned old man was riding up towards them, seated cross-legged atop the mule. ‘Welcome!’ he shrieked-a shriek because, even as he spoke, he toppled to one side and thumped hard onto the stony trail. ‘Help me, you idiots!’
Heboric glanced at the two women, but it was Greyfrog who moved first.
‘ Food! ’
The old man shrieked again. ‘Get away from me! I have news to tell! All of you! Is L’oric dead? No! My shadows saw everything! You are my guests! Now, come prise my legs loose! You, lass. No, you, the other lass! Both of you! Beautiful women with their hands on my legs, my thighs! I can’t wait! Do they see the avid lust in my eyes? Of course not, I’m but a helpless wizened creature, potential father figure-’
Cutter stood in the tower’s uppermost chamber, staring out of the lone window. Bhok’arala chittered behind him, pausing every now and then to make crooning, mournful sounds.
He’d woken alone.
And had known, instantly, that she was gone. And there would be no trail for him to follow.
Iskaral Pust had conjured up a mule and ridden off earlier. Of Mogora there was, mercifully, no sign.
Thoroughly alone, then, for most of this day.
Until now.