'A spare pipe? How about a dozen? Want to smoke them all at once?'
Felisin laughed. 'No, just one. So, you'll take care of me, won't you?'
'I will try.' And maybe she would. Like Greyfrog. Practice. She went looking for that pipe.
Cutter lifted the bucket clear and peered at the water. It looked clean, smelling of nothing in particular. Nonetheless, he hesitated.
Footsteps behind him. 'I found feed,' Heboric said. 'More than we can carry.'
'Think this water is all right? What killed those priests?'
'It's fine. I told you what killed them.'
You did? 'Should we look in the temple?'
'Greyfrog's already in there. I told him to find money, gems, food that hasn't spoiled yet. He wasn't happy about it, so I expect he'll be quick.'
'All right.' Cutter walked to a trough and dumped the water into it, then returned to the well. 'Think we can coax the horses in here?'
'I'll try.' But Heboric made no move to do so.
Cutter glanced over at him, saw the old man's strange eyes fixed on him. 'What's wrong?'
'Nothing, I think. I was noticing something. You have certain qualities, Cutter. Leadership, for one.'
The Daru scowled. 'If you want to be in charge, fine, go ahead.'
'I wasn't twisting a knife, lad. I meant what I said. You have taken command, and that's good. It's what we need. I have never been a leader. I've always followed. It's my curse. But that's not what they want to hear. Not from me. No, they want me to lead them out. Into freedom. I keep telling them, I know nothing of freedom.'
'Them? Who? Scillara and Felisin?'
'I'll get the horses,' Heboric said, turning about and walking off in his odd, toad-like gait.
Cutter refilled the bucket and poured the water into the trough. They would feed the horses here with what they couldn't take with them.
Load up on water. And, even now, loot the temple. Well, he had been a thief once, long ago. Besides, the dead cared nothing for wealth, did they?
A splitting, tearing sound from the centre of the compound behind him.
The sound of a portal opening. Cutter spun round, knives in his hands.
A rider emerged from the magical gate at full gallop. Reining in hard, hoofs skidding in clouds of dust, the dark grey horse a monstrous apparition, the hide worn away in places, exposing tendons, dried muscle and ligaments. Its eyes were empty pits, its mane long and greasy, whipping as the beast tossed its head. Seated in a high-backed saddle, the rider was, if anything, even more alarming in appearance.
Black, ornate armour, patched with verdigris, a dented, gouged helm, open-faced to reveal mostly bone, a few strips of flesh hanging from the cheek ridges, tendons binding the lower jaw, and a row of blackened, filed teeth. In the brief moment as the horse reared, dust exploding outward, Cutter saw more weapons on the rider than he could count. Swords at his back, throwing axes, sheathed handles jutting upward from the saddle, something like a boar-spitter, the bronze point as long as a short sword, gripped in the gauntleted left hand. A long bow, a short bow, knives'Where is he!?' The voice was a savage, enraged roar. Pieces of armour bounced on the ground as the figure twisted round, searching the compound. 'Damn you, Hood! I was on the trail!' He saw Cutter and was suddenly silent, motionless. 'She left one alive? I doubt it. You're no whelp of D'rek. Drink deep that water, mortal, it matters not. You' re dead anyway. You and every damned blood-swishing living thing in this realm and every other!'
He pulled his horse around to face the temple, where Greyfrog had appeared, arms heaped with silks, boxes, foodstuffs and cooking utensils. 'A toad who likes to cook in comfort! The madness of the Grand Ending is upon us! Come any closer, demon, and I'll spit your legs and roast them over a fire – do you think I no longer eat? You are right, but I will roast you in vicious spite, drooling with irony – ah! You liked that, didn't you?' He faced Cutter once more. 'Is this what he wanted me to see? He pulled me from the trail… for this?'
Cutter sheathed his knives. Through the gates beyond came Heboric Ghost Hands, leading the horses. The old man paused upon seeing the rider, head cocking, then he continued on. 'Too late, Soldier,' he said. 'Or too early!' He laughed.
The rider lifted the spear high. 'Treach made a mistake, I see, but I must salute you nonetheless.'
Heboric halted. 'A mistake, Soldier? Yes, I agree, but there is little I can do about it. I acknowledge your reluctant salute. What brings you here?'