Dust of Dreams

beneath the jaw, leaving him with half a face. Just beyond him was another man, neatly decapitated—she couldn’t see the head anywhere close by.
    She halted her mount a few paces from the destroyed carriage. It had been huge, six-wheeled, likely weighing as much as a clan yurt with the entire family shoved inside. The attacker had systematically dismantled it from one flank, as if eager to get within. Blood stained the edges of the gaping hole it had made.
    Setoc clambered up to peer inside. No body. But a mass of something was heaped on the side that was now the floor, gleaming wet in the gloom. She waited for her eyes to adjust. Then, in revulsion, she pulled back. Entrails. An occupant had been eviscerated. Where was the rest of the poor victim? She perched herself on the carriage and scanned the area.
    There. Half of him, anyway. The upper half.
    And then she saw tracks, the ground scuffed, three or four paths converging to form a broader one, and that one led away from the wreckage, eastward.
Survivors. But they must have been on the run, else they would have done more for their dead. Still, a few made it . . . for a little while longer, anyway.
    She descended from the carriage and mounted the horse. ‘Sorry, friend, but it looks like you’re the last.’ Swinging the horse round, she rode back to the others.
    ‘How many bodies?’ Cartographer asked when she arrived.
    ‘Three for certain. Tracks lead away.’
    ‘Three, you say?’
    ‘That I saw. Two on the ground, one in the carriage—or, rather, bits of him left in the carriage.’
    ‘A man? A man in the carriage?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Oh, dear. That is very bad indeed.’
    Returning to the wreckage, Cartographer moved to stand over each victim, shaking his head and muttering in low tones—possibly a prayer—Setoc wasn’t close enough to hear his words. He rejoined her once they were past.
    ‘I find myself in some conflict,’ he said. ‘On the one hand, I wish I’d been here to witness that dread clash, to see Trake’s Mortal Sword truly awakened. To see the Trell’s rage rise from the deepness of his soul. On the other hand, witnessing the gruesome deaths of those I had come to know as friends, well, that would have been terrible. As much as it grieves me to say, there are times when getting what one wants yields nothing but confusion. It turns out that what one wants is in fact not at all what one wants. Worse is when you simply don’t know what you want. You’d think death would discard such trials. If only it did.’
    ‘There’s blood on this trail,’ said Setoc.
    ‘I wish that surprised me. Still, they must have succeeded in driving the demon away, in itself an extraordinary feat.’
    ‘How long ago did all this happen?’
    ‘Not long. I was lying on the ground from midmorning. I imagine we’ll find them—’
    ‘We already have,’ she said. ‘They’ve camped.’
    She could see the faint glow of a small fire, and now figures straightening, turning to study them. The sun was almost down behind Setoc and her companions, soshe knew the strangers were seeing little more than silhouettes. She raised a hand in greeting, urging her mount forward with a gentle tap of her heels.
    Two of the figures were imposing: one broad and bestial, his skin the hue of burnished mahogany, his black braided hair hanging in greasy coils. He was holding a two-handed mace. The other was taller, his skin tattooed in the stripes of a tiger, and as Setoc drew closer, she saw a feline cast to his features, including amber eyes bisected by vertical pupils. The two heavy-bladed swords in his hands matched the barbed patterns of his skin.
    Three others were visible, two women and a tall, young man. He was long-jawed and long-necked, with blood-matted hair. A knotted frown marred his high forehead, above dark, angry eyes. He stood slightly apart from all the others.
    Setoc’s eyes returned to the two women. Both short and plump, neither one much older than Setoc herself. But their eyes looked aged: bleak, dulled with shock.
    Two more survivors were lying close to the fire, asleep or unconscious.
    The bestial man was the first to speak, addressing Cartographer but not in a language that Setoc recognized. The undead man replied in the same tongue, and then turned to Setoc.
    ‘Mappo Runt welcomes you with a warning. They are being hunted.’
    ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Cartographer, you seem to have a talent for languages—’
    ‘Hood’s gift, for the