Dust of Dreams

return.’
    Setoc studied the man with renewed interest, and more than a little disbelief.
What did he do to it, bite it with those huge front teeth?
    Cartographer then said, ‘Earlier, you mentioned Toc. We here all know him. Indeed, it was Toc who guided us from the realm of Dragnipur. And Gruntle, why, he once got drunk with Toc Anaster—that would be before Toc got himself killed, one presumes.’
    The twins were listening to this, and Setoc saw relief in their eyes.
More friends of Toc. Will that do, girls?
Seemed it would.
    ‘Cartographer, what is a Destriant?’
    ‘Ah. Well. A Destriant is one who is chosen from among all mortals to wear the skin of a god.’
    ‘The—the skin?’
    ‘Too poetic? Let me think, then. Look into the eyes of a thousand priests. If there is a Destriant among that thousand, you will find him or her. How? The truth is in their eyes, for you shall, in looking into those eyes, find yourself looking upon the god’s own.’
    ‘Toc bears a wolf’s eye.’
    ‘Because he is the Herald of War.’
    The title chilled her. ‘Then why is his other eye not a wolf’s eye, too?’
    ‘It was human, I’m sure.’
    ‘Exactly. Why?’
    Cartographer made the mistake of scratching his temple, and came away with a swath of crinkled skin impaled on his fingernails. He fluttered his fingers to send it drifting away into the night. ‘Because, I imagine, humans are the true heralds of war, don’t you think?’
    ‘Maybe.’ But she wasn’t so sure. ‘Toc was leading us into the east. If he’s the Herald of War, as you say, then . . .’
    Cartographer nodded. ‘I should think so, Setoc. He was leading you to a place and a time where you will be needed.’
    As Destriant to the Wolves of Winter. To gods of war.
She looked over to where Baaljagg stood, just beyond the firelight. Deathly and deathly still, the huge teeth for ever bared, the eyes for ever empty.
    The skin of war.
    And I am to wear it.
Her attention snapped over to Gruntle. ‘Cartographer.’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘He said he holds his god in no high esteem. He said he calls what he is a curse.’
    ‘That is true.’
    ‘I need to talk to him.’
    ‘Of course, Setoc.’
    The Mortal Sword had sat down by the fire, with the boy perched on onebouncing knee. The barbed tattoos seemed to have inexplicably faded, as had the feline traits of his features. The man looked almost human now, barring the eyes. There was quiet pleasure in the face.
    What would Onos Toolan have made of this? Toc, were you bringing us to these ones?
She sighed.
The skin of war. The Wolves want me to wear it.
    But I do not.
    ‘Take me to him, please.’
     
    Mappo glanced over to see the young woman crouching opposite Gruntle, with Cartographer providing translations. No doubt they had much to discuss. An unknown war in the offing, a clash of desperate mortals and, perhaps, desperate gods.
And Icarium? Old friend, you must have no place in what is coming. If thousands needlessly die by your hand, what dire balance would that tip? What cruel fate would that invite? No. I must find you. Take you away. Already, too many have died on your trail.
    He heard a ragged sigh to his left. Angling round, he studied the woman lying on a bedroll. ‘You will live, Faint,’ he said.
    ‘Then—then—’
    ‘You did not reach him in time. If you had, you would be the one now dead, rather than Master Quell.’
    She reached up to her own face, dragged her nails to scrape away the blood crusting the corners of her mouth. ‘Better for you if I had. Now we are stranded.’
    He might have replied,
But we are now so close. I can feel him—we are almost there.
But that was a selfish thought. Delivering Mappo was but half the task. These poor shareholders needed to find a way home, and now they had lost the one man capable of achieving that. So, to Faint’s statement, he had nothing to say.
    ‘My chest hurts,’ she said.
    ‘The Che’Malle struck you, its claws scoring deep. I have sewn almost three hundred stitches, from your right shoulder to below your rib cage on the left.’
    She seemed to think about that for a moment, and then she said, ‘So we’ve seen the last of Faint’s bouncing tits.’
    ‘You did not lose them, if that is what you fear. They will still, er, bounce, if perhaps unevenly.’
    ‘So the gods really do exist. Listen. Precious Thimble—is she still alive?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Then we have a chance.’
    Mappo winced. ‘She is young, Faint, mostly