‘Witch, we have been following a trail.’
‘Sorry, what?’
‘A trail.’ He glanced down at her. ‘The Hounds.’
She looked again at the city, even as a fireball ripped upward and moments later thunder rolled through the ground at their feet. The Hounds. They’re tearing that city apart. ‘We can’t go there! We can’t walk into that!’
In answer Karsa bared his teeth. ‘I do not trust those beasts-are they there to protect Traveller? Or hunt him down in some deadly game in the streets?’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll not clip his heels, Witch. We’ll keep a respectable distance, but I will guard his back.’
She wanted to scream. You stupid, stubborn, obstinate, thick-skulled bastard! ‘So who guards our backs?’
Sudden blackness welled up inside her mind and she must have reeled, for a moment later Karsa was holding her up, genuine concern in his face. ‘What ails you, Samar?’
‘You idiot, can’t you feel it 2 .’
‘No,’ he replied.
She thought he lied then, but had no energy to challenge him. That blackness had seemed vast, depthless, a maw eager to devour her, swallow her down. And, most horrifying of all, something about it was seductive. Slick with sweat, her legs shaky beneath her, she held on to Karsa’s arm.
‘Stay here,’ he said quietly.
‘No, it makes no difference.’
He straightened suddenly, and she saw that he was facing the way they had come. ‘What-what is it?’
‘That damned bear-it’s back.’
She twisted round. Yes, there, perhaps a hundred paces away, a huge dark shape. Coming no closer.
‘What’s it want with me?’ she asked in a whisper.
‘If you stay, you may find out, Witch.’
‘No, I said. We’ll follow Traveller. It’s decided.’
Karsa was silent for a moment, and then he grunted. ‘I am thinking…’
‘What?’
‘You wanted to know, earlier, who would be guarding our backs.’
She frowned, and then loosed a small gasp and squinted once more at that monstrous beast. It was just… hovering, huge head slowly wagging from side to side, pausing occasionally to lift its snout in their direction. ‘I wouldn’t trust that, Karsa, I wouldn’t trust that at all.’
He shrugged.
But still she resisted, glaring now into the vault of night overhead. ‘Where’s the damned moon, Karsa? Where in the Abyss is the damned moon?’
Kallor was certain now. Forces had converged in Darujhistan. Clashing with deadly consequence, and blood had been spilled.
He lived for such things. Sudden opportunities, unexpected powers stumbling, falling within reach. Anticipation awakened within him.
Life thrust forth choices, and the measure of a man or woman’s worth could be found in whether they possessed the courage, the brazen decisiveness, to grasp hold and not let go. Kallor never failed such moments. Let the curse flail him, strike him down; let defeat batter him again and again. He would just get back up, shake the dust off, and begin once more.
He knew the world was damned. He knew that the curse haunting him was no different from history’s own progression, the endless succession of failures, the puerile triumphs that had a way of falling over as soon as one stopped looking. Or caring. He knew that life itself corrected gross imbalances by simply folding everything over and starting anew.
Too often scholars and historians saw the principle of convergence with narrow, truncated focus. In terms of ascendants and gods and great powers. But Kallor un-derstood that the events they described and pored over after the fact were but con-centrated expressions of something far vastef. Entire ages converged, in chaos and tumult, in the anarchy of Nature itself. And more often than not, very few compre-hended the disaster erupting all around them. No, they simply went on day after day with their pathetic tasks, eyes to the ground, pretending that everything was just fine.
Nature wasn’t interested in clutching their collars and giving them a rattling shake, forcing their eyes open. No, Nature just wiped them off the board.
And, truth be told, that was pretty much what they deserved. Not a stitch more. There were those, of course, who would view such an attitude aghast, and then accuse Kallor of being a monster, devoid of compassion, a vision stained indelibly dark and all that rubbish. But they would be wrong. Compassion is not a replacement for stupidity. Tearful concern cannot stand in the stead of cold recognition. Sympathy does not cancel out the hard facts of brutal, unwavering observation. It was too easy, too cheap, to fret and wring one’s hands, moaning with heartfelt empathy-it was damned self-indulgent, in fact, providing the perfect excuse for doing precisely nothing while assuming a pious pose.