Twas a demon lord-'
'With seven heads!' the other interjected, bobbing up and down in some ill-contained excitement.
Telorast cringed. 'Seven heads? Were there seven? There might well have been. Why not? Yes, seven heads!'
'And which head,' Apsalar asked, 'claimed to be the lord?'
'The sixth!'
'The second!'
The two shades regarded each other balefully, then Telorast raised a skeletal finger. 'Precisely! Sixth from the right, second from the left!'
'Oh, very good,' crooned the other.
Apsalar faced the shade. 'Your companion's name is Telorast – what is yours?'
It flinched, bobbed, then began its own grovelling, raising minute clouds of dust. 'Prince – King Cruel, the Slayer of All Foes. The Feared. The Worshipped.' It hesitated, then, 'Princess Demure? Beloved of a thousand heroes, bulging, stern-faced men one and all!' A twitch, low muttering, a brief clawing at its own face. 'A warlord, no, a twenty-two-headed dragon, with nine wings and eleven thousand fangs.
Given the chance…'
Apsalar crossed her arms. 'Your name.'
'Curdle.'
'Curdle.'
'I do not last long.'
'Which is what brought us to this sorry demise in the first place,'
Telorast said. 'You were supposed to watch the path – I specifically told you to watch the path-'
'I did watch it!'
'But failed to see the Hound Baran-'
'I saw Baran, but I was watching the path.'
'All right,' Apsalar said, sighing, 'why should I provide you two with an escort? Give me a reason, please. Any reason at all.'
'We are loyal companions,' Telorast said. 'We will stand by you no matter what horrible end you come to.'
'We'll guard your torn-up body for eternity,' Curdle added, 'or at least until someone else comes along-'
'Unless it's Edgewalker.'
'Well, that goes without saying, Telorast,' Curdle said. 'We don't like him.'
'Or the Hounds.'
'Of course-'
'Or Shadowthrone, or Cotillion, or an Aptorian, or one of those-'
'All right!' Curdle shrieked.
'I will escort you,' Apsalar said, 'to a gate. Whereupon you may leave this realm, since that seems to be your desire. In all probability, you will then find yourselves walking through Hood's Gate, which would be a mercy to everyone, except perhaps Hood himself.'
'She doesn't like us,' Curdle moaned.
'Don't say it out loud,' Telorast snapped, 'or she'll actually realize it. Right now she's not sure, and that's good for us, Curdle.'
'Not sure? Are you deaf? She just insulted us!'
'That doesn't mean she doesn't like us. Not necessarily. Irritated with us, maybe, but then, we irritate everyone. Or, rather, you irritate everyone, Curdle. Because you're so unreliable.'
'I'm not always unreliable, Telorast.'
'Come along,' Apsalar said, walking towards the far portal. 'I have things to do this night.'
'But what about these bodies?' Curdle demanded.
'They stay here, obviously.' She turned and faced the two shades. '
Either follow me, or don't. It's up to you.'
'But we liked those bodies-'
'It's all right, Curdle,' Telorast said in a soothing tone. 'We'll find others.'
Apsalar shot Telorast a glance, bemused by the comment, then she set off, striding into the narrow passageway.
The two ghosts scurried and flitted after her.
The basin's level floor was a crazed latticework of cracks, the clay silts of the old lake dried by decades of sun and heat. Wind and sands had polished the surface so that it gleamed in the moonlight, like tiles of silver. A deep-sunk well, encircled by a low wall of bricks, marked the centre of the lake-bed.
Outriders from Leoman's column had already reached the well, dismounting to inspect it, while the main body of the horse-warriors filed down onto the basin. The storm was past, and stars glistened overhead. Exhausted horses and exhausted rebels made a slow procession over the broken, webbed ground. Capemoths flitted over the heads of the riders, weaving and spinning to escape the hunting rhizan lizards that wheeled in their midst like miniature dragons. An incessant war overhead, punctuated by the crunch of carapaced armour and the thin, metallic death-cries of the capemoths.
Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas leaned forward on his saddle, the hinged horn squealing, and spat to his left. Defiance, a curse to these clamouring echoes of battle. And to get the taste of grit from his mouth. He glanced over at Leoman, who rode in silence. They had been leaving a trail of dead horses, and almost everyone was on their second or third mount. A dozen warriors had surrendered to the pace this past day, older men who had dreamed of a last battle against the hated Malazans, beneath the blessed gaze of Sha'ik, only to see that opportunity torn away by treachery. There were more than a few broken spirits in this tattered regiment, Corabb knew. It was easy to understand how one could lose hope during this pathetic journey.