He approached the Rhivi and the sprawl of bones.
The tribal scouts were indeed jabbering.
'Dead wolves …'
'Twice tracks, the touches heavy yet light, wider than my hand. Big.'
'Big dead wolves.'
'No blood, agreed? Barrow stench.'
'Black stone dust. Sharp.'
'Glittering beneath forearms — the skin …'
'Black glass fragments.'
'Obsidian. Far south …'
'Southwest. Or far north, beyond Laederon Plateau.'
'No, I see no red or brown. Laederon obsidian has wood-coloured veins. This is Morn.'
'If of this world, '
'The demons are here, are they not? Of this world. In this world.'
'Barrow stench.'
'Yet in the air, ice stench, tundra wind, the smell of frozen peat.'
'The wake of the wolves, the killers-'
Whiskeyjack growled, 'Rhivi scouts, attend to me, please.'
Heads lifted, faces turned. Silence.
'I will hear your report, now. Which of you commands this troop?'
Looks were exchanged, then one shrugged. 'I can speak this Daru you use. Better than the others. So, for this that you ask, me.'
'Very well. Proceed.'
The young Rhivi swept back the braided strands of his grease-laden hair, then waved expansively at the bones around them. 'Undead demons. Armoured, with swords instead of hands. Coming from the southeast, more east than south.' He made an exaggerated frown. 'Damaged. Pursued. Hunted. Fleeing. Driven like bhederin, this way and that, loping, silent followers four-legged and patient-'
'Big undead wolves,' Whiskeyjack cut in.
'Twice as big as the native wolves of this plain. Yes.' Then his expression cleared as if with revelation. 'They are like the ghost-runners of our legends. When the eldest shouldermen or women dream their farthest dreams, the wolves are seen. Never close, always running, all ghostly except the one who leads, who seems as flesh and has eyes of life. To see them is great fortune, glad tiding, for there is joy in their running.'
'Only they're no longer running just in the dreams of your witches and warlocks,' Whiskeyjack said. 'And this run was far deadlier.'
'Hunting. I said these wolves are like those in the dreams. I did not say they were those in the dreams.' His expression went blank, his eyes the eyes of a cold killer. 'Hunting. Driving their quarry, down to this, their trap. Then they destroyed them. A battle of undead. The demons are from barrows far to the south. The wolves are from the dust in the north winds of winter.'
'Thank you,' Whiskeyjack said. The Rhivi manner of narrative — the dramatic performance — had well conveyed the events this valley had witnessed.
More riders were approaching from the main column, and he turned to watch them.
Three. Korlat, Silverfox, and the Daru, Kruppe, the latter bobbing and weaving on his mule as it raced with stiff, short-legged urgency in the wake of the two horse-riding women. His cries of alarm echoed in the narrow valley.
'Yes.'
The commander swung round, eyes narrowing on the Rhivi scoutleader who, along with all his kin, was now studying the three riders. 'Excuse me?'
The Rhivi shrugged, expressionless, and said nothing.
The scree of boulders had forced the newcomers to slow, except for Kruppe who was thrown forward then back on his saddle as the mule pitched headlong down the slope. Somehow the beast kept its footing, plummeting past a startled Korlat and a laughing Silverfox, then, reaching the flat, slowing its wild charge and trotting up to where Whiskeyjack stood, its head lifted proudly, ears up and forward-facing.
Kruppe, on the other hand, remained hugging the animal's neck, eyes squeezed shut, face crimson and streaming sweat. 'Terror!' he moaned. 'Battle of wills, Kruppe has met his match in this brainless, delusional beast! Aye, he is defeated! Oh, spare me. '
The mule halted.
'You can climb off, now,' Whiskeyjack said.
Kruppe opened his eyes, looked around, then slowly sat straight. He shakily withdrew a handkerchief. 'Naturally. Having given the creature its head, Kruppe now reacquires the facility of his own.' Pausing a moment to pat his brow and daub his face, he then wormed off the saddle and settled to the ground with a loud sigh. 'Ah, here come Kruppe's lazy dust-eaters. Delighted you could make it, dear ladies! A fine afternoon for a trot, yes?'
Silverfox had stopped laughing, her veiled eyes now on the scattered bones.
Hood take me, that fur cloak becomes her indeed. Mentally shaking himself, Whiskeyjack glanced up to meet Korlat's steady, faintly ironic gaze. But oh, she pales beside this Tiste Andii. Dammit, old man, think not of the nights past. Do not embrace this wonder so tightly you crush the life from it.