make it that far?
He would have to.
Dying was unthinkable, and that was no exaggeration. When a man has forsaken Hood, the final gate is closed. Oblivion or the torment of a journey without end – there was no telling what fate awaited such a man.
In any case, Traveller was in no hurry to discover an answer. No, he would invite Hood to find it himself.
It was the least he could do.
Slinging the scabbard's rope-belt over his left shoulder, checking that the sword named Vengeance was snug within it, its plain grip within easy reach, he set out across the barren plain.
In his wake, stripped branches spun and twisted down from the heaving clouds, plunging into the waves, as if torn from the moon itself.
The clearing bore the unmistakable furrows of ploughs beneath the waist-high marsh grasses, each ribbon catching at their feet as they pushed through the thick stalks. The wreckage of a grain shed rose from brush at the far end, its roof collapsed with a sapling rising from the floor, as exuberant as any conqueror. Yet such signs were, thus far, all that remained of whatever tribe had once dwelt in this forest. Fragments of deliberate will gouged into the wilderness, but the will had failed. In another hundred years, Nimander knew, all evidence would be entirely erased. Was the ephemeral visage of civilization reason for fear? Or, perhaps, relief? That all victories were ultimately transitory in the face of patient nature might well be cause for optimism. No wound was too deep to heal. No outrage too horrendous to one day be irrelevant.
Nimander wondered if he had discovered the face of the one true god. Naught else but time, this ever changing and yet changeless tyrant against whom no creature could win. Before whom even trees, stone and air must one day bow. There would be a last dawn, a last sunset, each kneeling in final surrender. Yes, time was indeed god, playing the same games with lowly insects as it did with mountains and the fools who would carve fastnesses into them. At peace with every scale, pleased by the rapid patter of a rat's heart and the slow sighing of devouring wind against stone. Content with a star's burgeoning light and the swift death of a raindrop on a desert floor.
'What has earned the smile, cousin?'
He glanced over at Skintick. 'Blessed with revelation, I think.'
'A miracle, then. I think that I too am converted.'
'You might want to change your mind – I do not believe my newfound god cares for worship, or answers any prayers no matter how fervent.'
'What's so unique about that?'
Nimander grunted. 'Perhaps I deserved that.'
'Oh, you are too quick to jump into the path of what might wound – even when wounding was never the intention. I am still open to tossing in with your worship of your newfound god, Nimander. Why not?'
Behind them, Desra snorted. 'I will tell you two what to worship. Power. When it is of such magnitude as to leave you free to do as you will.'
'Such freedom is ever a delusion, sister,' Skintick said.
'It is the only freedom that is not a delusion, fool.'
Grimacing, Nimander said, 'I don't recall Andarist being very free.'
'Because his brother was more powerful, Nimander. Anomander was free to leave us, was he not? Which life would you choose?'
'How about neither?' Skintick said.
Although she walked behind them, Nimander could see in his mind's eye his sister's face, and the contempt in it as she no doubt sneered at Skintick.
Clip walked somewhere ahead, visible only occasionally; whenever they strode into another half-overgrown clearing, they would see him waiting at the far end, as if impatient with lagging, wayward children.
Behind Nimander, Skintick and Desra walked the others, Nenanda electing to guard the rear as if this was some sort of raid into enemy territory. Surrounded by suspicious songbirds, nervous rodents, irritated insects, Nenanda padded along with one hand resting on the pommel of his sword, a glower for every shadow. He would be like that all day, Nimander knew, storing up his disgust and anger for when they all sat by the fire at night, a fire Nenanda deemed careless and dangerous and would only tolerate because Clip said nothing, Clip with his half-smile and spinning rings who fed Nenanda morsels of approval until the young warrior was consumed by an addict's need, desperate for the next paltry feeding.
Without it, he might crumble, collapse inward like a deflated bladder. Or lash out, yes, at every