COME FIND ME
FISHER
UNSEEN ENEMY
EFLIT TARN
Moving like one bludgeoned, Kilmandaros slowly, by degrees, picked herself up from the ground. She leaned to one side and spat red phlegm, and then glanced over to see Errastas lying curled on the dead grasses, motionless as a stillborn calf. Off to one side stood Sechul Lath, arms wrapped tightly about his torso, face bleached of all warmth.
She spat again. ‘It’s him.’
‘A summoning beyond all expectation,’ Sechul said. ‘Odd, Errastas looks less than pleased at his own efficacy.’
Kilmandaros levered herself upright, stood unsteadily. ‘He could be subtle when he wanted,’ she said, in some irritation. ‘Instead, he made sure to let us know.’
‘Not just us,’ Sechul replied. ‘Nothing so crass,’ he added, ‘as careless.’
‘Is it anger, do you think?’
He rubbed at his face with both hands. ‘The last time Draconus was wakened to anger, Mother, nothing survived intact. Nothing.’ He hesitated, and then shook his head. ‘Not anger, not yet, anyway. He just wanted everyone to know. He wanted to send us all spinning.’
Kilmandaros grunted. ‘Rude bastard.’
They stood at the end of a long row of standing stones that had taken them round a broad, sweeping cursus. The avenue opened out in front of them, with scores of lesser stones spiralling the path inward to a flat-topped altar, its surface stained black. Little of this remained in the real world, of course. A few toppled menhirs, rumpled tussocks and ruts made by wandering bhederin. Errastas had drawn them ever closer to a place where time itself dissolved into confusion. Assailed by chaos, straining beneath the threats of oblivion, even the ground underfoot felt porous, at risk of crumbling under their weight.
The builders of this holy shrine were long gone. Resonance remained, however, tingling her skin, but it was an itch she could not scratch away. The sensation further fouled her mood. Glaring down at Errastas, she asked, ‘Will he recover? Or will we have to drag him behind us by one foot.’
‘A satisfying image,’ Sechul conceded, ‘but he’s already coming round. After the shock, the mind races.’ He walked up to where the Errant lay. ‘Enough, Errastas. On your feet. We have a task to complete and now more than ever, it needs doing.’
‘She took an eye,’ rasped the figure lying on the grasses. ‘With it, I would have seen-’
‘Only what you wanted to see,’ Sechul finished. ‘Never mind that, now. There is no going back. We won’t know what Draconus intends until he shows us-or, Abyss forbid, he finds us.’ He shrugged. ‘He’s thrown his gauntlet down-’
Errastas snorted. ‘Gauntlet? That, Setch, was his fist.’
‘So punch back,’ Sechul snapped.
Kilmandaros laughed. ‘I’ve taught him well, haven’t I?’
The Errant uncurled, and then sat up. He stared bleakly at the altar stone. ‘We cannot just ignore him. Or what his arrival tells us. He is freed. The sword Dragnipur is shattered-there was no other way out. If the sword is shattered, then-’
‘Rake is dead,’ said Kilmandaros.
Silence for a time. She could see in the faces of the two men sweeping cascades of emotion as they contemplated the raw fact of Anomander Rake’s death. Disbelief, denial, wonder, satisfaction and pleasure. And then… fear. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Great changes, terrible changes.’
‘But,’ Errastas looked up at her, ‘how was it possible? Who could have done such a thing? Has Osserc returned-no, we would have sensed that.’ He climbed to his feet. ‘Something has gone wrong. I can feel it.’
Sechul faced him. ‘Master of the Holds, show us your mastery. You need to look to your own hands, and the power within them.’
‘Listen to my son,’ said Kilmandaros. ‘Seek the truth in the Holds, Errastas. We must know where things stand. Who struck him down? Why? And how did the sword break?’
‘There is irony in this,’ Sechul said with a wry smile. ‘The removal of Anomander Rake is like kicking down a gate-in an instant the path beyond runs straight and clear. Only to have Draconus step into the breach. As deadly as Rake ever was, but a whole lot crueller, that much closer to chaos. His appearance is, I think, a harbinger of the madness to come. Squint that lone eye, Errastas, and tell me you see other than ruination ahead.’
But the Errant was shaking his head. ‘I can tell you now who broke Dragnipur. There could be no other. The Warlord.’
Breath hissed from Kilmandaros. ‘Brood. Yes, I see that. The weapon he holds-none other. But that only confuses things all the more. Rake would not have willingly surrendered that weapon, not even to Caladan Brood.’ She eyed the others. ‘We are agreed that the Son of Darkness is dead? Yet his slayer did not take Dragnipur. Can it be that the Warlord killed him?’
Sechul Lath snorted. ‘Centuries of speculation-who was the deadlier of the two? Have we our answer? This is absurd-can any of us even imagine a cause that would so divide those two? With the history they shared?’
‘Perhaps the cause was Dragnipur itself-’
Kilmandaros grunted. ‘Think clearly, Errastas. Brood had to know that shattering the sword would free Draconus, and a thousand other ascendants-’ her hands closed into fists-‘and Eleint. He would not have done it if he’d had a choice. Nothing could have so fractured that ancient alliance, for it was more than an alliance. It was friendship.’ She sighed heavily and looked away. ‘We clashed, yes, but even me-no, I would not have murdered Anomander Rake if the possibility was presented to me. I would not. His existence… had purpose. He was one you could rely upon, when justice needed a blade’s certain edge.’ She passed a hand over her eyes. ‘The world has lost some of its colour, I think.’
‘Wrong,’ said Sechul. ‘Draconus has returned. But listen to us. We swirl round and round this dread pit of truth. Errastas, will you stand there frozen as a hare? Think you not the Master of the Deck is bleeding from the ears right now? Strike quickly, friend-he will be in no condition to intercept you. Indeed, make him fear we planned this-all of it-make him believe we have fashioned the Consort’s escape from Dragnipur.’
Kilmandaros’s eyes were wide on her son.
Errastas slowly nodded. ‘A detour, of sorts. Fortunately, a modest one. Attend me.’
‘I shall remain here,’ announced Kilmandaros. At the surprise and suspicion she saw in the Errant’s face, she raised her fists. ‘There was the danger-so close to the Eleint-that I lose control. Surely,’ she added, ‘you did not intend me to join you when you walked through that last gate. No, leave me here. Return when it’s done.’
Errastas looked round at the shrine’s standing stones. ‘I would not think this place suited you, Kilmandaros.’
‘The fabric is thin. My presence weakens it more-this pleases me.’
‘Why such hatred for humans, Kilmandaros?’
Her brows rose. ‘Errastas, really. Who among all the races is quickest to claim the right to judgement? Over everyone and everything? Who holds that such right belongs to them and them alone? A woodcutter walks deep into the forest, where he is attacked and eaten by a striped cat-what do his fellows say? They say: “The cat is evil and must be punished. The cat must answer for its crime, and it and all its kind must answer to our hate.” Before too long, there are no cats left in that forest. And humans consider that just. Righteous. Could I, Errastas, I would gather all the humans of the world, and I would gift them with my justice-and that justice is here, in these two fists.’
Errastas reached up to probe his eye socket, and he managed a faint smile. ‘Well answered, Kilmandaros.’ He turned to Sechul Lath. ‘Arm yourself, friend. The Holds have grown feral.’
‘Which one will you seek first?’
‘The one under a Jaghut stone, of course.’
She watched as blurry darkness swallowed them. With the Errant’s departure, the ephemeral fragility of the ancient shrine slowly dissolved, revealing the stolid ruins of its abandonment. A slew of toppled, shattered stones, pecked facings hacked and chipped-the images obliterated. She walked closer to the altar stone. It had been deliberately chiselled, cut in two. Harsh breaths and sweat-slick muscles, a serious determination to despoil this place.
She knew all about desecration. It was her hobby, after all, an obsessive lure that tugged her again and again, with all the senseless power of a lodestone.
A few thousand years ago, people had gathered to build their shrine. Someone had achieved the glorious rank of tyrant, able to threaten life and soul, and so was able to compel hundreds to his or her bidding. To quarry enormous stones, drag them to this place, tilt them upright like so many damned penises. And who among those followers truly believed that tyrant’s calling? Voice of the gods in the sky, the groaning bitches in the earth, the horses of the heavens racing the seasons, the mythologies of identity-all those conceits, all those delusions. People of ancient times were no more fools than those of the present, and ignorance was never a comfortable state of being.
So they had built this temple, work-gangs of clear-eyed cynics sacrificing their labour to the glory of the gods but it wasn’t gods basking in that glory-it was the damned tyrant, who needed to show off his power to coerce, who sought to symbolize his power for all eternity.
Kilmandaros could comprehend the collective rage that had destroyed this place. Every tyrant reaches the same cliff-edge, aged into infirmity, or eyeing the strutting of heirs and recognizing the hungry looks in their regard. That edge was death, and with it all glory fell to dust. Even stone cannot withstand the fury of mortals when fuelled by abnegation.
Nature was indifferent to temples, to sacred sites. It did not withhold its gnawing winds and dissolute rains. It devoured such places with the same remorseless will that annihilated palaces and city walls, squalid huts and vast aqueducts. But carve a face into stone and someone is bound to destroy it long before nature works its measured erosion.
She understood that compulsion, the bitter necessity of refuting monumental achievements, whether they be dressed in stone or in the raiment of poetry. Power possessed a thousand faces and one would be hard pressed to find a beautiful one among them. No, they were ugly one and all, and if they managed to create something wondrous, then the memory of its maker must be made to suffer all the more for it.
‘For every soul sweeping away the dust,’ said a voice behind her, ‘there are a thousand scattering it by the handful.’
Kilmandaros did not turn round, but bared her teeth nonetheless. ‘I was growing impatient.’
‘It’s not rained here for some time. Only the roots of the stones still hold moisture. I have followed your journey in the morning mists, in the damp breaths of the beasts.’ After a moment, Mael moved up to stand beside her, his eyes settling on the desecrated altar stone. ‘Not your handiwork, I see. Feeling cheated?’
‘I despise conceit,’ she said.
‘And so every mortal creation is to be crushed by your fists. Yes, the presumption of all those fools.’
‘Do you know where they have gone, Mael?’
He sighed. ‘The Holds are not as they once were. Have you considered, they may not return?’
‘Errastas is their Master-’
‘Was, actually. The Holds have not had a master for tens of thousands of years, Kilmandaros. Do you know, you forced the Errant’s retreat from the Holds. He feared you were coming for him, to destroy him and his precious creations.’
‘He was right. I was.’
‘See how things have turned out. His summoning compelled none of us-you must realize that.’
‘That is no matter-’
‘Because deceiving him continues to serve your purposes. And now Knuckles walks at his side. Or, more accurately, a step behind. When will the knife strike?’
‘My son understands the art of subtlety.’
‘It’s not an art, Kilmandaros, it’s just one among many tactics to get what you want. The best subtlety is when no one even notices what you’ve done, ever. Can Sechul Lath achieve that?’
‘Can you?’ she retorted.
Mael smiled. ‘I know of only a few capable of such a thing. One is mortal and my closest friend. The other wasn’t mortal, but is now dead. And then, of course, there is Draconus.’
She fixed a glare upon him. ‘Him? You must be mad!’
Mael shrugged. ‘Try this for a consideration. Draconus needed to get something done. And, it now seems, he achieved it. Without lifting a hand. Without anyone even noticing his involvement. Only one man ever defeated him. Only one man could possess Dragnipur but never kneel before it. Only one man could oversee the weapon’s destruction-no matter the cost. Only one man could force an end to Mother Dark’s denial. And only one man could stand in the face of chaos and not blink.’
Breath gusted from her in a growl. ‘And now that man is dead.’
‘And Draconus walks free. Draconus has broken Kallor’s curse on him. He holds Darkness in a blade of annihilation. No longer chained, no longer on the run, no longer haunted by the terrible error in judgement that was Dragnipur.’
‘All this by his hand? I do not believe it, Mael.’
‘But that is precisely my point, Kilmandaros. About true subtlety. Will we ever know if what I have just described was all by the Consort’s hand? No.’
‘Unless he admits it.’
‘But who wouldn’t?’
‘I hate your words, Mael. They gnaw like the waves you love so much.’
‘We are all vulnerable, Kilmandaros. Don’t think Draconus is about to build a little farm in some mountain valley and spend the rest of his days whittling whistles while birds nest in his hair. He knows we’re here. He knows we’re up to something. Either he’s already figured it out, in which case he will come to find us, or he is even now setting out to pull loose all our secret ambitions.’
‘Who killed Anomander Rake?’
‘Dessembrae, wielding a sword forged by Rake’s own hand.’
She was rocked by that. Her mind raced. ‘Vengeance?’
‘None other.’
‘That weapon always terrified me,’ she said. ‘I could never understand why he set it aside.’
‘Really? The hand that holds it must be pure in its desire. Kilmandaros, Rake yielded it to his brother because his heart was already broken, while Andarist… well, we know that tale.’
As the significance of Mael’s words struck home, Kilmandaros found she was trembling. ‘Andarist,’ she whispered. ‘That… that…’ but she had no words to describe her feeling. Instead, her hands rose to her face again. ‘He is gone,’ she said, voice catching in a sob. ‘Anomander Rake is gone!’
Mael spoke, his tone suddenly harsh. ‘Leave Dessembrae alone. He was as much a victim as anyone else involved. Worse, he has been cheated, and used, and now his suffering is immeasurable.’
She shook her head, the muscles of her jaws creaking. ‘I was not thinking of Dessembrae.’
‘Kilmandaros, listen well. My thoughts on Draconus-my musings on his possible culpability-they are unproven. Speculations, nothing more. If you seek a confrontation with Draconus-if you seek vengeance-you will die. And it may well be for naught, for perhaps Draconus is innocent of all charges.’
‘You do not believe that.’
‘I was but reminding you of the danger he presents to us. How long was he trapped within Dragnipur? What did that do to him? To his mind? Is he even sane any more? One other thing, and think on this carefully, Kilmandaros. Would Rake have willingly freed a mad Draconus? Has he ever shown a thoughtless side to his decisions? Ever?’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘He had a purpose.’
Mael’s smile was wry. ‘Even though he is dead, we find ourselves holding to faith in him. Extraordinary, isn’t it?’
‘Mother Dark-’
‘No longer faces away, and as with Darkness, so too it is with-’
‘Light. Gods below, Mael. What has he forced upon us?’
‘A final accounting, I’d wager. An end to the stupid games. He might as well have locked us all in one room-and no one leaves until we settle things once and for all.’
‘Bastard!’
‘Your grief was rather shortlived, Kilmandaros.’
‘Because what you say rings true-yes! Rake would think that way, wouldn’t he?’
‘Else he could not permit his own death-his removal from the stage. More than just ending Mother Dark’s obstreperous pique, he now forces our hands-we are all stirred awake, Elders and children both, mortal and immortal.’
‘To what end?’ she demanded. ‘More blood? A damned ocean’s worth?’
‘Not if there’s a way around it,’ Mael replied. ‘To what end, you ask. This, I think: he wants us to deal with the Crippled God.’
‘That pathetic creature? You cannot be serious, Mael.’
‘The wound ever festers, the poison spreads. That alien god’s power is anathema. We need to fix it-before we seek anything else. Before we lose K’rul’s gift for ever.’
‘Errastas had other ideas.’
‘So do you and Setch. So does Olar Ethil. And Ardata.’
‘And Draconus too, I would think.’
‘We cannot know if Anomander Rake and Draconus spoke-was a bargain reached between them within Dragnipur? “I will free you, Draconus, if…”’
‘They could not have spoken,’ said Kilmandaros. ‘For Rake was killed by Vengeance. You said so yourself.’
Mael walked over to sit down on one of the blocks of the altar stone. ‘Ah, well. There is more to say on that. Among other things. Tell me, Kilmandaros, what Hold did Errastas choose?’
She blinked. ‘Why, the obvious one. Death.’
‘Then I will begin with this curious detail-for I wish to know your thoughts on the, uh, implications.’ He looked up and something glinted in his eyes. ‘Before Rake met Dessembrae, he met Hood. Met him, and killed him. With Dragnipur.’
She stared.
Mael continued: ‘Two gods were in attendance, that I know of.’
‘Who?’ the word came out in a dry rasp.
‘Shadowthrone and Cotillion.’
Oh, how she wished for a tall, imposing standing stone-within her reach-a proud pinnacle of conceit-just there, at the very end of her fist as it swung out its path of ferocious destruction.
‘Them!’
Mael watched her flail and stamp about, watched as she descended on one toppled menhir after another, pounding each one into rubble. He scratched at the bristles on his chin.
Oh, you are indeed clever, Kilmandaros. It all falls home, doesn’t it?
It all falls home.
He’d wanted her to consider the implications. So much for being subtle.
Suffering could be borne. When the blood was pure, purged of injustices. Brayderal was not like the others, not the same as Rutt, or pernicious Badalle with Saddic ever at her side. She alone possessed the legacy of the Inquisitors, shining bright beneath her almost translucent skin. And among all the others, only Badalle suspected the truth. I am a child of the Quitters. I am here to complete their work.
She had finally seen her kin on their trail, and now wondered why they did not simply stride into the midst of the Chal Managal, to take up the last of these pathetic lives.
I want to go home. Back to Estobanse. Please, come and get me, before it’s too late.
Suffering could be borne. But even her unhuman flesh was failing. Each morning, she looked upon the survivors of yet another night and trembled with disbelief. She watched them drag the corpses close and she watched them pick the bones clean and then split them to greedily suck at the marrow.
‘Children are quickest to necessity. They can make any world normal. Be careful, daughter, with these humans. To live, they will do anything.’
She looked upon Rutt’s world and saw the truth in her father’s words. With Held cradled in his arms, he called the stronger ones to him and examined the floppy bags of human skin they now used to trap Shards whenever a swarm found the ribby snake. These fleshless, de-boned bodies, flung into the air as the locusts descended, drew the creatures as flames drew moths, and when the seething mass struck the ground the children pounced, stuffing locusts into their mouths by the handful. Rutt had found a way to turn the war of attrition, to hunt the hunters of this glass wasteland.
His followers were hardened now, all angles and flat eyes. Badalle’s poems had turned cruel, savage. Abandonment honed sure edges; sun and heat and crystal horizons had forged a terrible weapon. Brayderal wanted to scream to her kin, there in the blurred haze of their wake. She wanted to warn them. She wanted to say Hurry! See these survivors! Hurry! Before it’s too late!
But she dared not slink away-not even in the deepest of night beneath the jade spears. They would find out. Badalle had made certain that she was watched. Badalle knew.
She has to die. I have to kill her. It would be easy. I am so much stronger than them. I could snap her neck. I could unleash my Holy Voice for the first time ever and so force my kin to come to my aid when Rutt and Saddic and all the others close on me. I could end this, all of it.
Yet, the Inquisitors kept their distance. They must have a reason. Any precipitate act by Brayderal could ruin everything. She needed to be patient.
Huddled beneath layers of rags, ever careful to stand in the way that humans stood-so limited, so bound by physical imperfections-she watched as Rutt walked out ahead of the snake’s head, the flicking tongue, Badalle would say, before snapping open her mouth and sucking in flies, which she then crunched with obvious relish.
The city that awaited them did not look real. Every glimmering line and angle seemed to bite Brayderal’s eyes-she could barely look in that direction, so powerful was her sense of wrongness. Was it in ruin? It did not seem so. Was it lifeless? It must be. There were no farms, no trees, no rivers. The sky above it was clear, dustless, smokeless. Why then this horror and dread?
The humans did not feel as she did. Instead, they eyed the distant towers and open faces of buildings as they would the arrival of a new torment-diamonds and rubies, gems and shards-and she could see the gauging regard in their eyes, as if they silently asked: Will this attack us? Can we eat it? Is its need greater than ours? Is any need greater than ours?
Sickened, Brayderal watched Rutt walk ever closer to the faintly raised track encircling the unwalled city.
He has decided. We are going in. And I can do nothing to stop it.
‘In knowing,’ Badalle whispered, ‘I am in knowing, always. See her, Saddic? She hates this. She fears this. We are not as weak as she hopes. Saddic, listen, we have a prisoner in the ribby snake. She is chained to us, even as she pretends her freedom under those rags. See how she holds herself. Her control is failing. The Quitter awakens.’
Kill her then, Saddic pleaded with his eyes.
But Badalle shook her head. ‘She would take too many of us down. And the others would help her. Remember how the Quitters command? The voice that can drive a man to his knees? No, leave her to the desert-and the city, yes, the city.’ But is this even true? I could-I could… She had fled the Quitters, made them a thing of her past, and the past was ever dead. It had no hold, no claim upon her. Yet, none of this had proved true. The past stalked them. The past was fast closing in.
Torn fragments floated through her mind, island memories surrounded in the depthless seas of fear. Tall gaunt figures, words of slaying, the screams of slaughter. Quitters.
She caught a fly, crunched it down. ‘The secret is in his arms,’ she said. ‘Held. Held is the secret. One day, everyone will understand. Do you think it matters, Saddic? Things will be born, life will catch fire.’
Badalle could see that he did not understand, not yet. But he was like all the others. Their time was coming. The city called to us. Only those it chooses can find it. Once, giants walked the world. The sun’s rays were snared in their eyes. They found this city and made it a temple. Not a place in which to live. It was made to exist for itself.
She had learned so much. When she’d had wings and had journeyed across the world. Stealing thoughts, snatching ideas. Madness was a gift. Even as memories were a curse. She needed to find power. But all she could find within herself was a knotted host of words. Poems were not swords. Were they?
‘Remember temples?’ she asked the boy beside her. ‘Fathers in robes, the bowls filling with coins no one could eat. And on the walls gems winked like drops of blood. Those temples, they were like giant fists built to batter us down, to take our spirits and chain them to worldly fears. We were supposed to shred the skin from our souls and accept the pain and punishment as just. The temples told us we were flawed and then promised to heal us. All we needed to do was pay and pray. Coin for absolution and calluses on the knees, but remember how splendid those robes were! That’s what we paid for.’
And the Quitters came among us, down from the north. They walked like the broken, and when they spoke, souls crumpled like eggshells. They came with white hands and left with red hands.
Words have power.
She lifted a hand and pointed at the city. ‘But this temple is different. It was not built for adoration. It was built to warn us. Remember the cities, Saddic? Cities exist to gather the suffering beneath the killer’s sword. Swords-more than anyone could even count. So many swords. In the hands of priests and Quitters and merchant houses and noble warriors and slavers and debt-holders and keepers of food and water-so many. Cities are mouths, Saddic, filled with sharp teeth.’ She snapped another fly from the air. Chewed. Swallowed.
‘Lead them now,’ she said to the boy beside her. ‘Follow Rutt. And keep an eye on Brayderal. Danger comes. The time of the Quitters has arrived. Go, lead them after Rutt. Begin!’
He looked upon her with alarm, but she waved him away, and set out for the snake’s tattered tail.
The Quitters were coming.
To begin the last slaughter.
Inquisitor Sever stood looking down on the body of Brother Beleague, seeing as if for the first time the emaciated travesty of the young man she had once known and loved. On her left was Brother Adroit, breathing fast and shallow, hunched and wracked with tremors. The bones of his spine and shoulders were bowed like an old man’s, legacy of this journey’s terrible deficiencies. His nose was rotting, a raw wound glistening and crawling with flies.
To her right was Sister Rail, her gaunt face thin as a hatchet, her eyes rimmed in dull, dry red. She had little hair left-that lustrous mane was long gone, and with it the last vestiges of the beauty she had once possessed.
Sister Scorn had collected Beleague’s staff and now leant upon it as would a cripple. The joints of her elbows, high-wrists and wrists were inflamed and swollen with fluids, but Sever knew that strength remained within her. Scorn was the last Adjudicator among them.
When they had set out to deliver peace upon the last of the south-dwellers-these children-they had numbered twelve. Among them, three of the original five women still lived, and but one of the seven men. Inquisitor Sever accepted responsibility for this tragic error in judgement. Of course, who could have imagined that thousands of helpless children could march league upon league through this tortured land, bereft of shelter, their hands empty? Outlasting the wild dogs, the cannibal raiders among the last of the surviving adults, and the wretched parasites swarming the ground and the skies above-no, not one Inquisitor could have anticipated this terrible will to survive.
Surrender was the easy choice, the simplest decision of all. They should have given up long ago.
And we would now be home. And my mate could stand before his daughter and feel such pride at her courage and purity-that she chose to walk with the human children, that she chose to guide her kin to the delivery of peace.
And I would not now be standing above the body of my dead son.
It was understood-it had always been understood-that no human was an equal to the Forkrul Assail. Proof was delivered a thousand times a day-and towards the end, ten thousand, as the pacification of the south kingdoms reached its blessed conclusion. Not once had the Shriven refused their submission; not once had a single pathetic human straightened in challenge. The hierarchy was unassailable.
But these children did not accept that righteous truth. In ignorance they found strength. In foolishness they found defiance.
‘The city,’ said Scorn, her voice a broken thing. ‘We cannot permit it.’
Sever nodded. ‘The investment is absolute, yes. We cannot hope to storm it.’
Adroit said, ‘Its own beauty, yes. To challenge would be suicide.’
The women turned at that and he flinched back a step. ‘Deny me? The clarity of my vision?’
Sever sighed, gaze dropping once more to her dead son. ‘We cannot. It is absolute. It shines.’
‘And now the boy with the baby leads them to it,’ said Sister Rail. ‘Unacceptable.’
‘Agreed,’ said Sever. ‘We may fail to return, but we shall not fail in what we set out to do. Adjudicator, will you lead us into peace?’
‘I am ready,’ Scorn replied, straightening and holding out the staff. ‘Wield this, Inquisitor, my need for it has ended.’
She longed to turn away, to reject Scorn’s offer. My son’s weapon. Fashioned by my own hands and then surrendered to him. I should never have touched it again.
‘Honour him,’ Scorn said.
‘I shall.’ She took the iron-shod staff, and then faced the others. ‘Gather up the last of your strength. I judge four thousand remain-a long day of slaughter awaits us.’
‘They are unarmed,’ said Rail. ‘Weak.’
‘Yes. In the delivering of peace, we will remind them of that truth.’
Scorn set out. Sever and the others fell in behind the Adjudicator. When they drew closer, they would fan out, to make room for the violence they would unleash.
Not one Shriven would ever reach the city. And the boy with the baby would die last. By my husband’s daughter’s hand. Because she lives, she still lives.
Something like panic gripped the children, dragging Brayderal along in a rushing tide. Swearing, she tried to pull loose, but hands reached out, clutched tight, pushed her onwards. She should have been able to defy them all, but she had overestimated her reserves of strength-she was more damaged than she had believed.
She saw Saddic, leading this charge. Plunging after Rutt, who was now almost at the city’s threshold. But of Badalle there was no sign. This detail frightened her. There is something about her. She is transformed, but I do not know how. She is somehow… quickened.
Her kin had finally comprehended the danger. They waited no longer.
Scuffed, tugged and pushed, she waited for the first screams behind her.
Words. I have nothing but words. I cast away many of them, only to have others find me. What can words achieve? Here in this hard, real place? But doubts themselves are nothing but words, a troubled song in my head. When I speak, the snakes listen. Their eyes are wide. But what happens to all I say, once the words slip into them? Alchemies. Sometimes the mixture froths and bubbles. Sometimes it boils. Sometimes, nothing stirs and the potion lies dead, cold and grey as mud. Who can know? Who can predict?
I speak softly when all that I say is a howl. I pound upon bone with my fists,and they hear naught but whispers. Savage words will thud against dead flesh. But the slow drip of blood, ah, then they are content as cats at a stream.
Badalle hurried along, and it seemed the snake parted, as if her passage was ripping it in two. She saw skeletal faces, shining eyes, limbs wrapped in skin dry as leather. She saw thigh bones from ribbers picked up on the trail-held like weapons-but what good would they do against the Quitters?
I have words and nothing else. And, in these words, I have no faith. They cannot topple walls. They cannot crush mountains down to dust. The faces swam past her. She knew them all, and they were nothing but blurs, each one smeared inside tears.
But what else is there? What else can I use against them? They are Quitters. They claim power in their voice. The islands in her mind were drowning.
I too seek power in my words.
Have I learned from them? This is how it seems. Is this how it is?
Stragglers. The sickened, the weakened, and then she was past them all, standing alone on the glass plain. The sun made the world white, bitter with purity. This was the perfection so cherished by the Quitters. But it was not the Quitters who cut down our world. They only came in answer to the death of our gods-our faith-when the rains stopped, when the last green withered and died. They came in answer to our prayers. Save us! Save us from ourselves!
Emerging from the heat shimmer, four figures, fast closing. Like wind-rocked puppets, every limb snapped back until broken, wheeling loose, and death surrounded them in whirlwinds. Monstrous, clambering out of her memories. Swirls of power-she saw mouths open-
‘YIELD!’
The command rushed through Badalle, hammered children to the ground behind her. Voices crying out, helpless with dread. She felt it rage against her will, weakening her knees. She felt a snap, as if a tether had broken, and all at once she lifted free-she saw the ribby snake, the sinuous length stretched out as if in yearning. But, segment by segment, it writhed in pain.
As that command thundered from bone to bone, Badalle found her voice. Power in the word, but I can answer it.
‘-to the assault of wonder
Humility takes you in hand-’
She spun back down to lock herself behind her own eyes. She saw energies whirl away, ignite in flashes.
‘HALT!’
Cracking like a fist. Lips split, blood threading down. Badalle spat, pushed forward. One step, only one.
‘-in softest silence
Enfold the creeping doubt-’
She saw her words strike them. Stagger them. Almost close enough, at last, to see their ravaged faces, the disbelief, the bafflement and growing distress. The indignation. And yes, that she understood. Games of meaning in evasion. Deceit of intent in sleight of hand.
Badalle took another step.
‘Yield all these destinations
Unbidden jostle to your bones
Halt in the shadow thrown
Beneath the yoke of dismay-’
She felt fire in her limbs, saw blinding incandescence erupt from her hands. Truth was such a rare weapon, and all the more deadly for it.
‘Do not give me your words!
They are dead with the squalor
Of your empty virtues
YIELD to your own lies!
HALT in the breathless moment
Your lungs scream
And silence answers
Your heart drums
Brittle surfaces
BLEED!’
They staggered back as if blinded. Blue fluids spurted from ruptured joints, gushed down from gaping mouths. Agony twisted their angled faces. One fell, thrashing, kicking on the ground. Another, a woman closer to Badalle than the others, dropped down on to her knees, and their impact with the crystalline ground was marked by two bursts of bluish blood-the Quitter shrieked. The remaining two, a man and a woman, reeling as if buffeted by invisible fists, had begun retreating-stumbling, half-running.
The fires within Badalle flared, and then died.
The Quitters deserved worse-but she did not have it in her to deliver such hard punishment. They had given her but two words. Not enough. Two words. Obedience to the privilege of dying. Accept your fate. But… we will not. We refuse. We have been refusing things for a long time, now. We are believers in refusal.
They will not come close now. Not for a long time. Maybe, for these ones, never again. I have hurt them. I took their words and made them my own. I made the power turn in their hands and cut them. It will have to do.
She turned round. The ribby snake had begun moving again, strangely mindless, as if beaten by drovers, senseless as a herd of cattle crossing a… a river? But, when have I seen a river?
She blinked. Licked salty blood from her lips. Flies danced.
The city awaited them.
‘It is what we can bear,’ she whispered. ‘But there is more to life than suffering.’
Now we must find it.
Darkness passed, and yet it remained. A splinter pure, promising annihilation. Onos T’oolan could sense it, somewhere ahead, a flickering, wavering presence. His stride, unbroken for so long, now faltered. The bitter rage within him seemed to stagger, sapped of all strength. Depression rose like flood waters, engulfing all sense of purpose. The tip of his sword bit the ground.
Vengeance meant nothing, even when the impulse was all-consuming. It was a path that, once started upon, could conceivably stretch on for ever. The culpable could stand in a line reaching past the horizon. An avenger’s march was endless. So it had been with the vengeance sought against the Jaghut, and Onos T’oolan had never been blind to the futility of that. Was he nothing but an automaton, stung into motion that would never slow in step?
He felt a sudden pressure wash over him from behind.
Baffled, all at once frightened, his weapon’s stone tip carving a furrow in the dry soil, the First Sword slowly swung round.
He could deny. He could refuse. But these choices would not lead him to the knowledge he sought. He had been forced back from the realms of death. The blood ties he had chosen had been severed. No longer a husband, a father, a brother. He had been given vengeance, but what vengeance could he find sifting through a valley heaped with corpses? There were other purposes, other reasons for walking this pathetic world once again. Onos T’oolan had been denied his rightful end-he intended to find out why.
Not one among the thousand or so T’lan Imass approaching him had yet touched his thoughts. They walked enshrouded in silence, ghosts, kin reduced to strangers.
He waited.
Children of the Ritual, yes, but his sense of many of them told him otherwise. There was mystery here. T’lan Imass, and yet…
When all the others halted their steps, six bonecasters emerged, continuing their approach.
He knew three. Brolos Haran, Ulag Togtil, Ilm Absinos. Bonecasters of the Orshayn T’lan Imass. The Orshayn had failed to appear at Silverfox’s Gathering. Such failure invited presumptions of loss. Extinction. Fates to match those of the Ifayle, the Bentract, the Kerluhm. The presumption had been erroneous.
The remaining three were wrong in other ways. They were clothed in the furs of the white bear-a beast that had come late in the age of the Imass-and their faces were flatter, the underlying structure more delicate than that of true Imass. Their weapons were mostly bone, ivory, tusk or antler, with finely chipped chert and flint insets. Weapons defying the notion of finesse: intricate in their construction and yet the violence they would deliver promised an almost primitive brutality.
Bonecaster Ulag Togtil spoke. ‘First Sword. Who knew dust could be so interesting?’
There was a frustrated hiss from Brolos Haran. ‘He insists on speaking for us, and yet he never says what we wish him to say. Why we ever acquiesce is a mystery.’
‘I have my own paths,’ Ulag said easily, ‘and I do not imagine the First Sword lacks patience.’
‘Not patience,’ snapped Brolos, ‘but what about tolerance?’
‘Bone bends before it breaks, Brolos Haran. Now, I would say more to the First Sword, before we all await the profundity of his words. May I?’
Brolos Haran half-turned to Ilm Absinos, one hand lifting in an odd gesture that baffled Onos T’oolan-for a moment-before he understood.
Helplessness.
‘First Sword,’ Ulag resumed, ‘we do not reach to you in the manner of Tellann, because we make no claim upon you. We are summoned, yes, but it was-we have come to believe-not by your hand. You may refuse us. It is not in our hearts to force ourselves upon the will of another.’
Onos T’oolan said, ‘Who are these strangers?’
‘Profound indeed,’ Ulag said. ‘First Sword, they are T’lan Imass of a second Ritual. The descendants of those who sought to follow Kilava Onass when she rejected the first Ritual. It was their failure not to determine beforehand Kilava’s attitude to being accompanied. But when there is but one hole in the ice, then all must use it to breathe.’
‘My sister invited no one.’
‘Alas. And so it comes to this. These three are bonecasters of the Brold T’lan Imass. Lid Ger, Lera Epar and Nom Kala. The Brold number two thousand seven hundred and twelve. The majority of these remain in the dust of our wake. Our own Orshayn number six hundred and twelve-you see them here. If you need us, we shall serve.’
Nom Kala studied the First Sword, this warrior she had once believed was nothing but an invention, a myth. Better, she concluded, had he remained so. His bones were latticed, as if he had been pounded into fragments-and some of those bones were not even his own.
The First Sword was not the giant of the legends. He did not wear a cloak of ice. Caribou antlers did not sprout from his head. He did not possess breath that gave the gift of fire. Nor did he seem the kind of warrior to recount his exploits for three days and four nights to belittle an overly proud hero. She began to suspect few of those ancient tales belonged to this figure at all. Dancing across the sea on the backs of whales? Crossing swords with demon walruses in their underwater towers? The secret seducer of wives left alone at night?
How many children among her clan, generation upon generation, bore some variation of the name Onos, to account for impossible pregnancies?
The sudden shocked gulp that erupted from her drew everyone’s attention.
Brolos Haran had been speaking-about what Nom Kala had no idea-and he was not pleased with the interruption. ‘Nom Kala, what is it about the Fall at the Red Spires that so amuses you?’
‘Nothing,’ she replied, ‘unless it was meant to. I apologize, Brolos Haran. A stray thought. Well, a few stray thoughts.’
The others waited.
She elected to refrain from elaborating.
The wind moaned, whispered through remnants of fur.
Onos T’oolan spoke. ‘Orshayn. Brold. I have forsworn the Jaghut Wars. I seek no battle. I do not invite you to join me, for what I seek is an accounting. Like you, I am summoned from the dust, and it is to dust that I wish to return. But first, I will find the one who has so punished me with resurrection. The bonecaster of the Logros T’lan Imass, Olar Ethil.’
Ulag said, ‘Can you be certain it is her, First Sword?’
Onos T’oolan cocked his head. ‘Ulag Togtil, after all this time, do you still hold to the virtue of certainty?’
‘We fought no war against the Jaghut,’ Nom Kala said.
The bonecasters of the Orshayn reacted with a chill wave of disapproval. She ignored it.
Onos T’oolan said, ‘Ulag. I see the Orshayn Warleader standing with your kin. Why does Inistral Ovan not come forward?’
‘He is shamed, First Sword. The losses at the Red Spire…’
‘Nom Kala,’ Onos then said, ‘have you no ruler of the Brold Clan?’
‘Only us,’ she replied. ‘Even the war we fought against the humans was not a war that demanded a warleader. It was clear that we could not defeat them on a field of battle. There were too many.’
‘Then how did you fight?’
‘By keeping alive our stories, our ways of living. And by hiding, for in hiding, we survived. We persisted. This is itself a victory.’
‘And yet,’ cut in Ilm Absinos, ‘you failed in the end. Else you would not have attempted the Ritual of Tellann.’
‘That is true,’ she replied. ‘We ran out of places to hide.’
Ulag spoke. ‘First Sword, we would accompany you nonetheless. Like you, we wish to know the purpose of our return.’
‘If you join my quest,’ said Onos T’oolan, ‘then you bow to Olar Ethil’s desires.’
‘That perception may lead to carelessness on her part,’ Ulag replied.
Standing amidst the other T’lan Imass, Rystalle Ev watched, listened, and imagined a world taut with purpose. It had once been such a world, for her, for all of her kin. But that had vanished long ago. Perhaps the First Sword could bind them all to this quest of his. Perhaps answers could relieve the burden of despair. Reasons to stand, reasons to stand against.
But the dust beckoned with its promise of oblivion. The trail to the end of things had been hacked clear, pounded level. She yearned to walk it.
Beside her, Kalt Urmanal said, ‘See the sword he carries. See how its tip pins the earth. This Onos T’oolan, he is not one for poses. He never was. I remember when I last saw him. He had defeated his challenger. He had shown such skill that ten thousand Imass stood silent with awe. Yet, he stood as one defeated.’
‘Weary,’ Rystalle murmured.
‘Yes, but not from the fighting. He was weary, Rystalle Ev, of its necessity.’
She considered that, and then nodded.
Kalt then added, ‘This warrior I will follow.’
‘Yes.’
She sat on a pyramid of three stacked canvas bolts, huddled beneath her night-cloak. The shivering would not go away. She watched the glowing tip of her smoker dancing like a firefly close to her fingers. Atri-Ceda Aranict listened to the muted sounds of the Malazan encampment. Subdued, weary and shaken. She understood that well enough. Soldiers had fallen out from the column, staggering as if reeling from blows. Collapsing senseless, or falling to their knees spitting blood. Panic rippling through the ranks-was this an attack?
Not as such.
Those stricken soldiers had been, one and all, mages. And the enemy, blind and indifferent, had been power.
Her nausea was fading. Mind slowly awakening-wandering like a hungover reveller, desultorily sweeping aside the ashes-she thought back to her first meeting with High Mage Ben Adaephon Delat. She had been pathetic. It was bad enough fainting in a heap in front of Commander Brys Beddict; she had barely recovered from that before she was led into Quick Ben’s presence.
And now, weeks later, only fragments of the conversation that followed remained with her. He had been a distracted man, but when he had seen the enlivened earth cupped in Aranict’s hand, his dark eyes had sharpened, hardened as if transformed into onyx.
He had cursed, and she remembered that curse.
‘Hood’s frantic balls on the fire.’
She had since discovered that Hood was the god of death, and that if any god deserved its name being uttered in bitter curses, then he was the one. At the time, however, she had taken the High Mage’s expostulation somewhat more literally.
Fire, she’d thought. Yes, fire in the earth, heat cupped in my hand.
Her eyes had widened on the High Mage, astonished at his instant percipience, convinced in that moment of his profound genius. She had no place in his company. Her mind moved in a slow crawl at the best of times, especially in the early morning before she’d drawn alive the coal of her first smoker. Quickness of thought (and there, she’d assumed, must be the reason for his name) was in itself a thing of magic, a subtle sorcery, which she could only view with superstitious awe.
Such lofty opinion could persist only in the realm of mystery, however, and mystery rarely survived familiarity. The High Mage had formally requested that she be temporarily attached to his cadre. Since then, she’d heard plenty of curses from Ben Adaephon Delat, and had come to conclude that his quickness was less sorcerous than quixotic.
Oh, he was indeed brilliant. He was also in the habit of muttering to himself in a host of entirely distinct voices, and playing with dolls and lengths of string. And as for the company he kept…
She pulled fiercely on her smoker, watching a figure approach-walking like a drunk, his ill-fitting, cheap clothing caked in dust. Bottle’s strangely childlike face looked swollen, almost dissolute.
Here we go. Yet another incomprehensible conversation between them. And oh, he doesn’t like me being there for it, either. That makes two of us.
‘Is he breathing?’ the Malazan soldier asked as he halted in front of the tent.
She glanced at the drawn flap to her left. ‘He sent me out,’ she said.
‘He’ll want to see me.’
‘He wants to know how Fiddler fared.’
Bottle grimaced, looked away briefly, then back down to her, seeming to study her. ‘You’ve got sensitivity, Atri-Ceda. A draught of rum will soothe your nerves.’
‘I’ve already had one.’
He nodded, as if unsurprised. ‘Fiddler’s still losing what’s left of his supper. He’ll need a new tent.’
‘But he’s not even a mage.’
‘No, he isn’t.’
She fixed her eyes on him. ‘Are all you Malazans this cagey?’
He smiled. ‘And we’re getting worse, Atri-Ceda.’
‘Why is that?’
The smile dropped away, like it never really fitted in the first place. ‘It’s simple enough. The less we know, the less we say. Pretty soon, I expect, we’ll be an army of mutes.’
I can’t wait. Sighing, she flicked away the smoker, slowly rose.
The stars were returning to the sky in the northeast. At least that was something. But someone’s out there. Holding a weapon… gods, such a weapon! ‘Errant’s bouncing eye,’ she said, ‘he’s the High Mage. He can’t hide for ever.’
Bottle’s eyes were wide on her. ‘Never heard that curse before,’ he said.
‘I just made it up.’
‘Seems oddly irreverent coming from a Letherii. I’m slightly shocked, in fact.’
‘It’s all your bad habits, I suppose.’ She stepped to the tent-flap and rapped the hide with her knuckles. ‘We’re coming in.’
‘Fine!’ came the snapped reply.
The cramped interior was steamy, as scented candles flickered from the floor in a circle surrounding a crosslegged Quick Ben. The High Mage dripped with sweat. ‘Bastard’s reaching out to me,’ he said, voice grating. ‘Do I want a conversation? No, I do not. What’s to say? Anomander killed Hood, Dassem killed Anomander, Brood shattered Dragnipur, and now Draconus walks free. Burn trembles, the Gate of Starvald Demelain rages with fire, and cruel twisted warrens the like of which we’ve never before seen now lie in wait-when will they awaken? What will they deliver?
‘And there’s more. Do you realize that? There’s more-stop staring, just listen. Who brokered the whole damned mess? Bottle?’
‘Sorry, I was listening, not thinking. How should I know? No, wait-’
‘Aye. Shadowthrone and Cotillion. Does the Adjunct really believe she chooses her own path? Our path? She’s been driving us hard, ever since we landed-sure, it’s all a matter of logistics. It’s not like the Akryn traders are happily handing over everything they have, is it? It’s not like things won’t get worse the further east we march-the Wastelands are well named.’
‘Quick Ben-’
‘Of course I’m babbling! Listen! There are T’lan Imass out there!’ His wild gaze fixed with sudden intensity on Aranict. ‘The dust will dance! Who commands them? What do they want? Do you know what I want to do with that dirt? I want to throw it away. Who wants to know? Not me!’
‘The T’lan Imass,’ said Bottle, ‘knelt to the Emperor. He took the First Throne and never relinquished it.’
‘Exactly!’
‘We’re being set up. We need to speak with Tavore. Now.’
But the High Mage was shaking his head. ‘It’s no use. She’s made up her mind.’
‘About what?’ Bottle demanded, his voice rising.
‘She thinks she can cheat them. Did you know she was the pre-eminent scholar of the lives of Kellanved, Dancer and Dassem? You didn’t, did you? Before she was made Adjunct. Even before she inherited command of House Paran. A student of war-imperial war. The Conquests-not just tactics on the field, but the motivations of the Emperor and his mad cohorts. The lives of them all. Crust, Toc the Elder, Urko, Ameron, Admiral Nok, Surly, even Tayschrenn-why do you think she keeps Banaschar around? That drunk fool is her potential emissary should Tayschrenn finally decide to do something.’
But Bottle was clearly stuck at Quick Ben’s first revelation. ‘Cheat them? Cheat the Lords of Shadow? Cheat them of what?’
Quick Ben’s bared teeth glimmered like gold in the flickering candlelight. ‘I dare not say.’
‘You don’t trust us to keep our mouths shut?’
‘No. Why would I?’ He pointed a long finger at Bottle. ‘You’d be the first one running for the hills.’
‘If it’s that bad, why are you still here?’
‘Because Draconus changes everything, and I’m the only one who can stand against him.’
Bottle gaped, and then a thin word creaked out: ‘You?’
‘But don’t think for a moment that I’m doing it for Shadowthrone and Cotillion. And don’t think I’m even doing this for the Adjunct. All that time inside Dragnipur-it’s changed him. He was never so subtle before-imagine, a gentle invitation to converse-does he think we’re idiots? But wait’-and he waved his hands-‘it’d only be subtle if it wasn’t so obvious! Why didn’t we think of that?’
‘Because it makes no sense, you damned fool!’
But the High Mage did not react to Bottle’s outburst. ‘No, he really wants to talk! Now that’s subtle for you! Well, we can match that, can’t we? Talk? Not a chance! No, and let’s see what he makes of it, let’s just see!’
Aranict ran both hands through the thick hair on her scalp, and then rummaged in her belt-bag for a smoker. She crouched and snatched up one of Quick Ben’s candles. As she was lighting up she happened to glance across at the High Mage and saw him staring, his expression frozen.
Bottle grunted a laugh. ‘She ain’t so shy any more, is she? Good. Now we’ll find out the real Atri-Ceda. Just like Brys wanted.’
Behind a veil of swirling smoke, Aranict’s gaze narrowed on Quick Ben. She slowly returned the candle to its pool of melted wax on the hide floor. Brys? Is that what all this is about?
The High Mage shot Bottle a disdainful look. ‘It’s ignorance, not bravado.’
‘Bravado usually is ignorance,’ Bottle snapped back.
‘I’ll grant you that,’ Quick Ben conceded. ‘And you’re right,’ he added, sighing, ‘we could do with a little more of the unflappable around here.’
Aranict snorted. ‘Unflappable? You’re not describing me.’
‘Maybe not,’ the High Mage replied, ‘but you manage a convincing pose. That candle you took from the circle of protection-you opened a pathway to Draconus. He sensed it immediately. And yet-’
‘He didn’t use it,’ Bottle said.
‘He didn’t use it.’
‘Subtle.’
‘Ha ha, Bottle, but you’re more right than you know. The point is, she made us address that so fiercely burning question, didn’t she?’
‘Unknowingly.’
Quick Ben glanced up at her, curious, thoughtful.
Aranict shrugged. ‘I needed the flame.’
The reply seemed to please them both, in rather different ways. She decided to leave it at that. What point was there in explaining that she’d no idea what they’d been talking about. All those names Quick Ben mentioned-even Draconus-they meant nothing to her. Well, almost nothing. Draconus. He is the one who arrived in darkness, who made a gate that stole half the sky, who holds in his hand a weapon of darkness and cold, of blackest ice.
And Quick Ben means to stand in his path.
Errant’s mangled nuts, I only joined because I’m lusting after Brys Beddict. Me and a thousand other women.
Quick Ben said, ‘Atri-Ceda, your commander, Brys-’
She started guiltily. Had he read her thoughts?
‘He died once, didn’t he?’
‘What? Yes, so it is said. I mean, yes, he did.’
The High Mage nodded. ‘Best go see him, then-he may have need of you right now.’
‘Me? Why?’
‘Because Hood is gone,’ said Bottle.
‘What does that mean to Commander Beddict?’ she asked.
She saw Bottle meet Quick Ben’s eyes, and then the soldier nodded and said, ‘The dead never quite come back all the way, Aranict. Not while there was a god of death. It may be that Brys is now… awakened. To everything he once was. He will have things to say to his Atri-Ceda.’
‘We’ll see you again,’ Quick Ben added. ‘Or not.’
They dismiss me. Oh well. She turned and exited the tent. Paused in the sultry darkness of the camp. Drew deep on her smoker, and then set out for the distant Letherii encampment.
Brys wants me. What a lovely thought.
Smiles threw herself down by the fire. ‘Stupid patrols,’ she said. ‘There’s no one out there. Those Akryn traders-all creaking old or snot-nosed runts.’ She glanced at the others sitting round the hearth. ‘See that village we passed yesterday? Looked half empty.’
‘No warriors,’ said Cuttle. ‘All off fighting the White Faces. The Akryn can’t maintain control of this Kryn Free Trade right now, which also explains all those D’ras traders coming up from the south.’
Tarr grunted. ‘Heard from some outriders about a Barghast camp they came on-site of a big battle, and looks like the White Faces got bloodied. Might be they’re on the run just like the Akryn are saying.’
‘Hard to believe that,’ Cuttle countered. ‘I’ve fought Barghast and it’s no fun at all, and the White Faces are said to be the toughest of the lot.’
Smiles unstrapped her helm and pulled it off. ‘Where’s Koryk then?’ she asked.
‘Wandered off,’ Tarr answered, tossing another dung chip on to the fire. ‘Again,’ he added.
Smiles hissed. ‘That fever, it marked him. In the head.’
‘Just needs a good scrap,’ Cuttle ventured. ‘That’ll settle him right enough.’
‘Could be a long wait,’ Tarr said. ‘We’ve got weeks and weeks of travel ahead of us, through mostly empty territory. Aye, we’re covering ground awfully fast, but once we’re done with the territories of these plains tribes, it’ll be the Wastelands. No one can even agree how far across it is, or what’s on the other end.’ He shrugged. ‘An army’s deadliest enemy is boredom, and we’re under siege these days.’
‘Corabb not back yet?’ Smiles shook her head. ‘He had two heavies with him on the round. They might’ve got lost.’
‘Someone will find ’em,’ Cuttle said, climbing to his feet. ‘I’ll check in on the sergeant again.’
Smiles watched him step out of the firelight. She sighed. ‘Ain’t had me a knife fight in months. That stay in Letheras made us soft, and them barges was even worse.’ She stretched her boots closer to the fire. ‘I don’t mind the marching, now the blisters are gone. At least we’re squads again.’
‘We need us a new scam,’ Tarr said. ‘You see any scorpions?’
‘Sure, plenty,’ Smile replied, ‘but only two kinds. The little nasty ones and the big black ones. Besides, we try that again and people will get suspicious-even if we could find a good cheat.’ She mulled on the notion for a time, and then shook her head. ‘It’s no good, Tarr. The mood’s all wrong.’
He squinted across at her. ‘Sharp. You’re right. It’s like we’re past all that, and it’ll never come again. Amazing, that I should feel nostalgic about Seven Cities and that miserable, useless march. We were raw, aye, but what we were trying to do, it made sense. That’s the difference. It made sense.’
Smiles snorted. ‘Hood’s breath, Tarr.’
‘What?’
‘Cuttle’s right. None of it made sense. Never did, never will. Look at us. We march around and cut up other people, and they do the same to us-if they can. Look at Lether-aye, it’s now got a decent King and people can breathe easy and go about their lives-but what’s in those lives? Scraping for the next bag of coins, the next meal. Scrubbing bowls, praying to the damned gods for the next catch and calm seas. It ain’t for nothing, Tarr, and that’s the truth. It ain’t for nothing.’
‘That fishing village you come from was a real hole, wasn’t it?’
‘Leave it.’
‘I didn’t bring it up, soldier. You did.’
‘It was no different from anywhere else, that’s my point. I bet you wasn’t sorry to get out from wherever you come from, either. If it was all you wanted, you wouldn’t be here, would you?’
‘Some people don’t go through their lives searching, Smiles. I’m not looking, because I’m not expecting to find anything. You want meaning? Make it up. You want truth? Invent it. Makes no difference, to anything. Sun comes up, sun goes down. We see one, maybe we don’t see the other, but the sun doesn’t care, does it?’
‘Right,’ she said, ‘so we’re in agreement.’
‘Not quite. I’m not saying it’s not worth it. I’m saying the opposite. You make worlds, worlds inside your head and worlds outside, but only the one inside counts for anything. It’s where you find peace, acceptance. Worth. You, you’re just talking about everything being useless. Starting with yourself. That’s a bad attitude, Smiles. Worse than Cuttle’s.’
‘Where are we marching to, then?’
‘Fate’s got a face, and we’re going to meet it eye to eye. The rest I don’t care about.’
‘So you’ll follow the Adjunct. Anywhere. Like a dog on a master’s heel.’
‘Why not? It’s all the same to me.’
‘I don’t get you.’
‘There’s nothing to get. I’m a soldier and so are you. What more do you want?’
‘I want a damned war!’
‘It’s coming.’
‘What makes you so sure of that?’
‘Because we’re an army on the march. If the Adjunct didn’t need an army, she’d have dissolved the whole thing in Lether.’
‘Maybe, maybe not.’
‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘I mean, maybe she’s just selfish.’
The dung burned down to layered glowing chips. Moths spun round the licking flames. Silence descended on the two soldiers, who had nothing more to say to each other. At least for this night.
Cuttle found his sergeant lying on the floor. A jug of rum lay on its side close by. The confined space reeked of puke with the rum’s heady layer settling on it like sweet sap.
‘Dammit, Fid, that won’t help your gut.’
‘I ain’t got a gut no more,’ Fiddler replied in a slur. ‘I tossed it up a bell ago.’
‘Come the morning, your skull’s gonna crack open.’
‘Too late. Go ’way, Cu’ll.’
The sapper drew one edge of the cot closer and settled down. ‘Who was it, then?’
‘Iz all changed, Cu’ll. Iz all goin’ bad.’
‘That’s news to me? Listen, this fast march-I’ve already worn out one pair of boots-but it’s got to tell you something. The Adjunct, she’s got a nose-she can sniff things out better than you, I think. Ever since the barges, we’ve been damned near on the run. And even before what happened tonight, you’ve been a haunted man.’ He rubbed at the bristle on his cheeks. ‘I’ll follow you, Fid, you know that. I’ve got your back, always.’
‘Don’ mind me, Cu’ll. It’s the young ones, y’got to guard their backs, not mine.’
‘You’re seeing a lot of dead faces, aren’t you?’
‘I ain’t no seer.’
Cuttle grunted. ‘It’s a precious day, you ain’t talking it up. Squad’s the thing, you keep tellin’ ’em. The soldier at your side, the one whose sweat stink you smell every damned day. We’re family, you say. Sergeant, you’re making us nervous.’
Fiddler slowly sat up, clutched at his head. ‘Fishing,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘There’s a demon in the deep. Sly eyes… watchin’ the bait, y’see? Jus’ watchin. Quick Ben, he’s got to show himself. Finally. We need ’em, we need ’em all.’
‘Fid, you’re drunk.’
‘Darkness’ got an edge. Sharp, the blackest ice-cold like you never imagined. You don’t get it. Here we was, all yippin’ and dancin’, but now the biggest wolf of all has returned. Games are over, Cuttle.’
‘What about the Adjunct? Fiddler?’
He looked up with red, bleary eyes. ‘She don’t stand a chance. Gods below, not a chance.’
‘Is that the camp? It’s got to be.’ Corabb looked at his companions. Three blank faces stared back at him. ‘It’s all lit up, too big for a caravanserai. Let’s go.’
He led the way down the grassy slope, waving as a cloud of midges rose to engulf them. ‘We should never have followed that rabbit-this is no place to get lost in, didn’t I say that? The land rolls too much. You could hide whole armies in these valleys.’
‘Maybe that’s what they did,’ Saltlick said. ‘Hey, Corabb, did you think of that? They’s playing a trick on us.’
‘The whole Bonehunter army? That’s stupid.’
‘It was a big rabbit,’ said Drawfirst.
‘It wasn’t a rabbit at all,’ Saltlick insisted. ‘It was a wolf. Rabbits ain’t got glowing eyes and a bloody muzzle and they don’t snarl neither.’
‘It got a bloody muzzle biting you,’ Drawfirst pointed out.
‘Passed right by me-who wouldn’t jump on it being so close? It’s dark out here, you know. But I jumped on rabbits before, and that was no rabbit.’
‘Beasts are different here,’ Drawfirst said. ‘We keep hearing howling, but that could be rabbits, how do we know? Did you see those lizard hides them D’ras was selling? Those lizards was even bigger than the ones we saw from the barge. Those lizards could eat a horse.’
‘That’s how they catch ’em down south, that’s what the trader said. They stick a big hook through a horse and throw it in the river-’
‘That won’t work unless you tie a rope to the hook.’
‘He didn’t mention that, but it makes sense.’
They were drawing closer to the sea of campfires-well, Corabb amended, maybe not a sea. More like a big lake. But an awfully big lake. He glanced over at Flashwit, who wasn’t saying much, but then she rarely did. All she did was smile and wasn’t it a lovely smile? It was.
‘If we hooked a rabbit,’ said Saltlick, ‘we could catch wolves.’
‘Hook a horse and we’d get an even bigger wolf, I bet.’
‘We got horses, too. That’s an idea, Drawfirst, it surely is. Hey, Corabb, we’re gonna jump the next big lizard we see. For its skin. You want in?’
‘No.’
A distant howl sounded, drifting mournfully through the night.
‘Hear that?’ Saltlick asked. ‘More rabbits-keep an eye out, Drawfirst. You too, Flashwit.’
‘That sounded more like a hooked horse,’ Drawfirst muttered.
Corabb halted. ‘Cut it out, all of you. I’m Fid’s heavy, right? I stand just like you do.’ He pointed at Flashwit. ‘Don’t even think of winking. I spent half my life making mistakes about people, and I vowed I’d never do that again. So I keep my peace, but I pay attention, right? I’m a heavy, too. So stop it.’
‘We was jus’ havin’ fun, Corabb,’ Saltlick said. ‘You could always join in.’
‘I don’t believe in funny things. Now, come on, we done enough walking.’
They walked a further twenty paces before a sentry in the gloom ahead barked something-in Letherii. ‘Hood’s breath,’ hissed Corabb. ‘We done found the other army.’
‘Nobody can hide from the Bonehunters,’ intoned Drawfirst.
Koryk stood in darkness, a hundred paces out from the nearest picket. He had a memory that might be real or invented-he could not be certain. A dozen youths commandeered to dig a latrine trench for some garrison troop out on manoeuvres. Seti and Seti half-bloods, back when they were young enough to see no difference between the two, no reason yet for contempt, envy and all the rest.
He’d been one of the runts, and so his friends set him against a boulder at the far end of the pit, where he could strain and sweat and fail. Blistered hands struggling with the oversized pick, he had worked the whole morning trying to dislodge that damned boulder-with the others looking over every now and then with jeers and laughter.
Failure wasn’t a pleasant notion. It stung. It burned like acid. On that day, he now believed, young Koryk had decided he would never again accept failure. He’d dislodged that boulder in the end, with dusk fast coming on, the other boys long gone and that troop of riders-their little exercise in independence done-riding off in a cloud that hung like a god’s mocking breath of gold dust.
That rock had been firmly lodged in place. It had hidden a cache of coins. As twilight crept in, he found himself on his knees at one end of the trench, with a vast treasure cupped in his hands. Mostly silver, a few tiny gold clips, not one recognizable to Koryk’s pathetically limited experience-this was a spirit hoard, straight out from Seti legends. ‘Under any stone, lad… ’ Yes, the whores who’d raised him had plenty of tales. Could be the whole memory was just one of those tales. A pathetic story, but…
He’d found a treasure, that was the meaning of it. Something precious, wonderful, rare.
And what did he do with his spirit hoard?
Squandered it. Every last fucking coin. Gone, and what was left to show for it?
Whores are warm to the touch, but they hide their souls inside a cold keep. It’s when you surrender to that world that you know you are truly lost, you are finally… alone.
It’s all cold to the touch these days. Everything. And now I spend the rest of my years blaming every damned coin.
But nobody’s fooled. Except me. Always me. Forever me.
He longed to draw his sword, to vanish into the mad mayhem of battle. He could then cut in two every face on every coin, howling that it made a difference, that a life wasn’t empty if it was filled with detritus. He could scream and curse and see not a single friend-only enemies. Justifying every slice, every lash of blood. At the very least, he vowed, he’d be the last one standing.
Smiles said the fever had scarred him. Perhaps it had. Perhaps it would from now on. It had done one thing for certain: it had shown him the truth of solitude. And that truth was seared into his soul. He listened to Fiddler going on and on about this so-called family of companions, and he believed none of it. Betrayals stalked the future-he felt it in his bones. There was coming a time when everything would cut clear, and he could stand before them all and speak aloud the fullest measure of his distrust. We are each of us alone. We always were. I am done with all your lies. Now, save yourselves. As I intend to do for myself.
He wasn’t interested in any last stands. The Adjunct asked for faith, loyalty. She asked for honesty, no matter how brutal, how incriminating. She asked for too much. Besides, she gave them nothing in return, did she?
Koryk stood, facing the empty land in the empty night, and contemplated deserting.
Everything they gave me was a lie, a betrayal. It was the spirit hoard, you see. Those coins. Someone put them there to lure me in, to trap me. They poisoned me-not my fault, how could it be?
‘Look at him under that boulder! Careful, Koryk, playing under there will get you crushed!’
Too late. It was all those fucking coins that did me in. You can’t fill a boy’s hands like that. You just can’t.
It was a memory. Maybe real, maybe not.
The whores, they just wink.
Skanarow’s lithe form rippled with shadows as someone outside the tent walked past bearing a lantern. The light coming through the canvas was cool, giving her sleeping form a deathly hue. Chilled by the vision, Ruthan Gudd looked away. He sat up, moving slowly to keep her from waking.
The sweat that had sheathed him earlier was drying on his skin.
He had no interest in revisiting the cause of his extremity-it wasn’t the love-making, Hood knew. As pleasing as she was-with that sudden smile of hers that could melt mountains of ice-Skanarow didn’t have it in her to send his heart thundering the way it had not long ago. She could delight, she could steal him away from his thoughts, his memories of a grim and eventful life; she could, in bright, stunning flashes, give him back his life.
But this night darkness had opened its flower, with a scent that could freeze a god’s soul. Still alive, Greymane? Did you feel it? I think, your bones could be rotting in the ground right now, old friend, and still you’d have felt it.
Draconus.
Fuck.
He combed through the damp snarl of his beard.
The world shook. Balls of fire descending, the terrible light filling the sky. Fists hammering the world.
Wish I’d seen it.
But he remembered the Azath’s deathcry. He remembered the gnarled trees engulfed in pillars of flames, the bitter heat of the soil he’d clawed through. He remembered staggering free beneath a crazed sky of lurid smoke, lightning and a deluge of ashes. He remembered his first thought, riding that breath of impossible freedom.
Jacuruku, you’ve changed.
One found loyalty under the strangest circumstances. Penitence and gratitude, arms entwined, a moment’s lustful exultation mistaken for worship. His gaze flicked back to Skanarow. The shadows and ill hue were gone. She slept, beauty in repose. Innocence was so precious. But do not think of me with love, woman. Do not force upon me a moment of confession, the truth of foolish vows uttered a lifetime ago.
Let us play this game of blissful oblivion a little while longer.
‘It’s better this way, Draconus.’
‘This is Kallor’s empire, friend. Will you not reconsider?’
Reconsider. Yes, there is that. ‘The shore seems welcoming enough. If I mind my own business…’
He’d smiled at that.
And I smiled back.
Draconus returned to that continent-I felt his footfalls, there inside my seemingly eternal prison. He returned to see for himself the madness of Kallor.
You were right, Draconus. I should have minded my own business. For once.
Can you hear me now? Draconus? Are you listening?
I have reconsidered. At long last. And so I give you this. Find me, and one of us will die.
‘It’s the swirl in the dog’s fur.’
Balm stared. ‘What?’
Widdershins scowled. ‘You want this divination or not?’
‘I ain’t so sure no more.’
The mage stared down at the mangy creature he held by the scruff of the neck, and then snarled and sent it winging through the air.
Deadsmell and Balm and Throatslitter watched the thing twist smartly in the air and manage in the last possible instant to land splayed out wide on its four paws, whereupon with a flick of its bushy tail it bolted, vanishing into the night.
‘Just like a damned cat,’ Throatslitter said.
‘Wasn’t even a dog,’ Deadsmell said.
Widdershins threw up a hand in dismissal. ‘Dog, fox, what’s the difference? Now I’ll need to find something else.’
‘How about a sheepskin?’ Balm asked.
‘Is a sheepskin alive? No. Won’t work. Needs to be breathing.’
‘Because breathing fluffs the swirls,’ Balm said, nodding. ‘I get it.’
Widdershins cast a helpless look upon Deadsmell, who shrugged and then said, ‘This whole thing’s a waste of time anyway. Every seer and diviner in the whole damned world’s got scrambled brains right now.’ He gingerly touched his own neck. ‘I swear I felt that sword’s bite. What was Hood thinking? It’s insane. The whole thing-’
‘Never mind Hood,’ snapped Widdershins. ‘Wasn’t him made me wet my trousers.’
Balm stared with huge eyes. ‘Did you really? Gods below.’
Throatslitter burst out a sudden, piping laugh. Then ducked. ‘Sorry. Just… well, never mind.’
Widdershins spat on the ground. ‘None of this is funny, Throatslitter. You don’t get it. That… that thing. It didn’t show up on the other side of the world. It showed up here.’
Balm started, looked round. ‘Where? Get me my armour-who-what-’
‘Relax, Sergeant,’ Deadsmell said. ‘He didn’t mean “here” as in right here. He meant it as… Wid, what did you mean, exactly?’
‘What’s with the jokes? You’re as bad as Throatslitter. I don’t know why I’m talking to any of you.’
‘We wanted a divination,’ said Throatslitter. ‘I’m changing my mind. It was a stupid idea. You think Fid’s playing with the Deck right now? Not a chance. Forget it, I’m going to bed. Not that I’ll get any sleep. In fact-’
Balm stepped up and punched Widdershins. The man fell in a heap.
Throatslitter yelped again. ‘Sergeant! What did you do that for?’
Frowning, Balm rubbed at his knuckles. ‘He said he wasn’t gonna get any sleep. He’s asleep now. You two, drag him to his tent. It’s time to take charge of things and that’s what I’m doing. Once you get him tucked in, why, we can go find Ebron. We’ll get a divination tonight if it kills us.’
‘I need more corporals,’ Hellian announced to the night sky. She’d been sitting by the hearth, staring into the flames. But now she was on her back, beneath spinning stars. The world could change in an instant. Who decided things like that? ‘One ain’t enough. Ballsgird, you’re now a corporal. You too, Probbly.’
‘It’s Maybe.’
‘No, I made up my mind.’
‘And Balgrid.’
‘Tha’s what I said. As soon as the earthquake’s over, we’ll get right on it. Who am I missing? How many in my squad? Four of ya, right? That last one, he’s a corporal now, too. I want four corporals, t’take my orders.’
‘What orders?’
‘The ones I come up with. Firs’ off, you’re all my bodyguards-I’m done with Skulldumb-keep him away from me.’
‘He’s convinced you’re royalty, Sergeant.’
‘An’ I am, Iffy, so you got to do what I say. Where my ’riginal corporal? Touchy Breath? You here?’
‘Aye, Sergeant.’
‘Yes, Sergeant.’
‘I can’t be looking at this mess any longer. Take me to my tent-no, quit that, don’t help me up, you idiots. Take my feet. Nice an’ slow now-ow, who put rocks under me? Corperl Marble, clear them rocks, will ya? Gods, where’s my tent? Letheras?’
‘We’re looking, Sergeant-didn’t you put it up?’
‘Me? You’re my corperl, that was your job.’
‘Hold on, Sergeant. Just rest here-we’re on it.’
‘So I should think. Derliction of duty. Gi’me a wax and a stick, someone, got to write you up. I’m bustin’ you down, to… to, uh, undercorperl. What’s that pounding?’
‘Putting the stakes down, Sergeant. Not long now.’
‘Hey! Look at those green things! In the sky! Who put those there-get rid of ’em!’
‘Wish I could, Sergeant.’
‘You’re now an unnerunnercorperl-for disobeying unners. Orners. Oars. Udders. Hold on.’ She rolled on to her side and was sick, but in a lazy way. ‘Orders. Hah. Hey, where you dragging me to? I wasn’t done there. Something’s in the sky-I saw it-cut right across those greens. Saw it, corperls, you lissinin’? Big wings-I saw… oh, whatever. Someone’s in turble, but it ain’t me. Check that tent now-no spiders allowed-stupid stars, how’d they get in here?’
Gesler brought the lantern close. ‘Look at that, will you? One of Bottle’s rats did that, I bet. Chewed right through the Hood-damned strap. If I catch ’im, I’m going to twist his tiny head right off.’
‘The rat or Bottle?’ Stormy asked.
‘Either. Both. I knew it was hanging funny, down on one shoulder-’
‘Aye,’ Stormy said, ‘you looked ridiculous. Lopsided. Like some green recruit ain’t figured out how to wear the slingwork.’
Gesler glared across at his corporal. ‘And you didn’t say nothing all day-some friend you are. What if I got snot smeared across half my face-you just going to stand there?’
‘Count on it,’ Stormy said, ‘assuming I can keep a straight face.’
‘Next time I see you with bark-hair hanging from your back end, I ain’t saying a thing.’
‘Pays to check twice-I learned that much. Think we should go find Flashwit? She’s way overdue.’
‘Send Mayfly and Shortnose.’
‘You can’t be serious.’
Gesler paused in his tugging loose the chewed-through strap. ‘Huh. Right. Off you go, then.’
‘Sure you don’t need any help there?’
‘Naw, you done too much already.’
‘That’s just it-I’m all wore out, Ges. I’m too old to march the way we’re marching right now. I’ll be walking on stumpy knees if this goes on much longer.’
‘Thus matching your intellectual height. Know what your problem is, Stormy? You’ve gone all edgy.’
The huge Falari snorted. ‘Ges, we just saw a hundred or so squad mages fall out of line, leaking every which way, eyes rolling up inside their skulls, kicking and gagging. And our scary High Mage reeled like a damned drunk and nearly brained himself on a wagon’s edge. Fid lost his last five meals.’
‘None of that’s got anything to do with you going round saying someone’s spyin’ on us, Stormy.’
‘I’m just telling you what I’m feeling, that’s all. Like an itch between my shoulder-blades, you know the kind. And it’s only got worse since whatever happened… happened.’
‘Fid said you’re just imagining things-’
‘No he didn’t. He didn’t say anything-he wouldn’t even meet my eyes-you were there, you saw.’
‘Well, maybe he didn’t say anything, but then, he didn’t have to.’
‘I been having strange dreams, Ges.’
‘So?’
‘Stuff falling out of the sky. I look up and I’m right under it and there’s no way to escape. Can’t run far enough or fast enough, can’t do anything, except watch it come down on me.’ He leaned forward and slapped his hand on the ground, making Gesler jump. ‘Like that. You’d think I’d wake up then. But I don’t. I just lie there, crushed, feeling all that weight. Can’t move a muscle, can’t even breathe.’
Gesler tossed down his hauberk and harness. ‘Stand up, Stormy, you’re coming with me.’
‘Where?’
‘Walk, Corporal, it’s an order.’
Gesler led Stormy through the camp, passing cookfires with their huddled, muttering circles of soldiers. They threaded through the cutters’ station, where weary healers worked on soldiers suffering blistered feet, ankle sprains and whatnot, and then out past the first of the horse corrals. Ahead was a trio of laden wagons, an oversized carriage, and fifteen or so tents.
Gesler called out as they approached. ‘Hedge?’
A figure came round one end of the carriage and walked over. ‘Gesler? You deserting the Bonehunters? Come to join the Bridgeburners? Smart lads-the legend’s right here and nowhere else. I got these soldiers stepping smart, but they could do with your learnin’ and that’s a fact.’
‘Enough of the rubbish,’ Gesler said. ‘Where’s your two beauties?’
‘Aw, Gesler, they’re beat, honest-’
‘Wake ’em up, both of them. Stormy here’s got a need.’
‘You got a need, you mean-’
‘No, both of them for him. By the time I come to collect my corporal, I want this man’s rope so stretched it’s tangled round his ankles. I want to see bludgeoned bliss in his tiny blue eyes and curly black hairs in his beard. Tell the lovelies I’ll pay triple the going rate.’
‘Fine, only you got to consider what I said. About deserting, I mean.’
‘Capital offence, Hedge.’
‘Unofficial transfer, then.’
‘Keneb would never allow it.’
‘Fine, then just march with my squads for a week or so, alongside like, right? Give ’em advice and stuff-’
‘Advice?’ Gesler snorted. ‘Like what? “Don’t die, soldiers.” “First hint of trouble, strap on and belt up.” “Your weapon’s the thing strapped to your web.” How’s that?’
‘That’s perfect!’
‘Hedge, what in Hood’s name are you doing here?’
The sapper glanced round, and then grasped Stormy by an arm. ‘See those tents, those big ones there? Go on, Corporal, tell the lasses it’s a special order.’
Stormy scowled across at Gesler, who scowled back.
‘I never rolled with real fat women before-’
‘Nothing like it,’ Hedge said. ‘Get one under ya and one over ya and it’s all pillows. Go on, Stormy, me and Ges got to talk.’
‘Pillows, huh?’
‘Aye. Nice warm pillows. Step smartly now, Corporal. There you go.’
As the Falari trundled off, Hedge looked round suspiciously once more, and then gestured for Gesler to follow.
‘Bottle’s using bats,’ Hedge muttered as they walked away from the firelight. ‘Almost skewered one of his rats, y’see, so now he’s gone more cagey.’
‘What’re you up to that’s got him so curious, Hedge?’
‘Nothing. Honest.’
‘Gods below, you’re a bad liar.’
‘Just comes from being a legend, Ges, all that fawning and spying. Y’get used to it, so the precautions, they come natural now. All right, this will do.’
They had walked a dozen or so paces past the ornate carriage, out beyond the faint glows from the fires, and then Hedge had led him into a circle of low stones which Gesler assumed was an old tipi ring. They now stood within it.
‘Bottle could use anything out here, Hedge-’
‘No he can’t. I got my company mage to seal this circle. We do this every night, for our staff meetings.’
‘Your what?’
‘Me, my sergeants, corporals and Bavedict. Daily reports, right? To stay on top of things.’
‘What things?’
‘Things. Now, listen, you heard anything yet about what happened earlier?’
Gesler shrugged. ‘Some. There was a gate and someone came through it. Someone stinking with power.’
Hedge was nodding and then he changed it to shaking his head. ‘That’s nothing-so some nasty’s shown up-that means he’s here, in the real world. Anyone here in the real world can die from a damned rotten tooth, or a knife, or whatever. I ain’t shaking in my boots, and if I have to, I’ll kiss a quarrel’s point and whisper the fool’s name. A bolt in the eye can fuck up even a god’s day. No, what really matters is what happened before he showed up.’
‘Go on.’
‘It’s Hood.’
‘What about him? Oh, right, you and he are best friends these days-or bitter enemies-how does he take you coming back, anyway?’
‘Probably not well, but it don’t matter any more. I won.’
‘You won what?’
‘I won! The Harrower’s gone and gotten killed! The God of Death is dead! Head chopped right off! A carcass but no grin, a bouncer down the hill, a roll and wobble and blink, a mouth mover, a hat stand-’
‘Hold on, Hedge! What-who-but that doesn’t make sense! How-’
‘I don’t know and I don’t care! Details? Squat and shit on ’em! Hood’s dead! Gone!’
‘But then, who’s taking the Throne?’
‘Nobody and everybody!’
Gesler’s right hand twitched. Gods, how he wanted to punch this grinning fool! But that nose had seen a few dozen breaks already-he doubted Hedge would even notice. ‘What,’ he said carefully, ‘do you mean, Hedge?’
‘I mean, there’s a whole crew of ’em. Holding the gate. Nothing’s shaken out yet. It’s all hazy. But one thing I can tell you-and you can ask Fid if you want-he won’t say any different unless he lies to you. One thing, Ges. I can feel them. I can feel him.’
Gesler stared at the man’s glittering eyes. ‘Who?’
‘The Fallen Bridgeburners, Ges. And aye, Whiskeyjack. It’s him-I’d know that sour look anywhere, no matter how dark it is around him. He’s astride a horse. He’s in the Gate, Gesler.’
‘Wait. That’s who stepped through?’
‘Naw, never mind that one. That one ain’t got a thought that ain’t ten thousand years outa touch. Different gate, anyway. I’m talking about Whiskeyjack. Go and die, Ges, and who’d you rather meet at the Gate? Hood or Whiskeyjack?’
‘So why ain’t you cut your own throat, if you’re so excited about it all?’
Hedge frowned. ‘No reason t’get all edgy. I was a sapper, remember. Sappers understand the importance of patience.’
Gesler choked back a laugh. From the tents someone squealed. He couldn’t tell who.
‘Laugh all you want. You’ll be thankful enough when it’s your head rolling up to that gate.’
‘I thought you hated worshipping anyone, Hedge.’
‘This is different.’
‘If you say so. Now, anything else you wanted to tell me about?’
‘Nothing you’d care about either way. You can hand over the coins now, though. Triple the going rate, right? Dig it out, Ges, it’s getting late.’
Commander Brys threw on his cloak and fastened the breast clasp. ‘I walk through camp before settling in, Atri-Ceda. Join me, if you please.’
‘Honoured, my Prince.’
He stepped out of the command tent and she followed. They set out for the nearest row of legionaries’ tents. ‘That title just won’t sit comfortably, Atri-Ceda,’ he said after a moment. ‘ “Commander” or “sir” will do. In fact, when it’s just the two of us, “Brys” ’.
She wondered if he caught her faint gasp, or noted the momentary wobble in her knees as she moved up alongside him.
‘Assuming,’ he continued, ‘you will permit me to call you Aranict.’
‘Of course, sir.’ She hesitated, could feel him waiting, and then said, ‘Brys.’ A wave of lightheadedness followed, as if she’d quaffed a tumbler of brandy. Her mind spun wildly for a moment and she drew a deep breath to calm herself.
This was ridiculous. Embarrassing. Infuriating. She itched to light a smoker, but that would likely breach protocol.
‘At ease, Aranict.’
‘Sir?’
‘Relax. Please-you’re starting to make me jumpy. I don’t bite.’
Try the right nipple. Oh gods, shut up, woman. ‘Sorry.’
‘I was hoping your stay with the Malazan High Mage might have calmed you some.’
‘Oh, it has, sir. I mean, I’m better.’
‘No more fainting?’
‘No. Well, almost once.’
‘What happened?’
‘At day’s end, I made the mistake of being in his tent when he pulled off his boots.’
‘Ah.’ And then he shot her a startled look, his face lighting in a sudden smile. ‘Remind me to send you out before I do the same.’
‘Oh, sir, I’m sure you don’t-uh, that is, it’s not the same-’
But he was laughing. She saw soldiers round campfires turn, looking over at the two of them. She saw a few mutter jests and there were grins and nods. Her face burned hot as coals.
‘Aranict, I assure you, after a day’s fast march as we’ve been experiencing since the landing, my socks could stun a horse. None of us are any different in such matters.’
‘Because you choose to march alongside your soldiers, Brys. When you could ride or even sit in one of the grand carriages, and no one would think ill of you-’
‘You would be wrong in that, Aranict. Oh, they might not seem any different, outwardly, saluting as smartly as ever and all the rest. Certain to follow every order I give, yes. But somewhere deep inside every one of them, there’s a stone of loyalty-when it comes to most of those giving them orders, that stone stays smooth and nothing sticks, it all washes off. And so it would be with me as well, were I to take any other path than the one they happen to be on. But, you see, there may come a time when I must demand of my soldiers something… impossible. If the stone was still smooth-if it did not have my name carved deep into it-I could lose them.’
‘Sir, they would never mutiny-’
‘Not as such. But in asking for the impossible, I would intend that they succeed in achieving it. The impossible is not the same as sending them to their deaths. That I would never do. But if I am to ask more of them than any commander has even the right to ask of his or her soldiers, then I must be with them, and be seen to be with them.
‘Tonight,’ he continued, ‘you must become my Atri-Ceda again for a time, and I your commander. When we speak with our soldiers. When we ask them how they fared on this day. When we endeavour to answer their questions and concerns, as best we can.’ He paused, his steps slowing. They were in a gap of relative darkness between two cookfires. ‘Especially on this night,’ he said, his tone low. ‘They are shaken-word’s come of the affliction striking the Malazan mages.’
‘Yes, Commander. I understand. In fact, High Mage Delat wondered, er, rather, he asked me. About you. Said that you may seem… different now… sir.’
‘And what will you tell him, when next you two meet?’
‘I-I am not sure, sir. I think so. Maybe…’
‘He is a clever man,’ Brys said. ‘This evening, Aranict, I felt as if… well, as if I had awakened, stepped out from a dark, cold place. A place I’d thought was the real world, the honest world-the coldness, I’d thought, was simply what I had never before noticed-before my death and resurrection, I mean. But I understand, now, that the cold and darkness were within me, death’s own touch upon my soul.’
She stared at him, adoring, eyes bright. ‘And it is gone now, sir?’
His returning smile was all the answer she needed.
‘Now, Atri-Ceda, let us speak with our soldiers.’
‘Carving the stone, sir.’
‘Just that.’
No need to worry about mine. I am yours. That stone, it’s all melted, reshaped-Errant save me, it’s got your face now. Oh, and about that biting-
As they stepped into the firelight, Brys chanced to glance across at his Atri-Ceda, and what he saw in her expression-quickly veiled but not quickly enough-almost took his breath away.
Lascivious hunger, a half-smile upon her lips, a fancy snared in the reflecting flames in her eyes. For an instant, he was at a loss for words, and could only smile his greeting as the soldiers turned and voiced their heartfelt welcome.
Aranict. I truly was half-dead inside, to have so thoroughly missed what is now so obvious. The question now is, what am I to do about it? About you?
That look, there was a darkness upon it-not cold as I found in myself-but hot as a burning ember. Is it any wonder I so often see you standing inside swirls of smoke?
Atri-Ceda, what am I to do?
But he knew he would have no answer to that question, not until he knew his own feelings. It all seemed so new, so peculiar, so unfamiliar. All at once-and he felt the shift with a grinding lurch-she was the one standing so self-possessed and content inside her own inner world’s visions-whatever they happened to be-while he stood awkwardly at her side, flustered, dumbstruck.
Ridiculous. Set it aside for later, Brys.
This soldiering business was getting easier, Sunrise decided. Plenty of marching, and marching fast at that, but the soles of his feet had toughened, he’d got his wind back, and even carrying his armour, shield and weapons wasn’t proving so hard any more. They’d even found time for some sword practice. Duck and stab, duck and stab-hold the shield up, soldier! Hold the line-no one breaks in the Bridgeburners. You stand and take the shock and then you step forward. Stand, take, step-it’s like felling a forest, soldiers, tree by tree. Duck and stab!
Couldn’t help but be a bit of a challenge, of course, living up to the legend that was the Bridgeburners, but then they had themselves a real one looking on, all sharp-eyed and stern, and that kept everyone trying and trying hard. High standards, aye, the highest.
The Bridgeburners had singlehandedly won the Blackdog Campaign. Sent the Crimson Guard and the Mott and Genabarii legions reeling in retreat. Kicked in the front gates of a dozen cities from Nathilog to One Eye Cat. And before that, they’d conquered all of Seven Cities. He’d never heard of any of these places but he liked the names. Seven Cities sounded simple and obvious. Place got seven cities? Call it Seven Cities. Straight thinking, that was. And all that Genabackan stuff, well, those names were amazing and exotic. Cities called Pale and Greydog, Tulips and Bulge. And then there were the wonderful beasts in those distant lands. Dragonflies big enough to ride-imagine whizzing through the clouds, looking down on everything! Seeing how beautiful it all was, and then dropping hundreds of bombs on it.
And the Bridgeburners had done all that and, more importantly, they weren’t done yet. More adventures were coming. Glories and heroic defences, monsters in the sky and flooded deserts and ghosts with sharp swords and warriors made of dust. Moranth and Barghast and Tiste Andii and Jaghut tyrants and all the rest.
Sunrise couldn’t wait, couldn’t wait to get to the legendary stuff. It’s what he was meant for, what his whole life was heading towards-as if he’d only been waiting for these foreign soldiers to arrive. To sweep him up and carry him along and now he was one of them. And he knew the others felt the same. We’re Bridgeburners now. They’ll look to us when things get desperate, too desperate for the others to handle. We’ll march forward, shields locked, faces cold and with hearts of iron. We’ll prove we’re worthy of the legend.
Wait and see, just wait and see.
Two women stood well away from the fires, waiting for a third.
There was nothing sure in this. In fact, Sinter reminded herself, it was almost guaranteeing trouble. There wasn’t much sisterhood among the Dal Honese. Scarce any brotherhood either, come to that. Tribes get left behind, and with them ties of the blood, feuds and all the rest. That was how it should be and mostly they held to it, since to do otherwise could rip a company apart. Squad’s the new kin, company’s the tribe, army’s the people-the kingdom, the damned empire. What are you, soldier?
Marine, Fourth Squad, Third Company, Bonehunters, sir.
Not Dal Honese?
No, sir.
Malazan?
No, sir. Bonehunters, sir.
Now, if only she believed all that-there, in that gnarled hard thing at the centre of her being. Step up, aye, and mark it out with all the right attitudes. Diligence, discipline, loyalty. Don’t blink at any damned order given, no matter how stupid or pointless. The tribe lived to keep itself alive, and keeping itself alive meant making sure everything was in order and working the way it should. Made sense to her. And it was worthy enough to believe in, especially when there was nothing else in sight looking any better.
So, she’d wanted to believe. For herself and for her wayward, flighty sister. Steady enough for the both of them, aye. Kisswhere was going to stray-she was like that, it was in her nature. People like her needed understanding kin, the kind of kin who’d step in and clean up and set right what needed setting right. And Sinter had always held to that role. Kisswhere bends, I stand firm. She slips out, I fill the gap. She makes a mess, I clean and set right. She lets people down, I pick them back up.
Sometimes, however, she chafed under the strictures of being ever reliable, solid and practical. Of being so utterly capable. Just once, Kisswhere could take Sinter’s cloak and hold fast, and Sinter could snag her sister’s and go out and play. Stealing husbands, jilting lovers, signing on, fucking off. Why not? Why did all the expectation have to settle on her shoulders, every damned time?
She was, she realized, still waiting to start living.
Badan Gruk wanted her, loved her. But she… she didn’t know. If she wanted to be loved, or even chased after. She played it out, aye, as if it was all real. She even spent time telling herself it was the way it looked. But the truth was, she didn’t know what she felt, not about him, not about anything. And wasn’t that the real joke in all this? Everyone saw her as such a capable person, and all the while she asked herself: capable of what? Will I ever find out?
When is it my turn?
She had no idea what this army was doing, and that frightened her. Not that she’d ever give away her true feelings. Sinter saw how the others relied on her. Even the other sergeants. Primly, Badan Gruk, even that cow-eyed fool, Urb. No, she needed to keep playing the unimaginative soldier, biting her tongue and with that solid look in her eyes not once wavering, not for an instant giving away the crazed storm in her head.
She needed help. They were marching into blackness, a future profoundly unknown barring the simple, raw truth that at some point they would all draw their weapons, they would all stand facing an enemy that sought their annihilation. They would be told to fight, to kill. But will we? Can we? If you could show us a cause, Adjunct. A reason, just a handful of worth, we’d do as you ask. I know we would.
She glanced across at her sister. Kisswhere stood, a faint smile on her face to mark whatever inner peace and satisfaction she found so easy to indulge, her eyes on the blurry stars in the northern sky. Amused patience and the promise of derision: that was her most favoured expression, there on those deceptively sweet and innocent features. Yes, she was breathtaking in her natural beauty and charm, and there was that wild edge-sticky as honey-that so drew to her otherwise reasonable men. She froze lives and loves in amber, and her hoard was vast indeed.
Could I be like her? Could I live as she does? Look at that half-smile. So contented. Gods, how I wish…
There had to be a way out of this, and her sister had better find it soon. Else Kisswhere feared she would go mad. She’d joined the Malazan marines, for Hood’s sake, not some renegade army marching up some damned god’s ass. She’d joined knowing she could hand it all back to them once boredom forced the situation. Well, not that they’d happily let her go, of course, but disappearing wasn’t so hard, not in a civilized land like the Malazan Empire. So many people, so many places to go, so many possible lives to assume. And even in the military itself, who really cared which face was which beneath the rim of the helm? Could be anyone, so long as they took orders and could march in step.
She could have slept her way into some soft posting. In Unta, or Li Heng, or Quon itself. Even Genabackis would have been fine. If only her sister hadn’t jammed her nose into things. Always trying to take charge, constantly stepping into Kisswhere’s path and causing grief. Complicating everything and that had always been the problem. But Sinter hadn’t figured it out yet-Kisswhere had run to the marines to escape her sister’s infuriating interference in her life. Among other things.
But she followed, didn’t she? She followed and so did Badan Gruk. It’s not my choice, not my fault at all. I’m not responsible for them-they’re all grown up, aren’t they?
So if I want to desert now, before we head into someplace where I can’t, well, that’s my business, isn’t it?
But now Sinter had dragged her out from the cosy fire, and here they were, waiting for one of Urb’s soldiers and what was all this about, anyway?
Running. Is that it, finally? I hope so, sister. I hope you’ve finally come to your senses. This time, I’m with you.
But why this woman we hardly even know? Why not Badan Gruk?
We got to get out, and now. I got to get out. And I don’t need anyone’s help to do it. Stow away with a D’ras trader. Easy, nothing to it. Two of us could do it, even three. But four? Now that’s a stretch. It’s logistics, sister, plain and simple. The kind you like so much. Straightforward. Too many and we’ll get caught. You’ll want Badan, too. And four’s too many.
She’d wait, however. She’d see what Sinter had in mind here, with this meeting. She could work on Sinter later, but nothing direct, since that never worked. Sinter was stubborn. She could dig in deeper than anyone Kisswhere knew. No, Kisswhere would have to twist carefully, so that the decision, when it finally went the right way, would seem to be coming from Sinter herself.
It wasn’t easy, but then Kisswhere had had a lifetime of practice. She knew she could do it.
Sinter softly grunted and she turned to see a figure approaching from the camp. Swaying hips, and everywhere a whole lot of what men liked. A Dal Honese for sure, which was why Sinter had invited her in the first place. But since when did three Dal Honese women agree about anything?
Madness. Sinter, this won’t work. You remember the histories. It’s us women who start most of the wars. Snaring the wrong men, using them up, humiliating them. Throwing one against another. Whispering blood vengeance beneath the furs at night. A sly comment here, a look there. We’ve been in charge a long time, us women of Dal Hon, and we’re nothing but trouble.
Masan Gilani was from a savannah tribe. She was tall, making her curvaceous form all the more intimidating. She had the look of a woman who was too much for any man, and should a man get her he’d spend his whole life convinced he could never hold on to her. She was a monster of sensuality, and if she’d stayed in her tribe the whole north half of Dal Hon would be in the midst of a decades-long civil war by now. Every Dal Honese god and mud spirit tossed in on this one, didn’t they? She’s got pieces of them all.
And here I thought I was dangerous.
‘Sinter,’ she said under her breath, ‘you have lost your mind.’
Her sister heard her. ‘This one is far on the inside, Kiss, way farther in than anyone we know.’
‘What of it?’
Sinter did not reply. Masan Gilani had drawn too close for any exchange now, no matter how muted.
Her elongated eyes flitted between the sisters, curious, and then amused.
Bitch. I hate her already.
‘Southerners,’ she said. ‘I’ve always liked southerners. Your sweat smells of the jungle. And you’re never as gangly and awkward as us northerners. Did you know, I have to special-order all my armour and clothes-I’m no standard fit anywhere, except maybe among the Fenn and that’s no good because they’re extinct.’
Kisswhere snorted. ‘You ain’t that big,’ and then she looked away, as she realized how petty that sounded.
But Gilani’s smile had simply broadened. ‘The only real problem with you southerners is that you’re barely passable on horseback. I’d not count on you to ride hard as me, ever. So it’s a good thing you’re marines. Me, I could be either and to be honest, I’d have jumped over to the scouts long ago-’
‘So why didn’t you?’ Kisswhere asked.
She shrugged. ‘Scouting’s boring. Besides, I’m not interested in always being the one delivering bad news.’
‘Expecting bad news?’
‘Always.’ And her teeth gleamed.
Kisswhere turned away. She was done with this conversation. Sinter was welcome to it.
‘So,’ Masan Gilani said after a moment, ‘Sergeant Sinter. Rumour has it you’re a natural, a talent. Tell me if that’s true or not, since it’s the only thing that brought me out here-the chance that you are, I mean. If you’re not, then this meeting is over.’
‘Listen to her!’ Kisswhere sneered. ‘The Empress commands!’
Masan blinked. ‘You still here? Thought you went to pick flowers.’
Kisswhere reached for her knife but Sinter’s hand snapped out and closed on her wrist. Hissing, Kisswhere yielded, but her eyes remained fixed on Gilani’s.
‘Oh, it’s all so amusing to you, isn’t it?’
‘Kisswhere, yes? That’s your name? I’ll say this once. I don’t know what’s got the stoat in your breeches so riled, since as far as I know I ain’t never done anything to cross you. Leaves me no choice but to assume it’s just some kind of bizarre bigotry-what happened, lose a lover to a willowy northerner? Well, it wasn’t me. So, why not drop the hackles? Here, will this help?’ And she drew out a Dal Honese wineskin. ‘Not wild grape from our homeland, alas-’
‘It ain’t that rice piss from Lether, is it?’
‘No. It’s Bluerose-an Andiian brew, originally, or so the trader claimed.’ She shrugged and held out the skin. ‘It’s drinkable enough.’
Kisswhere accepted the skin. She knew overtures when they arrived, and she knew that Masan had given her a way through without too much damage to her pride, so it’d be stupid not to take that path. She tugged loose the gum stopper and took a mouthful. Swallowed and then gasped. ‘That’ll do,’ she said in a suddenly husky voice.
Sinter finally spoke: ‘Everyone’s claws retracted? Good. Masan, you want to know if I’m a talent. Well, not in the way of Dal Honese witches. But I’ve got something, I suppose.’
‘All right. So what’s that “something” telling you?’
Sinter hesitated, and then reached out to intercept the wineskin. She took two deep draughts. ‘Aye, you’re a northerner and we’re not, but we’re all still Dal Honese. So we understand each other, and when I say I’m going to give you something I don’t need to add that I expect something back.’
Masan Gilani laughed, but it was not a mocking laugh. Not quite. ‘You just did.’
‘You been a soldier longer than us,’ Sinter countered, ‘so I was just reminding you of the ways you’ve maybe forgotten, or at least not used in a while.’
‘Go on, then.’
‘I get senses of things about to happen, or maybe could happen-if we don’t do something to make sure they don’t.’
‘You’re a seer.’
But Sinter shook her head. ‘Not so clear as that.’
‘What is about to happen to us, Sergeant?’
‘We’re about to be abandoned.’
Kisswhere joined Masan Gilani in regarding Sinter with alarm. What was all this? ‘Sister,’ she said, ‘what does that mean? Abandoned? By who? Do you mean just us? Or the Bonehunters?’
‘Yes,’ answered Sinter. ‘Bonehunters. All of us, the Adjunct included.’
Masan Gilani was frowning. ‘You’re talking about the Burned Tears? The Perish? Or the Letherii escort?’
‘I’m not sure. Maybe all of them.’
‘So wherever we end up,’ Masan said slowly, ‘we’ll be fighting on our own. No one guarding our backs, no one on our flanks. Like that?’
‘I think so.’
Masan rubbed at her neck. When Kisswhere offered her the skin she shook her head. ‘Hard to know, Sinter, how much shit should be freezing with that, since nobody has a clue about who we’ll be fighting. What if it’s some noseplug savages cowering behind a bamboo palisade throwing rocks at us? We’d hardly need help knocking on that door, would we?’
‘But you know we’re not heading for anything so easy,’ Sinter said.
Masan’s lovely eyes narrowed. ‘This is what you want back from me? You think I’ve got my ear against the Adjunct’s tent?’
‘I know you know more than we do.’
‘And if I do? What difference would it make to you?’
Kisswhere’s breath caught as she saw her sister’s hands clench into fists at her sides. ‘I need a reason, Masan Gilani. I need to know it’s all worth it.’
‘And you think what little I know can give you that? You must be desperate-’
‘Yes! I am!’
‘Why?’
Sinter’s mouth shut, her jaw setting.
Masan Gilani looked over at Kisswhere, as if to ask: What’s her problem here? What’s so hard to say?
But Kisswhere had no answers. Well, not satisfying ones. ‘My sister,’ she said, ‘is a very loyal person. But she holds that loyalty in highest regard. She’ll give it, I mean-’
‘But,’ cut in Masan Gilani, ‘whatever or whoever she’s giving it to had better be worthy of it. Right. I think I’m beginning to understand this. Only, Kisswhere, you should look to your own feelings about that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, you sounded pretty bitter right there. As if loyalty is a curse and not one you want any part of. I’d wager your sister dragged you here as much to convince you of something as to convince me. Sinter, would that be a good guess?’
‘That’s between me and her,’ Sinter replied.
Kisswhere glared at her sister.
‘All right,’ said Masan Gilani, ‘I’ll give you what little I know. What Ebron and Bottle and Deadsmell and Widdershins have put together. Maybe it’ll help, maybe it won’t. That’s for you to decide. Here’s what we think.’ She paused, reached for the skin.
Kisswhere handed it to her.
Masan drank, then squatted before them-taking the pose of the teller of tales, one they knew well-and both sisters followed suit.
‘He didn’t ask for it. But he’s been making trouble ever since. Quick Ben met him face to face. So, we worked out, did that Meckros weaponsmith, Withal. He’s poison and he knows it and he can’t help it, because he doesn’t belong here. There are pieces of him scattered over half the world, but the biggest one is sitting in this place called Kolanse-and it’s being… used.’
‘We’re going to kill the Crippled God.’
Kisswhere shot her sister a wild look. ‘But who’d want to stop us doing that?’
Sinter shook her head. Her face was wretched with confusion.
Masan was eyeing them and when she spoke her voice was flat, ‘You jumped the wrong way, Sinter, like a one-eyed mongoose.’ She drank again, sloshed the skin and then scowled. ‘Should’ve brought two. We don’t think we’re off to kill the Chained One. In fact, it’s those chains we’re after. Well, the Adjunct, I mean. What she’s after.’ She lifted her head and fixed on Sinter’s eyes, and then Kisswhere’s. ‘We’re going to set the bastard free.’
Kisswhere barked a savage laugh. ‘No wonder they’ll all abandon us! And I’m the first in line to join them!’
‘Be quiet,’ Sinter said through the hands she’d lifted to her face. She was trembling, no, shuddering, and Kisswhere saw the glitter of tears trickle to the heels of her sister’s palms.
Masan Gilani’s face was grave, patient.
Kisswhere rounded on Sinter. ‘You cannot! No! This is impossible! What if they’re wrong? They must be-even the Adjunct’s not that stupid! Every god and ascendant in the world will be coming against us, never mind those idiots in Kolanse! She’s lost her mind! Our commander’s insane and there’s no damned law anywhere says we have to follow her!’
Sinter drew a deep breath and then lowered her hands. Something solid filled her face, as if implacable stone was replacing the soft tissues beneath her onyx skin. The bleakness drained from her eyes as they settled on Kisswhere. ‘It will do,’ she said. ‘I think,’ she added, ‘nothing else would have.’
‘What-’
‘It is just, sister. Just.’
‘They’ll all turn on us,’ Kisswhere retorted. ‘You said so yourself-’
‘If we do nothing, yes. They will turn on us. And what little chance we had to succeed will go with them. We need to change their minds.’
‘How?’ asked Masan Gilani.
‘I will tell you how,’ said Sinter. ‘And it begins with you, Kisswhere.’
‘I didn’t say I was going to help-’
‘You’re going to desert.’
‘Wha-what?’
‘That’s how this starts. It’s the only way. Now, it’s what you want and don’t tell me any different. You’re deserting the Bonehunters, and you’re doing it tonight-on the fastest horse Masan Gilani can find you.’
But Masan Gilani held up a staying hand. ‘Hold on. I need to talk this over with-’
‘Of course,’ cut in Sinter, ‘but it changes nothing. Now, you need to hear the rest, because I need you to do the same-’
‘Desert? Me?’
Sinter nodded. ‘But you’ll ride in a different direction, Masan Gilani. Different from Kisswhere. With luck, you’ll both return.’
‘And get hanged? No thanks, sister-’
‘You won’t. The Adjunct is cold iron-the coldest there ever was. She’ll work it out, fast as lightning, she’ll work it out.’
‘Then why don’t we just go tell her?’ asked Masan Gilani. ‘We figured it all out but there’s a problem, only you got an idea on how to fix it.’
Sinter smiled, and it was a smile that would have fitted well on the Adjunct’s own face. ‘I will do just that… once you two are gone.’
‘She might just chase us down anyway.’
‘She won’t. I said she’s quick.’
‘So why wait until we leave?’
Sinter rubbed at her face, wiping away the last of the tears. ‘You don’t get it. She’s locked in a room, a prison of her own making. In there, she hears nothing, sees nothing. In there, she is absolutely alone. And holding on with white knuckles. It’s her burden and she won’t dump it on anyone else, not even her Fists, not even on her High Mage-though he’s probably worked it out by now. She’s put herself between us and the truth-but it’s killing her.’
‘So,’ said Masan Gilani, ‘you got to show her she ain’t alone, and that we’re not all fools, that maybe we’re ready for that truth. We not only worked it out, we’re with her. There to help, whether she asks for it or not.’
‘That’s it,’ said Sinter.
Masan Gilani sighed, and then flashed Kisswhere a grin. ‘You won’t surprise anyone. Me, that’s a different story.’
‘The Adjunct will hint something to put your reputation square,’ said Sinter. ‘Otherwise, you going might tip the balance for a whole mass of wavering soldiers in the ranks. Kisswhere, well, sister, nobody will be much surprised by you, will they?’
‘Thank you. So long as people understand I’m no coward-’
Masan Gilani grunted, ‘But they’ll see it that way. Nothing you can do about it, either, Kisswhere. We’re marching to a war, and you went and ran off. Me too. So Sinter and the Adjunct work it out so it sounds like I was sent on some kind of mission-’
‘Which is true,’ cut in Sinter.
‘Which helps, aye. Thing is, people already thinking of maybe deserting might just take it as the perfect push. That’s the risk that the Adjunct might find unacceptable, no matter what you say to her, Sinter.’
‘I’m no coward,’ Kisswhere repeated. ‘I’m just not one for this whole family thing. Armies ain’t families, no matter how many times you try to tell me different. It’s rubbish. It’s the lie commanders and kings need so they always got us ready to do shit for them.’
‘Right,’ snapped Masan Gilani, ‘and I guess in that snarly jungle where you grew up you never heard any stories about what happens when armies mutiny. Kill their commanders. Depose their country’s ruler. Take over-’
‘What’s that got to do with the whole “we’re family” business?’
‘I’m saying some people run things and the rest should just stay out of it. That’s all. Just like in a family. Somebody’s in charge, not everybody. Usurpers never been anything better, or even different, from whoever they killed. Usually, they make it worse. That whole “family” thing, it’s about fighting to survive. You stand fast for kin, not strangers. Don’t you get that?’
‘And the ones in charge exploit it. Use us up. They ain’t interested in being kin to the rest of us, and you know it.’
‘You two,’ Sinter said, ‘could go at this all night. But we don’t have the time. Kisswhere, since when did you care what the people you leave behind think of you? Unless, of course, you’ve found some pride as a Bonehunter-’
‘Do you want me to help you or not?’
‘All right. Peace, then. The point is, it’s only looking like you’re deserting. The way Faradan Sort did outside Y’Ghatan.’
‘I ride south.’
Sinter nodded.
‘I go find the Perish and the Khundryl.’
‘Yes.’
‘And say what?’
‘You convince them not to abandon us.’
‘How in Hood’s name do I do that?’
Sinter’s look was wry. ‘Try using your charms, sister.’
Masan Gilani spoke. ‘Sergeant, if she’s going after both of them, where am I going?’
‘That’s not so easy to say,’ Sinter admitted haltingly.
Masan snorted. ‘Work on that answer, Sinter. Meanwhile, let’s go steal some horses.’
‘Ah, Lieutenant, found you at last.’
‘Master Sergeant now, sir.’
‘Of course, and where are your charges, Master Sergeant?’
‘Dispensed with, sir.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Rather, dispersed, sir. Inserted seamlessly into the ranks, not a stitch out of place.’
‘Why, that is simply superb, Master Sergeant. You would deserve a commendation if you deserved anything. Alas, having perused the latest roster updates, I have discovered that not a single one of those recruits can be found anywhere in the army.’
‘Yes, sir, they are well trained.’
‘At what, Master Sergeant? Disappearing?’
‘Well now, sir, I am reminded of a story from my youth. May I?’
‘Please, do go on.’
‘Thank you, sir. Ah, my youth. A sudden zeal afflicted young Aramstos Pores-’
‘Aramstos?’
‘Yes, sir-’
‘That’s your other name?’
‘It is indeed, sir. May I continue my tale, sir?’
‘Proceed.’
‘A sudden zeal, sir, to dig me a pond.’
‘A pond.’
‘Just behind the heap of broken bricks, sir, close to the lot’s back wall. I often played there when my parents had gone from fighting with words to fighting with knives, or the hovel caught fire as it was wont to do. On my hands and knees among the broken shards of pots and shattered dog teeth-’
‘Dog teeth.’
‘My father’s failures with pets, but that, sir, is another story, perhaps for another time. A pond, sir, one into which I could transplant the tiny minnows I was rescuing from the fouled river down past the sewage outlets-where we used to swim on cold days, warming up as it were, sir. Minnows, then, into my pond. Imagine my excitement-’
‘It is suddenly vivid in my mind’s eye, Master Sergeant.’
‘Wonderful. And yet, having deposited, oh, fifty of the tiny silver things, just the day before, imagine my horror and bafflement upon returning the very next morning to find not a single minnow in my pond. Why, what had happened to them? Some voracious bird, perhaps? The old woman from down the alley who kept her hair in a net? Are there perchance now glinting minnows adorning her coiffure? Insects? Rats? Unlikely to be either of those two, as they generally made up our nightly repast at the dinner table and so accordingly were scarce round our home. Well, sir, a mystery it was and a mystery it remains. To this very day and, I am certain, for the entirety of the rest of my life. Fifty minnows. Gone. Poof! Hard to believe, sir, and most crushing for that bright-eyed, zealous lad.’
‘And now, if I am to understand you, Master Sergeant, once more you find yourself victimized by inexplicable mystery.’
‘All those recruits, sir. Dispersed into the ranks. And then…’
‘Poof.’
‘As you say and say well, sir.’
‘Whatever happened to your pond, Master Sergeant?’
‘Well, my pet water snake thrived for a while longer, until the pond dried up. Children have such grand dreams, don’t they?’
‘That they do, Master Sergeant. Until it all goes wrong.’
‘Indeed, sir.’
‘Until we meet again, Master Sergeant Pores.’
‘And a good night to you, too, Captain Kindly.’
It was him. I was fooling myself ever thinking otherwise. Who can explain love anyway? She slid the knife back into its sheath and pushed through the loose flaps of the tent, stepping outside and suddenly shivering as something cold slithered through the faint breeze.
The dark north flicks its tongue. Echoes of some unwanted rebirth-glad I’m not a mage. They had nothing to dance about this afternoon.
Lostara moved away from the command tent. The Adjunct sending her away this late at night was unusual-I was ready for bed, dammit- but having the guards roust and drive out a drunken Banaschar wasn’t just sweet entertainment. It was, on another level, alarming.
What did Quick Ben and Bottle tell you this night, Tavore? Is there any end to your secrets? Any breach in your wall of privacy? What’s so satisfying about being alone? Your love is a ghost. The empire you served has betrayed you. Your officers have stopped talking, even to each other.
O serpent of the north, your tongue does not lie. Draw closer. We’re barely breathing.
She was forced to halt as Banaschar reeled across her path. Seeing her, he managed to stop, tottering a moment before straightening. ‘Captain Yil,’ he said genially, taking a deep breath and then letting it loose in the way that drunks did when mustering sodden thoughts. ‘Pleasant evening, yes?’
‘No. It’s cold. I’m tired. I don’t know why the Adjunct cleared everyone out-it’s not as if she needs the extra room. For what?’
‘For what, indeed,’ he agreed, smiling as if his purse was full of sweets. ‘It’s the wardrobe, you see.’
‘What?’
He weaved back and forth. ‘Wardrobe. Yes, that’s the word? I think so. Not makes for easy travel, though. Doesn’t, rather. But… sometimes… where was I? Oh, sometimes the wardrobe’s so big the girl, she just runs away from it, fast and long as she can. Is that what I mean? Did I say it right?’
‘Wardrobe.’
Banaschar pointed at her, nodding. ‘Precisely.’
‘Who runs away from a wardrobe? Girls don’t do that-’
‘But women do.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘All those choices, right? What to put on. And when, and when not. If it’s this, but not if it’s that. What to put on, Captain Yil. Choices. Surrounding you. Closing in. Creeping. Girl’s got to run, and let’s hope she makes it.’
Sniffing, Lostara stepped round the fool and continued on between the tent rows.
It was him. But you let him go. Maybe you thought he’d come back, or you’d just find him again. You thought you had the time. But the world’s always armed and all it takes is a misstep, a wrong decision. And suddenly you’re cut, you’re bleeding, bleeding right out. Suddenly he’s gasping his last breaths and it’s time to put him away, just close him up, like a scroll bearing bad news.
What else can you do?
It was him, but he’s gone and he’s not coming back.
Her pace slowed. She frowned. Where am I going? Ah, that’s right. ‘New whetstone, that’s it.’
The world’s armed, Adjunct, so be careful. Kick open that wardrobe, girl, and start throwing on that armour. The days of fetes are over, all those nights among the glittering smirks of privilege and entitlement.
‘You idiot, Banaschar, there’s only one item in her wardrobe. What’s to choose?’
She almost heard him reply, ‘And still she’s running away.’
No, this conversation wasn’t even real, and it made no sense anyway. Resuming her journey to the smiths’ compound, she encountered a marine coming up the other way. A quick exchange of salutes, and then past.
A sergeant. Marine. Dal Honese. Where in Hood’s name is she going this time of night? Never mind. Whetstone. They keep wearing out. And the sound of the iron licking back and forth, the way it just perfectly echoes the word in my head-amazing. Perfect.
It was him. It was him.
It was him.
Most of the ties and fittings on his armour had loosened or come undone. The heavy dragon-scale breast-and back-plates hung askew from his broad shoulders. The clawed bosses on his knees rested on the ground as he knelt in the wet grasses. He’d pulled off the bone-strip gauntlets to better wipe the tears from his cheeks and the thick smears of snot running from his nose. The massive bone-handled battleaxe rested on the ground beside him.
He’d bawled through half the night, until his throat was raw and his head felt packed solid with sand. Where was everyone? He was alone and it seemed he’d been alone for years now, wandering lost on this empty land. He’d seen old camps, abandoned villages. He’d seen a valley filled with bones and rubble. He’d seen a limping crow that laughed at him only to beg for mercy when he caught it. Stupid! His heart had gone all soft and he foolishly released it, only to have the horrid thing start laughing at him all over again as it limped away. It only stopped laughing when the boulder landed on it. And now he missed that laughing crow and its funny hopping-at least it had been keeping him company. Stupid boulder!
The day had run away and then come back and it wasn’t nearly as cold as it’d been earlier. The ghost of Old Hunch Arbat had blown away like dust and was that fair? It wasn’t. So he was lost, looking for something but he’d forgotten what it was and he wanted to be home in Letheras, having fun with King Tehol and sexing with Shurq Elalle and breaking the arms of his fellow guards in the palace. Oh, where were all his friends?
His bleary, raw eyes settled on the battleaxe and he scowled. It wasn’t even pretty, was it. ‘Smash,’ he mumbled. ‘Crush. Its name is Rilk, but it never says anything. How’d it tell anybody its name? I’m alone. Everybody must be dead. Sorry, crow, you were last other thing left alive! In the whole world! And I killed you!’
‘Sorry I missed it,’ said a voice behind him.
Ublala Pung climbed to his feet and turned round. ‘Life!’
‘I share your exultation, friend.’
‘It’s all cold around you,’ Ublala said.
‘That will pass.’
‘Are you a god?’
‘More or less, Toblakai. Does that frighten you?’
Ublala Pung shook his head. ‘I’ve met gods before. They collect chickens.’
‘We possess mysterious ways indeed.’
‘I know.’ Ublala Pung fidgeted and then said, ‘I’m supposed to save the world.’
The stranger cocked his head. ‘And here I was contemplating killing it.’
‘Then I’d be all alone again!’ Ublala wailed, tears springing back to his puffy eyes.
‘Be at ease, Toblakai. You are reminding me that some things in this world remain worthwhile. If you would save the world, friend, that Draconean armour is fine preparation, as is that weapon at your feet-indeed, I believe I recognize both.’
‘I don’t know,’ Ublala said. ‘I don’t know where to go to save the world. I don’t know anything.’
‘Let us journey together, then.’
‘Gods make good friends,’ nodded Ublala Pung, pleased at this turn of events.
‘And spiteful enemies,’ the stranger said, ‘but we shall not be enemies, so that need not concern us. Wielder of Rilk, Wearer of Dra Alkeleint, what is your name?’
He swelled his chest. He liked being called Wielder and Wearer of things. ‘Ublala Pung. Who are you?’
The stranger smiled. ‘We will walk east, Ublala Pung. I am named Draconus.’
‘Oh, funny.’
‘What is?’
‘That’s the word Old Hunch Arbat’s ghost screamed, before the black wind tore him to pieces.’
‘You must tell me how you came to be here, Ublala Pung.’
‘I’m no good with questions like that, Draconus.’
The god sighed. ‘Then we have found something in common, friend. Now, collect up Rilk there and permit me to refasten your straps.’
‘Oh, thank you. I don’t like knots.’
‘No one does, I should think.’
‘But not as bad as chains, though.’
The strangers hands hesitated on the fittings, and then resumed. ‘True enough, friend.’
Ublala Pung wiped clean his face. He felt light on his feet and the sun was coming up and, he decided, he felt good again.
Everybody needs a friend.
LAY OF WOUNDED LOVE
FISHER
It’s no simple thing,’ he said, frowning as he worked through his thoughts, ‘but in the world-among people, that is. Society, culture, nation-in the world, then, there are attackers and there are defenders. Most of us possess within ourselves elements of both, but in a general sense a person falls to one camp or the other, as befits their nature.’
The wind swept round the chiselled stone. What guano remained to stain the dark, pitted surfaces had been rubbed thin and patchy, like faded splashes of old paint. Around them was the smell of heat lifting from rock, caught up, spun and plucked away with each gust of the breeze. But the sun did not relent its battle, and for that, Ryadd Eleis was thankful.
Silchas Ruin’s eyes were fixed on something to the northwest, but an outcrop of shaped stone blocked Ryadd’s line of sight in that direction. He was curious, but not unduly so. Instead, he waited for Silchas to continue, knowing how the white-skinned Tiste Andii sometimes struggled to speak his mind. When it did come, it often arrived all at once and at length, a reasoned, detailed argument that Ryadd received mostly in silence. There was so much to learn.
‘This is not to say that aggression belongs only to those who are attackers,’ Silchas resumed. ‘Far from it, in fact. In my talent with the sword, for example, I am for the most part a defender. I rely upon timing and counter-attack-I take advantage of the attacker’s forward predilections, the singularity of their intent. Counterattack is, of course, aggression in its own way. Do you see the distinction?’
Ryadd nodded. ‘I think so.’
‘Aggression takes many forms. Active, passive, direct, indirect. Sudden as a blow, or sustained as a siege of will. Often, it refuses to stand still, but launches upon you from all possible sides. If one tactic fails, another is tried, and so on.’
Smiling, Ryadd said, ‘Yes. I played often enough among the Imass children. What you describe every child learns, at the hands of the bully and the rival.’
‘Excellent. Of course you are right. But bear in mind, none of this belongs solely within the realm of childhood. It persists and thrives in adult society. What must be understood is this: attackers attack as a form of defence. It is their instinctive response to threat, real or perceived. It may be desperate or it may be habit, or both, when desperation becomes a way of life. Behind the assault hides a fragile person.’
He was silent then, and Ryadd understood that Silchas sought to invite some contemplation of the things just said. Weighing of self-judgement, perhaps. Was he an attacker or a defender? He had done both, he knew, and there had been times when he had attacked when he should have defended, and so too the other way round. I do not know which of the two I am. Not yet. But, I think, I know this much: when I feel threatened, I attack.
‘Cultures tend to invite the dominance of one over the other, as a means by which an individual succeeds and advances or, conversely, fails and falls. A culture dominated by attackers-and one in which the qualities of attacking are admired, often overtly encouraged-tends to breed people with a thick skin, which nonetheless still serves to protect a most brittle self. Thus the wounds bleed but stay well hidden beneath the surface. Cultures favouring the defender promote thin skin and quickness to take offence-its own kind of aggression, I am sure you see. The culture of attackers seeks submission and demands evidence of that submission as proof of superiority over the subdued. The culture of defenders seeks compliance through conformity, punishing dissenters and so gaining the smug superiority of enforcing silence, and from silence, complicity.’
The pause that followed was a long one and Ryadd was pleased that it was so, for Silchas had given him much to consider. The Imass? Ah, defenders, I think. Yes. Always exceptions, of course, but he said there would be. Examples of both, but in general… yes, defenders. Think of Onrack’s fate, his love for Kilava, the crimes that love forced upon him. He defied conformity. He was punished.
It was more difficult to think of a culture dominated by attackers. The Letherii? He thought of his father, Udinaas. He defends when in himself. But attacks with derision, yet even then, he does not hide his vulnerability. ‘Is there no third way of being, Silchas?’
The warrior smiled. ‘In my long life, Ryadd, I have seen many variations-configurations-of behaviour and attitude, and I have seen a person change from one to the other-when experience has proved damaging enough, or when the inherent weaknesses of one are recognized, leading to a wholesale rejection of it. Though, in turn, weaknesses of different sorts exist in the other, and often these prove fatal pitfalls. We are complex creatures, to be sure. The key, I think, is to hold true to your own aesthetics, that which you value, and yield to no one the power to become the arbiter of your tastes. You must also learn to devise strategies for fending off both attackers and defenders. Exploit aggression, but only in self-defence, the kind of self-defence that announces to all the implacability of your armour, your self-assurance, and affirms the sanctity of your self-esteem. Attack when you must, but not in arrogance. Defend when your values are challenged, but never with the wild fire of anger. Against attackers, your surest defence is cold iron. Against defenders, often the best tactic is to sheathe your weapon and refuse the game. Reserve contempt for those who have truly earned it, but see the contempt you permit yourself to feel not as a weapon, but as armour against their assaults. Finally, be ready to disarm with a smile, even as you cut deep with words.’
‘Passive.’
‘Of a sort, yes. It is more a matter of warning off potential adversaries. In effect, you are saying: Be careful how close you tread. You cannot hurt me, but if I am pushed hard enough, I will wound you. In some things you must never yield, but these things are not eternally changeless or explicitly inflexible; rather, they are yours to decide upon, yours to reshape if you deem it prudent. They are immune to the pressure of others, but not indifferent to their arguments. Weigh and gauge at all times, and decide for yourself value and worth. But when you sense that a line has been crossed by the other person, when you sense that what is under attack is, in fact, your self-esteem, then gird yourself and stand firm.’
Ryadd rubbed at the fine hairs downing his cheeks. ‘Would these words of yours have come from my father, had I remained at home?’
‘In his own way, yes. Udinaas is a man of great strength-’
‘But-’
‘Great strength, Ryadd. He is strong enough to stand exposed, revealing all that is vulnerable within him. He is brave enough to invite you ever closer. If you hurt him, he will withdraw, as he must, and that path to him will be thereafter for ever sealed. But he begins with the gift of himself. What the other does with it defines the future of that particular relationship.’
‘What of trust?’
The red eyes flicked to his and then away again. ‘I kept them safe for a long time,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Evading the Letherii mages and soldiers. None of that was necessary.’
‘My father knew.’
‘I believe Fear Sengar did as well.’
‘So neither then trusted you.’
‘On the contrary. They trusted me to hold to my resolve.’
Now it was Ryadd’s turn to look away. ‘Did she really have to die?’
‘She was never really alive, Ryadd. She was sent forth as potential. I ensured that it was realized. Are seeds filled with hope? We might think so. But in truth hope belongs to the creator of that seed, and to those who choose to plant it.’
‘She was still a child to everyone’s eyes.’
‘The Azath used what it found.’
‘Is she still alive then?’
Silchas Ruin shrugged. ‘Perhaps more now than ever before. Alive, but young. And very vulnerable.’
‘And so now,’ Ryadd said, ‘my father yearns for the survival of the Azath, and he hopes too for your continued resolve. But maybe “hope” is the wrong word. Instead, it’s trust.’
‘If so, then you have answered your own question.’
But what of my resolve? Do you trust in that, Silchas Ruin?
‘They draw nearer,’ the Tiste Andii said, rising from his perch on the stone. Then he paused. ‘Be wary, Ryadd, she is most formidable, and I cannot predict the outcome of this parley.’
‘What will she make of me?’ he asked, also straightening.
‘That is what we shall discover.’
His horse had stepped on a particularly vicious fist of cactus. Torrent dismounted, cursing under his breath. He went round and lifted the beast’s hoof and began plucking spines.
Olar Ethil stood to one side, watching.
It had turned out that escaping the hoary old witch wasn’t simply a matter of riding hard and leaving her behind. She kept reappearing in swirls of dust, with that ever-present skull grin that needed no laugh to add sting to its mockery.
Following the heavy wagon tracks, he had ridden past two more dragon towers, both as lifeless and ruined as the first one. And now here they were, approaching yet another. Arcane machinery had spilled out from rents in the stone, lying scattered, spreading outward from the foot of the edifice a hundred or more paces on all sides. Crumpled pieces of armour and broken weapons lay amidst the wreckage, as well as grizzled strips and slabs of scaled hide. The violence committed at this particular tower remained, intrusive as bitter smoke.
Torrent tugged loose the last thorn and, collecting the reins, led the horse forward a few steps. ‘Those damned things,’ he said, ‘were they poisoned?’
‘I think not,’ Olar Ethil replied. ‘Just painful. Local bhederin know to avoid stepping on them.’
‘There are no local bhederin,’ snapped Torrent. ‘These are the Wastelands and well named.’
‘Once, long ago, warrior, the spirits of the earth and wind thrived in this place.’
‘So what happened?’
Her shrug creaked. ‘When it is easy to feed, one grows fat.’
What the fuck does that mean? He faced the tower. ‘We’ll walk for-’ Motion in the sky caught his attention, as two massive shapes lifted from the enormous carved head of the stone dragon. ‘Spirits below!’
A pair of dragons-real ones. The one on the left was the hue of bone, eyes blazing bright red, and though larger than its companion, it was gaunter, perhaps older. The other dragon was a stunning white deepening to gold along its shoulders and serrated back. Wings snapping, sailing in a curving descent, the two landed directly in their path, halfway between them and the tower. The earth trembled at the twin impacts.
Torrent glanced at Olar Ethil. She was standing still as a statue. I thought you knew everything, witch, and now I think you thought the same. Look at you, still as a hare under the cat’s eyes.
He looked back in time to see both dragons shimmer, and then blur, as if nothing more than mirages. A moment later, two men stood in place of the giant creatures. Neither moved.
Even at this distance, Torrent could see how the dragons had so perfectly expressed the essences of these two figures. The one on the left was tall, gaunt, his skin the shade of bleached bone; the other was younger by far, thickly muscled yet nearing his companion’s height. His hair, hanging loose, was gold and bronze, his skin burnished by the sun, and he stood with the ease of the innocent.
Saying nothing, Olar Ethil set out to meet them, and to Torrent’s eyes she was suddenly diminished, the raw primitiveness of her form looking clumsy and rough. The scaled hide of her cloak now looked to be a faintly sordid affectation.
Tugging his skittish horse along behind him, he followed. There was no escaping these warriors, should they desire him harm. If Olar Ethil was prepared to brave it out, then he would follow her lead. But this day I have seen true power. And now I will look it in the eye.
I have travelled far from my village. The small world of my people gets smaller still.
As he drew closer, he was surprised to see that the two swords belted to the gaunt, older warrior were both Letherii in design. Blue steel. I remember seeing a knife once, traded into the chief’s hands, and how it sang when struck. The younger one bore weapons of flaked stone. He was dressed in strange, rough hides.
‘You are not welcome, Silchas,’ said Olar Ethil. And then she stabbed a gnarled finger at the younger man. ‘And this one, who so mocks my own people. This is not his world. Silchas Ruin, have you bargained open the Gate to Starvald Demelain?’
‘He is Menandore’s son,’ replied the white-skinned warrior. ‘You know the payment for such a bargain, Olar Ethil. Do you think I am prepared to pay it?’
‘I do not know what you are prepared to do, Silchas. I never did.’
‘He is named Ryadd Eleis, and he is under my protection.’
She snorted. ‘You think too highly of yourself if you think he requires your protection. No,’ and she cocked her head, ‘I see the truth. You keep him close in order to control him. But, since he is Menandore’s spawn, you will fail. Silchas Ruin, you never learn. The blood of Eleint can never flow close to its own. There will be betrayal. There is always betrayal. Why does she possess a hundred heads? It is to mock an impossible concord.’ She shifted slightly to face Ryadd Eleis. ‘He will strike first if he can. When he sees you surpass him, he will seek to kill you.’
The young golden warrior seemed unperturbed by her warning. ‘He will see no such thing, bonecaster.’
She started, and then hissed. ‘A bold claim. How can you be so certain?’
‘Because,’ Ryadd replied, ‘I already have.’
All at once everything shifted. Torrent saw Silchas Ruin step away from his companion, both hands stealing closer to the grips of his swords.
Olar Ethil cackled.
‘Bonecaster,’ Ryadd said, adding a faint bow to the title, ‘I know your name. I know you are the Maker of the Ritual of Tellann. That without you all the will of the Imass would have achieved nothing. The One Voice was yours. You took a people and stole from them death itself.’
‘You have dwelt among T’lan Imass?’
He shook his head. ‘Imass. But I know one who was once a T’lan Imass. Onrack the Broken. And I know his wife, Kilava.’
‘Kilava, that sweet bitch. His wife now? She almost undid me. Is she well? Tell her I forgive her. And tell Onrack the Broken of the Logros, I shall not reclaim him. His life is his, now, and for all time.’
‘It is well you said so,’ Ryadd said. ‘For I have vowed that no harm come to them.’
‘Ryadd Eleis, I have chosen: I am not your enemy and be glad for that. If I had chosen otherwise, that bold vow would have killed you.’
He shrugged. ‘Perhaps between the two of us, you would prevail. But against me and Kilava both, the outcome might prove the opposite.’
‘Is she close? No! I sense nothing!’
‘She is the oldest true bonecaster of all, Olar Ethil. The others ceased to grow once they surrendered to the Ritual. And look at yourself-the same is true. You are only what you once were, that and nothing more. If Kilava wishes to remain undetected, so it shall be. You do not rule this world, Olar Ethil. You surrendered that privilege long ago, with your very own Ritual.’
Olar Ethil swung to Silchas Ruin. ‘See what you have invited into your shadow? You fool! And now, best you beg me for an alliance-quickly!’
But Silchas Ruin let his hands fall away from his weapons. ‘It may be that I have kept him close for the reasons you say, Olar Ethil, but there are other reasons-and these are proving far more compelling the more I come to know this son of Menandore. If he has indeed surpassed me, I will yield my leadership of the pair of us. As for an alliance with you, frankly, I’d rather bed an enkar’al.’
Torrent laughed, as much to release the tension and fear building within him as at the notion of this warrior bedding something with the ugly name of enkar’al. The sound, unfortunately, drew everyone’s attention.
Ryadd addressed him. ‘Warrior, are you indebted to this bonecaster?’
He frowned. ‘I’d not thought of that. Possibly, but I do not know the coin, nor its value. I am Torrent of the Awl, but the Awl are no more. Instead, I keep company with bones.’
The youth smiled, as if unexpectedly pleased with the answer.
Silchas said, ‘Torrent of the Awl. I grieve for the passing of your people. Their memory rests with you now. Cherish it but do not let it destroy you.’
‘An interesting distinction,’ Torrent said after a moment’s thought. ‘But I am past such things, since I now cherish destruction. I would slay my slayers. I would end the lives of those who have ended mine.’ He glanced across at Olar Ethil. ‘Perhaps this is the coin between me and this undead witch.’
Sorrow tinged Ruin’s face but he said nothing.
Ryadd’s smile was gone. ‘Look around then, warrior. This is the home you would make for your enemies and for yourself. Does it please you?’
‘I think it does, Ryadd Eleis.’
The young man’s displeasure and disappointment at that answer was plain to see.
A short span of silence, and then Olar Ethil spoke. ‘You have waited to spring this ambush, Silchas Ruin. Were the words we have exchanged all you sought, or is there something else?’
‘My curiosity is satisfied,’ Silchas said to the bonecaster. ‘But I will give you this as a gesture, if you will, as evidence that I wish no enmity between us. Two undead dragons are seeking you. I know them of old. They will bow and scrape and swear fealty. But in their hearts they are vile.’
Olar Ethil sniffed. ‘I thought I sensed… something. On our trail. You say you know them, while I do not. I find that odd, given the world you and I once shared.’
‘From when the Eleint were unleashed, out through the Gate, seeking to claim realms to rule amidst the shattered remains of Kurald Emurlahn.’ He paused, and then added, ‘My own encounter with them was brief, but violent. They are true spawn of T’iam.’
‘Yet they travel together. Why has neither one committed treachery upon the other?’
‘I believe they are twins, Olar Ethil, hatched from a single egg as it were. Among all the Eleint during the Wars of Shadow, they came closest to victory. It was the last time I stood beside my brother, the last time he held my flank and I his. For a time, then…’ and his voice fell away, ‘we were happy.’
Though Torrent knew nothing of these Wars of Shadow, nor the other players involved, he could not but hear the sorrow in Ruin’s voice, and it stung him deep inside. Fucking regrets. We all have them, don’t we. Live long enough and maybe it’s all we have, all we keep alive in our minds. Spirits below, what a miserable thought.
But Olar Ethil had no room in her bag of bones for sentiment. She hacked out a laugh. ‘Happy delivering death! Oh, you were all such righteous fools back then! And now among you and your brothers, only you remain, like a thorn no one can dig loose! Tell me the great cause you have espoused for yourself this time, Silchas Ruin. Tell me about all the regrettable but necessary deaths to shore up your grisly road! Do not think I won’t cheer you on-nor this mortal beside me either, if one would purchase truth from his words. You are welcome to mayhem, Silchas Ruin! You and this flawed fire of a child at your side, and Kilava too, for that matter!’
At her outburst, Silchas frowned. ‘Speak what you are hiding, bonecaster.’
‘Gesture for gesture? Very well. Errastas has summoned the Elders. Sechul Lath, Kilmandaros, Mael-and now Draconus-yes! When you hide yourselves so well you yield your touch on this trembling world-you become blind. Your brother is dead, Silchas Ruin. Dragnipur is shattered. Draconus is loose upon the realm, Darkness in his hands-and what does his old lover see now that she sets eyes upon us all once more? Have you greeted your mother yet, Silchas? Have you felt her touch upon your brow? I thought not. She grieves for the son she cherished the most, I think. In whom the black flames of her love burned brightest. She reserves true spite and contempt for-’
Torrent’s backhanded swing caught her full in the face, hard enough to knock her from her feet, falling in a clatter of bones. As he loomed over her, he found he’d drawn his sword. ‘Spite, witch? Well, you’d know of it better than anyone. Now shut that bony jaw and keep it shut.’
Her black pitted eyes seemed to fix upon his own as if bearing claws, but he did not flinch. Destruction? You scrawny bitch, I fear only its escape. He stepped back and shot Silchas a glance.
The man looked so wounded it was a wonder he was still standing. He had wrapped his arms about his own torso, curled in and shrunken. The liquid that leaked down from his eyes traced crimson glints down his hollowed cheeks. Torrent saw Ryadd, his face ravaged with distress, take a step towards his companion, and then he wheeled to advance on Olar Ethil.
Torrent stepped into his path. ‘Go back,’ he said. ‘Now is not the time. Console your friend, Ryadd. I will lead her away from here.’
The young warrior trembled, his eyes incandescent with fury. ‘She will not-’
‘Heed me? She will. Ryadd, the attacks are over-’
He started, eyes widening. ‘Attacks.’ Then he nodded. ‘Yes, I see. Yes.’ He nodded again, and then turned round, ready to give his youthful strength to an old man suddenly broken.
And so he surpasses, and leadership now belongs to him. Simple as that. Torrent sheathed his sword and swung up on to his horse. He gathered the reins, shot one last withering look upon Olar Ethil-who’d yet to move-and then kicked his mount into motion.
On to the trail of the wagon, east and south. He did not look back, but after a time he saw a spinning cloud of dust lift from a nearby rise. She was with him. I see you, sweet as crotch rot, but will you even admit I probably just saved your sorry sack?
Didn’t think so.
As the sun painted gold the brutal facing of the stone tower, a figure of gold and bronze stood above another who knelt, bowed forward over his thighs with his face in his hands.
Neither moved until long after the sun set and darkness claimed the sky.
There had been an old man among the Barghast, brain-addled and prone to drag on to his shoulders a tattered, mangy wolf hide, and then fall to his hands and knees, as if at last he had found his true self. A beast incapable of speech beyond yips and howls, he would rush in amongst the camp dogs, growling, until he had subdued every bewildered, cowering animal. He had sought to do other things as well, but Setoc found even the memory of those to be too pitiful and painfully pathetic to revisit.
The giant plains wolf, Baaljagg, reminded her of that old man. Hide patched and rotted, in places hanging in mangled strips. Its muzzle was perpetually peeled back, revealing the massive oak-hued teeth and fangs, as if the entire world deserved an eternal challenge. The creature’s black pitted eyeholes haunted her, speaking to her in eloquent silence: I am death, they said. I am your fate and the fate of all living things. I am what is left behind. Departed from the world, I leave you only this.
She wondered what had happened to that old man, to make him want to be a wolf. What wound stuck in his mind made him lose all sense of his true self? And why was there no going back, no finding that lost self? The mind held too many secrets. The brain was a sack of truths and their power, hiding there inside, was absolute. Twist one truth into a lie, and a man became a wolf. His flesh and bones could only follow, straining to reshape themselves. Two legs to four, teeth to fangs: new forms and new purposes to give proof to the falsehood.
But such lies need not be so obvious as that old man with his broken brain, need they? The self could become lost in more subtle ways, could it not? Today I am this person. Tomorrow I am another. See the truths of me? Not one is tethered. I am bound to no single self, but unleashed into a multitude of selves. Does this make me ill? Broken?
Is this why I can find no peace?
The twins walked five paces in front of her. They were one split in two. Sharp-eyed round faces peering into the mirror, where nothing could hide. Truths could bend but not twist.
I willingly followed Toc Anaster, even as I resented it. I have my very own addiction and it is called dissatisfaction. And each time it returns, everyone pays. Cafal, I let you down. I cried out my own failure of faith-I forced you to flee me. Where are you now, my soft-eyed priest?
Baaljagg’s dead eyes fixed on her again and again as they walked. She lagged behind the twins. The boy’s weight was making the muscles of her arms burn. She would have to set him down again, and so their pace would suddenly slow to a crawl. Everyone was hungry-even an undead wolf could find little to chase down out here. The withered grasses of the plains were long behind them now. Soil had given way to stones and hard-packed clay. Thorny shrubs clung here and there, their ancient trunks emerging from beds of cacti. Worn watercourses revealed desiccated pieces of driftwood, mostly no more substantial than the bones of her forearm; but occasionally they came upon something far larger, long and thick as a leg, and though she could not be certain she thought that they showed signs of having been worked. Boreholes large enough to insert a thumb-though of course to do so would invite a spider’s bite or a scorpion’s sting-and the faint scaly signs of adze marks. But none of these ancient streams could have borne a boat of any kind, not even a skiff or raft. She could make no sense of any of it.
The north horizon hinted at high towers of stone, like mountains gnawed through from every side, leaving the peaks tottering on narrow spires. They made her uneasy, as if warning her of something. You are in a land that gives nothing. It will devour you, and there is no end to its vast hunger.
They had made a terrible mistake. No, she’d made it. He was leading us east, so we will go east. Why was he leading us in that direction? Stavi, I have no idea.
But here is a truth I have found inside myself. All that dissatisfaction? It’s not at Toc. It’s not at anyone. It’s with me. My inability to find peace, to trust it when I do find it, and to hold on to it.
This addiction feeds itself. It may be incurable.
Another rutted watercourse ahead-no… Setoc’s eyes narrowed. Two ruts, churned up by horse hoofs. A track. The twins had seen the same, for they suddenly ran ahead, halting and looking down. Setoc didn’t catch their words but both turned as she arrived, and in their faces they saw a hardening determination.
Storii pointed. ‘It goes that way. It goes that way, Setoc.’
‘So will we,’ Stavi added.
Southeast, but curving ahead, she saw. Eastward. What is out there? What are we supposed to find?
‘Blablablabla!’ cried the boy, his loud voice-so close to one ear-making her flinch.
Baaljagg trotted out to sniff the trail. Probably just instinct. The damned thing hasn’t even got a working nose… has it? Maybe it smells different things. Life, or something else.
When the twins set out on the path, the huge beast followed. The boy twisted in Setoc’s arms and she lowered him to the ground. He ran to join his sisters.
Some leader I am.
At the turn she saw skid marks, where the wagon’s wheels had spun and juddered out to the side, tearing at the ground. Here, the horse hoofs had gouged deep. But she could see no obstacle that would have forced such a manoeuvre. The way ahead ran straight for a hundred paces before jagging south again, only to twist east and then northeast.
At this Setoc snorted. ‘They were out of control,’ she said. ‘They went where the horses dragged them. This is pointless-’
Stavi spun. ‘We don’t care where they’re going!’ she shouted. ‘It doesn’t matter!’
‘But how can they help us if they can’t even help themselves?’ Setoc asked.
‘What’s so different about that?’
The bitchy little runt has a point. ‘Look at those marks-they were riding wild, crazy fast. How do you expect we’ll ever catch them?’
‘Because horses get tired.’
They resumed their journey. Tracking the aimless with purpose. Just like growing up.
Stones crunched underfoot, the bridling heat making the gnarled stalks of the shrubs tick and creak. They were low on water. The meat of the lizards they’d eaten this morning felt dry and sour in Setoc’s stomach. Not a single cloud in the sky to give them a moment’s respite. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d seen a bird.
Noon passed, the afternoon stretching as listless as the wasteland spreading out on all sides. The track had finally straightened out on an easterly setting. Even the twins were slowing down. All of their shadows had pitched round and were lengthening when Storii cried out and pointed.
A lone horse. South of the trail by two hundred or so paces. Remnants of traces dangled down from its head. It stood on weak legs, nuzzling the lifeless ground, and its ebon flanks were white with crusted lather.
Setoc hesitated, and then said, ‘Keep Baaljagg here. I want to see if I can catch it.’
For once the twins had no complaint.
The animal was facing away but it caught some noise or scent when Setoc was still a hundred paces off and it shifted round to regard her. Its eyes, she saw, were strange, as if swallowed in something both lurid and dark. At least the animal didn’t bolt.
Ghost wolves, stay away from me now. We need this beast.
Cautiously, she edged closer.
The horse watched. It had been eating cactus, she saw, and scores of spines were embedded in its muzzle, dripping blood.
Hungry. Starving. She spoke in low, soothing tones: ‘How long have you been out here, friend? All alone, your companions gone. Do you welcome our company? I’m sure you do. As for those spines, we’ll do something about that. I promise.’
And then she was close enough to reach out and touch the animal. But its eyes held her back. They didn’t belong to a horse. They looked… demonic.
It’s been eating cactus-how much? She looked to where she had seen it cropping the ground. Oh, spirits below. If all that is now in your stomach, you are in trouble. Did it look to be in pain? How could she tell? It was clearly weary, yes, but it drew a steady and deep breath, ears flicking curiously as it in turn studied her. Finally, Setoc slowly reached out to take the frayed leather traces. When she gathered them up the animal lifted its head, as if about to prod her with its wounded muzzle.
Setoc wrapped the reins about her left hand and gingerly took hold of one of the spines. She tugged it loose. The horse flinched. That and nothing more. Sighing, she began plucking.
If she licked the blood from the spines? What would the beast think of that? She decided not to find out. Oh, but I dearly do want to lick this blood. My mouth yearns for that taste. I can smell its warm life.
Old man, give me your skin.
When she’d removed the last spine she reached up and settled a hand on its blazoned brow. ‘Better? I hope so, friend.’
‘Mercy,’ said a thin voice in accented trader tongue, ‘I’d forgotten about that.’
Setoc stepped round the horse and saw, lying in a careless sprawl on the ground, a corpse. For an instant her breath caught-‘Toc?’
‘Who? No. Saw him, though, once. Funny eyes.’
‘Does nothing dead ever go away around here?’ Setoc demanded, fear giving way to anger.
‘I don’t know, but can you even hope to imagine the anguish people like me feel when seeing one such as you? Young, flush, with such clear and bright eyes. You make me miserable.’
Setoc drew the horse round.
‘Wait! Help me up-I’m snagged on something. I don’t mind being miserable, so long as I have someone to talk to. Being miserable without anyone to talk to is far worse.’
Really. Setoc walked over. Studied the corpse. ‘You have a stake through your chest,’ she said.
‘A stake? Oh, a spoke, you mean. That explains it.’
‘Does it?’
‘Well, no. Things got confused. I believe, however, I am lying on a fragment of the hub, with perhaps another fragment of spoke buried deep in the earth. This is what happens when a carriage gets picked up and then dropped back down. I wonder if horses have much memory. Probably not, else this one would still be running. So, beautiful child, will you help me?’
She reached down. ‘Take my arm, then-can you manage that much? Good, now hold tight while I try and lift you clear.’
It was easier than she’d expected. Skin and bones don’t weigh much, do they?
‘I am named Cartographer,’ said the corpse, ineffectually trying to brush dust from his rags.
‘Setoc.’
‘So very pleased to meet you.’
‘I thought I made you miserable.’
‘I delight in misery.’
She grunted. ‘You’ll fit right in. Come with me.’
‘Wonderful, where are you going?’
‘We’re going after your carriage-tell me, is everyone in it dead like you?’
Cartographer seemed to ponder the question, and then he said, ‘Probably. But let’s find out, shall we?’
The children of Onos Toolan and Hetan seemed unaffected by the arrival of yet another animated corpse. When Cartographer saw Baaljagg he halted and pointed, but said nothing.
Setoc took the boy’s hand and led him close to the horse. She vaulted on to the animal’s back and reached down and lifted up the boy.
The twins set out once more on the trail. Baaljagg fell in with them.
‘Did you know,’ Cartographer said, ‘the dead still dream?’
‘No,’ said Setoc, ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Sometimes I dream that a dog will find me.’
‘A dog?’
‘Yes. A big one, as big as that one.’
‘Well, it seems your dream has come true.’
‘I hope not.’
She glanced down at him as he trudged beside the horse. ‘Why?’
‘Because, in my dream, the dog buries me.’
Thinking back to her vision of Baaljagg clawing free of the ground, she smiled. ‘I don’t think you have to worry about that, not with this dog, Cartographer.’
‘I hope you are right. I do have one question, however.’
She sighed. A corpse that won’t shut up. ‘Go on.’
‘Where are we?’
‘The Wastelands.’
‘Ah, that explains it, then.’
‘Explains what?’
‘Why, all this… waste.’
‘Have you ever heard of the Wastelands, Cartographer?’
‘No.’
‘So let me ask you something. Where did your carriage come from, and how is it you don’t even know the land you were travelling in?’
‘Given my name, it is indeed pathetic that I know so little. Of course, this land was once an inland sea, but then one might say that of countless basins on any number of continents. So that hardly amounts to brilliant affirmation of my profession. Alas, since dying, I have been forced to radically reassess all my most cherished notions.’
‘Are you ever going to answer my questions?’
‘Our arrival was sudden, but Master Quell judged it propitious. The client expressed satisfaction and indeed no small amount of astonishment. Far better this wretched land than the realm within a cursed sword, and I would hardly be one to dispute that, would I? Maps being what they are and such. Naturally, it was inevitable that we let down our guard. Ah, see ahead. Ample evidence of that.’
The tracks seemed to vanish for fifteen or twenty paces. Where they resumed wreckage lay scattered about, including half an axle.
A lost horse and a lost wheel behind them, half an axle here-how had the thing managed to keep going? And what was it doing in that gap? Flying?
‘Spirits below, Cartographer-’ and then she stopped. From her height astride the horse, she could make something out ahead. Daylight was fading, but still… ‘I see it.’
Two more stretches without tracks, then where they resumed various parts of ornate carriage lay strewn about. She saw one large section of painted wood, possibly from the roof, bearing deep gouges scored through it, as if some massive hand had been tearing the carriage to pieces. Some distance ahead rested the carriage itself, or what was left of it. The humped forms of dead horses lay thrown about to the sides.
‘Cartographer-’
‘It struck from the sky,’ the corpse replied. ‘Was it a dragon? It most assuredly was not. An enkar’al? What enkar’al could boldly lift from the ground the entire carriage and all its horses? No, not an enkar’al. Mind you, I was witness only to the first attack-tell me, Setoc, do you see anyone?’
‘Not yet,’ she replied. ‘Stavi, Storii! Hold up there.’ She lifted the boy and set him down on the ground. ‘I will ride ahead. I know it’s getting dark, but keep your eyes on the sky-there’s something up there.’ Somewhere. Hopefully not close.
The horse was nervous beneath her, reluctant to draw nearer to the carriage, but she coaxed it on.
Its fellow beasts had been torn apart, bones splintered, gouges of flesh missing. Everywhere those same thin but deep slashes. Talons. Enormous and deadly sharp.
She found the first corpse, a man. He had wrapped the ends of the traces about his forearms and both arms were horribly dislocated, almost pulled free of the shoulders. Something had slashed through his head diagonally, from above, she judged. Through his skullcap helm, down along one side of the nose and out beneath the jaw, leaving him with half a face. Just beyond him was another man, neatly decapitated-she couldn’t see the head anywhere close by.
She halted her mount a few paces from the destroyed carriage. It had been huge, six-wheeled, likely weighing as much as a clan yurt with the entire family shoved inside. The attacker had systematically dismantled it from one flank, as if eager to get within. Blood stained the edges of the gaping hole it had made.
Setoc clambered up to peer inside. No body. But a mass of something was heaped on the side that was now the floor, gleaming wet in the gloom. She waited for her eyes to adjust. Then, in revulsion, she pulled back. Entrails. An occupant had been eviscerated. Where was the rest of the poor victim? She perched herself on the carriage and scanned the area.
There. Half of him, anyway. The upper half.
And then she saw tracks, the ground scuffed, three or four paths converging to form a broader one, and that one led away from the wreckage, eastward. Survivors. But they must have been on the run, else they would have done more for their dead. Still, a few made it… for a little while longer, anyway.
She descended from the carriage and mounted the horse. ‘Sorry, friend, but it looks like you’re the last.’ Swinging the horse round, she rode back to the others.
‘How many bodies?’ Cartographer asked when she arrived.
‘Three for certain. Tracks lead away.’
‘Three, you say?’
‘That I saw. Two on the ground, one in the carriage-or, rather, bits of him left in the carriage.’
‘A man? A man in the carriage?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, dear. That is very bad indeed.’
Returning to the wreckage, Cartographer moved to stand over each victim, shaking his head and muttering in low tones-possibly a prayer-Setoc wasn’t close enough to hear his words. He rejoined her once they were past.
‘I find myself in some conflict,’ he said. ‘On the one hand, I wish I’d been here to witness that dread clash, to see Trake’s Mortal Sword truly awakened. To see the Trell’s rage rise from the deepness of his soul. On the other hand, witnessing the gruesome deaths of those I had come to know as friends, well, that would have been terrible. As much as it grieves me to say, there are times when getting what one wants yields nothing but confusion. It turns out that what one wants is in fact not at all what one wants. Worse is when you simply don’t know what you want. You’d think death would discard such trials. If only it did.’
‘There’s blood on this trail,’ said Setoc.
‘I wish that surprised me. Still, they must have succeeded in driving the demon away, in itself an extraordinary feat.’
‘How long ago did all this happen?’
‘Not long. I was lying on the ground from midmorning. I imagine we’ll find them-’
‘We already have,’ she said. ‘They’ve camped.’
She could see the faint glow of a small fire, and now figures straightening, turning to study them. The sun was almost down behind Setoc and her companions, so she knew the strangers were seeing little more than silhouettes. She raised a hand in greeting, urging her mount forward with a gentle tap of her heels.
Two of the figures were imposing: one broad and bestial, his skin the hue of burnished mahogany, his black braided hair hanging in greasy coils. He was holding a two-handed mace. The other was taller, his skin tattooed in the stripes of a tiger, and as Setoc drew closer, she saw a feline cast to his features, including amber eyes bisected by vertical pupils. The two heavy-bladed swords in his hands matched the barbed patterns of his skin.
Three others were visible, two women and a tall, young man. He was long-jawed and long-necked, with blood-matted hair. A knotted frown marred his high forehead, above dark, angry eyes. He stood slightly apart from all the others.
Setoc’s eyes returned to the two women. Both short and plump, neither one much older than Setoc herself. But their eyes looked aged: bleak, dulled with shock.
Two more survivors were lying close to the fire, asleep or unconscious.
The bestial man was the first to speak, addressing Cartographer but not in a language that Setoc recognized. The undead man replied in the same tongue, and then turned to Setoc.
‘Mappo Runt welcomes you with a warning. They are being hunted.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘Cartographer, you seem to have a talent for languages-’
‘Hood’s gift, for the tasks he set upon me. Mappo addresses me in a Daru dialect, a trader’s cant. He does so to enable his companions to understand his words, as they are Genabackan, while he is not.’
‘What is he, then?’
‘Trell, Setoc-’
‘And the striped one-what manner of creature is he?’
‘Trake’s Mortal Sword-’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Ah. Trake is the Tiger of Summer, a foreign god. Gruntle is the god’s chosen mortal weapon.’
The one Cartographer had named Gruntle now spoke, his eerie eyes fixed upon Setoc. She noted that he had not sheathed his swords, whilst the Trell had set down his mace.
‘Setoc,’ said Cartographer after Gruntle had finally finished, ‘the Mortal Sword names you Destriant of Fanderay and Togg, the Wolves of Winter. You are, in a sense, kin. Another servant of war. Yet, though Trake may view you and your Lady and Lord as mortal enemies, Gruntle does not. Indeed, he says, he holds his own god in no high esteem, nor is he pleased with… er, well, he calls it a curse. Accordingly, you are welcome and need not fear him. Conversely,’ Cartographer then added, ‘if you seek violence then he will oblige your wish.’
Setoc found her heart was pounding hard and rapid in her chest. Her mouth was suddenly dry. Destriant. Have I heard that word before? Did Toc so name me? Or was it someone else? ‘I am not interested in violence,’ she said.
When Cartographer relayed her reply, Gruntle glanced once at the undead wolf standing between the twins-Baaljagg’s bristled back was unmistakable-and then the Mortal Sword momentarily bared impressive fangs, before nodding once and sheathing his weapons. And then he froze, as the twins’ brother toddled forward, seemingly heading straight for Gruntle.
‘Klavklavklavklav!’
Setoc saw the Trell start at that, turning to study the boy who now stood directly in front of Gruntle with arms outspread.
‘He wants Gruntle to pick him up,’ Setoc said.
‘I’m sure Gruntle can see that,’ said Cartographer. ‘A most fearless child. The word he seeks is Imass. I did not think such things even existed. Imass children, I mean.’
Gruntle snatched up the boy, who yelped in delight, filling the night air with laughter.
Setoc heard Baaljagg’s low growl and glanced over. Although the undead beast made no move, the black pits of its eyes were fixed-as much as could be determined-upon the Mortal Sword and the child he held. ‘Getting killed once wasn’t enough?’ she asked the giant wolf. ‘The pup needs no help.’
The twins had edged closer to Setoc, who now dismounted. ‘It’s all right,’ she said to them.
‘Mother said cats were teeth and claws without brains,’ said Storii. She pointed at Gruntle. ‘He looks like his mother slept with a cat.’
‘Your brother isn’t afraid.’
‘Too stupid to be scared,’ said Stavi.
‘These ones,’ said Setoc, ‘fought off the sky demon, but they didn’t kill it, else we would have found the carcass. Would we be safer with or without them?’
‘I wish Toc was here.’
‘So do I, Storii.’
‘Where were they going, anyway? There’s nothing in the Wastelands.’
At Storii’s question Setoc shrugged. ‘I can’t quite get an answer to that yet, but I will keep trying.’
The two women had returned to tending their wounded companions. The tall young man remained off to one side, looking agitated. Setoc stepped closer to Cartographer. ‘What is wrong with that man?’
‘It is, I am told, ever a misjudgement to view a Bole of the Mott Irregulars with contempt. Amby is angry and that anger is slow to fade. His brother is sorely wounded, near death, in fact.’
‘Does he blame Gruntle or Mappo for that?’
‘Hardly. Oh, I gather that both of those you speak of fought valiantly against the sky demon-certainly, the Mortal Sword is made for such encounters. But neither Gruntle nor Mappo succeeded in driving the creature away. The Boles despise such things as demons and the like. And once awakened to anger, they prove deadly against such foes. Precious Thimble calls it a fever. But Master Quell suggested that the Boles themselves are the spawn of sorcery, perhaps a Jaghut creation gone awry. Would that explain the Boles’ extravagant hatred for Jaghut? Possibly. In any case, it was Amby and Jula Bole who sent the demon fleeing. But the residue of that fury remains in Amby, suggesting that he maintains his readiness should the demon be foolish enough to 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 one bouncing 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 untutored-’
‘There’s a chance,’ Faint insisted. ‘Beru’s black nipples, this hurts.’
‘She will attempt some healing, in a while,’ said Mappo. ‘It took all of her strength just to keep Jula alive.’
Faint grunted and then gasped. Recovering, she said, ‘Guilt will do that.’
Mappo nodded. The Bole brothers had followed Precious Thimble into this Guild, and she had joined on a whim, or, more likely, to see how far her two would-be lovers would go in their pursuit of her. When love turned into a game, people got hurt, and Precious Thimble had finally begun to comprehend the truth of that. You took them too far, didn’t you?
At the same time without the Boles none of them here would be alive right now. Mappo still found it difficult to believe that a mortal man’s fists could do the damage he’d seen from Jula and Amby Bole. They had simply launched themselves on to the winged Che’Malle, and those oversized knuckles had struck with more power than Mappo’s own mace. He had heard bones crack beneath those blows, had heard the Che’Malle’s gasps of shock and pain. When it lashed out, it had been in frantic self-defence, a blind panic to dislodge its frenzied attackers. The creature’s talons, each one as long as a Semk scimitar, had plunged into Jula’s back, the four tips erupting from the man’s chest. It had flung the man away-and at that moment Amby’s lashing fists found the Che’Malle’s throat. Those impacts would have crushed the neck of a horse, and they proved damaging enough to force the Che’Malle into the air, wings thundering. A back-handed blow scraped Amby off and then the thing was lifting upward.
Gruntle, who appeared to have been the Che’Malle’s original target-carried off in the first attack and presumed by the others to be dead-had then returned, an apparition engulfed in the rage of his god. Veered into the form of an enormous tiger, its shape strangely blurred and indistinct except for the barbs that writhed like tongues of black flame, he had launched himself into the air in an effort to drag down the Che’Malle. But it eluded him and then, wings hammering, it fled skyward.
Mappo subsequently learned from Gruntle-once his fury was past, something like his human form returning-that his first battle with the thing had been a thousand reaches above the Wastelands, and when the Che’Malle failed to slay him, it had simply dropped him earthward. Gruntle had veered into his Soletaken form in mid-air. He now complained of bruised, throbbing joints, but Mappo knew it was a fall that should have killed him. Trake intervened. No other possible explanation serves.
He thought again about that horrifying creature, reiterating his own conviction that it was indeed some breed of K’Chain Che’Malle, though not one he had ever seen before, nor even heard of from those more intimate with the ancient race. It was twice the height of a K’ell Hunter, although gaunter. Its wingspan matched that of a middle-aged Eleint, yet where among dragons those wings served to aid speed and direct their manoeuvring in the air-with sorcery in effect carrying the dragon’s massive weight-for this Che’Malle all lift was produced by those wings. And its weight was but a fraction of an Eleint’s. Gods, it was fast. And such strength! In its second attack, after Gruntle was gone, the Che’Malle had simply lifted the entire carriage into the air, horses and all. If the carriage’s frame had not splintered in its grip, the beast would have carried them all skyward, until it reached a height from which a fall would be fatal. Simple and effective. The Che’Malle had attempted the tactic a few more times, before finally descending to do battle.
To its regret.
And, it must be admitted, ours as well. Glanno Tarp was dead. So too Reccanto Ilk. And of course Master Quell. When Mappo had reached the carriage to pull Precious Thimble from the interior cabin, she had been hysterical-Quell had interposed himself between her and the attacking Che’Malle, and it had simply eviscerated him. If not for the Boles leaping on to its back, it would have slain her as well. Mappo still bore slashes on his hands and wrists from the woman’s blind terror.
The carriage had proved beyond mundane repair. There had been no choice but to continue on foot, carrying away their wounded, with the threat of another attack ever looming over them.
Still, I think the Boles hurt it.
That Che’Malle, it wasn’t out here waiting for us. Its attack was opportunistic-what else could it have been? No, the creature has other tasks awaiting it. For all I know, it too is hunting Icarium, a possibility too terrible to consider. In any case, let us hope it has now concluded we’re too much trouble.
His eyes strayed to his mace, lying on the ground close to hand. He had managed to strike the Che’Malle one solid blow, enough to rock it back a step. It had felt as if his mace had collided with an iron obelisk. His shoulders still ached. The eye looks past the target, to where the weapon is intended to reach. When it fails, shock thunders through the body. Every muscle, every bone. I can’t even remember the last time it so utterly failed.
‘Who are these strangers?’ Faint asked.
Mappo sighed. ‘I am not sure. There is an undead ay with them.’
‘A what?’
‘An ancient wolf, from the age of the Imass. Their bloodline was harvested in the shaping of the Hounds of Shadow… but not the Hounds of Darkness. For those, it was the bloodline of a breed of plains bear. Ty’nath okral, in the language of the Bentract Imass.’
‘An undead wolf?’
‘Pardon? Oh, yes, called an ay when alive. Now? Perhaps a maeth ay, one of rot or decay. Or one could say an oth ay, referring to its skeletal state. For myself, I think I prefer T’ay-a broken ay, if you will-’
‘Mappo, I really don’t care what you call it. It’s an undead wolf, something to keep Cartographer company-he’s back, right? I’m sure I heard him-’
‘Yes. He guided these others to us and now interprets.’
‘They don’t speak Daru? Barbarians.’
‘Yet two of them-those twin girls-they possess Daru blood. I am almost certain of it. The boy now clinging to Gruntle, there is Imass in him. More than half, I would judge. Therefore, either his mother or father was probably Barghast. The leader among them-she is named Setoc and proclaimed by Gruntle to be the Destriant of the Wolves-reminds me of a Kanese, though she is not. Some scenes painted on the oldest of tombs on the north coast of Seven Cities display people much like her in appearance, from the time before the tribes came out of the desert, one presumes.’
‘You’re trying to keep me awake, aren’t you?’
‘You landed on your head, Faint. For a time there, you spoke in tongues.’
‘I did what?’
‘Well, it was a mix of languages, sixteen that I could identify, and some others I could not. An extraordinary display, Faint. There is a scholar who states that we possess every language, deep within our minds, and that the potential exists for perhaps ten thousand languages in all. She would have delighted in witnessing your feat. Then there is a dystigier, a dissector of human corpses, living in Ehrlitan, who claims that the brain is nothing more than a clumped mass of snarled chains. Most links are fused, but some are not. Some can be prised open and fitted anew. Any major head injury, he says, can result in a link breaking. This is usually permanent, but on rare occasions a new link is forged. Chains, Faint, packed inside our skull.’
‘Only they don’t look like chains, do they?’
‘No, alas, they don’t. It is the curse of theory disconnected from physical observation. Of course, Icarium would argue that one should not always test theory solely on the basis of pragmatic observation. Sometimes, he would say, theory needs to be interpreted more poetically, as metaphor, perhaps.’
‘I have a metaphor for you, Mappo.’
‘Oh?’
‘A woman lies on the ground, brain addled, listening to a hairy Trell with tusks discussing possible interpretations of theory. What does this mean?’
‘I don’t know, but whatever it may be, I doubt it would qualify as a metaphor.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, since I don’t even know what a metaphor is, truth be told. Try this, then. The woman listens to all that, but she knows her brain is addled. So, just how addled is it? Is it so addled that she actually believes she’s listening to a hairy Trell spouting philosophy?’
‘Ah, perhaps a tautology, then. Or some other manner of unprovable proof. Then again, it might well be something else entirely. Though I am occasionally philosophical, I do not claim to be a philosopher. The distinction is important, I’m sure.’
‘If you really want to keep me awake, Mappo, find a new subject.’
‘Do you truly believe Precious Thimble is capable of taking you back to Darujhistan?’
‘If she isn’t we’re stuck and it’s time to start learning the local tongue from Setoc. But she can’t be from here anyway, can she? This land is blasted. Quell says it’s used up. Exhausted. No one can live here.’
‘The cut of Setoc’s clothing is Barghast,’ said Mappo. He scratched the bristle on his jaw. ‘And since that boy has, I think, Barghast blood…’ He raised his voice and, in Barghast, called over to Setoc, ‘Do we share this language between us, Destriant Setoc?’
At the question all four newcomers looked over. And Setoc said, ‘It seems we do.’
‘Nice guess,’ said Faint.
‘Observation and theory,’ Mappo replied. ‘Now, you can rest for a short time. I mean to get the story of these strangers. I will be back to wake you anon.’
‘Can’t wait,’ Faint muttered.
‘If no solution serves,’ ventured Shield Anvil Tanakalian, ‘then what remains to us? We must proceed on the path we have always known, until some other alternative presents itself.’ He held his gaze on the entourage of Queen Abrastal as it slowly drew closer, the dozen or so horses gently cantering across the uneven ground, the pennons above the riders flapping like impaled birds.
Beside him, Mortal Sword Krughava shifted heavily on her saddle. Leather creaked, iron scraped. ‘The absence haunts,’ she said. ‘It gapes at our side, sir.’
‘Then choose one, Mortal Sword. Be done with it.’
Her expression darkened beneath the rim of her helm. ‘You truly advise this, Shield Anvil? Am I to be so desperate as to be careless? Must I swallow my dissatisfaction? I have done this once already, sir, and I begin to find regret in that.’
Once already? You miserable witch. I took that sour face of yours to be the one you always wear. Now you tell me I was a choice made without confidence. Did that old man talk you into it, then? But between you and me, woman, only I was witness to his bitter dissatisfaction at the very end. So, in your mind he still argues in my favour. Well enough. ‘It grieves me, Mortal Sword, to hear you say this. I do not know how I have failed you, nor do I know what reparation remains available to me.’
‘My indecision, sir, stings you into impatience. You urge action without contemplation, but if the selection of a new Destriant does not demand contemplation, what possibly can? In your mind, it would seem, these are but titles. Responsibilities one grows into, as it were. But the truth of it is, the title awaits only those who have already grown into a person worthy of the responsibility. From you, I receive all the irritation of a young man convinced of his own rightness, as young men generally are, said conviction leading you into rash impulses and ill-considered advice. Now I ask that you be silent. The Queen arrives.’
Tanakalian struggled against his fury, endeavouring to hold flat his expression in the face of the Bolkando riders. You strike me in the moment before this parley, to test my self-control. I know all your tactics, Mortal Sword. You shall not best me.
Queen Abrastal wasted little time. ‘We have met with the Saphii emissary, and I am pleased to inform you that resupply is forthcoming-at a reasonable price, I might add. Generous of them, all things considered.’
‘Indeed, Highness,’ said Krughava.
‘Furthermore,’ Abrastal continued, ‘the Malazan columns have been sighted by the Saphii, almost due north of the Saphii Mountains, approaching the very edge of the Wastelands. They have made good time. Curiously, your allies are with escort-none other than Prince Brys Beddict, in command of a Letherii army.’
‘I see,’ said Krughava. ‘And this Letherii army now marches well beyond Lether’s borders, suggesting their role as escort was not precautionary.’
The Queen’s eyes sharpened. ‘As I said, most curious, Mortal Sword.’ She paused, and then said, ‘It has become obvious to me that, of all the luminaries involved in this escapade, I alone remain ignorant.’
‘Highness?’
‘Well, you are all marching somewhere, yes? Into the Wastelands, no less. And through them, in fact, into Kolanse. My warnings to you of the grim-no, horrifying-situation in that distant land appear to have gone unheeded.’
‘On the contrary, Queen Abrastal,’ said Krughava, ‘we heed them most assiduously, and hold your concern in the highest regard.’
‘Then answer me, do you march to win yourselves an empire? Kolanse, weakened so by internal strife, drought and starvation, must present to you an easy conquest. Surely, you cannot imagine such a beleaguered people to be your deadliest enemy? You’ve never even been there. If,’ she added, ‘you were wondering why I am still with you and the Khundryl, so far from my own realm and still weeks to go before our grand parley with the Adjunct, perhaps now you can surmise my reasons.’
‘Curiosity?’ Krughava asked, brows lifting.
A flash of irritation lit Abrastal’s features.
Yes, Queen, I know how you feel.
‘A more apt description would be unease. As co-ruler of Bolkando, it is my responsibility to hold tight the reins of my people. I am well aware of the human tendency towards chaos and cruelty. The very purpose of rule, as I hold it, is to enforce civility. To achieve this, I must begin with a personal adherence to the same. Does it distress me that I am perhaps aiding a horde of rabid conquerors? Does it sit well with my conscience that I am assisting in the invasion of a distant kingdom?’
‘At the earning of vast profits from us,’ Krughava said. ‘One would conclude that much civility can be purchased for yourself, Highness, and for your people. At no direct cost or burden to you, I might add.’
She was genuinely angry now, Tanakalian could see, this hard, clear-eyed Queen sitting astride her horse in the insignia of a soldier. A true ruler of her people. A true servant of the same.
‘Mortal Sword, I am speaking of conscience.’
‘It was my understanding, Highness, that coin in sufficient quantities could salve anything. Is this not the belief dominating Lether and Saphinand, and indeed Bolkando?’
‘Then you do in truth seek to descend upon the poor people of Kolanse?’
‘If it is so, Highness, should you not be relieved? After all, even without the Malazans, we were at the very walls of your capital. To win ourselves a kingdom… well, yours was entirely within our reach. Without need for further marching and all the hardships that entails. As for the Malazans, why, they have just completed a successful conquest of the Empire of Lether. A most opulent nest, were they inclined to settle in it.’
‘This is precisely my point!’ Abrastal snapped, tugging her helm to loose a cascade of fiery, sweat-strung hair. ‘Why Kolanse? What in the Errant’s name do you want with Kolanse?’
‘Highness,’ said Krughava, unperturbed by the Queen’s uncharacteristic outburst, ‘an answer to that question would find you in a difficult situation.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you speak to me of conscience. By withholding explanation of our purpose, Highness, we leave to you the comfort of the solitary consideration of your own people. You are their Queen, after all, and therein lies the crucial difference between us. We Perish begin and end with responsibility only to ourselves, and to the purpose of our existence. The same is true for Warleader Gall and the Burned Tears. And finally and most importantly, an identical circumstance obtains among the Bonehunters.’ She cocked her head a fraction. ‘Prince Brys, however, may soon find himself facing a difficult decision-to return to Lether or to continue accompanying the Adjunct and her allies.’
‘And so,’ retorted Abrastal, ‘in serving only yourselves, you are prepared to deliver misery and suffering upon a broken people?’
‘While this is not our desire, Highness, it may well come to that.’
In the shocked silence that followed, Tanakalian saw the Queen’s eyes flatten, and then a frown slowly knot her brow. The skittering clouds of uncertainty edged into her expression. When she spoke it was a whisper. ‘You will not explain yourself to me, will you, Mortal Sword?’
‘You have the truth of that, Highness.’
‘You say you serve none but yourselves. The assertion rings false.’
‘I am sorry you think so,’ Krughava replied.
‘In fact,’ Abrastal went on, ‘I now begin to suspect the very opposite.’
The Mortal Sword said nothing.
You have the truth of it, Tanakalian silently answered, mocking Krughava’s own words. What we do is not in service to ourselves, but to all of you.
Can anything be more glorious? And if we must fall, if we must fail, as I believe we will, is no end sweeter than that? The grandest failure this world has ever seen.
Yes, we all know the tale of Coltaine’s Fall outside Aren. But what we shall find at the end of our days will beggar that tale. We seek to save the world, and the world will do all it can to stop us. Watch us lose. Watch us squeeze the blood from your stony heart!
But no. There shall be none to witness. If existence itself can be said to be poetic, we stand in that silence, unyielding servants to anonymity. None to see, none to even know. Not a single grave, nor stone lifted to cast shade upon our scattered bones. Neither hill nor tomb. We shall rest in emptiness, not forgotten-for forgetting follows remembrance, and there shall be no remembrance.
His heart thundered with the delicious beauty of it-all of it. The perfect hero is one whose heroism none sees. The most precious glory is the glory lost on senseless winds. The highest virtue is the one that remains for ever hidden within oneself. Do you understand that, Mortal Sword? No, you do not.
He watched, flushed with satisfaction, as Queen Abrastal gathered her reins and pitched her horse about with a vicious twist. The entire entourage hastened to follow. The gentle canter was gone, awkward jostling knotting the troop like a hand twisting cloth, stretching out confused behind their departing Queen.
‘Gift me with your wisdom, Shield Anvil.’
Her dry request made him start. The flush of heat in his face suddenly fed darker feelings. ‘They will leave us, Mortal Sword. The Bolkando are done with us.’
She snorted. ‘How long must I wait?’
‘For what, Mortal Sword?’
‘For wisdom in my Shield Anvil.’
They were as good as alone, the Perish camp settled behind them. ‘It seems I can say nothing that pleases you, Mortal Sword.’
‘Queen Abrastal needs to understand what we intend. She cannot let it go. Now, she will maintain her resolve, in the hope that the Adjunct Tavore will provide her with satisfaction.’
‘And will she?’
‘What do you think, Shield Anvil?’
‘I think Queen Abrastal will be a very frustrated woman.’
‘Finally. Yes.’
‘The Adjunct is selfish,’ said Tanakalian.
Krughava’s head snapped round. ‘Excuse me?’
‘She could invite others to share in this glory-this Evertine Legion of the Queen’s, it looks to be a formidable army. Well-trained, capable of marching in step with us-unlike the Conquestor Avalt’s soldiers. Were they to stand at our side in Kolanse-’
‘Sir,’ cut in the Mortal Sword, ‘if the Adjunct is selfish-for what you clearly imagine to be a glorious achievement-then it may serve you better to consider that selfishness as one of unprecedented mercy.’
‘I am aware of the likely outcome of this venture, Mortal Sword. Perhaps more than even you. I know the souls awaiting me-I see their mortal faces every day. I see the hope they settle upon me. Nor am I regretful that what we seek shall be unwitnessed, for with our brothers and sisters, I am their witness. When I spoke of the Adjunct’s selfishness, I did not mean it as a criticism; rather, I was indicating the privilege I feel in her permitting the Grey Helms to share her fate.’
Krughava’s bright blue eyes were fixed on him, calculating, thoughtful. ‘I understand, sir. You await the death of the Grey Helms. While you look upon them and see naught but their souls soon to be gifted to you, what do they see in the eyes of their Shield Anvil?’
‘I shall honour them all,’ Tanakalian replied.
‘Will you?’
‘Of course. I am Shield Anvil-’
‘Will you embrace the soul of every brother and sister? Free of judgement? Unsullied in your love for each and every one of them? And what of our enemies, sir? Will you take them into your arms as well? Will you accept that suffering defies boundaries and that pain carves no line in the sand?’
He was silent. How could he answer her? She would see the lie. Tanakalian looked away. ‘I am Shield Anvil to the Perish Grey Helms. I serve the Wolves of Winter. I am the mortal flesh of war, not the sword in its hand.’ He glanced back at her. ‘Do I crowd your throne, Mortal Sword? Is that what all this is about?’
Her eyes widened. ‘You have given me much to consider, Shield Anvil. Leave me now.’
As he walked back into the camp, he drew a deep breath and shakily let it out. She was dangerous, but then he’d always known that. She actually thinks we can win. Well, I suppose that is the role of the Mortal Sword. She is welcome to the delusion-no doubt it will serve well our brothers and sisters when the Wolves howl. As for me, I cannot be so blind, so wilfully defiant of the truth.
We can manage this between us, Mortal Sword. I will follow your will in not choosing a Destriant. Why share the glory? Why muddle things at all?
A difficult, searing conversation, but he’d survived it yet. Yes, now we understand each other.
It is well.
After the Shield Anvil was gone, the Mortal Sword stood for a time, eyes on the gloom rising skyward in the east. Then she turned and gestured with one gauntleted hand. A runner quickly joined her.
‘Send word to Warleader Gall, I will visit him this evening, one bell after supper.’
The soldier bowed and departed.
She studied the eastern horizon once more. The mountains surrounding the kingdom of Saphinand formed a jagged wall to the north, but there in the place of dark’s birth, there was no hint of anything but level plain. The Wastelands.
She would suggest to Gall that they march hard now, taking up stores from the Saphii traders as they went. It was imperative that they link up with the Adjunct as soon as possible. This was one of the matters she wished to discuss with Gall. There were others.
A long, sleepless night awaited her.
The Gilk Warchief grinned as he watched Queen Abrastal ride back into the camp. Firehair indeed. Flames were ready to spit out from her, from every place an imaginative man might imagine, and of course he was a most imaginative man. But a woman like that, well, far beyond his reach and more’s the pity as far as he was concerned.
Spultatha had emerged from his tent behind him and now edged up on his right. Her eyes, so like her mother’s, narrowed as they tracked the woman’s approach. ‘Trouble,’ she said. ‘Stay away from her, Spax, for this night at least.’
His grin broadened. ‘Afraid I can’t do that, wildcat.’
‘Then you’re a fool.’
‘Keep the furs warm,’ he said, setting out for the Queen’s pavilion. Soldiers of the Evertine Legion watched him stride past their posts, and he was reminded of a pet lion he’d once seen in the camp of another clan. It had had the freedom of the camp and was in the habit of sauntering back and forth in front of the cages crowded with hunting dogs. Those beasts were driven into a frenzy, flinging themselves bloody and stupid against the iron bars. He’d always admired that lion, its perfect insouciant strut, its lolling tongue and the itch that always made it pause directly opposite the cages, for a leisurely scratch and then a broad yawn.
Let the eyes track him, let them glitter beneath the rims of their helms. He knew these soldiers so wanted to test themselves against the White Face Barghast. Against the Gilk, who were the match of any civilized heavy infantry unit anywhere in the world. But they had little chance of ever doing so. The next best thing was to stand beside them, and that was a competition the Gilk well understood.
Now we shall see what will come to pass. Do we all march to a place of battle against an enemy? Who will stand fastest? Evertine, Grey Helms, Khundryl, or the Gilk? Hah. Spax reached the inner cordon and grunted a nod when the last bodyguard outside the pavilion stepped to one side. He strode into the silk-walled corridor with all its pale tones backlit by lanterns, and as always felt he was walking through colour itself, soft and dry and strangely cool, one flavour after another.
One of her trusted lieutenants stood at the last portal. As Spax approached, the lieutenant shook his head. ‘Can it not wait, Warchief?’
‘No, Gaedis. Why, is she bathing?’
‘If she is, the water’s long since boiled away.’
What did that iron woman say to Abrastal? ‘Brave enough to announce me, Gaedis?’
‘It’s not bravery that makes me say yes, Warchief, but then stupidity’s gotten me this far and I’m a conservative man.’
‘The offer still stands,’ Spax said.
‘I doubt my Queen would take kindly to one of her court lieutenants shucking all this to wear turtle shells and dance naked under the moon.’
Spax smiled. ‘Saw that, did you?’
Gaedis nodded.
‘It was a show, you understand. Don’t you?’
‘Warchief?’
‘The Queen’s clutch of scholars-we made something up to give them something to write about and then ponder its meaning for the rest of their dull, useless lives. Spirits below, a man’s grapes get tiny in the cold night-why’d you think we kept jumping over the fire?’
After a moment’s gimlet regard, Gaedis turned and slipped through the drapery.
Spax hummed softly to himself.
Gaedis’s muffled voice invited him to enter the Royal Presence. Naked in the bowl? wondered Spax. Bah, the gods are never so kind.
She stood in her underquilting, armour discarded, her long hair still tousled from the ride. The quilting was tight against her curves. ‘If eyes were paint,’ Abrastal said, ‘I’d be dripping right now. Barbaric bastard. What’s so important you’d dare my ill humour?’
‘Just this, Highness,’ Spax replied. ‘She struck sparks from you and I want to know how, and why.’
‘Ah, you’re curious, then.’
‘That’s it, Firehair.’
‘If it wasn’t that your rabid warriors might complain, I’d see you strangled with your own entrails and perhaps-just perhaps-that would satisfy my desire in this moment. Arrogance is a strange thing, Spax. It amuses when it cannot reach, then stings to rage when it can. What in the Errant’s empty skull convinced you that I’d yield to your shit-fouled curiosity?’
Spax glanced across at Gaedis, saw the man’s face and the expression that seemed carved from stone. Coward. ‘Highness, I am Warchief of the Gilk. Each day I am under siege from the clan leaders, not to mention the bolder of the young warriors-who’d wage war on the wind if they had any chance of winning. They don’t complain of the coin, Highness. But they want a fight.’
‘Bolkando is at peace,’ Abrastal replied. ‘At least, it was when you were first hired, and now it is so again. If it was war you wanted, Spax, you should have stayed with the other White Faces, since they went and jumped with both feet on to a hornet’s nest.’ She faced him and he saw all the places he could put his hands, given the chance. Her expression darkened. ‘You are Warchief, as you say. A proud title, one with responsibility, one assumes. You are under siege, Spax? Deal with it.’
‘Not many arrows left in my quiver, Highness.’
‘Do I look like a fletcher?’
‘You look like someone with something on her mind.’ Spax spread his broad, scarred hands. ‘I don’t know these Perish Grey Helms, but I know of the order, Highness-’
‘What order?’
‘The warrior cult of the Wolves. A chapter of that cult defended at the siege of Capustan. The Grey Swords, they were called.’
Abrastal studied him for a time, and then she sighed. ‘Gaedis, open us a jug of wine-but don’t even think of pouring yourself one. I’m still annoyed with you for letting this cattle-dog whine his way into my presence.’
The lieutenant saluted and walked to the ornate wooden frame bearing a dozen or so amphorae, drawing a small knife as he scanned the stamps on the dusty necks.
‘Cults, Mortal Swords, Shield Anvils and wolf gods,’ Abrastal said in a mutter, shaking her head. ‘This has the stink of fanaticism-and that well matches my assessment after this evening’s parley. Is it simply war they seek, Spax? One where any face will do?’
The Warchief watched as Gaedis selected a jug and then, with an expert hook and twist of his knife, deftly removed the cork. ‘Impressive, Lieutenant-you learn that between off-handed swordsmanship and riding backwards?’
‘Pay attention to me!’ barked Abrastal. ‘I asked you a question, you island of fleas!’
Spax tilted his head in something between deference and amused insolence. When he saw the flaring of her eyes he bared his teeth and snapped out, ‘As long as you feel inclined to spit out insults, Highness, I will indeed stand as an island. Let the seas crash-the stones will not blink.’
‘Errant’s shit-hole throne-pour that wine, Gaedis!’
Wine sloshed.
Abrastal walked over to her cot and sat down. She rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands, and then looked up in time to accept a goblet. She drank deep. ‘Another, damn you.’ Gaedis managed to get the second goblet into Spax’s hand before turning about to retrace his steps. ‘Never mind the Perish for now. You say you know these Malazans, Spax. What can you tell me of this Adjunct Tavore?’
‘Specifically? Almost nothing, Highness. Never met her, and the Barghast have never crossed her path. No, what I can do is tell you about the cant of the Malazan military-as it took shape at the hands of Dassem Ultor, and the way the command structure changed.’
‘It’s a start, but first, what does her title mean? Adjunct? To whom? To what?’
‘Not sure this time round,’ the Warchief admitted after swallowing down a mouthful of wine. ‘They’re a renegade army, after all. So why hold on to the old title? Because it’s what her soldiers are used to, I suppose. Or is there more to it? Highness, the Adjunct-as far as I’ve gathered-was the weapon-bearing hand of the Empress. Her murderer, if you like. Of rivals inside the empire, enemies outside it. Slayer of sorcerors-she carries an otataral weapon, proof against any and all manner of magic.’
Abrastal remained sitting through this, only to rise once more when he paused. She held out her empty goblet and Gaedis poured again. ‘Elite, then, specially chosen-how many of these Adjuncts did this Empress have at any one time?’
Spax frowned. ‘I think… one.’
The Queen halted. ‘And this Malazan Empire-it spans three continents?’
‘And more, Highness.’
‘Yet Tavore is a renegade. The measure of that betrayal…’ she slowly shook her head. ‘How can one trust this Adjunct? It is impossible. I wonder, did this Tavore attempt to usurp her Empress? Is she even now being pursued? Will the enemy they find be none other than her Malazan hunters?’
Spax shrugged. ‘I doubt the Grey Helms would care much either way. It’s a war. As you said, any face will serve. As for the Khundryl, well, they’re sworn to the Adjunct personally, so they will follow her anywhere.’
‘Yes, and why would they do that to a betrayer?’
‘Highness, this is none of our concern,’ said Spax. ‘As much as my warriors lust for a fight, we have put ourselves at a tactical disadvantage-after all, it would have been better to deal with the Khundryl and the Perish back in Bolkando, and then take on the Bonehunters later. Mind you, it’s still possible. A secret emissary to the Saphii, a few tens of thousands of coins-we could catch them by surprise-’
‘No. After all, Spax, if it truly is none of our concern as you say, why attack them at all?’
‘Just my point, Highness. I was simply observing that our opportunity for a tactical advantage is fast disappearing, assuming we had cause, which we haven’t.’
‘I’m not prepared to make any such assumption, Warchief. Thus my dilemma. It is as you describe. None of the three foreign armies still poses us any threat. They have made plain their desire to vanish into the east. Is it time to dust off our hands and return to our beloved homeland?’
‘It might be, Highness.’
‘But then,’ and her frown deepened. ‘Very well,’ she said, ‘I have sent a daughter eastward, by sea, Spax. A most precious daughter. It seems you and I share the same curse: curiosity. Kolanse has fallen silent. Our trader ships find nothing but empty ports, abandoned villages. The Pelasiar Sea is empty of traffic. Even the great net-ships have vanished. And yet… and yet… something is there, perhaps deep inland. A power, and it’s growing.’
Spax studied the Queen. She was not dissembling. He saw her fear for her daughter (gods, woman, you got enough of them, what’s the loss of one?) and it was genuine. Your heiress? Does it work that way in Bolkando? How should I know, when I don’t even care? ‘Summon her to return, Highness.’
‘Too late, Spax. Too late.’
‘Highness,’ said the Warchief, ‘do you mean to tell me we’re going with the foreigners? Across the Wastelands?’
Gaedis had frozen in place, two strides to one side where he had been about to open another jug. The lieutenant’s eyes were on his Queen.
‘I don’t know,’ Abrastal said, eventually. ‘No, in fact-we are not equipped for such a venture, nor, I imagine, would they even welcome us. Nonetheless… I will see this Adjunct.’ She fixed Spax with a look that told him her tolerance was at an end, and she said, ‘Chew on what you’ve heard this night, Warchief, and if your stomach still growls, do not bring your complaints to my tent.’
Spax dipped his head and then handed his goblet to Gaedis. ‘I hear your maids readying that bath, Highness. A most restorative conclusion to this night, I’m sure. Good night to you, Highness, Lieutenant.’
Once outside, he set out, not back to his clans, but to the encampments of the Burned Tears. It had occurred to him, when envisioning the grand parley to come, that he and Gall would, in all likelihood, be the only men present. An exciting notion. He wasn’t sure Gall would see it that way, of course, if the rumours he’d picked up were true, but there was another rumour that, if accurate, could offer a common rug for them both. Not a drinker of fancy wines, this Gall. No, the man likes his beer, and if manhood has any measure, it’s that.
Just my opinion, mind. Now, let’s see, Warleader Gall, if you share it.
Stepping beyond the legion’s last row of tents, Spax paused. He spat to get that foul taste from his mouth. Wine’s for women. Gaedis, I bet that trick with the cork has spread a thousand soft thighs. You’ll have to teach it to me one day.
She might as well have tied a cask of ale to her belly. Her lower back was bowed, and every shift of weight made the bones creak. Muscles quivered, others were prostrate with exhaustion. Her breasts, which had never been modest or spry, now sat resting uneasy on the swell of that damned cask. Everything was swollen and too big-how was it that she kept forgetting? Of course, amidst all these groans and shuffles and grunts, her thoughts swam through honey. So sweet, this drowning. The world glowed. Life shouted. Sang.
‘Hoary witches of old,’ she muttered under her breath, ‘you’ve a lot to answer for.’ There was no possible position in which to sit in comfort, so Hanavat, wife to Gall, had taken to walking through the camp each night. She was the wandering moon of her people’s legends, in the ages before her sister moon’s betrayal, when love was still pure and Night lay down in the arms of Darkness-oh, the legends were quaint, if ever tainted with sorrow, that inevitable fall from grace. She wondered if such creations-those tales of times lost-were nothing more than a broken soul’s embrace of regret. The fall was in sensibility’s wake, too late to do anything about, but this-look around!-this is what it made of us.
The moon had ceased to wander. Snared in the webs of deceit, it could only slide round and round the world it loved-never to touch, doomed to tug at its lover’s tears, that and nothing more. Until, in some distant future, love died and with it all the pale fires of its wonder, and at last Night found her lover and in turn Darkness swallowed her whole. And that was the end of all existence.
Hanavat could look up now and see a vision that did not fit with the legend’s prophecy. No, the moon had been struck a mortal blow. She was dying. And still the web would not release her, whilst, ever cool, ever faint, her sister moon watched on. Had she murdered her rival? Was she pleased to witness her sister’s death throes? Hanavat’s gaze strayed southward to the jade lances arcing ever closer. The heavens were indeed at war.
‘Tea, Hanavat?’
Her attention, drawn down from the skies, found the shapes of two women seated round a small fire banked against a steaming pot. ‘Shelemasa. Rafala.’
Rafala, who’d been the one voicing the offer, now lifted into view a third cup. ‘We see you pass each night, Mahib. Your discomfort is plain to our eyes. Will you join us? Rest your feet.’
‘I was fleeing the midwives,’ Hanavat said. She hesitated, and then waddled over. ‘The Seed Wakeners are cruel-what’s wrong with just an egg? We could manage one, I think, about the size of a palm nut.’
Shelemasa’s laugh was low and wry. ‘But not as hard, I’d hope.’
‘Or as hairy,’ Rafala added.
The two warrior women laughed.
Grunting, moving slowly, Hanavat sat down, forming the third point to this triangle surrounding the fire. She accepted the cup, studied it in the soft light. Pewter. Bolkando. ‘So, you didn’t sell everything back to them, I see.’
‘Only the useless things,’ Rafala said. ‘They had plenty of those.’
‘It’s what makes us so different from them,’ observed Shelemasa. ‘We don’t invent useless things, or make up needs that don’t exist. If civilization-as they call it-has a true definition, then that must be it. Don’t you think, Mahib?’
The ancient honorific for a pregnant woman pleased Hanavat. Though these two were young, they remembered the old ways and all the respect those ways accorded people. ‘You may be right in that, Shelemasa. But I wonder, perhaps it’s not the objects that so define a civilization-perhaps it’s the attitudes that give rise to them, and to the strangely overwrought value attached to them. The privilege of making useless things is the important thing, since it implies wealth and abundance, leisure and all the rest.’
‘Wise words,’ murmured Rafala.
‘The tea is sweet enough,’ replied Hanavat.
The younger woman smiled, accepting the faint admonishment with good grace.
‘The child kicks,’ said Hanavat, ‘and so promises me the truth of the years awaiting us. I must have been mad.’ She sipped tea. ‘What brew is this?’
‘Saphii,’ answered Shelemasa. ‘It’s said to calm the stomach, and with the foreign food we’ve been eating of late, such calm will be a welcome respite.’
‘Perhaps,’ added Rafala, ‘it will soothe the child as well.’
‘Or kill it outright. At this point I don’t really care which. Heed this miserable Mahib’s warning: do this once to know what it means, but leave it at that. Don’t let the dream serpents back into your thoughts, whispering to you of pregnancy’s bliss. The snake lies to soften your memories. Until there is nothing but clouds and the scent of blossoms in your skull, and before you know it, you’ve gone and done it again.’
‘Why would the serpents lie, Mahib? Are not children women’s greatest gift?’
‘So we keep telling ourselves, and each other.’ She sipped more tea. Her tongue tingled as if she’d licked a bell of pepper. ‘But not long ago my husband and I invited our children to a family feast, and my how we did feast. Like starving wolves trying to decide which among us was the stranded bhederin calf. All night our children flung that bloody hide back and forth, each of them cursed to wear it at least once, and finally they all decided to drape the two of us in that foul skin. It was, in short, a most memorable reunion.’
The two younger women said nothing.
‘Parents,’ resumed Hanavat, ‘may choose to have children, but they do not choose their children. Nor can children choose their parents. And so there is love, yes, but there is also war. There is sympathy and there is the poison of envy. There is peace and that peace is the exhausted calm between struggles for power. There is, on rare occasions, true joy, but each time that precious, startling moment then dwindles, and in each face you see a hint of sorrow-as if what was just found will now be for ever remembered as a thing lost. Can you be nostalgic for the instant just past? Oh yes, and it’s a bittersweet taste.’ She finished her tea. ‘That whispering serpent-it’s whispered its last lie in me. I strangled the bitch. I tied it neck and tail to two horses. I collected every knuckled bone and crushed it to dust, then blew that dust to contrary winds. I took its skin and made it into a codpiece for the ugliest dog in the camp. I then took that dog-’
Rafala and Shelemasa were laughing, their laughs getting louder with each antic of vengeance Hanavat described.
Other warriors, round other small fires, were all looking over now, smiling to see old pregnant Hanavat regaling two younger women. And among the men there were stirrings of curiosity and perhaps a little unease, for women possessed powerful secrets, and none more powerful than those possessed by a pregnant woman-one need only to look into the face of a mahib to know that. The women, watching on but like their male companions too distant to hear Hanavat’s words, also smiled. Was that to soothe the men in their company? Possibly, but if so the expression was instinctive, a dissembling born of habit.
No, they smiled as the urgent whispers of their dream serpents filled their heads. The child within. Such joy! Such pleasure! Put away the swords, O creature of beauty-instead sing to the Seed Wakeners! Catch his eye and watch him fall in-the darkness beckons and the night is warm!
Was a scent released upon the air? Did it drift through the entire camp of the Khundryl Burned Tears?
In the Warleader’s campaign tent, Gall sat with a bellyful of ale heavy as a cask leaning on his belt, and eyed with gauging regard the tall iron-haired woman pacing in front of him. Off to one side sat the Gilk Barghast, Spax, even drunker than Gall, his own red-shot, bleary gaze tracking the Mortal Sword as she sought to prise from Gall every last detail regarding the Malazans. Where had this sudden uncertainty come from? Had not the Perish sworn to serve the Adjunct? Oh, if Queen Abrastal could witness what he was witnessing! But then she’d be interested in all the unimportant matters, wouldn’t she? Eager to determine if the great alliance was weakening… and all that.
All the while missing the point, the matters that were truly interesting and so sharply relevant to this scene before him.
The Warleader’s wife was nowhere to be seen, and it had already occurred to Spax that he should probably leave. Who knew if or when Krughava would finally take note of the look in Gall’s eyes-and what might she do then? Instead, Spax sat sprawled in the leather sling of the three-legged chair, too comfortable to move and, it had to be admitted, too fascinated as she fired question after question into the increasingly senseless arrow butt that was Gall. When would she realize that the man had stopped answering? That while she went on attacking and attacking, he’d stopped defending long ago? He so wanted to see that moment-her expression, yes, one he could take away with him and remember for evermore.
What would it take for her to notice? If he pulled out his gooseneck and took aim? Would that do it? Or just wrestled his way out of his clothes? Gods below, the drooling’s not done it.
He should leave. But they’d have to drag him out of this tent. Come on, Krughava, you can do it. I know you can. Take a second look, woman, at the man you’re talking to. No, he wasn’t going anywhere.
Ah, but this was a most agitated woman. Something about a weakening resolve, or was it a failure of confidence-a sudden threat from within the ranks of the Grey Helms themselves. Someone missing in the command structure, the necessary balance all awry. A young man of frightening ambitions-oh, swamp spirits be damned! He was too drunk to make sense of any of this!
Why am I sitting here?
What is she saying? Pay attention, Krughava! Never mind him-can’t you see this bulge? No one wants the goose to honk, come and strangle it, woman! I’ll solve your agitation. Yes, if only you women understood that. Your every answer, right here between my legs.
Half the world’s mired in ignorance!
Half the world…
Gooseneck.
H AIL THE S EASON OF W AR
GALLAN
City of darkness, see how that darkness hides your ugly face.
They were on the bridge. She was leaning heavily on her husband’s shoulder, both relieved and irritated by his stolid strength. ‘But you don’t see, do you?’
‘Sand?’
She shook her head. ‘Doesn’t matter. The air is alive. Can you feel that? Withal, can you feel that much at least?’
‘Your goddess,’ he said. ‘Alive, aye, alive with tears.’
That was true. Mother Dark had returned with sorrow knotted into grief. Darkness made helpless fists, like a widow trying to hold on to all she had lost. Lost, yes, something has been lost. She is no longer turned away, but in mourning. Her eyes are averted, downcast. She is here, yet behind a veil. Mother, you make this a most bitter gift.
Her strength was slow in returning. Memories like wolves, snapping on all sides. Kharkanas. Sandalath clutched Withal’s right arm, feeling the thick muscles, the cables of his will. He was one of those men who were like a finely made sword, sheathed in a hard skin, hiding a core that could bend when it had to. She didn’t deserve him. That was brutally clear. Take me hostage, husband. That much I will understand. That much I know how to live with. Even though it too will break in the end-no, stop thinking that way. It’s a memory no one here deserves.
‘There are fires in the city.’
‘Yes. It is… occupied.’
‘Savages in the ruins?’
‘Of course not. These are the Shake. We’ve found them.’
‘So they made it, then.’
She nodded.
He drew her to a halt ten steps from the bridge’s end. ‘Sand. Tell me again why you wanted to find them. You wanted to warn them, isn’t that right? Against what?’
‘Too late for that. Gallan sent them out, and now his ghost pulls them back. He cursed them. He said they could leave, but then he made them remember enough-just enough-to force them to return.’
Withal sighed, his expression showing he was unconvinced. ‘People need to know where they came from, Sand. Especially if they’ve lived generations not knowing. They were a restless people, weren’t they? What do you think made them restless?’
‘Then we’re all restless, Withal, because at the very heart, none of us know where we came from. Or where we’re going.’
He made a face. ‘Mostly, nobody much cares. Very well, have it your way. These Shake were cursed. You didn’t reach them in time. Now what?’
‘I don’t know. But whatever Andii blood remains within them is all but drowned in human blood. You will find in them close company, and that is something.’
‘I have all the company I need in you, Sand.’
She snorted. ‘Sweet, but nonsense. See it this way, then. I am of the land-this land. You are of the sea-a distant sea. And the Shake? They are of the Shore. And look at us here, now, standing on a bridge.’ She paused and then grimaced. ‘I can almost see the blind poet’s face. I can almost see him nodding. When grief was too much, Withal, we were in the habit of tearing out our own eyes. What kind of people would do such a thing?’
He shrugged. ‘I’m not following you, Sand. You need simpler thoughts.’
‘The Shake are home, and yet more lost than they ever have been. Does Mother Dark forgive them? Will she give them her city? Will she grant them the legacy of the Tiste Andii?’
‘Then perhaps you have a purpose being here, after all, Sand.’
She searched his eyes, was stung by his compassion. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You need to convince Mother Dark to do all those things. For the Shake.’
Oh, husband. I was a hostage, nothing more. And then, and then, I lost even that. ‘Mother Dark has no time for the likes of me.’
‘Tell me, what was the purpose of being a hostage?’
He’d caught her thoughts. She looked away, studied the wreckage-cluttered river sliding under the bridge. Dark waters… ‘The First Families sparred. Power was a wayward tide. We were the coins they exchanged. So long as we were never spent, so long as we’-remained unsullied-‘remained as we were, the battles saw little blood. We became the currency of power.’ But gold does not feel. Gold does not dream. Gold does not long for a man’s hand closing about it. You can win us, you can lose us, but you can’t eat us. You can hide us away. You can polish us bright and hang us from a chain round your neck. You can bury us, you can even carve a likeness of your face into us, but in the next season of fire all sign of you vanishes.
You can’t eat us, and you can’t fuck us. No, you can’t do that.
‘Sand?’
‘What?’
‘Were hostages ever killed?’
She shook her head. ‘Not until the end. When everything… fell apart. All it needs,’ she said, memories clouding her mind, ‘is the breaking of one rule, one law. A breaking that no one then calls to account. Once that happens, once the shock passes, every law shatters. Every rule of conduct, of proper behaviour, it all vanishes. Then the hounds inside each and every one of us are unleashed. At that moment, Withal’-she met his eyes, defiant against the anguish she saw in them- ‘we all show our true selves. We are not beasts-we are something far worse. There, deep inside us. You see it-the emptiness in the eyes, as horror upon horror is committed, and no one feels-no one feels a thing.’
She was trembling in his arms now and he held her tight-to keep her from sinking to her knees. Sandalath pressed her face into the curve of his shoulder and neck. Her words muffled, she said, ‘She should have stayed turned away. I will tell her-go away-we weren’t worth it then, we’re not worth it now. I will tell you-her-’
‘Sand-’
‘No, I will beg her. Turn away. I’m begging you, my love, turn away.’
‘Sand. The Shake-’
The bridge beneath them seemed to be swaying. She held him as hard as she could.
‘The Shake, my love. They’ve found us.’
Her eyes closed. I know. I know.
‘Well?’
Brevity adjusted her sword belt. ‘Well what?’
‘Should we go and talk to ’em, love?’
‘No, let’s just stand here. Maybe they’ll go away.’
Snorting, Pithy set out. ‘Dark dark dark,’ she muttered, ‘it’s all dark. I’m sick of dark. I’m gonna torch the forest, or maybe a few buildings. Fire, that’s the solution. And lanterns. Giant lanterns. Torches. Oil lamps. White paint.’
‘You going to go on like that all the way to ’em?’ Brevity asked, keeping pace a step behind her.
‘That woman looks like she walked outa one of them wall paintings in the temple.’
‘Maybe she did.’
‘Then what? Got lost? Our lookout watched ’em coming up the road. Nah, the point is, her people built this city. She’s got more claim to it than the Shake. And that’s a problem.’
‘Y’saying she won’t like the new neighbours? Too bad. She’s only got that one man. Besides, she looks sick.’
Their conversation ended as they drew closer to the two strangers.
The man’s eyes were on them, even as he continued to support the woman in his arms. ‘Hello,’ he said.
Trader tongue. Pithy nodded. ‘And the same. Meckros?’
‘Good guess,’ he replied. ‘I am named Withal. You’re Letherii, not Shake.’
‘Good guess,’ Pithy responded. ‘We’re the Queen’s Honour Guard. I’m Captain Pithy, and this is Captain Brevity. Is your mate sick?’
‘She is Tiste Andii,’ he said. ‘She was born in this city.’
‘Oh,’ said Pithy, and she shot her friend a look that asked: Now what?
Brevity cleared her throat. ‘Well then, if it’s a homecoming, we’d best bring her in.’
At that the woman finally looked up.
Pithy’s breath caught, and beside her Brevity started.
‘Thank you,’ said the Tiste Andii. Tears had streaked her face.
‘Need another shoulder to lean on?’ Pithy asked.
‘No.’ And she disengaged herself from Withal’s arms. Straightening, she faced the gate. ‘I’m ready.’
Pithy and Brevity let her and Withal take the lead, at a pace of their choosing. As soon as they’d moved a half-dozen strides ahead, Brevity turned and plucked Pithy’s sleeve.
‘See her face?’ she whispered.
Pithy nodded.
‘She ain’t just like them in the wall paintings, Pithy. She is one of ’em! I’d swear it!’
‘Side room, first one on the left just inside the altar room-the only one without stone beds. She’s in there. Her and maybe ten others. They got manacles on their wrists.’
‘That’s right! One of them!’
No wonder she ain’t happy about coming home. Pithy said, ‘Once we’re in, you go get the witches and bring ’em over. Unless Tovis or Yedan have come back, in which case get them.’
‘That’d be a better choice,’ Brevity replied. ‘Them witches are still drunk-’
‘They ain’t drunk for real.’
‘You know what I mean. Eel-eyed. Horny. The kinda drunk that makes a woman ashamed of being a woman.’
‘They ain’t drunk. I told you. So get ’em, all right?’
‘All right, but we should a buried ’em when we had the chance.’
The deeper shadow of the gate’s arch slipped over them like a shawl. Sandalath slowly released her breath. Mother Dark’s pervasive presence filled the city, and she felt her weariness drain away as the goddess’s power touched her, but the benediction felt… indifferent. The grief was still there, appallingly fresh-a reopened wound, or something else? She could not be sure. So… sorrow does not end. And if you cannot let it go, Mother, what hope do I have?
Something brushed her mind. An acknowledgement, a momentary recognition. Sympathy? She sighed. ‘Withal, will you walk with me?’
‘Of course-as I am doing right now, Sandalath.’
‘No. The temple, the Terondai.’ She met his eyes. ‘Kurald Galain. To the very foot of Mother Dark.’
‘What is it you seek?’ he asked, searching her face.
She turned back to the two Letherii women standing a few paces behind. ‘You spoke of a Queen,’ she said.
‘Twilight,’ said Pithy. ‘Yan Tovis.’
‘And her brother,’ added Brevity. ‘Yedan Derryg, the Watch.’
‘I must go to the temple,’ Sandalath said.
‘We heard.’
‘But I would speak with her.’
‘They left us a while back,’ Pithy said. ‘Went into the forest. When the witches finally come round they said the two of ’em, Tovis and her brother, probably rode to the First Shore. That was after they was in the temple-the Queen and the Prince, I mean. The witches won’t go anywhere near it, the temple, I mean.’
Sandalath cocked her head. ‘Why do I make you so nervous, Captain?’
‘You ain’t changed much,’ blurted Brevity.
‘I-what? Oh. In the Skeral-the Chamber of Hostages.’
Pithy nodded. ‘Only, the witches said this city’s been dead a long, long time.’
‘No,’ said Brevity, ‘a long time.’
‘I said that,’ Pithy retorted, scowling at her companion.
‘You didn’t say it right, is all. Long. Long.’
Sandalath faced her husband again. ‘This world is born anew,’ she said. ‘Mother Dark has returned and now faces us. The Shake have returned as well. Who remains missing? The Tiste Andii. My people. I want to know why.’
‘And do you think she’ll answer you?’ Withal asked, but it was a question without much behind it, and that made Sandalath curious.
‘Husband. Has she spoken to you?’
He grimaced. Then reluctantly nodded.
But not to me. Mother Dark, am I so flawed in your eyes now?
There was no silent reply to that. The presence remained unperturbed, as if deaf to Sandalath, deaf and wilfully blind. Not fair. Not fair!
‘Sand?’
She hissed under her breath. ‘The Terondai, now.’
Beyond the scores of buildings now occupied by the Shake and refugee islanders, Kharkanas remained a place of ghosts. The witches decided they liked that. They had found an estate situated on a terrace overlooking an overgrown park. The outer wall’s main gate had been burned down, leaving ancient soot smears on the marble frame and deep heat cracks latticing the lintel stone. The garden flanking the formal approach was now a snarl of stunted trees on both sides, their roots tilting the flagstones of the path.
Atop four broad steps double doors marked the entrance to the residence. These had been shattered from the inside. Bronze statues reared on either side of the staircase, each standing on an ornate marble pedestal. If they had been fashioned in the likeness of living creatures, decided Pully, then the world was a stranger place than she had ever imagined. Towering, the statues were of warriors, human from the shoulders down, whilst their necks and heads belonged to a hound. Both sentinels bore weapons. A double-bladed axe for the one on the left, a two-handed sword for the one on the right. Verdigris marred the details of the beastly visages, but there was enough to see that the two were not identical. The sword-wielder was terribly scarred, a slash that had cleaved through one eye, deep enough to bite bone.
Humming under her breath, Pully set one knee on this particular statue’s horizontal penis, and pulled herself up for a closer look at that face. ‘Now them’s big teeth, an’ precious so.’
Skwish had already gone inside, likely painting a thick red line down the middle, staking her half of the estate. Pully had forgotten how competitive the cow had been in her youth, but now it was all coming back. Wrinkles gone, bitch returns! An what was I sayin? Right, bitter’s a habit, Skwish. Bitter’s a habit. No matter. Skwish could have her half of the estate and half of every room. But then half of everything was half of nothing. They could live here, yes, but they couldn’t own the place.
She clambered down from the statue, brushed the dust from her hands, and then ascended the steps and strode inside. Eight paces opposite her was a wall bearing a carved crest of some sort, arcane heraldry announcing the family that had claimed this place, or so she supposed. Even so, one sniff told her there was sorcery in that sigil, latent, possibly a ward but too old to manage much. She could hear Skwish rummaging about in a room down the corridor on the right. Tripped nothing. Dead ward, or as good as. Did you even notice, sister?
One thing was impossible not to notice. Ever since they’d crawled out of that deathly sleep, they’d felt the presence of the goddess. Mother Dark had looked upon them both, had gathered up their souls like a pair of knuckled dice. A rattle or two, curious fingertips exploring every nuance, every pit and crack. Then the cast. Dismissive, all interest lost. Damned insulting, yes. Infuriating. Who did the hag think she was, anyway? Pully snorted, eyes still on the marble crest. Something about it made her uneasy. ‘Never mind,’ she muttered, and then raised her voice: ‘Skwish!’
‘Wha?’
‘We ain’t welcome here.’
Skwish reappeared, stood in the corridor’s gloom. ‘The Queen will take the palace. Her and Witchslayer. We don’t want t’be anywhere close to ’em. There’s power here, Pully. We can use it, we can feed on it-’
‘Risky. It ain’t as quiet as I’d like.’
‘It’s memories is all.’
‘What do you mean?’
Skwish rolled her eyes, approached. She halted directly in front of the crest. ‘Old symbols,’ she said. She pointed. ‘See that? That’s the Terondai, and there, that’s the sigil of Mother Dark herself.’
‘Empty throne! This ain’t a Royal House, is it?’
‘Not quite, but as good as. See that mark? The one in the centre. That’s the Consort-you never was interested in studying the Oldings. So, this house, it belonged to a man lover to some princess or maybe even the queen herself. See, that’s his name, the one there.’
‘What was it?’
‘Daraconus, something like that.’
They heard someone in the courtyard and turned in time to see Captain Brevity climbing the steps.
‘What?’ demanded Pully, her harsh voice startling the Letherii.
‘Was looking for you,’ Brevity said, slightly out of breath.
‘What for?’ Skwish asked.
‘Visitors.’
‘From where?’
‘Best come with me, you two. There’s a woman. Tiste Andii.’
‘Bluerose?’
‘What? No. She was born here.’
Pully and Skwish exchanged glances. And then Pully scowled. Bad news. Competition. Rival. ‘But she’s not alone?’
‘Got a man with her. A Meckros.’
‘Where’d they come from, then? They ain’t always been here-we’d a sensed that. The city was empty-’
‘Up the road, Pully,’ said Brevity, ‘same as us.’
‘We got here first,’ Skwish growled.
Brevity blinked. ‘It’s a big city, witch. Now, you coming?’
‘Where is she?’ Pully asked.
‘The temple.’
Bad news. The worst. ‘Fine then,’ she snapped.
Yedan Derryg had walked a thousand or more paces along the ethereal First Shore, but now at last he was returning. And in one hand, Yan Tovis saw, he held a sword. The weapon flashed green in the incandescent fall of liquid light. The blade was long as a man’s leg yet thinner than the width of a hand. A wire basket hilt shielded the grip. As he came up to where she stood, something lit his eyes.
‘A Hust sword, sister.’
‘And it’s healed.’
‘Yes.’
‘But how can a broken sword grow back?’
‘Quenched in dragon’s blood,’ he replied. ‘Hust weapons are immortal, immune to all decay. They can shear other blades in two.’ He held up the sword. ‘This is a five-blade sword-tested against five, cut through them all. Twilight, there is no higher calibre of sword than the one you see here. It was the possession of a Hustas, a Master of the House itself-only children of the Forge could own such weapons.’
‘And the woman threw it away.’
‘It is a mystery,’ Yedan Derryg said.
‘She was Gallan’s escort-’
‘Not that. The matter of how a five-blade Hust sword broke in the first place.’
‘Ah. I see your point.’
He looked round. ‘Time dissolves here, this close to the Sea of Light. We have been away from our people too long-’
‘Not my fault,’ she said.
‘True. Mine. No matter. It is time to go back.’
Yan Tovis sighed. ‘What am I to do?’ she asked. ‘Find the palace, sink down on to whatever throne I find?’
The muscles of his jaws knotted beneath his beard and he glanced away. ‘We have things to organize,’ he eventually said. ‘Staff for the palace, officers for the guard. Work teams. Is the river rich with fish? If not, we are in trouble-our stores are depleted. Will crops grow here? Darkness seems to somehow feed the trees and such, but even then, we face a hungry season before anything matures.’
The list alone exhausted her.
‘Leave all that to me,’ Yedan said.
‘Indolence for the Queen-I will go mad with boredom.’
‘You must visit the temple again, sister. It is no longer empty. It must be sanctified once more.’
‘I am no priestess.’
‘Royal blood will suffice.’
She shot him a look. ‘Indeed. How much?’
Yedan shrugged. ‘Depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On how thirsty she is.’
‘If she drains me dry…’
‘The threat of boredom will prove unfounded.’
The bastard was finding himself again. Wit dry as a dead oasis, withered palm leaves rustling like the laughter of locusts. Damned Hust sword and the illusion of coming home. Brother. Prince. Witchslayer. He’d been waiting for this all his life. When she had not. I’d believed nothing. Even in my desperation, I walked cold as a ghost doomed to repeat a lifetime’s path to failure. And my blood-gods below-my blood. This realm demands too much of me.
Yedan faced her again. ‘Sister, we have little time.’
She started. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The Shake-the very impulse that drove you to set us on the Road of Gallan-it was all meant to bring us here. Kharkanas, the First Shore. We must find out why. We must discover what the goddess wants of us.’
Horror rippled through Yan Tovis. No. Her eyes lifted past Yedan to the First Shore, to that tumultuous wall of light-and the innumerable vague figures behind the veil. No, please. Not again.
‘Mount up, sister. It is time to return.’
Given enough time, some ghastly concatenation of ages, lifetimes compressed, crushed down layer upon layer. Details smoothed into the indefinite. Deeds hollowed out like bubbles in pumice. Dreams flattened into gradients of coloured sands that crumbled to the touch. Looking back was unpleasant, and the vaster that field of sediment, the grislier the vista. Sechul Lath had once chosen a bowed, twisted frame to carry the legacies of his interminable existence. Beauty and handsome repose-after all that he had done-was, as far as he was concerned, too hypocritical to bear. No, in form he would seek justice, the physicality of punishment. And this was what had so galled Errastas.
Sechul was tempted to find for himself that bent body once again. The world took those flat sediments and twisted them into tortured shapes. He understood that. He favoured such pressures and the scarred visages they made in stone and flesh.
The sky was blood red and cloudless, the rocky barren soil suffused with streaks of orange and yellow minerals tracking the landscape. Wind-sculpted mesas girdled the horizon, encircling the plain. This warren possessed no name-none that he knew, at any rate. No matter, it had been scoured clean long ago.
Kilmandaros strode at his side in a half-hitching gait, lest she leave him and Errastas far behind. She had assumed her favoured form, bestial and hulking, towering over her two companions. He could hear her sliding breath as it rolled in and out of four lungs, the rhythm so discordant with his own that he felt strangely breathless. Mother or not, she was never a comforting presence. She wore violence like a fur cloak riding her shoulders, a billowing emanation that brushed him again and again.
She was a singular force of balance, Sechul knew-had always known. Creation was her personal anathema, and the destruction in her hands was its answer. She saw no value in order, at least the kind that was imposed by a sentient will. Such efforts were an affront.
Kilmandaros was worshipped still, in countless cultures, but there was nothing benign in that sensibility. She bore a thousand names, a thousand faces, and each and every one was a source of mortal dread. Destroyer, annihilator, devourer. Her fists spoke in the cruel forces of nature, in sundered mountains and drowning floods, in the ground cracking open and in rivers of molten lava. Her skies were ever dark, seething and swollen. Her rain was the rain of ash and cinders. Her shadow destroyed lives.
The Forkrulian joints of her limbs and their impossible articulations were often seen as physical proof of nature gone awry. Broken bones that nonetheless descended with vast, implacable power. A body that could twist like madness. Among the believers, she personified the loosing of rage, the surrendering of reason and the rejection of control. Her cult was written in spilled blood, disfigurement and the virtue of violence.
Dear mother, what lessons do you have for your son?
Errastas walked ahead, a man convinced he knew where he was going. The worlds awaited his guiding hand, that nudge that all too often invited Kilmandaros into her swath of mindless destruction. Yet between them was Sechul Lath, Lord of Chance and Mischance, Caster of Knuckles. He could smile the mockery of mercy, or he could spit and turn away. He could shape every moment of his mother’s violence. Who lives, who dies? The decision was his.
His was the purest worship of them all. So it had always been and so it would always remain. No matter what god or goddess a mortal fool prayed to, Sechul Lath was the arbiter of all they sought. ‘Save me.’ ‘Save us.’ ‘Make us rich.’ ‘Make us fruitful.’ The gods never even heard such supplications from their followers. The need, the desire, snared each prayer, spun them swirling into Sechul’s domain.
He could open himself, even now, to the cries of mortals beyond counting, each and every one begging for an instant of his time, his regard. His blessing.
But he’d stopped listening long ago. He’d spawned the Twins and left them to inherit the pathetic game. How could one not grow weary of that litany of prayers? Each and every desire, so heartfelt, invariably reduced to a knot of sordidness. To gain for oneself, someone else must lose. Joy was purchased in reams of sorrow. Triumphs stood tall on heaps of bones. Save my child? Another must die. Balance! All must balance! Can existence be any crueller than that? Can justice be any emptier? To bless you with chance, I must curse another with mischance. To this law even the gods must bow. Creation, destruction, life, death-no, I am done with it! Done with it all!
Leave it to my Oponnai. The Twins must ever face one another, lest existence unravel. They are welcome to it.
No, he’d had his fill of mortal blood.
But immortal blood, ah, that was another matter. With it, he could… he could… what? I can break the fulcrum. I can send the scales crashing down. It’s all pointless anyway-the Che’Malle saw to that. We rise and we fall, but each and every time the cycle renews, our rise is never as high as the last time, and the fall in turn takes us farther down. Mortals are blind to this spiral. All will end. Energies will lose their grip, and all will fade away.
I have seen it. I know what’s coming.
Errastas sought a resurrection but what he sought was impossible. Each generation of gods was weaker-oh, they strode forth blazing with power, but that was the glow of youth and it quickly dissipated. And the mortal worshippers, they too, in their tiny, foreshortened lives, slid into cynical indifference, and those among them who held any faith at all soon backed into corners, teeth bared in their zeal, their blind fanaticism-where blindness was a virtue and time could be dragged to a halt, and then pulled backward. Madness. Stupidity.
None of us can go back. Errastas, what you seek will only precipitate your final fall, and good riddance. Still, lead on, old friend. To the place where I will do what must be done. Where I will end… everything.
Ahead, Errastas halted, turning to await them. His lone eye studied them, flicking back and forth. ‘We are close,’ he said. ‘We hover directly above the portal we seek.’
‘She is chained below?’ Kilmandaros asked.
‘She is.’
Sechul Lath rubbed the back of his neck, looked away. The distant range of stone fangs showed their unnatural regularity. Among them could be seen stumps where entire mountains had been uprooted, plucked from the solid earth. They built them here. They were done with this world. They’d devoured every living thing by then. Such bold… confidence. He glanced back at Errastas. ‘There will be wards.’
‘Demelain wards, yes,’ Errastas said.
At that, Kilmandaros growled.
Speak then, Errastas, of dragons. She is ready. She is ever ready.
‘We must be prepared,’ Errastas continued. ‘Kilmandaros, you must exercise restraint. It will do us no good to have you break her wards and then simply kill her.’
‘If we knew why they imprisoned her in the first place,’ Sechul said, ‘we might have what we will need to bargain with her.’
Errastas’s shrug was careless. ‘That should be obvious, Knuckles. She was uncontrollable. She was the poison in their midst.’
She was the balance, the counter-weight to them all. Chaos within, is this wise? ‘Perhaps there’s another way.’
Errastas scowled. ‘Let’s hear it, then,’ he said, crossing his arms.
‘K’rul must have participated. He must have played a role in this chaining-after all, he had the most to lose. She was the poison as you say, but if she was so to her kin that was incidental. Her true poison was when she was loose in K’rul’s blood-in his warrens. He needed her chained. Negated.’ He paused, cocked his head. ‘Don’t you think it curious that the Crippled God has now taken her place? That he is the one now poisoning K’rul?’
‘The diseases are not related,’ Errastas said. ‘You spoke of another way. I’m still waiting to hear it, Knuckles.’
‘I don’t have one. But this could prove a fatal error on our part, Errastas.’
He gestured dismissively. ‘If she will not cooperate, then Kilmandaros can do what she does best. Kill the bitch, here and now. You still think me a fool? I have thought this through, Sechul. The three of us are enough, here and now, to do whatever is necessary. We shall offer her freedom-do you truly imagine she will reject that?’
‘What makes you so certain she will honour whatever bargain she agrees to?’
Errastas smiled. ‘I have no worries in that regard. You will have to trust me, Knuckles. Now, I have been patient long enough. Shall we proceed? Yes, I believe we shall.’
He stepped back and Kilmandaros lumbered forward.
‘Here?’ she asked.
‘That will do, yes.’
Her fists hammered down on to the ground. Hollow thunder rumbled beneath the plain, the reverberation trembling through Sechul’s bones. The fists began their incessant descent, pounding with immortal strength, as dust slowly lifted to obscure the horizons. The stone beneath the hardened ash was not sedimentary; it was the indurated foam of pumice. Ageless, trapped in the memory of a single moment of destruction. It knew nothing of eternities.
Sechul Lath lowered himself into a squat. This could take some time. Sister, can you hear us? We come a-knocking…
‘What?’ Torrent demanded. ‘What did you just say?’
The haggard witch’s shrug grated bones. ‘I tired of the illusion.’
He looked round once more. The wagon’s track was gone. Vanished. Even the trail behind them had disappeared. ‘But I was following-I saw-’
‘Stop being so stupid,’ Olar Ethil snapped. ‘I stole into your mind, made you see things that weren’t there. You were going the wrong way-who cares about a damned Trygalle carriage? They’re probably all dead by now.’ She gestured ahead. ‘I turned you from that trail, that’s all. Because what we seek is right there.’
‘If I could kill you, I’d do it,’ said Torrent.
‘Stupid as only the young can be,’ she replied with a snort. ‘The only thing young people are capable of learning is regret. That’s why so many of them end up dead, to the eternal regret of their parents. Now, if you’ve finished the histrionics, can we continue on?’
‘I am not a child.’
‘That’s what children always say, sooner or later.’ With that, she set out, trudging past Torrent, whose horse shied away as soon as the bonecaster drew too close.
He steadied the animal, glaring at Olar Ethil’s scaled back.
‘-what we seek is right there.’ His gaze lifted. Another one of those damned dragon towers, rising forlorn on the plain. The bonecaster was marching towards it as if she could topple it with a single kick. No one is more relentless than a dead woman. With all the living ones I’ve known, I shouldn’t be surprised by that. The desolate tower was still a league or more away. He wasn’t looking forward to visiting it, not least because of Olar Ethil’s inexplicable interest in this one in particular; but also because of its scale. A city of stone, built upward instead of outward-what was the point of that?
Well. Self defence. But we’ve already seen how that didn’t work. And what if some lower section caught fire? There’d be no escape for everyone trapped above. No, these were the constructs of idiots, and he wanted nothing to do with them. What’s wrong with a hut? A hooped tent of hides-you can pick it up and carry it anywhere you want to go. Leaving nothing behind. Rest lightly on the soil-so the elders always said.
But why did they say that? Because it made running away easier. Until we ran out of places to run. If we’d built cities, just like the Letherii, why, they would have had to respect us and our claim to the lands we lived on. We would have had rights. But with those huts, with all that resting lightly, they never had to take us seriously, and that made killing us all that much easier.
Kicking his horse into motion, he squinted at that ragged tower. Maybe cities weren’t just to live in. Maybe they were all about claiming the right to live somewhere. The right to take from the surrounding land all they needed to stay alive. Like a giant tick, head burrowed deep, sucking all the blood it can. Before it cuts loose and sets off for a fresh sweep of skin. And another claim of its right to drink deep of the land.
The best way he’d found to kill a tick was with his thumbnail, slicing the insect in half on a flat rock. He remembered a dog trying to eat one once. It had had to spit it out. Ticks tasted foul-too foul even for dogs, which he’d not thought possible. Cities probably tasted even worse.
Listen to me. I’m losing my mind. Damned witch-are you still here? Inside my skull? Making my thoughts go round and round with all these useless ideas?
He rode up beside her. ‘Leave me alone.’
‘You were never that interesting in the first place,’ she replied.
‘Funny, I’d decided that about you long ago,’ said Torrent, ‘but you’re still here.’
She halted and turned round. ‘That will do, then. We’re about to have company, warrior.’
He twisted in his saddle and studied the cloudless sky. ‘The ones Silchas Ruin spoke of? I see nothing-’
‘They come.’
‘To fight?’
‘No. They were fools once, but one must assume that dying has taught them a lesson.’ She paused, and then added, ‘Or not.’
Motion in the wiry grasses caught his eye. A lizard-no-‘Witch, what is that?’
Two skeletal creatures-birds?-edged into view, heads ducking, long tails flicking. They stood on their hind legs, barely taller than the grasses. Leather and gut bindings held the bones in place.
When the first one spoke, the voice formed words in his head. ‘Great One, we are abject. We grovel in servitude-’
The other cut in, ‘Does she believe all that? Keep trying!’
‘Be quiet, Telorast! How can I concentrate on lying with you barging in all the time! Now shhh! Oh, never mind, it’s too late-look at them, they can both hear us. You, especially.’
The creature named Telorast had crept closer to Olar Ethil, almost on all fours. ‘Servitude! As my sister said. Not a real lie. Just a… a… a temporary truth! Allegiance of convenience, so long as it’s convenient. What could be more honest?’
Olar Ethil grunted and then said, ‘I have no need of allies among the Eleint.’
‘Not true!’ cried Telorast.
‘Calm down,’ hissed the other one. ‘This is called bargaining. She says we’re useless. We say we don’t really need her help. She says-well, something. Let’s wait to hear what she says, and then we say something back. Eventually, we strike a deal. You see? It’s simple.’
‘I can’t think!’ complained Telorast. ‘I’m too terrified! Curdle, take over-before my bones fall apart!’
The one named Curdle snapped its head back and forth, as if seeking somewhere to hide.
‘You don’t fool me,’ said Olar Ethil. ‘You two almost won the Throne of Shadow. You killed a dozen of your kin to get there. Who stopped you? Was it Anomander Rake? Edgewalker? Kilmandaros?’
At each name the two skeletons cringed.
‘What is it you seek now?’ the bonecaster asked.
‘Power,’ said Telorast.
‘Wealth,’ said Curdle.
‘Survival,’ said Telorast.
Curdle nodded, head bobbing. ‘Terrible times. Things will die.’
‘Lots of things,’ added Telorast. ‘But it will be safe in your shadow, Great One.’
‘Yes,’ said Curdle. ‘Safe!’
‘In turn, we will guard your back.’
‘Yes! That’s it exactly!’
‘Until,’ said Olar Ethil, ‘you find it expedient to betray me. You see my dilemma. You guard my back from other threats, but who will guard my back from you two?’
‘Curdle can’t be trusted,’ said Telorast. ‘I’ll protect you from her, I swear it!’
‘As will I from my sister!’ Curdle spun to face Telorast and snapped her tiny jaws. Clack clack clack!
Telorast hissed in reply.
Olar Ethil turned to Torrent. ‘Eleint,’ she said.
Eleint? Dragons? These two? ‘I always imagined they’d be bigger.’
‘Soletaken,’ said Olar Ethil, and then she regarded the two creatures once more. ‘Or, I think, D’ivers, yes? Born as Tiste Andii, one woman, but two dragons.’
‘Nonsense!’
‘Insane!’
‘Ridiculous!’
‘Impossible!’
‘Impossible,’ conceded Olar Ethil, ‘for most-even among the Andii. Yet, you found a way, didn’t you? How? The blood of the Eleint resists the fever of D’ivers. A ritual would have been necessary. But what kind? Not Kurald Galain, nor Kurald Emurlahn. No, you have made me curious. I will have the answer-this is the bargain I offer. Tell me your secret, and you shall have my protection. Betray me, and I will destroy you both.’
Curdle turned to her companion. ‘If we tell her, we are undone!’
‘We’re already undone, you idiot. We were never meant to be Soletaken. It just happened that way!’
‘But we were true Eleint-’
‘Be quiet!’
Olar Ethil suddenly stepped forward. ‘True Eleint? But that makes no sense! Two who become one? Soletaken? A Tiste Andii Soletaken? No, you twist every truth-I cannot believe a thing you say!’
‘Look what you did, Curdle! Now we-aagh!’
Telorast’s cry came when Olar Ethil’s bony hand snapped out, snaring the skeleton. It writhed and strained in her grip. She held it close, as if about to bite its head off.
‘Tell her!’ Telorast shrieked. ‘Curdle! Tell her everything!’
‘I will I will! I promise! Elder One! Listen! I will speak the truth!’
‘Go on,’ said Olar Ethil. Telorast now hung limp in her hand, as if lifeless, but Torrent could see the tip of its tail twitching every few moments.
Curdle leapt to a clear patch of dusty earth. With one talon it inscribed a circle round where it stood. ‘We were chained, Elder, terribly, cruelly chained. In a fragment of Emurlahn. Eternal imprisonment stretched before us-you could not imagine the torment, the torture of that. So close! To our precious prize! But then, the three stood before us, between us and the throne. The bitch with her fists. The bastard with his dread sword. Edgewalker gave us a choice. Kilmandaros and the chains, or Anomander and Dragnipur. Dragnipur! We knew what Draconus had done, you see! We knew what that sword’s bite would do. Swallow our souls! No,’ the skeleton visibly shivered, ‘we chose Kilmandaros.’
‘Two Eleint,’ said Olar Ethil.
‘Yes! Sisters-’
‘Or lovers,’ said Telorast, still lying as if dead.
‘Or that, yes. We don’t remember. Too long ago, too many centuries in chains-the madness! Such madness! But then a stranger found us.’
‘Who?’ barked Olar Ethil.
‘Dessimbelackis,’ said Curdle. ‘He held Chaos in his hands. He told us its secret-what he had made of it. He was desperate. His people-humans-were making a mess of things. They stood as if separate from all the animals of the world. They imagined they were the rulers of nature. And cruel their tyranny, so cruel. Slaughtering the animals, making the lands barren deserts, the skies empty but for vultures.’
‘Soletaken,’ said Olar Ethil. ‘D’ivers. He created a ritual out of chaos-to bind humans to the beasts, to force upon them their animal natures. He sought to teach them a lesson. About themselves.’
‘Yes, Elder. Yes to all of that. He brought the ritual to his people-oh, it was an old ritual, much older than Dessimbelackis, much older than this world. He forced it upon his subjects.’
‘This tale I know well,’ said Olar Ethil. ‘I was there, when we gave answer to that. The swords of the T’lan Imass dripped for days. But, there were no dragons, not there, not then.’
‘You’d begun the slaughter,’ said Curdle. ‘He’d fled even before then, taking his D’ivers form-’
‘The Deragoth.’
‘Yes. He knew you were hunting him. He needed allies. But we were chained, and he could not break those chains. So he offered to take our souls-and he brought us a corpse. A woman. Tiste Andii.’
‘Where did he come by it?’ Olar Ethil asked. ‘Who was she?’
‘He never told us. But when he bound our souls to her, we stood-unchained. We thought we were free. We vowed to serve him.’
‘But you did not, did you?’
Curdle hesitated.
‘You betrayed him.’
‘No! It wasn’t like that! Each time we sought to semble into our true selves, the chains returned! Each time, we found ourselves back within Emurlahn! We were useless to him, don’t you see?’
‘Yet,’ said Olar Ethil, ‘now, you can find your true selves-’
‘Not for long. Never for long,’ said Curdle. ‘If we hold to our Eleint selves, the chains find us. They steal us back. These bones you see here-we can do this much. We can take a body, one or two, and exist within them. But that is all. If we could reach the throne, we could break our bindings! We could escape our prison!’
‘You will never win that throne,’ said Olar Ethil. ‘And, as you are, well, that is useless to me.’
‘Great Elder! You could break those chains!’
‘I could,’ she replied. ‘But I have no reason to. After all, why risk the enmity of Edgewalker? Or Kilmandaros? No, they chained you two for a reason. Had you not sought the throne, you would have lived free.’
‘Eternal punishment-who deserves that?’ Curdle demanded.
Olar Ethil laughed. ‘I have walked with the T’lan Imass. Do not speak to me of eternal punishment.’
Torrent was startled by that. He faced her, his mouth twisting. ‘You did that to them, bonecaster. And now you call it a punishment? Those Imass. What had they done to you, to punish them for all eternity?’
She turned her back on him.
He stared. ‘Spirits of the earth! It was punishment! Olar Ethil-that Ritual-you were cursing them! Look at you-’
She spun round. ‘Yes! Look at me! Do I not choose to wear that curse? My own body, my own flesh! What more can I do-’
‘But wear your remorse?’ He studied her in horror. ‘You miserable, pathetic thing. What was it? Some offhand insult? A jilted love? Did your man sleep with some other woman? Why did you curse them for all eternity, Olar Ethil? Why?’
‘You don’t understand-’
Telorast chose this moment to thrash loose from her grip, landing lightly on the ground then darting a half-dozen paces away, where Curdle scrambled to join her. Olar Ethil stared at the two creatures for a moment-or so it seemed.
‘Why don’t you let it go?’ Torrent asked. ‘Bonecaster. Let them all go.’
‘No! I have no choice in this-none! You mortals are such fools-you just don’t see it, you don’t see anything!’
‘What am I supposed to see?’ Torrent shouted back.
‘I am trying to save your pathetic lives! All of you!’
He was silent for a long moment. Her gnarled hands had closed into fists. Then he said, ‘If to save us, Olar Ethil, means holding prisoner the souls of the T’lan Imass, then, as a pathetic mortal, I tell you: it’s too much. Free them. Leave us to die.’
She snorted-but he could sense his words had shaken her-‘You would speak for all humanity, Torrent, last of the Awl? You, who dream only of an end?’
‘Make it meaningful and I will not complain.’
‘So wish we all,’ she said in a rasp.
‘Besides,’ Torrent said, ‘it’s not their fight. Not their responsibility. Not yours, either. You seek redemption, bonecaster? Find another way. One that doesn’t devour souls. One that doesn’t close chains about an entire people.’
‘You know so little,’ she said, her tone filled with contempt. ‘The T’lan Imass-my T’lan Imass-do you even know what they are?’
‘Not really. But I’ve put enough together. All your conversations with strangers, and when you speak to the darkness at night-thinking me asleep. You command an army, and they are not far away from us. They are trapped in this Ritual of yours, Olar Ethil. You treat them as slaves.’
‘I need them.’
‘They don’t need you, though, do they?’
‘I summoned them! Without me they would be dust and nothing more!’
‘Maybe that’s how they want it,’ he replied.
‘Not yet. Not yet!’
Torrent gathered his reins. ‘You two,’ he called to the skeletons, ‘here’s my offer. No one, no matter how venal, deserves an eternity of punishment. I will seek a way to free your souls. In return, you guard my back.’
Curdle hopped forward. ‘Against whom?’
He glared across at Olar Ethil. ‘Her, for a start.’
‘We can do that!’ Telorast cried. ‘We’re stronger than she thinks!’
Curdle pranced up alongside Torrent’s horse. ‘Where are we going, Master?’
‘Call me Torrent, and I am not your Master. I make no claim to own you. We are, it seems, riding to that tower.’
‘Rooted!’ crowed Telorast, ‘but which one is it? Curdle? Which one is it?’
‘How should I know? Never been here.’
‘Liar!’
‘So are you!’
The bickering continued as Torrent urged his mount forward. A short time later he glanced back to see Olar Ethil trudging after him. Unbreakable, and yet… broken. You sour old woman. Let it go.
Kebralle Korish led a clan of four men and three women, all that remained of the B’ehn Aralack Orshayn T’lan Imass. Once, not long ago, the Copper Ashes Clan had numbered three thousand one hundred and sixteen. There were memories of living, and then there were the memories of death, such as remained to those of the Ritual. In her memories of death, the final battle with the Order of the Red Spires hung blazing in her mind, a frozen scream, the abrupt howl of annihilation. She had stood upon the edge of the Abyss, longing to join her fallen kin but held back by the duty of her title. She was Clan Chief, and so long as will remained to her, she would be the last of the Copper Ashes to fall.
That time had not yet come, and the wake of the Red Spires was stretched out behind her, lifeless, desolate, the echoes of her scream like a bony hand at her back.
The First Sword had, perversely, elected to retain his corporeal form, walking with the weight of stone across this ravaged land, his long-bladed weapon dragging a careless furrow. The warriors of the Orshayn and the Brold had in turn surrendered the bliss of dust and now strode in a ragged, colourless mass behind him. She walked among them, her seven warriors arrayed around her. They were battered, permanently scarred by the sorcery of the Three. The tattered remnants of skin and tendon that remained were blackened, scorched. The sections of exposed bone were burnt white, webbed with cracks. The flint weapons they held had lost their sepia hue, the reddish brown replaced by mottled mauves and blue-greys. Furs, leather and hides were gone.
Among all in her clan, Kebralle Korish alone had succeeded in drawing close enough to the Three to swing her blade. She remembered, with vivid clarity, the shock upon the face of the Bearded One, when her curved weapon’s edge had bit deep, scoring the flesh deep and wide across his chest. Blood, the gleam of notched ribs, rings of mail scattering against the stones of the parapet. He had staggered in retreat but she was in no mood to relent-
His companions had driven her back, a concatenation of magics hammering her from the ledge. Engulfed in raging sorcery, she had tumbled to the foot of the wall. It should have ended there, but Kebralle was Clan Chief. She had just witnessed the slaughter of almost her entire clan. No, she would not yield to oblivion. When she had risen, shrugging off the terrible chaotic flames, she had looked up to see two of the Three-they were in turn peering down at her. In their faces, disbelief, the stirrings of fear-
Inistral Ovan had sounded the withdrawal then. She could have defied him, but she had obeyed. For the seven who remained standing. For the last of her kin.
Yet even now, her memory of the bite of her blade’s edge was the sweetest nectar in the hollowed husk of her soul. Kebralle Korish stood on the wall of the Fastness. She delivered a wound upon one of the Three, the only T’lan Imass to have done so. Had he stood alone, she would have killed him. The Bearded One would have fallen, the first breach in the defences of the Three. Kebralle Korish, who had made the curved blade she held, naming it Brol-Cold Eye-and see the stain of his blood? Running black as night. In the moment the war turned, she was recalled.
The Copper Ashes had fallen for nothing. No gaining of ground, no victory. They had been flung away, and one day she would make Inistral Ovan pay for that.
Enough reason to persist, this secret vow. The First Sword could have his war, his search for answers, his demand for an accounting with Olar Ethil. Kebralle Korish had her own reasons for continuing on. Olar Ethil-who had summoned them all-was welcome to her secret motives. Kebralle did not care. Besides, Olar Ethil had given her another chance, and for that alone Kebralle would do as she asked. Until such time that the opportunity for vengeance presented itself.
Inistral Ovan bore the shame of defeat, and he did so without dissembling. But it was not good enough. Not even close. I will punish him. I will find for him an eternity of suffering. Upon the lost lives of my kin, this I do vow.
It wasn’t smell-he was not capable of picking up a scent-but something that nevertheless reached into his mind, pungent, redolent of memories Kalt Urmanal weathered as would an ice spire a blizzard’s wind. He was annealed in madness, polished bright with insanity. All conflict within him had been smoothed away, until he was nothing more than the purity of purpose.
The K’Chain Che’Malle were upon this land. The slayers of his wife, his children. Their vile oils had soaked this dusty soil; their scales had whispered through the dry air. They were close.
Hatred died with the Ritual of Tellann. So it was held, so it was believed by every T’lan Imass. Even the war against the Jaghut had been a cold, unfeeling prosecution. Kalt Urmanal’s soul trembled with the realization that hatred was alive within him. Blistering hatred. He felt as if all his bones were massed, knotted into a single fist, hard as stone, a fist that but awaited its victim.
He would find them.
Nothing else mattered. The First Sword had not bound his kin-a dread error, for Kalt knew that wars raged within each and every one of them. He could feel as much, swirls of conflicting desires, awakened hungers and needs. An army must kneel before a single master. Without that obeisance, each warrior stood alone, tethers loose, and at the first instant of conflict each would seek his or her own path. The First Sword, in his refusal to command, had lost his army.
He was a fool. He had forgotten what it meant to rule. Whatever he sought, whatever he found, he would discover that he was alone.
First Sword. What did the title mean? Skill with his weapon-none would deny that Onos T’oolan possessed that, else he would never have earned the title. But surely there was more to it. The strength to impose his will. The qualities of true leadership. The arrogance of command and the expectation that such commands would be followed unquestioningly. Onos T’oolan possessed none of these traits. He had failed the first time, had he not? And now, he would fail again.
Kalt Urmanal would trail in the wake of the First Sword, but he would not follow him.
The Jaghut played games with us. They painted themselves in the guises of gods. It amused them. Our indignation stung to life became a rage of unrelenting determination. But it was misplaced. In our awakening to their games, they had no choice but to withdraw. The secret laid bare ended the game. The wars were not necessary. Our pursuit acquired the mien of true madness, and in assuming it we lost ourselves… for all time.
The Jaghut were the wrong enemy. The Ritual should have been enacted in the name of a war against the K’Chain Che’Malle. They were the ones who hunted us. For food. For sport. They were the ones who saw us as nothing more than meat. They would descend upon our camps sleek with the oils of cruel, senseless slaughter, and loved ones died.
Indignation? The word is too weak for what I feel. For all of us who were victims of the K’Chain Che’Malle.
First Sword, you lead us nowhere-we are all done with the Jaghut. We no longer care. Our cause is dead, its useless bones revealed to each and every one of us. We have kicked through them and now the path stretches clear-but these paths we do not share with our kin.
So, why do we follow you here and now? Why do we step in time with you? You tell us nothing. You do not even acknowledge our existence. You are worse than the Jaghut.
He knew of Olar Ethil, the bonecaster who had cursed them into eternal suffering. For her, he felt nothing. She was as stupid as the rest. As blind, as mistaken as all the other bonecasters who folded their power into the Ritual. Will you fight her, First Sword? If so, then you will do it alone. We are nothing to you, and so you are nothing to us.
Do not let the eyes deceive. We are no army.
We are no army.
Nom Kala found the bonecaster Ulag Togtil at her side. He was, without question, the biggest warrior among the Imass she had ever seen. Trell blood. She wondered what he had looked like in the flesh. Frightening, no doubt, broad-mouthed and tusked, his eyes small as an ice boar’s. She had few memories of Trell-they were all but gone in her time, among the first to be driven from the face of the earth by the humans. Indeed, she was not even certain her memories were true ones, rather than something bled into her by the Orshayn.
Sour blood, that. A deluge of vicious sentiments, confused desires, depthless despair and pointless rage. She felt under assault-these Orshayn were truly tortured, spiritually destroyed. But neither she nor her kin had acquired any skill in fending off this incessant flood. They had never before experienced the like.
From the First Sword himself, however, there was nothing. Not a single wisp of thought escaped him, not a hint of emotion. Was he simply lifeless, there in his soul? Or was his self-command so absolute that even her most determined assaults upon his thoughts simply slid off, weak as rain on stone? The mystery that was Onos T’oolan dogged her.
‘A measure of mercy,’ Ulag said, intruding upon her thoughts.
‘What is, Bonecaster?’
‘You bleed as well, Nom Kala. We are all wayward. Bone trembles, darkness spins in what remains of our eyes. We believe we are the creators of our thoughts, our feelings, but I think otherwise.’
‘Do you?’
He nodded. ‘We roil in his wake. All this violence, this fury. It devours us, each one, and is shaped by what it eats. And so we believe each of us stands alone in our intent. Most troubling, Nom Kala. How soon before we turn upon one another?’
‘Then there is no measure of mercy,’ she replied.
‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On how subtle is Onos T’oolan.’
‘Please, explain.’
‘Nom Kala, he has said he will not compel us to obedience. He will not be as a T’lan Imass. This is significant. Is he aware of the havoc wrought in his wake? I believe he is.’
‘Then, what purpose?’
‘We will see.’
‘Only if you are correct, and if the First Sword is then able to draw us to him-before it is too late. What you describe holds great risk, and the longer he waits, the less likely he will be able to gather us.’
‘That is true,’ he rumbled in reply.
‘You believe in him, don’t you?’
‘Faith is a strange thing-among the T’lan Imass, it is little more than a pale ghost of memory. Perhaps, Nom Kala, the First Sword seeks to awaken it in us once more. To make us more than T’lan Imass. Thus, he does not compel us. Instead, he shows us the freedom of mortality, which we’d all thought long lost. How do the living command their kin? How can a mortal army truly function, given the chaos within each soldier, these disparate desires?’
‘What value in showing us such things?’ Nom Kala asked. ‘We are not mortal. We are T’lan Imass.’
He shrugged. ‘I have no answer to that, yet. But, I think, he will show us.’
‘He had better not wait too long, Bonecaster.’
‘Nom Kala,’ Ulag was regarding her, ‘I believe you were beautiful once.’
‘Yes. Once.’
‘Would that I had seen you then.’
But she shook her head. ‘Imagine the pain now, had you done so.’
‘Ah, there is that. I am sorry.’
‘As am I, Bonecaster.’
‘Are we there yet? My feet hurt.’
Draconus halted, turned to observe the half-blood Toblakai. ‘Yes, perhaps we can rest for a time. Are you hungry?’
Ublala nodded. ‘And sleepy. And this armour chafes my shoulders. And the axe is heavy. And I miss my friends.’
‘There is a harness ring for your axe,’ Draconus said. ‘You don’t have to carry it at the ready. As you can see, no one can come upon us without our seeing them from some distance away.’
‘But if I see a rabbit or a chicken, I can run it down and then we can eat.’
‘That won’t be necessary-you have already seen that I am able to conjure food, and water.’
Ublala scowled. ‘I want to do my part.’
‘I see. I am sure you will, before too long.’
‘You see something?’ Ublala straightened, looked round. ‘Rabbit? Cow? Those two women over there?’
Draconus started, and then searched until he found the two figures, walking now towards them but still three hundred or so paces away. Coming up from the south, both on foot. ‘We shall await them,’ he said after a moment. ‘But, Ublala, there is no need to fight.’
‘No, sex is better. When it comes to women, I mean. I never touched that mule. That’s sick and I don’t care what they said. Can we eat now?’
‘Build us a fire,’ Draconus said. ‘Use the wood we gathered yesterday.’
‘All right. Where is it?’
Draconus gestured and a modest stack of broken branches appeared almost at Ublala’s feet.
‘Oh, there it is! Never mind, Draconus, I found the wood.’
The woman in the lead was young, her garb distinctly barbaric. Her eyes shone from a band of black paint that possibly denoted grief, while the rest of her face was painted white in the pattern of a skull. She was well-muscled, her long braided hair the colour of rust. Three steps behind her staggered an old woman, barefoot, her hide tunic smeared with filth. Rings glittered on blackened fingers, a jarring detail in the midst of her dishevelled state.
The two stopped ten paces from Draconus and Ublala. The younger one spoke.
Ublala looked up from the fire he’d just sparked to life. ‘Trader tongue-I understand you. Draconus, they’re hungry and thirsty.’
‘I know, Ublala. You will find food in that satchel. And a jug of ale.’
‘Really? What satchel-oh, never mind. Tell the pretty one I want to have sex with her, but say it more nicely-’
‘Ublala, you and I speak the same trader tongue, more often than not. As we are doing now.’ He stepped forward. ‘Welcome, then, we will share with you.’
The younger woman, whose right hand had closed on a dagger at her belt as soon as Ublala made his desire plain, now shifted her attention back to Draconus. ‘I am Ralata, a Skincut of the Ahkrata White Face Barghast.’
‘You are a long way from home, Ralata.’
‘Yes.’
Draconus looked past her to the old woman. ‘And your companion?’
‘I found her, wandering alone. She is Sekara, a highborn among the White Faces. Her mind is mostly gone.’
‘She has gangrenous fingers,’ Draconus observed. ‘They must be removed, lest the infection spread.’
‘I know,’ said Ralata, ‘but she refuses my attentions. It’s the rings, I think. Her last claim to wealth.’ The Skincut hesitated, and then said, ‘My people are gone. Dead. The White Face Barghast are no more. My clan. Sekara’s. Everyone. I do not know what happened-’
‘Dead!’ shrieked Sekara, holding up her rotted hands. ‘Frozen! Frozen dead!’
Ublala, who’d jumped at the old woman’s cries, now edged closer to Draconus. ‘That one smells bad,’ he said. ‘And those fingers don’t work-someone’s going to have to feed her. Not me. She says awful things.’
Ralata resumed: ‘She tells me this a hundred times a day. I do not doubt her-I cannot-I see slaughter in her eyes. And in my heart, I know that we are alone.’
‘The infection has found her brain,’ said Draconus. ‘Best if you killed her, Ralata.’
‘Leaving me the last of the White Faces? I do not have the courage to do that.’
‘You give me leave to do so?’ Draconus asked.
Ralata flinched.
‘Ralata,’ said Draconus, ‘you two are not the last of your people. Others still live.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘How do you know that?’
‘I saw them. At a distance, dressed little different from you. The same weapons. They numbered some five or six thousand, perhaps more.’
‘Where, when?’
Draconus glanced over at Ublala. ‘Before I found my Toblakai friend here. Six, seven days ago, I believe-my sense of time is not what it used to be. The very change of light still startles me. Day, night, there is so much that I had forgotten.’ He passed a hand over his face and then sighed. ‘Ralata, do you give me leave? It will be an act of mercy, and I will be quick. She will not suffer.’
The old woman was still staring at her blackened hands, as if willing them to move, but the swollen digits were curled into lifeless hooks. Her face twisted in frustration.
‘Will you help me raise her cairn?’
‘Of course.’
Ralata finally nodded.
Draconus walked up to Sekara. He gently lowered the woman’s hands, and then set his own to either side of her face. Her manic eyes darted and then suddenly fixed on his. At the last instant, he saw in them something like recognition. Terror, her mouth opening-
A swift snap to one side broke the neck. The woman slumped, still gaping, eyes holding on his even as he slowly lowered her to the ground. A few breaths later and the life left that accusing, horror-filled stare. Straightening, he stepped back, faced the others. ‘It is done.’
‘I’ll go find some stones,’ said Ublala. ‘I’m good at graves and stuff. And then, Ralata, I will show you the horse and you’ll be so happy.’
The woman frowned. ‘Horse? What horse?’
‘What Stooply the Whore calls it, the thing between my legs. My bucking horse. The one-eyed river eel. The Smart Woman’s Dream, what Shurq Elalle calls it. Women give it all sorts of names, but they all smile when they say them. You can give it any name you want and you’ll be smiling, too. You’ll see.’
Ralata stared after the Toblakai as he set off in search of stones, and then she turned to Draconus. ‘He’s but a child-’
‘Only in his thoughts,’ Draconus said. ‘I have seen him stripped down.’
‘If he tries-if either of you tries to rape me, I’ll kill you.’
‘He won’t. Nor will I. You are welcome to journey with us-we are travelling east-the same direction as the Barghast I saw. Perhaps indeed we will catch up to them, or at least cross their trail once more.’
‘What is that meat on the fire?’ she asked, drawing closer.
‘Bhederin.’
‘There are none in the Wastelands.’
Draconus shrugged.
Still she hesitated, and then she said, ‘I am hunting a demon. Winged. It murdered my friends.’
‘How are you able to track this winged demon, Ralata?’
‘It kills everything in its path. That’s a trail I can follow.’
‘I have seen no such signs.’
‘Nor I of late,’ she admitted. ‘Not for the past two days, since I found Sekara, in fact. But the path seems to be eastward, so I will go in that direction. If I find these other Barghast, all the better. If not, my hunt continues.’
‘Understood,’ he replied. ‘Now, will you join me in some ale?’
She spoke behind him as he crouched to pour the amber liquid into two pewter tankards. ‘I mean to bury her with those rings, Draconus.’
‘We are not thieves,’ he replied.
‘Good.’
She accepted the tankard he lifted to her.
Ublala returned with an armload of boulders.
‘Ublala,’ said Draconus, ‘save showing your horse for later.’
The huge man’s face fell, and then he brightened again. ‘All right. It’s more exciting in the dark anyway.’
Strahl had never desired to be Warleader of the Senan. It had been easier feeding himself ambitions he had believed for ever beyond reach, a simple and mostly harmless bolstering of his own ego, giving him a place alongside the other warriors opposed to Onos T’oolan, just one among a powerful, influential cadre of ranking Barghast. He had enjoyed that power and all the privileges it delivered. He had especially revelled in his hoard of hatred, a currency of endless value, and to spend it cost him nothing, no matter how profligate he was. Such a warrior was swollen, well protected behind a shield of contempt. And when shields locked, the wall was impregnable.
But now he was alone. His hoard had vanished-he’d not even seen the scores of hands reaching in behind his back. A warleader’s only wealth was the value of his or her word. Lies sucked the colour from gold. Truth was the hardest and purest and rarest metal of all.
There had been an instant, a single, blinding instant, when he’d stood before his tribe, raising high that truth, forged by hands grown cold. He had claimed it for his own, and in turn his kin had met his eyes, and they had answered in kind. But even then, in his mouth there had been the taste of ashes. Was he nothing more than the voice of the dead? Of fallen warriors who each in turn had been greater than Strahl could ever hope to be? He could voice their desire-and he had done precisely that-but he could not think their thoughts, and so they could not help him, not here, not now. He was left with the paltry confusions of his own mind, and it was not enough.
It had not taken long for his warriors to discover that. After all, where could he lead them? The people of the settled lands behind them sought their blood. The way ahead was ravaged, lifeless. And, as bold as the gesture had been, the Senan had fled a battle, leaving their allies to die. No one wanted the guilt of that. They gave it all to Strahl. Had he not commanded them? Had he not ordered their withdrawal?
He could not argue the point. He could not defend himself against the truths they spoke. This belongs to me. This is my crime. The others died to give it to me, because they stood where I now stand. Their courage was purer. They led. I can only follow. If it had been any other way, I could have been their match.
He squatted, facing away from the few remaining fires of the camp stretched out in a disorganized sprawl behind him. Stars spread a remote vista across the jade-soaked sky. The Talons themselves seemed much closer, as if moments from cleaving the heavens and slashing down to the earth itself. No clearer omen could be imagined. Death comes. An age ends, and with it so end the White Face Barghast, and then their gods, who were freed only to be abandoned, given life only to die. Well, you bastards, now you know how it feels.
They were almost out of food. The shouldermen and witches had exhausted themselves drawing water from this parched land. Soon the effort would begin killing them, one by one. The retreat had already claimed the eldest and weakest among the Senan. We march east. Why? No enemy awaits us out there. The war we sought is not the one we found, and now glory has eluded us.
Wherever that one true battle is, the White Faces should be there. Cutting destiny off at the knees. So sought Humbrall Taur. So sought Onos Toolan. But the great alliance is no more. Only the Senan remain. And we falter and soon will fade. Flesh to wood, wood to dust. Bone to stone, stone to dust. The Barghast shall become a desert-only then will we finally find a land on which to settle. These Wastelands, perhaps. When the wind stirs us awake with each dawn.
Before long, he knew, he would be cut down. Sometimes, after all, guilt must be excised with a knife. He would not resist. Of course, as the last surviving Senan staggered and fell, the final curse on their lips would be his name. Strahl, who stole from us our glory. Not much of a glory, to be sure. Maral Eb had been a fool and Strahl could shrug off most of the venom when it came to that fiasco. Still, we could have died with weapons in our hands. That would have been something. Like spitting to clear the taste. Maybe the next watery mouthful of misery won’t be as bad. Like that. Just that one gesture.
Eastward then. Each step slowing.
Suicide was such an ugly word. But one could choose it for oneself. When it came to an entire people… well, that was different. Or was it? I will lead us, until someone else does. I will ask for nothing. We march to our deaths. But then, it is all we ever do. This last thought pleased him. In the ghoulish darkness, he smiled. Against futility, guilt did not stand a chance.
Life is a desert, but, dear friends, between my legs you will find the sweetest oasis. Being dead, I can say this with not a hint of irony. If you were me, you’d understand.
‘You have a curious expression on that painted face, Captain. What are you thinking?’
Shurq Elalle pulled her gaze from the desolate sweep of sullen grey waves and glanced over at Felash, fourteenth daughter of King Tarkulf and Queen Abrastal of Bolkando. ‘My First Mate was complaining, Princess, a short time ago.’
‘This has been a pleasant enough journey thus far, if somewhat tedious. What cause has he to complain?’
‘He is a noseless, one-eyed, one-handed, one-legged half-deaf man with terrible breath, but I agree with you, Princess. No matter how bad things can appear to be, they can always get worse. Such is life.’
‘You speak with something like longing, Captain.’
Shurq Elalle shrugged. ‘You may be young, but you are not easily deceived, Princess. I trust you comprehend my unique circumstances.’
Felash pursed her plump lips, fluttering her fingers dismissively. ‘It took some time, to be honest. Indeed, it was my handmaiden who first broached the possibility. You do well in disguising your situation, Captain, a most admirable achievement.’
‘Thank you, Highness.’
‘Still, I wonder what so consumed your thoughts. Skorgen Kaban, I have learned, has no end of gripes, not least the plague of superstitions ever haunting him.’
‘He has not been at his best,’ Shurq admitted. ‘Ever since you purchased this extension, in fact. A thousand rumours have drifted from Kolanse, not one of them pleasing. The crew are miserable, and to the First Mate, that misery feeds his every fear.’
‘It is well understood, I trust,’ said Felash, ‘that most of the Perish fleet has preceded us. Have we seen any indication that disaster befell them?’
‘That depends,’ Shurq replied. ‘The absence of evidence of any sort is ominous enough, especially for sailors-’
‘Then they can never be satisfied, can they?’
‘Absolutely true, which is why I adore them so.’
‘Captain?’
She smiled at the princess. ‘Neither can I. You wondered what I was thinking, and that is my answer.’
‘I see.’
No, little girl, you do not. But never mind. Give it time.
Felash continued: ‘How frustrated you must be!’
‘If it is frustration, it is a most delicious kind.’
‘I find you fascinating, Captain.’
The plump princess was wearing a fur-lined cloak, the hood drawn up against the sharp offshore wind. Her round, heavily made-up face looked dusted and flawless. She clearly worked very hard at appearing older than she in truth was, but the effect reminded Shurq of those porcelain dolls the Shake used to find washed up on the beaches, the ones they traded away as if the things were cursed. Inhuman in perfection, but in truth hinting at deeper flaws. ‘And you in turn interest me, Highness. Is it the simple privilege of royalty that permits you to commandeer a foreign ship, captain and crew, and set out on a whim into the unknown?’
‘Privilege, Captain? Dear me, no. Burden, in fact. Knowledge is essential. The gathering of intelligence is what ensures the kingdom’s continued survival. We are not a great military power, such as the Letherii who can hold their insensitive bullying as if it was a virtue of forthright uncomplexity. Attitudes of false provincialism serve a well-honed suspicion of others. “Deal me straight and true and I am your friend. Deal me wrong and I will destroy you.” So goes the diplomat’s theme of discourse. Of course, one quickly learns that all those poses of righteous honesty are but a screen for self-serving avarice.’
‘I take it,’ Shurq said, ‘the children of the Bolkando King and Queen are well schooled in such theories of diplomacy.’
‘Almost from birth, Captain.’
Shurq smiled at the exaggeration. ‘It seems your sense of Lether is somewhat antiquated, if I dare venture an opinion on the matter.’
But Felash shook her head. ‘King Tehol is perhaps more subtle than his predecessors. The disarming charm hides a most devious mind.’
‘Devious? Oh yes, Highness. Absolutely.’
‘Naturally,’ Felash went on, ‘one would be a fool to trust him. Or believe anything he says. I would wager his Queen is precisely the same.’
‘Indeed? Consider this, if you will, Princess: you see two rulers of a vast empire who just so happen to despise virtually every trait that empire possesses. The inequity, the cruel expression of privilege and the oppression of the dispossessed. The sheer idiocy of a value system that raises useless metals and meaningless writs above that of humanity and plain decency. Consider two rulers who are trapped in that world-yes, they would dismantle all of it, if they could. But how? Imagine the resistance. All those elites so comfortable with their elevated positions of power. Do you truly believe such people would willingly relinquish that?’ Shurq leaned on the rail and regarded Felash, whose eyes were wide.
‘Well, Highness? Imagine, in fact, if they delivered upon you and your people a diplomatic onslaught of emancipation. The end of the nobility and all the inherited rank and privilege-you and your entire family, Princess, out on your asses. The end of money and its false strictures. Gold? Pretty rings and baubles, oh yes, but beyond that? Might as well hoard polished stones from a shoreline. Wealth as proof of superiority? Nonsense. Proof only of the power to deliver violence. I see by your shocked expression, Highness, that you begin to comprehend, and so I will leave it there.’
‘But that is madness!’
Shurq shrugged. ‘Burdens, you said, Princess.’
‘Are you saying Tehol and his wife revile their own claim to power?’
‘Probably.’
‘Meaning, in turn, they hold people like me in similar contempt?’
‘Personally? I doubt it. Rather, they likely question your right to dictate the lives of your kingdom’s people. Clearly, your family asserts such a right, and you possess the military might to enforce such a claim. I will not speak for Tehol or Janath with any certitude, Highness, but I suspect they deal with you and every other dignitary from every other kingdom and whatnot, with an identical forbearance. The system is what it is-’
‘Someone needs to rule!’
‘And, alas, most of the rules rulers impose are the ones that make certain it’s them doing the ruling from now on, and they’ll co-opt and exploit an entire nation of people to keep it that way. Generation upon generation and for evermore. Anyway, Highness, should you ever return to Letheras by all means debate it with Tehol or Janath. They delight in such things. As for me, I can only answer as a ship’s captain-’
‘Exactly! No ship can function without a hierarchy!’
‘So very true. I was but conveying to you an interpretation of Tehol and Janath’s position contrary to the one you have been taught to believe. Such complicated philosophies are well beyond me. Besides, do I really care any more? I work within this system because that is an agreeable option, a means, in fact, of avoiding boredom. I am also able to help make my crew wealthier than they might otherwise be, and this pleases me. For myself, of course, I cannot even tell you if I believe in anything-anything at all. Why should I? What would such beliefs grant me? Peace of mind? My mind is at peace. A secure future? Since when is the future ever secure? Worthy goals? Who decides what’s worthy? What’s “worth” all about anyway? Highness, believe me, I am not the one for this discussion.’
‘Errant look away, Captain, you have shocked me to the core. I feel positively faint, assailed from so many directions my mind spins.’
‘Shall I summon your handmaiden, Highness?’
‘Dear me, no. Her seasickness refuses to abate, the poor thing.’
‘There are medicines-’
‘Not one of which do a thing for her. Why do you think I am up here with you, Captain? I cannot abide her moaning. Even more deplorable, before long when we are both in the cabin it is I who must attend to her, rather than the other way round. The impropriety of that is intolerable.’
Shurq Elalle nodded. ‘Impropriety, yes, I see. You should have brought the matter to me long ago, Highness. I am happy to assign a member of my crew to look after your handmaiden. Perhaps indeed we can have her transferred to another berth-’
‘No no, none of that, Captain. Though I do thank you for the generous offer. My frustration is ever shortlived. Besides, what better means of reminding myself that privileges of rank are but false constructs? When humanity and simple decency demand the relinquishing of such things?’
‘Well said, Highness.’
Felash fluttered her fingers. ‘And on that thought, best I return below, to see how the wretched child fares.’ She smiled up at Shurq with her doll’s smile. ‘Thank you for a most invigorating discussion, Captain.’
‘I too enjoyed it, Princess.’
Felash strode away, admirably sure-footed on the pitching deck. Shurq settled her forearms down on the rail and scanned the distant coastline to port. Jungle had given way to brown hills a few days past. The only trees she’d seen since had been uprooted boles crowding the thin line of beach. Enormous trees. Who tore up thousand-year-old trees so indiscriminately as to leave them to waste? Kolanse, what have you been up to?
We’ll find out soon enough.
Felash entered the cabin. ‘Well?’
Her handmaid looked up from where she sat crosslegged before the small brazier of coals. ‘It is as we feared, Highness. A vast emptiness awaits us. Desolation beyond measure. Upon landing, we shall have to travel north-far north, all the way to Estobanse Province.’
‘Prepare my bowl,’ Felash said, shrugging off her cloak and letting it fall. She sank down on to a heap of pillows. ‘They can go nowhere else, can they?’
The bigger woman rose and stepped over to the low table where sat an ornate, silver-inlaid, glass hookah. She measured out a cup of spiced wine and slowly filled the bulb, then drew out the silver tray, tapping out the old ashes into a small pewter plate. ‘If you mean the Perish, Highness, that is a fair assumption.’
Felash reached under her silk blouse and loosened the bindings of her undershirt. ‘My eldest sister did this too much,’ she said, ‘and now her tits rest down on her belly like a trader’s bladders riding a mule’s rump. Curse these things. Why couldn’t I be more like Hethry?’
‘There are herbs-’
‘Then they’d not fix their eyes there, would they? No, these damned things are my first gifts of diplomacy. Just seeing those dilated pupils is a victory.’
The handmaid brought over the hookah. She’d already drawn it alight and aromatic smoke spread out through the cabin. She had been doing this for her mistress for four years now. Each time, it preceded an extended period of intense discussion between her and the princess. Plans were created, tested, every detail hammered into place with the steady tap-tap-tap of rounding a copper bowl.
‘Hethry views you with great envy, Highness.’
‘She’s an idiot so that’s no surprise. Have we heard from Mother’s cedas?’
‘Still nothing. The Wastelands seethe with terrible powers, Highness, and it is clear that the Queen intends to remain there-like us, she seeks answers.’
‘Then we are both fools. All of this is so far beyond Bolkando’s borders that we would be hard pressed to extend any legitimate reasons to pursue the course we’re on. What did Kolanse contribute to our kingdom?’
‘Black honey, hardwoods, fine linens, parchment and paper-’
‘In the past five years?’ Felash’s eyes glittered in a veil of smoke.
‘Nothing.’
‘Precisely. My question was in fact rhetorical. Contact has ceased. We acquired nothing essential from them in any case. As for the Wastelands and the motley armies crawling about on them, well, they too have left our environs. We dog them at our peril, I believe.’
‘The Queen marches beside some of those armies, Highness. We must assume she has discovered something, providing a compelling reason for remaining in their company.’
‘They march to Kolanse.’
‘Indeed.’
‘And we don’t know why.’
The handmaid said nothing.
Felash sent a stream of smoke ceilingward. ‘Tell me again of the undead in the Wastelands.’
‘Which ones, Highness?’
‘The ones who move as dust on the winds.’
The handmaid frowned. ‘At first I thought that they alone were responsible for the impenetrable cloud defying my efforts. They number in the thousands, after all, and the one who leads them emanates such blinding power that I dare not look too long upon it. But now… Highness, there are others. Not dead to be sure. Even so. One of darkness and cold. One of golden fire high in the sky. Another at his side, a winged knot of grief harder and crueller than the sharpest cut diamond. Still others, hiding in the howl of wolves-’
‘Wolves?’ Felash cut in. ‘Do you mean the Perish?’
‘No and yes, Highness. I can be no clearer than that.’
‘Wonderful. Go on.’
‘Yet another, fiercer and wilder than all the others. It hides inside stone. It swims in a sea thick with the pungent flavours of serpents. It waits for the moment, and grows in its power, and facing it… Highness, whatever it faces is more dreadful than I can bear.’
‘This clash-will it occur on the Wastelands?’
‘I believe so, yes.’
‘Do you think my mother knows?’
The handmaid hesitated, and then said, ‘Highness, I cannot imagine her cedas to be anything but utterly blind and thus ignorant of that threat. It is only because I am able to see from this distance, from the outside, as it were, that I have gleaned as much as I have.’
‘Then she is in trouble.’
‘Yes. I think so, Highness.’
‘You must find a way,’ said Felash, ‘to reach through to her.’
‘Highness. There is one way, but it risks much.’
‘Who will bear that risk?’
‘Everyone aboard this ship.’
Felash pulled on her mouthpiece, blew rings that floated, wavered and slowly flattened out, drifting to form a chain in the air. Her eyes widened upon seeing it.
The handmaid simply nodded. ‘He is close, yes. My mind has spoken his name.’
‘And this omen here before us?’
‘Highness, one bargains with an Elder God at great peril. We must pay in blood.’
‘Whose blood?’
The handmaid shook her head.
Felash tapped the amber tube against her teeth, thinking. ‘Why is the sea so thirsty?’
Again, there was no possible answer to that question. ‘Highness?’
‘Has the damned thing a name? Do you know it?’
‘Many names, of course. When the colonists from the First Empire set forth, they made sacrifice to the salty seas in the name of Jhistal. The Tiste Edur in their great war canoes opened veins to feed the foam, and this red froth they called Bloodmane-in the Edur language that word was Mael. The Jheck who live upon the ice call the dark waters beneath that ice the Lady of Patience, Barutalan. The Shake speak of Neral, the Swallower.’
‘And on.’
‘And on, Highness.’
Felash sighed. ‘Summon him, and we shall see what cost this bargain.’
‘As you command, Highness.’
On the foredeck, Shurq Elalle straightened as the lookout cried out. She faced out to sea. That’s a squall. Looks to be a bad one. Where in the Errant’s bung-hole did that come from? ‘Pretty!’
Skorgen Kaban clumped into view from amidships. ‘Seen it, Cap’n!’
‘Swing her out, Pretty. If it’s gonna bite, best we lock jaws with it.’ The thought of the storm throwing Undying Gratitude on to that treefall shore wasn’t a pleasant one, not in the least.
The black wire-wool cloud seemed to be coming straight for them.
‘Piss in the boot, this dance won’t be fun.’
THE SEASON OF HIGH FLOOD
GAMAS ENICTEDON
Children will wander. they will walk as if the future did not exist. Among adults, the years behind one force focus upon what waits ahead, but with children this is not so. The past was a blur of befuddled sensations, the future was white as the face of the sun. Knowing this yielded no comfort. Badalle was still a child, should one imagine her of a certain age, but she walked like a crone, tottering, hobbling. Even her voice belonged to an old woman. And the dull, fused thing behind her eyes could not be shaken awake.
She had a vague recollection, a memory or an invention, of looking upon an ancient woman, a grandmother perhaps, or a great aunt. Lying shrunken on a bed, swaddled in wool blankets. Still breathing, still blinking, still listening. And yet those eyes, in their steady watching, their grainy observation, showed nothing. The stare of a dying person. Eyes spanning a gulf, slowly losing grip on the living side of the chasm, soon to release and slide to the side of death. Did those eyes feed thoughts? Or had things reduced to mere impressions, blobs of colour, blurred motions-as if in the closing of death one simply returned to the way things had been for a newborn? She could think of a babe’s eyes, in the moments and days after arriving in the world. Seeing but not seeing, a face of false smiles, the innocence of not-knowing.
She had knelt beside a nameless boy, there on the very edge of the Crystal City, and had stared into his eyes, knowing he saw her, but knowing nothing else. He was beyond expression (oh, the horror of that, to see a human face beyond expression, to wonder who was trapped inside, and why they’d given up getting out). He’d studied her in turn-she could see that much-and held her gaze, as if he’d wanted company in his last moments of life. She would not have turned away, not for anything. The gift was small for her, but all she had, and for him, perhaps it was everything.
Was it as simple as that? In dying, did he offer, there in his eyes, a blank slate? Upon which she could scribble anything she liked, anything and everything that eased her own torment?
She’d find those answers when her death drew close. And she knew she too would remain silent, watchful, revealing nothing. And her eyes would look both beyond and within, and in looking within she would find her private truths. Truths that belonged to her and no one else. Who cared to be generous in those final moments? She’d be past easing anyone else’s pain.
And this was Badalle’s deepest fear. To be so selfish with the act of dying.
She’d not even seen when the life left the boy’s eyes. Somehow, that moment was itself a most private revelation. Recognition was slow, uncertainty growing leaden as she slowly comprehended that the eyes she stared into gave back not a single glimmer of light. Gone. He is gone. Sunlight cut paths through the prisms of crystal walls, giving his still face a rainbow mask.
He had probably been no more than ten years old. He’d come so far, only to fail at the very threshold of salvation. What do we living know about true irony? His face was leather skin pulled taut over bones. The huge eyes belonged to someone else. He’d lost his eyelashes, his eyebrows.
Had he been remembering those times before this march? That other world? She doubted it. She was older and she remembered very little. Patchy images, wrought dreams crowded with impossible things. Thick green leaves-a garden? Amphorae with glistening flanks, something wonderful in her mouth. A tongue free of sores, lips devoid of splits, a flashing smile-were any of these things real? Or did they belong to her fantastic dreams that haunted her now day and night?
I grow wings. I fly across the world, across many worlds. I fly into paradise and leave desolation in my wake, because I feed on all that I see. I devour it whole. I am discoverer and destroyer both. Somewhere awaits the great tomb, the final home of my soul. I will find it yet. Tomb, palace, when you’re dead what’s the difference? There I will reside for ever, embraced by my insatiable hunger.
She’d dreamed of children. Looking down from a great height. Watching them march in their tens of thousands. They had cattle, mules and oxen. Many rode horses. They glittered blindingly in the hard sunlight, as if they bore the treasures of the world on their backs. Children, but not her children.
And then the day ended and darkness bled to the earth, and she dreamed that it was at last time to descend, spiralling, moaning through the air. She would strike swiftly, and if possible unseen by any. There were magics below, in that vast multi-limbed camp. She had to avoid brushing those. If need be, she would kill to silence, but this was not her true task.
She dreamed her eyes-and she had more of those than she should, no matter-fixed upon the two burning spots she sought. Bright golden hearth-flames-she had been tracking them for a long time now, in service to the commands she had been given.
She was descending upon the children.
To steal fire.
Strange dreams, yes, but it seemed they existed for a reason. The deeds done within them had purpose, and this was more than anything real could manage.
The Quitters had been driven away. By song, by poems, by words. Brayderal, the betrayer among them, had vanished into the city. Rutt oversaw the ribby survivors, and everyone slept in cool rooms in buildings facing on to a broad fountain in the centre of which stood a crystal statue weeping the sweetest water. It was never quite enough-not for them all-and the basin of the surrounding pool was fissured with cracks that drank with endless thirst. But they were all managing to drink just enough to stay alive.
Behind a glittering building they’d found an orchard, the trees of a type none had seen before. Fruits massed on the branches, each one long and sheathed in a thick skin the colour of dirt. The pulp within was soft and impossibly succulent. It filled the stomach with no pangs. They’d quickly eaten them all, but the next day Saddic had found another orchard, bigger than the first one, and then yet another. Starvation had been eluded. For now.
Of course, they continued to eat those children who for whatever reason still died-no one could think of wasting anything. Never again.
Badalle walked the empty streets closer to the city’s heart. A palace occupied the centre, the only structure in the city that had been systematically destroyed, smashed down as if with giant mallets and hammers. From the mounds of shattered crystals Badalle had selected a shard as long as her forearm. Having wrapped rags around one end she now held a makeshift weapon.
Brayderal was still alive. Brayderal still wanted to see them all dead. Badalle meant to find her first, find her and kill her.
As she walked, she whispered her special poem. Brayderal’s poem. Her poem of killing.
‘Where is my child of justice?
I have a knife that will speak true
To the very heart
Where is my child of justice?
Spat out so righteously
On a world meant to kneel
In slavery
Where is my child of justice?
I want to read your proof
Of what you say you deserve
I will see your knife
Where is my child of justice?
Let us lock blades
You claim whatever you please
I claim no right but you’
She had sailed down in her dreams. She had stolen fire. No blood had been shed, no magics were awakened. The children slept on, seeing nothing, peaceful in ignorance. When they awoke, they would face the rising sun, and begin the day’s march.
By this detail alone she knew that these children were indeed strangers.
She’d looked upon the boy until life left him. Then, with Rutt and Saddic and two dozen others, she had eaten him. Chewing on the stringy, bloody meat, she thought back to that look in his eyes. Knowing, calm, revealing nothing.
An empty gaze cannot accuse. But the emptiness was itself an accusation. Wasn’t it?
When Saddic looked upon the city they’d found in the heart of the Glass Desert, he believed he was seeing the structure of his very own mind, a pattern writ on a colossal scale, but in its crystalline form it was nevertheless the same as that which was encased in his own skull. Seeking proof of this notion, he’d left the others behind, even Badalle, and set out to explore, not from street to street, but downward.
He soon discovered that most of the city was below ground. The crystals had settled deep roots, and whatever light was trapped within prismatic walls up above sent down deeper, softer hues that flowed like water. The air was cool, tasteless, neither dry nor damp. He felt as if he walked a world between breaths, moving through that momentary pause that hovered, motionless on all sides, and not even the muted slap of his bare feet could break this sense of eternal hesitation.
Vast caverns waited at the very base, a dozen or more levels down from the surface. Crystal walls and domed ceilings, and as Saddic edged into the first of these, he understood the secret purpose of this city. It wasn’t enough to build a place in which to live, a place with the comforting crowds of one’s own kind. It wasn’t even enough to fashion things of beauty out of mundane necessity-the pretty fountains, the perfect orchards with their perfect rows of ancient trees, the rooms of startling light as the sun’s glow was trapped and given new flavours, the tall statues of tusked demons with their stern yet resolved expressions and the magical way the sun made vertical pupils in those glittering eyes-as if the statues watched still, alive inside the precise angles of translucent stone. None of these were sufficient reason for building this city. The revelation of the true secret was down here, locked away and destined to survive until oblivion itself came to devour the sun.
Above on the surface, the buildings, the domes and spires and tilted towers; the rooms and the plazas and spiral staircases: they each marked the perfect placement of a single, enormous machine. A machine of light and colours. But not just light, not just colours.
Saddic walked into the cavern, breathless with wonder.
Each day, each moment he could manage, Saddic listened to the words of Badalle. He listened and he watched and all that he heard and all that he saw passed through his surface, shifted and bounced, curled and bent until reaching the caverns of his memory, where they re-formed, precise and exact, destined to live on, secure in perfection-for as long as Saddic himself remained alive.
But this city had defeated mortality and, he realized, it had defeated time as well.
Far above, the sun’s light fed the city’s memories-all the life it had once held within its chambers and halls, on its streets and in the squares with their fountains. The chaotic angles of the walls around him flowed with scenes, murky and ghostly-not of Rutt and the children now dwelling above, but of the inhabitants of long, long ago, persisting here for all eternity.
They were tall, with skin the colour of lichen. Their lower jaws bore tusks that rose up to frame the thin-lipped mouths. Men and women both wore long, loose clothing, dyed in deep but vibrant colours. They wore braided belts of grey leather, weaponless, and nowhere could Saddic see armour. This was a city of peace, and everywhere there was water. Flowing down building walls, swirling in pools surrounding fountains. Blossom-filled gardens bled their riotous colours into rooms and down colonnaded hallways.
Saddic walked through cavern after cavern, seeing all that had once been, but nowhere could he find those moments that must have preceded the city’s death-or, rather, the fall of the tusked people and their rich culture. Invaders? Desert savages? He could find nothing but the succession of seemingly endless days of perfection and tranquillity.
The scenes seemed to seep into his mind, as if impressing themselves upon his own crystalline brain, and he began to comprehend details of things he had no way of knowing. He came to discover the city’s name. He saw the likeness in the statues and realized that they all belonged to the same individual, and that variations arose solely from the eyes of the sculptors and their skill as artists. And, as he drew closer to what he knew was the centre of the city, to its most cherished heart, he now saw other creatures. In what seemed peaceful co-existence, huge two-legged reptiles began appearing in scenes.
These were the ones Badalle had spoken about. The ones who had found the city, but Saddic now knew more than she did. They’d found it, yes, but it had not been empty. In finding it, they found the ones who dwelt in it, who called it their home.
They were called Jaghut. Returned to this way of living, in the cities they had abandoned long before. They were drawn to a humble man, a half-blood. They were drawn to his great machine of memories, this place he made by his own hand. What he did not possess within him, he built around him. To trap all that he was.
The city is called Icarias.
He left a cavern, walked down a twisting passage murky with dark hues, and came upon the buried heart of the city.
Saddic cried out.
Before him, in a chamber more massive than any of the others… Darkness. Destruction. The roots were dead, unfed by light from above. Fissures split the crystals.
Broken. His heart is broken.
Brayderal sat, knees drawn up and arms wrapped tightly round them, in the corner of a small room on the fourth level of a tower. She had escaped her captors, leaving her alone with her grief and torment. She had drawn her kin to their deaths. She should have killed Badalle long ago, the first moment she sensed the power of the girl.
Badalle had shattered the Inquisitors. She had taken their own words and thrown them back, and precious blood had spilled on to the shard-studded ground. At least two of them had died, the other two retreating with grievous wounds. If they still breathed, somewhere out there, it would not be for much longer. They had no food, no water and no shelter, and each day the sun lit the sky on fire.
Badalle needed to die. Brayderal had raided an orchard not yet found by the others. She could feel her strength returning, her belly full for the first time in months. But guilt and loneliness had stolen all her will. Worse yet, this city itself assailed her. Whatever force still lingered here was inimical to the Forkrul Assail. A despiser of justice-she could almost taste its contempt for her.
Were the others hunting her? She believed they were. And if they found her they would kill her. They would rend her flesh from her bones and eat until their stomachs were swollen. Perhaps that was fitting. Perhaps, indeed, it served a kind of justice, the kind that recognized the price of failure.
Still, could she kill Badalle… Rutt alone was not enough to oppose her. Saddic was nothing more than Badalle’s pet. Standing over Badalle’s cold corpse, Brayderal could command the others to obedience. Yield, kneel… die. Wasn’t it what they wanted? The purest peace of all.
She stiffened, breath catching, as she heard sounds from somewhere outside. Rising into a crouch, Brayderal edged out of the corner and approached the window overlooking the ruins of the palace. She peered out.
Badalle. Wielding a crystal sword-but not just any fragment, no, this was from the palace. It blazed in the girl’s hand, blinding enough to make Brayderal snatch her head back in pain. The palace was destroyed, yet somehow it lived on.
She hated this city.
And now it is Badalle who hunts me. She will drive that shard into my chest, and it will drink deep.
She needed to hide.
Badalle turned at a scuffing sound from one of the towers, catching a glimpse of a face pulling back from a small window halfway up. Was it time, then? So soon?
She could unleash the power of her voice. She could, she knew, compel Brayderal to come to her. She had been able to overwhelm four adult Quitters. One of their children, weak and alone, would be unable to defend herself.
But she wanted this death to be a silent one. After all, the battle between these two forces of righteousness had already been decided. The peace that was death had been rejected. But of course we have been fighting that war since the very beginning. Fighting, and now we have won. It’s over.
Would they live here for ever then? Could the orchards sustain them? What would they do? Was simple survival enough reason to go on living? What of dreams? Desires? What kind of society would they shape?
No, this is not enough. We cannot stay here. It’s not enough.
Killing Brayderal will achieve nothing. No. I have a better answer.
She raised her voice. ‘Child of justice! This city is not for you! You are banished! Return to your kind, if you can. GO!’
She heard a weak cry from the tower. The Quitters had driven them from their homes, from their families. It was fitting, then, that she now drive from her home a Quitter. My home, my family. Not hers, it was never hers. This family, it is mine. And wherever they are, they are my home.
They were done with Brayderal.
Badalle set off to return to Rutt and Held and Saddic. There were things to discuss. A new purpose to find. Something beyond just surviving. Something we deserve. For we have earned the freedom to choose.
She glanced down at her makeshift sword. It seemed unaccountably bright, as if gathering all the light it could drink. Golden flames seemed to glitter in its heart. It was beautiful, yes, but there was something else there. Something of power… a terrible power.
She remembered, from somewhere, tales about weapons, and those weapons were given names. Thus. She would name hers Fire.
Fuck! Fiddler spun away from the three worried faces, the sets of frightened eyes, the twitches of incipient panic. He scanned the ground. ‘Stay where you are,’ he told the heavies. ‘No, wait. Shortnose, go and get Bottle. Flashwit, you and Mayfly enforce a cordon round here, especially their tent. No one gets in, understood?’
Solemn nods from the soldiers, and then Shortnose set off at a lumbering run.
On all sides, the camp was breaking, tents dropping down, stakes rocked loose from the hard stony soil. Soldiers shouted, complained and bickered. The smell of spicy food from the kitchen tents wafted in the cool morning air. Closer by, two other squads were looking over, uneasy, bereft of answers. They’d slept sound, they said. Heard nothing.
Fiddler’s gaze drew back to the tent. Slashed to ribbons. Inside-what was left of inside-the cots bore rumpled bedding. But no blood. Fuck. Fuck and fire. His breath slowly hissed as he resumed studying the ground, seeking tracks, signs of a scuffle, anything. Nothing caught his eyes. Too scared to concentrate. Where in Hood’s name is Bottle?
Flashwit had come to him half a bell earlier. He’d barely crawled out from his tent to find her standing in front of him, a look of dread on her broad face.
‘They’re gone, Sergeant.’
‘What? Who’s gone?’
‘Their tent’s all cut up, but no bodies-’
‘Flashwit, what are you talking about? Whose tent? Who’s gone?’
‘Our sergeant and corporal. Gone.’
‘Gesler? Stormy?’
‘Their tent’s all cut up.’
Not cut up, he discovered, after following Flashwit back to the Fifth Squad’s camp. Slashed. The thick canvas was rent from all sides, with what must have been frenzied zeal. And of Gesler and Stormy there was no sign. Their weapons and armour were gone as well. And the heavies were in tents to either side-barely room to walk between them, and in the dark with all the guy ropes and stakes… no, this doesn’t make sense.
He turned to see Shortnose and Bottle jogging up to where stood Mayfly-who held out thick arms as if to bar their passage.
‘Let ’em through, Mayfly-but no one else. Not yet, anyway. Bottle, get over here.’
‘What’s this I hear about Gesler and Stormy deserting?’
Fiddler almost cuffed the man. Instead, he hissed, ‘Ain’t nobody’s deserted-but now that rumour’s on its way, isn’t it? Idiot.’
‘Sorry, Sergeant-it’s too damned early in the morning for me to be thinking straight.’
‘Better wake up fast,’ Fiddler snapped. He pointed at the tent. ‘Look for signs, all round it. Someone had to walk in to get that close. And if you find a single drop of blood let me know-but quietly, understood?’
Licking his lips as he eyed the ravaged tent, Bottle nodded, and then edged past his sergeant.
Fiddler unstrapped and drew off his helm. He wiped sweat from his brow. Glared across at the nearby squads. ‘Wake up your sergeants and all of you make sure we got a full cordon!’ The soldiers jumped. Fiddler knew that news of his sickness had gone through the ranks-he’d been down for days, stinking with fever. Standing close to Anomander Rake had been miserable enough, he recalled, but nothing compared to this. He didn’t need the Deck of Dragons to know what he knew. Besides, nowhere in the Deck would he find a card called the Consort of Darkness. At least, not that he knew of, though sometimes powers were of such magnitude, such insistence, that they could bleed the paint off a minor card and usurp it. Maybe that had happened with his Deck-but he wasn’t about to shuffle through for a look. In any case, his being down had scared people-damned unfair, but there it was, nothing Fiddler could do about it. And now that he was back on his feet, well, he could see far too much undisguised relief in too many eyes.
The older he got, he realized, the more sensitive his talent-if it could be called talent. He preferred curse.
Now Rake went and got himself killed. Unbelievable. Insane. Dragnipur is in pieces. Oh sure, Rake and Hood made sure most of the monsters chained within it were wiped out-nice deal, that. Chained souls and Hood’s own menagerie of scary malcontents, all fed into Chaos. ‘The dead will sleep, and sleep for evermore.’ Amen.
He clawed at his beard. Barely three days on foot again-he still felt wobbly-and now this. They’ve been snatched. Right out from the middle of a whole damned army. Gesler. Stormy. Why them? Oh don’t be obtuse, Fid. They were annealed in the Forge of Thyrllan. Ascendants both.
So think about that. Gesler-he can throw a punch heavy enough to stagger a god. Stormy can swing a sword through three bodies if he’s mad enough. But… not a drop of blood-
‘Found a drop of blood, Sergeant.’
Bottle was suddenly at his side, head lowered, voice barely a whisper.
‘Just one?’
‘Well, maybe two drops together. A dollop? It’s thick and it stinks.’
Fiddler scowled at the man. ‘Stinks?’
‘Not human blood.’
‘Oh, great. Demonic?’
‘More like… rhizan.’
Rhizan? ‘This ain’t the time for jokes, Bottle-’
‘I’m not. Listen. There’s not a trace, not a single footprint beyond the kind soldiers make-and we both know it wasn’t no soldiers jumped the tent and the two men inside it. Unless they had talons long as swords, and it was talons that did in that tent. But the hands they belonged to were huge. It gets stranger, Sergeant-’
‘Hold on. Let me think a moment.’ Rhizan? Flit around at night, eating insects, small bats… winged. They got fucking wings! ‘It came down out of the sky. Of course, it’s bloody obvious now. That’s why there’s no tracks. It just dropped straight down on to the tent-’
‘Then someone should’ve heard it-at the very least, Ges and Stormy would’ve been screaming.’
‘Aye, that part still doesn’t scry.’
‘Let me examine the tent, Sergeant-pick it apart, I mean.’
‘Go ahead.’ Fiddler walked over to Shortnose. ‘Another trip for you. Find Captain Faradan Sort, and maybe Fist Keneb. And Quick Ben-aye, get Quick Ben first and send him here. And listen, Shortnose, don’t say nothing about desertions-we already got enough of those. Gesler and Stormy didn’t desert-they were kidnapped.’
Shortnose shook his head. ‘We ain’t seen or heard nothing, Sergeant-and I’m a light sleeper. Stupid light, in fact.’
‘I’m guessing some kind of sorcery silenced the whole thing. And the demon was winged. It just picked them both up and flew off into the night. Now, go on, Shortnose.’
‘All right. Quick Ben, Sort and then Keneb.’
‘Right.’ Turning back, he saw Bottle on his hands and knees, lifting up shreds of canvas. The soldier looked up, nodded him over.
Fiddler joined him, crouching at his side. ‘What is it?’
‘Everything stinks, Sergeant. Feel this cloth-it’s oily.’
‘That’s what keeps ’em waterproof-’
‘Not this stuff. This stuff smells like a lizard’s armpit.’
Fiddler stared at Bottle, wondering when the fool last jammed his nose into a lizard’s armpit, then decided that some questions just should never be asked. ‘Enkar’al? Could be, but it would have had to have been a big one, old, probably female. And somehow it got its hands round both their mouths, or round their necks.’
‘Then Ges and Stormy are dead,’ whispered Bottle.
‘Quiet, I’m still working through this. I can’t recall ever seeing an enkar’al big enough to fly carrying two full-grown men. So, Locqui Wyval? Draconic lapdogs? Not a chance. A bull enkar’al masses more than a wyval. But then, wyval fly in packs-in clouds, I think it’s called-so if a dozen came down, striking fast… maybe. But all those wing-beats… no, somebody’d hear the ruckus for certain. So, not wyval and probably not an enkar’al. What’s that leave us with?’
Bottle stared at him. ‘Dragon.’
‘Do dragons smell like rhizan armpits?’
‘How the Hood would I know?’ Bottle demanded.
‘Calm down, sorry I asked.’
‘But it doesn’t work anyway,’ said Bottle after a moment. ‘The slashed tent-the rents aren’t big enough for a dragon’s talons, or teeth. And if a dragon did swoop down, wouldn’t it just pick up the whole thing? Tent, people, cots, the whole works?’
‘Good point. So, we’re back to a giant rhizan?’
‘I was just saying what it smelled like, Sergeant. I didn’t mean a real rhizan, or even one of those slightly bigger ones we got round here.’
‘If it wasn’t for the wings,’ muttered Fiddler, ‘I might think K’Chain Che’Malle.’
‘They died out a hundred thousand years ago, Sergeant. Maybe even longer. Even the ones Hedge went up against at Black Coral-they were undead, so probably stinking of crypts, not oil.’
Quick Ben arrived, pushing through the crowd that had gathered. ‘Shortnose said something about-shit, they have a cat fight or something?’
‘Snatched,’ said Fiddler. ‘Something with wings. Big enough to shut them both up-not a sound, Quick. Smells like magic-’
‘Like lizards, you mean,’ cut in Bottle. ‘Look at this, High Mage.’
Quick Ben held out a hand and Bottle gave him the strip of canvas. ‘Lizards, Bottle?’
‘Feel the oil?’
‘This is K’Chain Che’Malle.’
‘They ain’t got wings,’ objected Fiddler.
But Quick Ben was squinting skyward. Under his breath he said, ‘Some do.’
‘But no one heard a damned thing, Quick.’
‘The oil is like the breath of a dragon, Fid. Just not as virulent. It came down, sprayed the tent, took off again. The stuff soaked through, filled the air in the tent, and inside you could have knocked their heads together and neither one would’ve woken up. So it came back down, sliced through the tent to keep all the guys and stakes in place, and took them both.’
‘You can’t know all this-’ Bottle began but stopped at a look from Fiddler.
Quick Ben. You snake-eyed shifty know-it-all bastard from the bung-hole of Seven Cities. I never liked you. Never trusted you, even when I had to. The things you know about, why I-
Bottle blurted, ‘Quick! The strings you tied! They weren’t snapped? Then they’re still alive, right? You tied strings to them-to Gesler and Stormy-you did, didn’t you?’
‘Got lazy,’ Quick Ben said with a slow blink. ‘Had too many. It was hard concentrating, so I cut down on them, Bottle. Didn’t even think about Ges and Stormy.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘Head back to the squad, Bottle,’ said Fiddler. ‘Help Tarr get us ready to march.’
‘Sergeant-’
‘Get out of here, soldier.’
Bottle hesitated, and then, jabbing a warning finger at Quick Ben, he stalked off.
‘Strings still humming, Quick?’
‘Listen, Fid. I cut ’em, just like I told Bottle-’
‘Don’t even try.’
‘Yeah, well, you ain’t Whiskeyjack, are you? I don’t have to answer to you. I’m High Mage now and that means-’
‘It means do I have to talk to the Adjunct directly? Or are you gonna keep spinning round on that flagpole? How long can you keep up the puckered butt, Quick?’
‘All right. They’re alive. I know that much.’
‘Close by?’
‘No. A Shi’gal Assassin can fly two hundred leagues in a single night.’
A what? Never mind. ‘Why those two?’
‘No idea-’
‘I hear the Adjunct’s a damned dragon herself these days-’
‘Fine. I figure someone needed them.’
‘A shigral assassin K’Chain Che’Malle needed Gesler and Stormy?’
‘Shi’gal. But they don’t go rogue, not this way, anyway. Meaning it was sent. To find them.’
‘Sent by who?’
Quick Ben licked his lips, looked away and then shrugged. ‘A Matron, obviously.’
‘A Matron? A K’Chain Che’Malle Matron? A real live breathing K’Chain Che’Malle Matron?’
‘Keep it down, will you? People are looking. We can-’
Fiddler’s helm caught the High Mage flush on the side of his head. Watching the wizard fall in a heap was, for Fiddler, the most satisfying experience he’d known in years.
He stepped back, glared round. ‘High Mage Quick Ben needs to commune with his gods. Now, all of you, finish breaking your camps-we march in half a bell! Go!’
Fiddler stood, waiting for the captain and Fist Keneb. His threats about the Adjunct had come back to sink fangs deep into his backside. They’d need to talk to her. With Quick Ben up and awake and cornered with nowhere to hide. She could take over wresting answers from the smug bastard. For himself… he glanced down at the unconscious wizard… he’d had enough.
Never liked him. Need him, count on him, pray for him, love him, aye. But like him? Not a chance. Goatsticker, dollmaker, souleater. Probably Soletaken or D’ivers, too, if I’m any judge of things.
Whiskeyjack, did you hear the sound it made hitting his head? This old helm of mine? Did it stir the dead all around you? Did you all sit up, rush to the Gate? You looking in on us right now, Sarge? Hey, all you Bridgeburners. How’d I do?
Fist Keneb had ridden out alone just before dawn, passing through bleary-eyed pickets and cantering eastward until the sun broke the distant horizon. He reined in on a slight rise and sat slumped in the saddle, steam rising from his horse, low mists scudding over the broken ground as the air slowly warmed.
The Wastelands stretched before him. To his right and now slightly behind him, the vague smudge of the Saphii Mountains rumpled the southern skyline. He was exhausted, but insomnia plagued Keneb. He had been more or less running the Bonehunters since leaving Lether. Fist Blistig had done his best to evade the responsibilities of command-he was in the habit of wandering among his soldiers in the evenings, eager to tell tales of the Chain of Dogs and the Fall at Aren, as if no one had heard them a dozen times before. He’d drink with them and laugh overloud and play at being a comrade of no special rank. As a consequence, he was viewed with amused contempt by his soldiers. They had enough friends. They didn’t need their Fist spreading his hams on a crate at the fire, passing a jug. Such nights should be rare events, on the eve of battle, perhaps, but even then no one should ever be permitted to forget an officer’s position.
Blistig wanted to be one of the lads. But he was a Fist by rank, and that meant standing apart from his soldiers. Staying watchful, aye, but ever ready to command and expecting that command to be followed. He was supposed to lead, damn him. At the morning briefing sessions Blistig sat scowling, hungover, thick-tongued and bored. He ventured no ideas and looked upon every suggestion with something between disbelief and outright derision.
We need better than that. I need better than that.
The Adjunct had the right to expect that her Fists could manage the army on this march. She had other issues to chew on, whatever they were-and Keneb was nowhere near close enough to even imagine what they might be; in fact, no one was, not even Lostara Yil.
There were two sub-Fists, each commanding regulars-foot, skirmishers, scouts and archers-and Keneb found he was growing far too dependent on them with the logistical demands. They had enough of their own concerns to deal with, after all. But both were veteran officers, seasoned campaigners, and Keneb drew heavily on their experience-though he often felt as he once had when he’d been a young captain under the stubbled wing of a sergeant. Neither Hobble nor Kellant likely had much good to say about him behind his back.
Aye, that’s the truth of it. I just managed as a captain. I’m far past my level of competence here, and it’s showing.
The Wastelands looked forbidding. Perhaps even more lifeless than the worst stretches of Seven Cities-between Aren and Raraku, or that northwest push to the walls of Y’Ghatan. He’d managed to acquire an honest list of warlocks and witches among the ranks, those possessing magics that could conjure forth edible plants, small mammals, insects and such from even the most miserable of lands. And water, as well. To stretch out the supplies they carried, he had them hard at work supplementing daily rations allotted each squad.
But the complaints had already begun. ‘These Wastelands, Fist, are well named. Damn near sucked lifeless underfoot. Finding stuff is starting to hurt.’
Do what you can. It’s all I can ask.
A more useless response from an officer was beyond his imagining, and what soured the most were his own recollections of receiving such inane replies from his commanders all those years ago. At last he understood the helplessness they often suffered, when attempting to deal with something that couldn’t be dealt with; with things and forces beyond any hope of control. Just say what you can, and look confident and reassuring when saying it. Nobody buys it, and both sides know that fact, so what’s really being acknowledged is the motions we both go through.
Indeed, he was beginning to truly understand the burdens of command, a phrase he used to scoff at and mock derisively. Burden, sir? Try carrying this kit pack on your shoulders all day, up and down hills and worse. What do you know about burdens? Shut that whining, sir, before I slide my knife across your scrawny throat.
What did Blistig know about the Whirlwind? He’d been cosy behind the walls of Aren, commanding a bored garrison. But I was in the middle of it. Half-dead of wounds before Kalam Mekhar showed up. Sister, where are you now? Was turning your back on him worth it? Keneb shook his head. His thoughts were wandering, exhaustion pulling loose the tethers. What haunts me now? Yes, now I remember. The army.
Without hate, what army could function? Unquestionably, other things were needed: respect, duty, the slippery notions of honour and courage, and above all of those, the comradeship between soldiers and all the responsibilities that created. But hate had a role, didn’t it? Useless officers, unreasonable orders, the pervasive conviction that the ones in overall command were all incompetent idiots. But then, all of that means we’re all in this together-we’re all trapped in this insane bloated family where every rule of behaviour strains near to snapping.
And we’re a family bred to answer everything with violence. Is it any wonder we’re all so badly messed up?
He heard the pounding of horse hoofs and twisted round in his saddle to see a soldier from his staff quickly approaching.
Now what?
But then, he didn’t really want to know. Any more desertions, real or otherwise, and he’d start to hear the spine cracking, and he dreaded that sound more than anything else, because it would mean that he had truly failed. The Adjunct set this one task upon him, and he’d proved unequal to it, and as a consequence the entire Bonehunters army was falling apart.
Blistig needed to be pushed aside. He could think of a number of officers sharp enough to take on the role of Fist. Faradan Sort, Raband, Ruthan Gudd. Kindly. Kindly, now there’s an idea. Has seniority. Instils a healthy dose of terror in his soldiers. Brilliantly unreasonable. Aye, Kindly. Now, all I need to do is convince the Adjunct-
The rider reined in. ‘Fist, the Adjunct requests your presence in the sub-camp of the Fifth Squad, Ninth Company, Eighth Legion. There has been an incident.’
‘What kind of incident?’
‘I don’t know, sir. Captain Yil didn’t say.’
Keneb glanced back at the rising sun, and then the stretch below it. Wastelands. Even the name leaves a sick feeling in my gut. ‘Let’s go then, Bulge. On the way, you can amuse me with another story about Master Sergeant Pores.’
The scarred man’s round, pocked face split into a smile. ‘Aye, sir. Got plenty.’
They set out at a brisk canter.
After relaying Fiddler’s orders to the squad, Bottle returned to the Fifth Squad’s camp. He found a solid cordon round it and was forced to use his sergeant’s name to push his way through. The three heavies were sitting close to a weak dung fire, looking morose. Fiddler stood close to the motionless, prostrate body of Quick Ben. Alarmed, Bottle hurried over.
‘What happened? He try a quest?’
‘You back again? I sent you away, soldier-’
‘Not a good idea, Sergeant. You shouldn’t have let Quick try anything-’
‘Why?’
Bottle pointed down. ‘That’s why. He’s still alive, isn’t he? He’d better be.’
‘Aye. Now what’s this about avoiding any magics, Bottle?’
‘Small stuff is fine. Food, water, all that. But I wouldn’t even think of doing anything bigger. First off, the Wastelands might as well be dusted in otataral. Attempting sorcery here is like pulling teeth. Most places, that is. But there’s other, uh, places, where it’s the damned opposite.’
‘Back up, soldier. You’re saying there’s areas out there where magic comes easy? Why didn’t you mention this before? Our warlocks and witches are half-dead right now-’
‘No no, it’s not like that, Sergeant. It’s not areas, it’s people. Or, more accurately, things. Ascendants, stinking with power.’ Bottle waved one hand eastward. ‘Out there, just… I don’t know, just walking around. And they bleed, uh, energies. Sure, we could feed on them, Sergeant, but that would mean getting close to them, and close is probably a bad idea.’
Quick Ben groaned.
Bottle frowned down at the High Mage. ‘Is that a welt on the side of his head?’
‘How close to us is the nearest thing, Bottle?’
‘I know the smell of one of them. T’lan Imass.’
‘Really.’ The word was flat, dangerous.
‘Still far away,’ Bottle hastily added. ‘There’s nothing within twenty leagues of us. That I know of-some ascendants are good at hiding-’
‘You winging out there, Bottle? How often?’
‘Hardly at all, Sergeant. It’s scary out there. In the dark, I mean.’ Bottle was beginning to regret coming back here. What’s with me, anyway? Sticking my nose into every damned thing, and if it stinks real bad what do I do? I go find something else to stick my nose in. And they all stink-you’d imagine, wouldn’t you, I might quit the habit. But no, of course not. Gods, Bottle, listen to yourself-
Quick Ben sat up, cradling his head. ‘What?’ he asked. ‘What?’
‘Took a fall there, High Mage,’ said Fiddler.
‘A fall?’
‘Aye, I’m thinking you was struck with a thought.’
Quick Ben spat, gingerly probing the side of his head. ‘Must have been some thought,’ he muttered. ‘Hit so hard I can’t even remember it.’
‘Happens,’ said Fiddler. ‘Listen, Bottle. Wasn’t a T’lan Imass who kidnapped Gesler and Stormy. It was what we talked about before: K’Chain Che’Malle.’
‘Wait,’ said Quick Ben. ‘Who said anything about T’lan Imass?’
‘I did,’ Bottle replied. ‘You were the one talking about winged K’Chain Che’Malle.’
Fiddler snorted. ‘No doubt the Adjunct will talk to us about the fucking Forkrul Assail. Who’s left? Oh, the Jaghut-’
‘Still days away-’ said Bottle and Quick Ben in unison, and then glared at each other.
Fiddler’s face reddened. ‘You bastards,’ he hissed under his breath. ‘Both of you! We’ve got a Jaghut tracking us?’
‘Not one,’ admitted Bottle. ‘I counted fourteen. Each one a walking armoury. But I don’t think they’re actually following us, Sergeant-unless our High Mage knows more about it, which is possible.’
Fiddler had buried the fingers of one hand in his beard and looked ready to start tearing loose handfuls. ‘You reporting all this to the Adjunct, Quick?’
The High Mage scowled and looked away. ‘I’ve given up. Nothing surprises her, Fid. It’s as if she already knows.’
‘Bottle, any hint of K’Chain Che’Malle? Your nightly explorations go out how far?’
‘Depends on how crowded it is out there,’ Bottle admitted. ‘But, thinking on it, there’s plenty of agitation going on, especially among the winged stuff-the rhinazan, the capemoths. The scaled rats keep massing and setting off on wild paths, as if trying to follow something. Oh, and I’ve caught the occasional scent on the winds, but I took those to be draconic. I don’t even know what a K’Chain Che’Malle smells like.’
Quick Ben flung the scrap of canvas at Bottle. ‘Yes you do.’
It dropped at Bottle’s feet. ‘Right,’ he said, looking down at it. ‘Oily lizards.’
‘Draconic,’ said Fiddler. ‘Forgot about those. Anyone we know, Quick?’
‘You’re asking me? Bottle’s the one smelling them.’
‘I am. Well?’
The wizard hesitated, and then said, ‘Aye, we bloodied him at Letheras.’
‘Can’t keep a fly from buzzing your shit,’ said Bottle, earning hard looks from both men. ‘Look, the Wastelands may be all wastes, but they ain’t empty, Sergeant. I’m wagering the High Mage here suspects why it’s so crowded. In fact,’ he added, ‘I think you know too, Sergeant. That pig of a reading you did-and then what hit you a few days back-someone showed up, and you probably know who-’
‘Bottle,’ cut in Fiddler. ‘Just how much do you really want to know? I told you to keep your head down, didn’t I? Now here you are, and here comes the Adjunct and Yil. I sent you back to the squad for a reason, soldier. You should’ve listened. Now it’s too late.’
Keneb sent Bulge off to finish striking his command tent and rode through the breaking camps of the Ninth Company. Soldiers stopped talking to watch him ride past. There was none of the usual banter, suggesting to Keneb that the tale of the ‘incident’ at Gesler’s camp had bled out among the ranks. Whatever had happened, it looked bad.
It’d be nice to get some good news. For a change. ‘The High Mage has opened us a warren that’ll take us right to wherever it is the Adjunct wants us. A lovely warren, rolling fields of flowers and gambolling deer that fall dead at our feet whenever we get hungry. Water? No, the rivers are rivers of wine. Ground’s soft as pillows every night, too. It’s great! Oh, and when we get there, the enemy take one look at us and drop their weapons and send for wagons loaded with the booty of a king’s vault. And the women! Why-’
‘Keneb!’
He turned in his saddle to see Blistig riding up from a side avenue. The man fell in alongside him.
‘The morning’s turned into Hood’s hole, Keneb. What else did you hear?’
‘About what? Got called to the Ninth, Fifth Squad. That’s all I know.’
‘Gesler and Stormy have deserted.’ There was a glint in Blistig’s eyes.
‘Ridiculous.’
‘The word’s gone out, right out-the whole damned army knows it now. She’s losing it, Keneb, and none too soon as far as I’m concerned. We ain’t gonna hold for this march across the Wastelands. She’ll have to disband us. I liked the look of Letheras-how about you?’
‘Gesler and Stormy have not deserted, Blistig.’
‘You said you knew nothing-’
‘I don’t have to. I know those two. They’re solid as mountains.’
‘They’re gone, Keneb. Simple as that-’
‘You were summoned to this meeting?’
‘Not officially. But it sounds to be army’s business.’
‘It concerns a squad in one of my companies, Blistig. Do me a favour, ride the fuck back to your Legion and get them in order. If new commands are going to come down, leave it to the Adjunct’s staff. If she wanted you she’d have invited you.’
The man’s face darkened. ‘You’ve turned into a real shit, Keneb. Don’t settle in Letheras-the city ain’t big enough for both of us.’
‘Go away, Blistig.’
‘Once we’re disbanded, I’m coming looking for you, Keneb.’
‘The day that happens, Blistig, you won’t make it out of your Legion’s camp. They’ll cut you down not two steps from your tent.’
‘Shows what you know. I got rapport. They’ll be at my back when I go for you.’
Keneb glanced over, brows lifting. ‘Rapport? You’re a joke, Blistig. You’re their joke. Now get out of my face-’
‘Not a chance. I’m off to talk with the Adjunct.’
‘Talk? About what?’
‘My business.’
They drew closer to a cordon of soldiers. That ring parted as they rode in. Within the circle waited an ominous gathering. Keneb saw Tavore and Yil along with Quick Ben, Fiddler and Bottle. His gaze then found the destroyed tent. That doesn’t look good. He reined in, dismounted. A soldier from the Eighteenth Squad came forward and took the reins. ‘Thank you, Corporal Rib.’ Keneb paused. ‘Think we still need this cordon?’
‘Only the inner ring’s doing that, Fist,’ Rib replied. ‘The rest are just gawking.’
‘Get me your sergeant,’ Keneb said.
‘Aye, sir.’
Smirking, Blistig moved past, heading for the Adjunct.
The Eighteenth’s sergeant pushed through. ‘Fist. Bad news, this.’
‘So I hear, Gaunt-Eye. Now, round up the other sergeants all these soldiers belong to. I want them out of here. I want them all getting ready for the day’s march. Tell them if I look up in a hundred heartbeats and still see this mob, Hood’s heel is coming down. Am I understood, Sergeant?’
The Genabackan blinked. ‘Aye, Fist.’ He saluted and then plunged back into the crowd. Almost at once, he started barking orders.
Corporal Rib grinned. ‘He don’t need the other sergeants, Fist. I ain’t never known a meaner sergeant.’
‘Carry on, Corporal.’
‘Aye, Fist.’
Keneb walked over to the motley gathering-these damned all-too-familiar faces, the miserable expressions, the Adjunct’s flat eyes and thin, straight mouth as she stood listening to whatever Blistig was saying. As Keneb reached them Tavore lifted a gauntleted hand, cutting Blistig off.
‘Fist Blistig,’ she said, ‘is this the time to petition for an increase in the rum ration?’
‘Adjunct, the Eighth Legion may be about to crumble. I’m just wanting to make sure my own legion-’
‘That will be enough, Blistig. Return to your legion immediately.’
‘Very well, Adjunct. Still, who’d have thought those two would desert.’ He saluted and was forced to hold it while Tavore stood motionless, her regard level and lifeless. As the moment grew uncomfortable, the Adjunct returned the salute, converting it into a dismissive gesture-as if brushing lint from her cloak.
Face paling, Blistig wheeled and marched back to his horse, only to find that the animal had wandered off-no one had taken the reins from him.
As he hesitated, Keneb grunted and said, ‘Rapport, aye.’
‘Not my legion,’ he snapped. ‘You might want a word or two about courtesy with your soldiers, Keneb.’
‘The Malazan military demands courtesy first and expects respect to follow. Lose respect and the courtesy usually goes with it.’
‘Remember, I’ll be looking for you.’
‘Best find your horse first, Blistig.’
The Adjunct gestured Keneb over.
‘Fist. Our camp security seems to have been breached.’
‘They are truly missing, Adjunct?’
She nodded.
‘I cannot see how anyone managed to penetrate this deep into our camp,’ Keneb said. ‘Unless they were our own-but then, where are the bodies? I don’t understand this, Adjunct.’
‘The High Mage suggests the attacker was a Shi’gal K’Chain Che’Malle.’
‘A what?’
‘Sometimes,’ Quick Ben said, ‘those ones grow wings. They’re the Matron’s own assassins, Fist. And one dropped down out of the night and stole them both.’
‘To do what with them? Eat them? Why did neither man make a sound?’
‘They were selected,’ said the High Mage, ‘and no, I have no idea why.’
Keneb struggled to make sense of all this. He glanced at Fiddler. The sergeant looked miserable. Well, nothing new there. ‘Gesler and Stormy,’ he slowly ventured, ‘were anything but average marines.’
‘As close to ascendants,’ said Quick Ben, ‘as anyone in this army.’
‘Will this winged assassin come back for more of us?’ Keneb asked, offering the question to any one of the five soldiers standing opposite him.
Fiddler grunted. ‘Damn, that’s the first time the question’s come up-you got a point. Why stop with just them?’
‘The problem is,’ said Quick Ben, ‘we have no idea what the Che’Malle want with Gesler and Stormy.’
‘And no real way to find out,’ added Bottle.
‘I see,’ said Keneb. ‘Well, how can we defend against such future attacks? High Mage?’
‘I’ll see what I can think up, Fist.’
‘One squad member with a crossbow stays awake at all times at night,’ said Keneb. ‘Maybe that won’t help, but it’s a start. Adjunct, if the soldiers begin thinking people can go missing at any time and we can do nothing about it, we’ll end up facing a mutiny.’
‘You are correct, Fist. I will see to it that the order goes out.’ She turned. ‘Captain Yil, ride to the Letherii camp and report our losses-you need hold nothing back from Commander Brys Beddict. Include in your report our conjectures.’
As Lostara made to leave, Quick Ben said, ‘Captain, be sure that Atri-Ceda Aranict is present.’
She nodded and then departed.
The Adjunct stepped close to Keneb. ‘Fist. We have suffered a wound here. It may prove deeper and more serious than any of us presently believe. You may be assured that I will do all that is in my power to find and retrieve Gesler and Stormy-but understand, we must continue the march. We must hold this army together.’
‘Aye, Adjunct. To that end, we have another problem. He was just here, in fact.’
She held his gaze. ‘I am aware of that, Fist. I am also aware of the additional burdens you have been forced to carry as a consequence. I will deal with this matter shortly. In the meantime, we need to make certain that the rumour of Gesler and Stormy deserting is laid to rest. The truth is unpleasant enough in its own right that none will think us dissembling. Summon your officers, Fist.’ She then turned to her High Mage. ‘Do what you can to protect us.’
‘I will, Adjunct.’
‘And find them, Quick Ben.’
‘Again, whatever I can do, I will do it.’
‘We cannot lose any more veterans.’
She did not need to add that without them the chains of this army would snap at the first moment of trouble. Even now, one more gust of ill wind could do us all in.
Gesler and Stormy, you damned idiots. Probably tossing dice in that rank tent you shared-or stitching a solid wall down the middle to close another spat. As bad as brothers, you two were. And now you’re gone and there’s a huge hole in my company of marines, one I can’t hope to see filled.
The Adjunct and the High Mage had left. Fiddler and Bottle drew close to their Fist.
‘Fire, sir.’
Keneb frowned at Fiddler. ‘Excuse me?’
‘It’s the fire. The one they went through. Thinking on it, I doubt that winged lizard will be back. I can’t be sure, but my feeling is we’ve seen the last of it. And the last of them.’
‘You said this to the Adjunct?’
‘Just a feeling, sir. I’m sending Bottle out tonight, to see what he can find.’
Bottle looked thrilled at the prospect.
‘Let me know what he discovers, Sergeant. Immediately-don’t wait until morning. I’m not sleeping anyway.’
‘I know the feeling, sir. As soon as we get something, then.’
‘Good. Go on, now. I’ll see to dispersing Gesler’s squad-hold on, why not take one now? Take your pick, Fid.’
‘Shortnose will do. He’s hiding a brain behind all that gnarly bone and whatnot.’
‘Are you sure?’ Keneb asked.
‘I sent him to collect four people in a specific sequence. I didn’t need to repeat myself, sir.’
‘And he’s a heavy?’
‘Aye, sometimes things ain’t what they seem, you know?’
‘I’ll have to think about that, Fiddler. All right, take him and get going.’
Outrider Henar Vygulf walked up the main avenue between the ordered rows of the Letherii camp. Though a horseman, the ground trembled slightly with each step he took, and there was little debate as to who was the tallest, biggest soldier in Brys’s army. He drew curious stares as he made his way to HQ. He wasn’t astride his huge horse, after all, and not riding at a torrid pitch making people scatter as was his habit; thus, seeing him on foot was shocking in itself, quite apart from the fact that he was striding into the heart of the encampment. Henar Vygulf hated crowds. He probably hated people. Could be he hated the world.
Trailing two steps behind him was Lance Corporal Odenid, who was attached to the commander’s staff as a message-bearer. This was his sole task these days: finding soldiers and dragging them back to Brys Beddict. The commander was conducting intensive and extensive interviews, right through the whole army. Odenid had heard that for the most part Brys was asking about the Wastelands, collecting rumours, old tales, wispy legends. The most extraordinary thing of all, when it came to these interviews, was Brys Beddict’s uncanny ability to remember names and faces. At day’s end he would call in a scribe and recount for her a complete and detailed list of those soldiers and support staff he’d spoken with that day. He would give ages, places of birth, military history, even family details such as he had gleaned, and he would add notes on whatever each soldier knew or thought they knew about the Wastelands.
The Beddict brothers, Odenid concluded, were probably not even human. Probably both god-touched. Hadn’t Brys returned from the dead? And hadn’t he been the only one-until that Tarthenal-to have defeated the Emperor of a Thousand Deaths?
Henar Vygulf had been summoned for an interview, but this time there was more to it, or so Odenid suspected. An officer from the Bonehunters had ridden into camp early this morning. Something had happened. Odenid didn’t rank high enough to be able to lounge around in the HQ tent, and the commander’s inner circle were a close-mouthed lot one and all. Whatever the news had been, it had stalled the march, probably until noon. And the Malazan was still there, in a private meeting with Brys and his Ceda-Odenid had seen them himself when he’d been summoned in and told to head to the outriders and bring back Henar Vygulf. ‘Or,’ had said Brys, ‘I think he is so named. The tall one, the one with Bluerose ancestry. Has in his train about ten specially bred horses strong enough to carry him-a family of horse-breeders, I seem to recall…’
And the man slept on his right and pissed standing on one leg, yes, that’s him all right.
The added thought made Odenid smile. God-touched. Brys hadn’t even interviewed Henar yet.
They reached the front entrance to the command tent. Henar halted, ignoring the lone guard standing beside the flap as he turned to Odenid. ‘Do you announce me?’
‘No. Just go in, Outrider.’
Henar had to duck, something that never put him in a good mood. There were reasons for living out in the open, good ones, and even these flimsy walls of canvas and now silk seemed to push in on him. He was forced to deepen his breathing, struggling to beat down the panic rising within him.
Two other aides waved him through to the inner chambers. He tried not to see them once the gestures were made. Walls were miserable enough; people crowded inside the tight spaces they made, with Henar trapped in there with them, was even worse. They were breathing his air. It was all he could do not to snap both their necks.
That was the problem with armies. Too many people. Even the relatively open camp with its berms and corner fortlets and widely spaced tent rows could instil in him a wild desperation. When he delivered dispatches into such camps, he rode like a madman, just to push through and deliver the message and then get the damned out as quickly as possible.
He made his way down a too-narrow passage and stepped through a cloying slit in the silks to find himself in a larger room, the ceiling peaked and morning sunlight making the air glow. Commander Brys sat in a folding chair, the Atri-Ceda Aranict standing on his left. Seated in another chair was the Malazan officer, her legs folded showing him a solid, muscled thigh-his eyes followed the sweeping curve of its underside and all at once his breathing steadied. A moment later his gaze lifted to her face.
Brys waited for the huge man’s attention to return to him. It didn’t. Henar Vygulf was staring at Lostara Yil as if he’d never before seen a woman-granted, a beautiful woman in this instance. Even so… he cleared his throat. ‘Outrider Henar Vygulf, thank you for coming.’
The man’s eyes flicked to Brys and then back again. ‘As ordered, sir.’
‘If I could have your attention? Good. You were attached to the Drene Garrison during the Awl Campaign, correct?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Liaising with the Bluerose Lancers, the company to which you once belonged.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Brys frowned. ‘Well, this isn’t working. Outrider, may I introduce to you Captain Lostara Yil, adjutant to the Adjunct Tavore of the Bonehunters. Captain, this is Outrider Henar Vygulf.’
In the manner of Bluerose court etiquette, Henar lowered himself on to one knee and bowed his head. ‘Captain, it is a pleasure.’
Yil glanced over at Brys with raised brows.
He shook his head, equally baffled. As far as he knew, the captain wasn’t nobleborn, and certainly not royalty.
She hesitated, clearly uncomfortable, and then said, ‘Please rise, Henar. Next time, a salute will suffice.’
He straightened. ‘As you command, sir.’
‘Now,’ said Brys, ‘might we resume?’
Henar pulled his eyes from Lostara with obvious effort and then nodded. ‘Of course, sir.’
‘During the most recent campaign, a renegade Awl named Redmask infiltrated Drene. Blood was shed, and in the pursuit that followed, garrison soldiers were ambushed. Is this accurate so far?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘There followed reports of two demonic creatures serving as bodyguards to this Redmask.’
‘Yes, sir. Lizards, running on two legs, fast as a horse, sir. They were sighted and reported on in the campaign itself. The Atri-Preda included descriptions in her dispatches up to and including the first major battle. Thereafter, no messengers managed to make it back.’
‘Do you happen to know a soldier named Pride?’
‘No, sir.’
‘An Awl by birth, but raised by a family in Drene. He was old enough when taken to still remember a number of Awl legends regarding an ancient war for the land with an army of demons of similar description. The Awl were not victorious, but the war ended when the demons migrated east into the Wastelands. Once enemies, then allies? It is possible. Do we know what happened to Redmask? Does he still live?’
‘Sir, it’s assumed he’s dead, since the Awl are no more.’
‘But no direct proof.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Thank you, Henar Vygulf. You are dismissed.’
The outrider saluted, looked once more upon Lostara Yil, and then departed.
The Malazan captain blew out a breath. ‘Well.’
‘Please accept my apologies,’ said Brys. ‘There are somewhat fewer women in my army than there are in yours-certainly not by policy, but Letherii women seem more inclined to pursue other professions. It may be that Henar has not-’
‘I take your point, Commander, if you’ll forgive the interruption. Besides, it must be said that he is a most impressive man, so there is no need for you to apologize.’ She uncrossed her legs and rose. ‘In any case, sir, the lizards he mentioned certainly seem to fit with descriptions of K’Chain Che’Malle. These were living specimens? Not undead?’
‘There was no evidence to suggest that they were anything but alive. In the first battle, they took wounds.’
Lostara nodded. ‘Then Quick Ben is probably right.’
‘He is.’ Brys leaned back, regarded the tall woman for a moment, and then said, ‘There was a god once… I know its name but that isn’t particularly relevant now. What is relevant is where it dwelt: in the lands we now call the Wastelands. It lived there and it died there. Its life was stolen from it by a force, a power coming from the K’Chain Che’Malle-a civilization, by the way, that I’d never heard of, but in that god’s memories there are the name itself and scattered… images.’ He shook his head, and after a moment continued, ‘It may be that this power’-and he glanced over at Aranict for a moment-‘is one of these warrens you Malazans have brought to us. Or it could have been a ritual of some sort. Its name was Ahkrast Korvalain. What it did, Captain, was steal the life-force of the land itself. In fact, it may well have created the Wastelands, and in so doing it killed the spirits and gods dwelling there, and with them, their worshippers.’
‘Interesting. The Adjunct needs to hear all of this.’
‘Yes, we must pool our knowledge as best we can. Please, Captain, can you ride to the Adjunct and inform her that we will be paying her a visit.’
‘At once, Commander. How soon?’
‘Let us make it the midday meal.’
‘I had best go, then, sir.’ And she saluted.
Brys smiled. ‘No need for that in here, Captain. Oh, on your way out, could you please tell one of my aides to get in here.’
‘Of course. Until noon then, Commander.’
After she had left the chamber, Brys gestured to the now empty chair. ‘Sit down, Atri-Ceda. You look a little pale.’
She hesitated, and then relented. He watched her settle nervously on the chair’s edge. Well, it’s a start.
There was a scuffing sound at the room’s flap and then Corporal Ginast entered and stood at attention.
‘Corporal, attach Henar Vygulf to my staff. Furthermore, he is to accompany my entourage when I attend a lunch today at the Malazan camp. Issue him the appropriate cloak and inform him he is now a lance corporal.’
‘Er, excuse me, Commander, but isn’t Vygulf Bluerose?’
‘He is. What of it?’
‘Well, military regulations state that no Bluerose-born soldier is eligible for any officer’s rank in the regular Letherii forces, sir. Only among the Bluerose Lancers can a Bluerose-born soldier ascend in rank, and even there only to that of lieutenant. It was written into the capitulation agreement following the conquest of Bluerose, sir.’
‘The same agreement that demanded horses and stirrups from the Bluerose, not to mention the creation of the Lancers themselves?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And the stirrups they sent us were rubbish, weren’t they?’
‘A nasty trick, sir, that one. I’m surprised the King has not insisted on proper reparations.’
‘You are most welcome to your surprise, Ginast, but not to your disapproving tone. As far as those stirrups are concerned, I admit to applauding the Bluerose in their deviousness. Revenge most deserved. As for the ceiling on advancement in the Letherii army, I have this to say: from now on, any and every soldier in the Letherii army, no matter where they originally come from, has equal opportunity for advancement based on merit and exemplary service to the kingdom. Bring in a scribe and we’ll get that written up immediately. As for you, Ginast, best hurry since you need to track Henar down in time for him to return here, mounted and ready as my escort, understood?’
‘Sir, the highborn officers will not like-’
‘I understand the Malazan Empress conducted a campaign that scoured her armies of those ranks bought by privilege and station. Do you know how she went about it, corporal? She arrested the officers and either executed them or sent them to work in mines for the rest of their lives. A most charming solution, I think, and should the nobleborn in my forces prove at all troublesome, I might well advise my brother to adopt something similar. Now, you are dismissed.’
The aide saluted and then fled.
Brys glanced over to see shock on Aranict’s face. ‘Oh come now, Atri-Ceda, you don’t really think I’d suggest such a thing, do you?’
‘Sir? No, of course not. I mean, it wasn’t that. Well, sorry, sir. Sorry.’
Brys cocked his head and regarded her for a moment. ‘What then? Ah, you are perhaps surprised that I’d indulge in a little matchmaking, Atri-Ceda?’
‘Yes, sir. A little.’
‘That was the first hint of life I’ve seen in Captain Yil’s face since I first met her. As for Henar, why, he seems man enough for her, don’t you think?’
‘Oh yes, sir! I mean-’
‘He clearly has a taste for the exotic. Do you think he stands a chance?’
‘Sir, I wouldn’t know.’
‘As a woman, rather, what think you?’
Her eyes were darting, her colour high. ‘She saw him admiring her legs, sir.’
‘And made no move to cover up.’
‘I’d noticed that, sir.’
‘Me too.’
There was silence then in the chamber, as Brys studied Aranict while she in turn endeavoured to look everywhere but at her commander.
‘For the Errant’s sake, Atri-Ceda, make use of the rest of that chair, will you? Sit back.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Throatslitter’s high-pitched laugh cut across from behind the captain’s tent. Again. Wincing, Cuttle leaned over and dragged close his studded hauberk. No point in crawling into the thing until they were finally ready to march. But it was getting patchy, needing some grease. ‘Where’s the rend pail?’
‘Here,’ said Tarr, collecting the small bucket and passing it over. ‘Don’t take too much, we’re getting low and now that Pores is in charge of the quartermaster’s-’
‘The bastard ain’t in charge of nothing,’ Cuttle snapped. ‘He’s just set himself up as a middleman, and we all choke our way through him to get anything. Quartermaster’s happy since so few requests ever reach ’im, and between the two of ’em they’re hoarding and worse. Someone should tell Sort, so she can tell Kindly, so he can-’
‘Kindly’s got nothing to do with Pores any more, Cuttle.’
‘So who does?’
‘Nobody, s’far as I can tell.’
Smiles and Koryk trudged back into the camp-which wasn’t much of a camp any more, just a smouldering hearth and a ring of kit packs and gear. ‘First bell after noon,’ said Smiles, ‘and no sooner.’
‘Any other word on Ges and Stormy?’ Cuttle asked her.
‘Fid can say what he wants,’ said Koryk, ‘and same for the others. They probably bolted.’
‘Don’t be an idiot,’ retorted Cuttle. ‘Veterans don’t walk. That’s what makes them veterans.’
‘Until they decide they’ve had enough.’
‘Go ask Bottle,’ said Tarr, his face darkening as he glared at Koryk, ‘and he’ll tell you the same. They got snatched.’
‘Fine, they got snatched. Point is, they’re gone. Probably dead by now. Who’s next?’
‘With luck,’ said Smiles, slumping down to lean against her pack, ‘you, Koryk.’ She looked over to Tarr. ‘His brain is burnt out-Koryk ain’t the Koryk I once knew, and I bet you’re all thinking the same.’ She was on her feet again. ‘Piss on this, I’m going for a walk.’
‘Take your time,’ said Koryk.
Another piping laugh from Throatslitter. Cuttle scowled. ‘What’s so fucking funny?’
Corabb had been sleeping, or pretending to sleep, and now he sat up. ‘I’ll go find out, Cuttle. It’s getting on my nerves too.’
‘If he’s being a bastard, Corabb, punch his face in.’
‘Aye, Cuttle, count on it.’
Cuttle paused to watch him tramp off. He grinned over at Tarr. ‘Catch all that?’
‘I’m sitting right here.’
‘He ain’t on the outside of us no more, is he. He’s our heavy. That’s good.’
‘So he is and so it is,’ said Tarr.
‘I’m this squad’s heavy,’ said Koryk.
Tarr resumed lacing his boots. Cuttle looked away and ran a hand through what was left of his hair, and then realized that the hand was thick with grease. ‘Hood’s breath!’
Tarr looked over and snorted. ‘Won’t keep it from cracking,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Your skull.’
‘Funny.’
Koryk stood as if he didn’t know where to go, as if he no longer belonged anywhere. After a moment he walked off, in a direction opposite to the one Smiles had taken.
Cuttle resumed rubbing down his hauberk. When he needed more grease he collected it from the top of his head. ‘He might, you know.’
‘He won’t,’ Tarr replied.
‘Gesler and Stormy, they’re his excuse. That and Kisswhere.’
‘Kisswhere didn’t care about anybody but Kisswhere.’
‘And Koryk does? Used to, maybe, but now he’s all inside his own head, and in there it’s as Smiles says, burnt up, nothing but cinders.’
‘He won’t run.’
‘Why are you so sure, Tarr?’
‘Because, somewhere inside, in all those ashes, something remains. He still has something to prove. Not to himself-he can convince himself of anything-but to all of us. Like it or not, admit it or not, he’s stuck.’
‘We’ll see, I guess.’
Tarr reached over and collected some grease from Cuttle’s temple. He started rubbing down his boots.
‘Funny,’ said Cuttle.
Corabb walked round the command tent to find Throatslitter, Widdershins and Deadsmell crouched in a huddle just beyond the latrine trench. He made his way over. ‘Stop that laughing, Throatslitter, or I’ll have to bash your face in.’
The three men looked over guiltily. Scowling, Throatslitter said, ‘Like to see you try, soldier.’
‘No you wouldn’t. What are you doing?’
‘Playing with scaled rats, what’s it to you?’
Corabb edged closer and peered down. Three of the scrawny things were struggling in the grass, their tails tied together. ‘That’s not a nice thing to do.’
‘Idiot,’ said Widdershins, ‘we’re going to eat them for lunch. We’re just making sure they don’t go nowhere.’
‘You’re torturing them.’
‘Go away, Corabb,’ said Throatslitter.
‘Not until you either untie their tails or snap their necks.’
Throatslitter sighed. ‘Explain it to him, Deadsmell.’
‘They ain’t got brains, Corabb. Just ooze, like pus, in those tiny skulls. They’re like termites, or ants. They can only do any thinking if there’s lots of them. Looks like three ain’t enough. Besides, they stink of something. Like magic, only oilier. Me and Wid, we’re trying to figure it out, so leave us alone, will you?’
‘We’re eating greasy magic?’ Corabb asked. ‘That sounds bad. I’m not eating those things any more.’
‘Then pretty soon you’re gonna go hungry,’ Widdershins said, reaching down to flip one of the scaled rats on to its back. The other two attempted to drag it away, but chose opposite directions. ‘There’s millions of these things out here, Hood knows what they live on. We saw a swarm of ’em this morning, like a glittering river. Killed about fifty before the rest took off.’ The flipped-over rat managed to right itself and once more the three were all pulling in different directions. ‘More and more of them, every day. Like maybe they’re following us.’
The notion chilled Corabb, though he wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t as though the rats could do anything. They didn’t even seem to be going for their food supplies. ‘I heard they got a nasty bite.’
‘If you let ’em, aye,’ said Deadsmell.
‘So, Throatslitter, they stopped being funny?’
‘Aye, now go.’
‘Cos if I hear another laugh, I ain’t coming back to talk.’
‘It’s just a laugh, Corabb. People got ’em, right? All kinds-’
‘But yours makes the skin crawl.’
‘Good, since it’s how I sound when I slit some bastard’s useless throat.’
Corabb stepped between Widdershins and Deadsmell, reached down and snatched up the three rats. In quick succession he broke their necks. Then dropped the tangled bodies between the three men.
‘Next time you hear me laugh…’ growled Throatslitter.
‘Fine,’ Corabb replied, ‘only I don’t need a single breath to cut off your damned head, Throatslitter, so that laugh will be your last.’
He headed off. This was getting ugly. Whatever ever happened to glory? Used to be this army, for all its miseries, had some dignity. Made being a Bonehunter mean something, something worthwhile. But lately it was just a mob of bored bullies and thugs.
‘Corabb.’
He looked up, found Faradan Sort blocking his path. ‘Captain?’
‘Fiddler back with you yet?’
‘Don’t think so. He wasn’t there a quarter bell ago.’
‘Where’s your squad?’
‘They ain’t moved, sir.’ He jerked a thumb backward. ‘Just over there.’
‘Then where are you going?’
‘Somewhere, nowhere, sir.’
Frowning, she marched past him. He wondered if she expected him to follow-she was heading to his squad mates, after all. But since she didn’t say anything and just continued on, he shrugged and resumed his aimless wandering. Maybe find the heavies again. Throw some bones. But then, why? I always lose. Corabb’s famous luck don’t run to dice. Typical. Never the important stuff. He rested his hand on the pommel of his new Letherii sword, just to confirm he still had it. And I ain’t gonna lose it neither. Not this one. It’s my sword and I’m gonna use it from now on.
He’d been thinking about Leoman lately. No real reason, as far as he could tell, except maybe it was the way Leoman had managed to lead soldiers, turn them into fanatical followers, in fact. He’d once believed that was a gift, a talent. But now he was no longer so sure. In some ways, that gift was the kind that made a man dangerous. Being a follower was risky. Especially when the truth showed up, that truth being that the one doing the leading didn’t really care a whit for any of them. Leoman and people like him collected fanatics the way a rich merchant collected coins, and then he spent them without a moment’s thought.
No, the Adjunct was better, no matter what everyone said. They talked as if they wanted a Leoman, but Corabb knew how that was. They didn’t. If they got a Leoman, every one of them would end up getting killed. He believed the Adjunct cared about them, maybe even too much. But between the two, he’d stay with her every time.
Dissatisfaction was a disease. It had ignited the Whirlwind and hundreds of thousands had died. Standing over grave pits, who was satisfied? Nobody. It had launched the Malazans into eating their own, and if every Wickan was now dead, who’d be so foolish as to believe the new land the settlers staked out for themselves wouldn’t exact its vengeance? Sooner or later, it would turn them into dust and the wind would just blow them away.
Even here, in this camp, among the Bonehunters, dissatisfaction spread like an infection. No reason but boredom and not-knowing. What was so bad about that? Boredom meant nobody was getting chopped up. Not-knowing was the truth of life itself. His heart could burst in the next step, or a runaway horse could trample him down at the intersection just ahead. A blood vessel in his skull could explode. A rock could come down out of the sky. Everything was about not-knowing, the whole future, and who could even make sense enough of the past to think they really knew everything and so, knowing everything, know everything to come?
Dissatisfied? See if this punch in the face makes you feel any better. Aye, Cuttle was a sour one, but Corabb was starting to like him. Maybe he complained a lot, but that wasn’t the same as being dissatisfied. Clearly, Cuttle liked being able to complain. He’d be lost without it. That was why, no matter what, he looked comfortable. Rubbing grease into boiled leather, honing his short sword and the heads of his crossbow bolts. Counting and counting again his small collection of sharpers and smokers, his one cracker, his eyes straying to Fid’s pack in which was hidden at least one cusser. The man was happy. You could tell by his scowl.
I like Cuttle. I know what to expect with him. He ain’t hot iron, he ain’t cold iron. He’s bitter iron. Me too. Bitter and getting bitterer. Just try me, Throatslitter.
Captain Kindly ran a hand through the last few threads of hair on his head and leaned back in his folding chair. ‘Skanarow, what can I do for you?’
‘It’s Ruthan.’
‘Of course it is. Hardly a secret, Skanarow.’
‘Not that, well, some of that. Thing is, he’s not what I think he is.’
‘Early days, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t think he’s using his real name.’
‘Who is? Look at me. I earned mine over years of diligent deliberation. Now, even “Skanarow” isn’t what most people think, is it? Archaic Kanese for a female hill-dog, I believe.’
‘Not like that, Kindly. He’s hiding something-oh, his story works out, at least on the surface. I mean, his timeline makes sense-’
‘Excuse me, his what?’
‘Well, when he did what and where he did it. A proper course of events, but I figure that just means he’s worked it out to sound plausible.’
‘Or it sounds plausible because it is in fact his history.’
‘I don’t think so. That’s just it, Kindly. I think he’s lying.’
‘Skanarow, even if he is, that’s hardly a crime in the Malazan military, is it?’
‘It is if there’s a price on his head. If, say, the Claw get wet dreams thinking about killing him, or the Empress has a thousand spies out there looking for him.’
‘For Ruthan Gudd?’
‘For whoever he really is.’
‘And if they are? Does it even matter now, Skanarow? We’re all renegades these days.’
‘The Claw has a long memory.’
‘What’s left of them, after Malaz City. I think they’d save all their venom for the Adjunct and all of us traitorous officers of significance. Heroic veterans such as myself, not to mention the Fists, barring perhaps Blistig. Presumably,’ he continued, ‘you are thinking in the long term. The two of you settling down somewhere, a house overlooking the Kanese beaches, perhaps, with smoke rising from the chimney and a brood of bearded offspring playing with fire-ants and whatnot. For what it is worth, Skanarow, I believe you will face no challenge in sleeping peacefully at night.’
‘I’m beginning to understand how Lieutenant Pores felt when serving under you, Kindly. It all slides past, doesn’t it?’
‘I’m not sure I know what you mean.’
‘Right,’ she drawled. ‘Consider this. Ruthan’s getting nervous. And it’s getting worse. He’s just about combed his beard off his chin. He has troubled dreams. He speaks in his sleep, in languages I’ve never heard before.’
‘Most curious.’
‘For example, have you ever heard of Ahkrast Korvalain?’
Kindly frowned. ‘Can’t say I have, but it sounds Tiste. For example, the Elder Warrens of Kurald Galain and Emurlahn. Similar construction, I’d wager. You might mention it to the High Mage.’
She sighed, looked away. ‘Right. Well, I’d best get back to my squads. The loss of Gesler and Stormy, so soon after Masan lit out-and that other one-well, things are fragile at the moment.’
‘That they are, Skanarow. On your way out, have Corporal Thews bring in my collection.’
‘Your collection?’
‘Combs, Skanarow, combs.’
Master Sergeant Pores sat up, wiping the blood from his nose. Strange motes still floated and drifted in front of his eyes, but he could see that his personal wagon of stores had been ransacked. The two oxen harnessed to it were watching him as they gnawed on their bits. He wondered, briefly, if it was possible to train oxen as guard dogs, but the image of the beasts baring giant square teeth and moaning in a threatening fashion struck him as not quite frightening enough.
As he was picking himself up, brushing dirt and grass from his clothes, the sound of approaching footsteps made him flinch and then straighten, raising his hands defensively.
But there was no need. The newcomers didn’t look particularly threatening. Hedge, and behind him four of his Bridgeburners. ‘What happened to you?’ Hedge asked.
‘Not sure, I’m afraid. Someone came by with a requisition I was, er, unable to fill.’
‘Wrong wax seal on the request?’
‘Something like that.’
Hedge eyed the wagon. ‘Looks like he went and took what he wanted anyway.’
‘Capital offence,’ said one of Hedge’s corporals, shaking his head and frowning as if in disbelief. ‘You Bonehunters lack discipline, Master Sergeant.’
Pores stared at the scrawny Letherii. ‘You know, I was just thinking the same thing, Corporal. It’s anarchy here. I truly feel under siege, a lone island of reason and order in a storm of rapacious chaos.’ He gestured behind him and said to Hedge, ‘If you’re here to request anything, as you can see you will have to wait until I reorganize things. Besides, my own supplies are not, strictly speaking, available for official restitution. I can, however, provide you with a writ giving you an audience with the Quartermaster.’
‘Kind of you,’ said Hedge. ‘Only we already been there.’
‘Without a writ? You had no joy, did you?’
‘No, funny that. Seems the only writs he’s looking at are the ones from you.’
‘Of course,’ said Pores. ‘As you might imagine, Commander-it is “commander”, isn’t it? As you might imagine, in the midst of the very chaos your corporal so sharply observed, it has been necessary to take it upon myself to enforce some measure of control on our dwindling supplies.’
Hedge was nodding, eyes still on the wagon. ‘Thing is, Master Sergeant, what we’re hearing is that most of the chaos is due to the fact that everyone has to go through you. Now, I’m wondering if Fist Keneb is fully aware of the situation. As a commander, you see, I can just go straight and talk to him, as equals, I mean. None of your cronies to try to get through-aye, I marked ’em in that unofficial cordon round the HQ camp. Quite the organization you put together, Master Sergeant. Makes me wonder who got through to rearrange your nose like that.’
‘If I had memory of the incident, Commander, I’d tell you who-at least, after I’d hunted him down and crucified him for looting.’
‘Well,’ said Hedge, ‘I caught a rumour not fifty paces from here. It’s fresh as that dung behind them oxen.’
‘Splendid.’ Pores waited.
‘About that writ,’ Hedge said.
‘Coming right up-let me just find a spare wax tablet-’
‘Not using parchment? No, of course not. Parchment doesn’t melt, does it? Wax does. Evidence? What evidence? Clever, Master Sergeant.’
Pores found a tablet and a stylus from his small portable desk close to the toppled-over folding chair where he’d-presumably-been sitting when the fist said hello. He quickly scratched his symbol and then looked up expectantly. ‘What is it you want, specifically?’
‘Specifically? Whatever we decide we need.’
‘Right. Excellent. I’ll write that right here.’
‘Make it legible and all.’
‘Naturally.’
Pores handed the tablet over, waited while Hedge squinted at it.
Finally, the bastard looked up and smiled. ‘Rumour is, it was Neffarias Bredd who done cracked you one.’
‘Ah, him. Who else would it be? How silly of me. I don’t suppose you know what he looks like?’
Hedge shrugged. ‘Big, I heard. Got a brow like a rock shelf, a hamster’s eyes, a nose spread from here to Malaz Island and he can crush rocks with his teeth. More hair than a bull bhederin’s dangly sack. Knuckles that can bust a Master Sergeant’s nose-’
‘You can stop there,’ said Pores. ‘I have an amazingly precise picture in my head now, thank you.’
‘Mayfly says that’s all wrong, though,’ Hedge added. ‘Bredd’s tall but skinny, says Mayfly, and his whole face is tiny, like the bud of a flower. With sweet and pleasant eyes and pouty lips-’
‘And Mayfly dreams about him every night, aye. Well, this has been a wonderful conversation, Commander. Is our business finished? As you can see, I have some work to do here.’
‘So you do, so you do.’
He and the oxen watched them leave. Then he sighed. ‘Gods, they really are Bridgeburners.’ He glared at the oxen. ‘Chew on that some, you useless oafs.’
Skulldeath, last surviving prince of some Seven Cities desert tribe and the most frightening melee killer Sergeant Sinter had ever seen, was plaiting Ruffle’s hair. The style was markedly different from anything the Dal Hon tribes favoured, but on Ruffle’s round and somewhat small head the effect was, to Sinter’s eyes, somewhere between functional and terrifying.
‘Lickeet at,’ muttered Nep Furrow, his blotched brow wrinkling into folds that reminded her of turtle skin, ‘Dasgusting!’
‘I don’t know,’ interjected Primly. ‘Those curls will be all the padding she needs under her helm. Should keep her a lot cooler than the rest of us.’
‘Nabit, furl! Skeendath, rap izzee, a gurl?’
‘Nice rhyme,’ offered Shoaly from where he lounged, legs stretched out and boots edging the still smouldering coals of the hearth. The heavy’s hands were laced behind his head and his eyes were closed.
Sinter and the other half-dozen soldiers seated close by occasionally glanced over to check on progress. Through a flurry of hand signals bets had been laid on when Shoaly would finally notice he was cooking his feet. Corporal Rim was doing the ten-count and he’d already reached sixty.
Ruffle’s now ubiquitous pipe was puffing smoke into Skulldeath’s eyes and he had to keep wiping them as he worked his wooden plug and bone hook.
Strange, mused Sinter, how it was misfits always found each other in any crowd or, in this case, wilderness. Like those savannah grass-spiders that dangled finger-long feelers out in front of them in the mating season. Catching herself thinking about spiders again, for perhaps the fifth time since the morning, she looked over at the recumbent, motionless form of Sergeant Hellian, who’d stumbled into their camp thinking it belonged to her own squad. She was so drunk Rim kept her from getting too close to the fire, lest the air round her should ignite. She’d been running from the spiders. What spiders? Hellian didn’t explain. Instead, she’d toppled.
Skulldeath had looked her over for a time, stroking her hair and making sure none of her limbs were pinned at odd angles, and when at last he fell asleep, it was curled up against her. The mother he never had. Or the mother he never left. Well, all those lost princes in fairy tales ain’t nearly as lost as Skulldeath here. What a sad-if confused-story he’d make, our sweet little boy.
Sinter rubbed at her face. She wasn’t feeling much different from Hellian, though she’d had nothing but weak ale to drink the night before. Her mind felt bludgeoned, bruised into numbness. Her haunting sensitivities had vanished, making her feel half deaf. I think I am… overwhelmed.
By something. It’s close. It’s getting closer. Is that what this is?
She wondered where her sister was by now-how far away were the Perish and Khundryl anyway? They were overdue, weren’t they?
Sinter thought back to her fateful audience with the Adjunct. She remembered Masan Gilani’s fierce expression the moment before the Adjunct sent her off. There had been no hesitation in Tavore’s response to what Sinter said what was needed, and not a single objection to any one of her suggestions. The only visible reaction had preceded all that. Betrayal. Yes, that word hurt her. It’s the one thing she cannot face. The one thing, I think, that devours her courage. What happened to you, Tavore Paran? Was it something in your childhood, some terrible rejection, a betrayal that stabbed to the deepest core of you, of the innocent child you once were?
When does it happen? All those wounds that ended up making us the adults we are? A child starved never grows tall or strong. A child unloved can never find love or give it when grown. A child that does not laugh will become someone who can find nothing in the world to laugh at. And a child hurt deeply enough will spend a lifetime trying to scab that wound-even as they ceaselessly pick at it. She thought of all the careless acts and indifferent, impatient gestures she’d seen among parents in civilized places, as if they had no time for their own children. Too busy, too full of themselves, and all of that was simply passed on to the next generation, over and over again.
Among the Dal Honese, in the villages of both the north and the south, patience was the gift returned to the child who was itself a gift. Patience, the full weight of regard, the willingness to listen and the readiness to teach-were these not the responsibilities of parenthood? And what of a civilization that could thrive only by systematically destroying that precious relationship? Time to spend with your children? No time. Work to feed them, yes, that is your responsibility. But your loyalty and your strength and your energy, they belong to us.
And we, who are we? We are the despoilers of the world. Whose world? Yours. Hers-the Adjunct’s, aye. And even Skulldeath’s. Poor, lost Skulldeath. And Hellian, ever bathed in the hot embrace of alcohol. You and that wandering ex-priest with his smirk and broken eyes. Your armies, your kings and queens, your gods, and, most of all, your children.
We kill their world before they even inherit it. We kill it before they grow old enough to know what it is.
She rubbed at her face again. The Adjunct was so alone, aye. But I tried. I think I did, anyway. You’re not quite as alone as you think, Tavore Paran. Did I leave you with that much? When I was gone, when you stood there in your tent, in the silence-when Lostara Yil left and not one set of eyes was upon you… what did you do? What did you free from chains inside yourself?
If Bottle watched through the eyes of one of his rats, what did he see? There in your face?
Anything? Anything at all?
‘What’s burning?’
‘You are, Shoaly.’
The heavy made no move. His boots were now peeling off black threads of smoke. ‘Am I done yet, Primly?’
‘Crispy bacon, I’d wager.’
‘Gods, I love bacon.’
‘You gonna move your feet, Shoaly?’ Mulvan Dreader demanded.
‘Got bids, all you bastards?’
‘Of course,’ said Pravalak Rim.
‘Who’s counting tens?’
‘I am,’ said Rim. ‘Got an order, doing rounds. We got ten in all, counting Skulldeath and Ruffle, though they ain’t counted in personally, being busy and all.’
‘Sinter bet?’
‘Aye,’ said Sinter.
‘What number?’
‘Seven.’
‘Rim, where you at now?’
‘Three.’
‘Out loud.’
‘Five, six, se-’
Shoaly pulled his feet from the fire and sat up.
‘Now that’s loyalty,’ Sinter said, grinning.
‘De ain feer! De ain feer! I eed farv! Farv! Erim, de ain feer!’
‘It’s Shoaly’s feet,’ said Mulvan, ‘he can do what he wants with them. Sinter wins the pot, cos she’s so pretty, right, Shoaly?’
The man smiled. ‘Right. Now, Sint, you like me?’
‘By half,’ she replied.
‘I’ll need it. Nep Furrow, what’ll a quick heal cost me?’
‘Ha! Yar half! Yar half! Ha ha!’
‘Half of my half-’
‘Nad! Nad!’
‘It’s either that or the sergeant orders you to heal me and you get nothing.’
‘Good point,’ said Sinter, glancing over to Badan Gruk. ‘Got need for your healer, Badan, you all right with that?’
‘Of course,’ he replied.
‘This was all a set-up,’ Primly muttered. ‘I’m smelling more than bacon right now.’
‘Arf ad yar arf! Shably! Arf ad yar arf!’
‘Be kind to him, Shoaly, so he does you a good job.’
‘Aye, Sergeant Sinter. Half of half. Agreed. Where’s the kitty?’
‘Everybody spill now,’ said Rim, collecting a helm. ‘In here, pass it around.’
‘Scam,’ said Drawfirst. ‘Lookback, we all been taken.’
‘What’s new about that? Marines never play fair-’
‘They just play to win,’ Drawfirst finished, scowling at the old Bridgeburner adage.
Sinter rose and walked from the camp. Numb and restless at the same time, what kind of state was that to be in? After a few strides she realized she had company and glanced over to see Badan Gruk.
‘Sinter, you look… different. Sick? Listen, Kisswhere-’
‘Never mind my sister, Badan. I know her best, remember.’
‘Exactly. She was going to run, we all knew it. You must’ve known it too. What I don’t get is that she didn’t try to get us to go with her.’
Sinter glanced at him. ‘Would she have convinced you, Badan?’
‘Maybe.’
‘And then the two of you would have ganged up on me, until I relented.’
‘Could be like that, aye. Point is, it didn’t happen. And now she’s somewhere and we’re stuck here.’
‘I’m not deserting, Badan.’
‘Ain’t you thought about it, though? Going after Kisswhere?’
‘No.’
‘Really?’
‘She’s all grown up now. I should have seen that long ago, don’t you think? I don’t have to take care of her any more. Wish I’d realized that the day she joined up.’
He grimaced. ‘You ain’t the only one, Sinter.’
Ah, Badan, what am I to do with you? You keep breaking my heart. But pity and love don’t live together, do they?
Was it pity? She just didn’t know. Instead, she took his hand as they walked.
The soft wind on his face woke him. Groggy, thick-tongued and parched, Gesler blinked open his eyes. Blue sky, empty of birds, empty of everything. He groaned, struggling to work out the last thing he remembered. Camp, aye, some damned argument with Stormy. The bastard had been dreaming again, some demonic fist coming down out of the dark sky. He’d had the eyes of a hunted hare.
Did they drink? Smoke something? Or just fall back to sleep, him on one side of the tent, Stormy on the other-one side neat and ordered, the other a stinking mess. Had he been complaining about that? He couldn’t remember a damned thing.
No matter. The camp wasn’t moving for some reason-and it was strangely quiet, too, and what was he doing outside? He slowly sat up. ‘Gods below, they left us behind.’ A stretch of broken ground, odd low mounds in the distance-had they been there last night? And where were the hearths, the makeshift berms? He heard a scuffing sound behind him and twisted round-the motion rocking the brain in his skull fierce enough to make him gasp.
A woman he’d never seen before was crouched at a small fire. Just to her right was Stormy, still asleep. Weapons and their gear were stacked just beyond him.
Gesler squinted at the stranger. Dressed like some damned savage, all colourless gum-gnawed deerhide and bhederin leather. She wasn’t a young thing either. Maybe forty, but it was never easy to tell with plainsfolk, for that she surely was, like an old-fashioned Seti. Her features were regular enough; she’d probably been good-looking once, but the years had been hard since then. When his assessing gaze finally lifted to her dark brown eyes he found her studying him with something like sorrow.
‘Better start talking,’ Gesler said. He saw a waterskin and pointed at it.
She nodded.
Gesler reached over, tugged loose the stopper and drank down three quick mouthfuls. An odd flavour came off his lips and his head spun momentarily. ‘Hood’s knocker, what did I do last night?’ He glared at the woman. ‘You understanding me?’
‘Trader tongue,’ she said.
It was a moment before he comprehended her words. Her accent was one he’d never heard before. ‘Good, there’s that at least. Where am I? Who are you? Where’s my damned army?’
She gestured. Gone. And then said, ‘You are for me, with me. By me?’ She shook her head, clearly frustrated with her limited knowledge of the language. ‘Kalyth my name.’ Her eyes shifted away. ‘Destriant Kalyth.’
‘Destriant? That’s not a title people just throw around. If it doesn’t belong to you, you and your whole damned line are cursed. For ever more. You don’t use titles like that-Destriant, to what god?’
‘God no. No god. K’Chain Che’Malle. Acyl Nest, Matron Gunth’an Acyl. Kalyth me, Elan-’
He raised a hand. ‘Hold it, hold it, I’m not understanding much of that. K’Chain Che’Malle, aye. You’re a Destriant to the K’Chain Che’Malle. But that can’t be. You got it wrong-’
‘Wrong no. I wish, yes.’ She shifted slightly and pointed at Stormy. ‘He Shield Anvil.’ Then she pointed at Gesler. ‘You Mortal Sword.’
‘We ain’t…’ and Gesler trailed off, gaze straying over to Stormy. ‘Someone called him Shield Anvil, once. I think. Can’t recall who it was, though. Actually, maybe it was Mortal Sword, come to that.’ He glared at her. ‘Whoever it was, though, it wasn’t no K’Chain Che’Malle.’
She shrugged. ‘There is war. You lead. Him and you. Gunth’an Acyl send me to find you. I find you. You are fire. Gu’Rull see you, fill my head with you. Burning. Beacons, you and him. Blinding. Gu’Rull collect you.’
Collect? Gesler abruptly stood, earning yet another gasp as his head reeled. ‘You snatched us!’
‘Me not-not me. Gu’Rull.’
‘Who is Gu’Rull? Where is the bastard? I got to cut his throat and maybe yours too. Then we can try to find the army-’
‘Gone. Your army, many leagues away. Gu’Rull fly all night. With you. All night. You must lead K’Chain Che’Malle army. Eight Furies, coming now. Close. There is war.’
Gesler walked over and kicked Stormy.
The big man grunted, and then clutched the sides of his head. ‘Go piss yourself, Ges,’ he mumbled. ‘It ain’t morning yet.’
‘Really?’ Stormy had spoken in Falari and so Gesler did the same.
‘Bugle wakes me every time, you know that. Miserable sh-’
‘Open your eyes, soldier! On your damned feet!’
Stormy lashed out with one bare foot, forcing Gesler back a step. He’d felt those kicks before. But Stormy then sat, eyes open and widening as he looked around. ‘What did you do to me, Ges? Where’s… where’s everything?’
‘We got ourselves kidnapped last night, Stormy.’
Stormy’s bright blue eyes fixed on Kalyth. ‘Her? She’s stronger than she looks-’
‘Fener’s sake, Stormy, she had help. Someone named Gu’Rull, and whoever he is, he’s got wings. And he’s strong enough to have carried us away, all night.’
Stormy’s eyes flashed. ‘What did I tell you, Gesler! My dreams! I saw-’
‘What you said you saw made no sense. Still doesn’t! The point is, this woman here calls herself the Destriant to the K’Chain Che’Malle, and if that’s not dumb enough, she’s calling me the Mortal Sword and you the Shield Anvil.’
Stormy flinched, hands up covering his face. He spoke behind his palms. ‘Where’s my sword? Where’s my boots? Where the fuck is breakfast?’
‘Didn’t you hear me?’
‘I heard you, Gesler. Dreams. It was those damned scaled rats. Every time I saw one on the trail I got the shivers.’
‘Rats ain’t K’Chain Che’Malle. You know, if you had even half a brain maybe you could’ve figured out your dreams, and maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess!’
Stormy dropped his hands, swung his shaggy head to regard Kalyth. ‘Look at her,’ he muttered.
‘What about her?’
‘Reminds me of my mother.’
Gesler’s hands twitched, closed into fists. ‘Don’t even think it, Stormy.’
‘Can’t help it. She does-’
‘No, she doesn’t. Your mother had red hair-’
‘Not the point. Around her eyes, see it? You should know, Ges, you went and bedded her enough times-’
‘That was an accident-’
‘A what?’
‘I mean, how did I know she went around seducing your friends?’
‘She didn’t. Just you.’
‘But you said-’
‘So I lied! I was just trying to make you feel better! No, fuck that, I was trying to make you feel that you’re nobody important-your head’s swelled up bad enough as it is. Anyway, it don’t matter any more, does it? Forget it. I forgave you, remember-’
‘You were drunk and we’d just trashed an alley trying to kill each other-’
‘Then I forgave you. Forget it, I said.’
‘I wish I could! Now you go and say this one looks like-’
‘But she does!’
‘I know she does! Now just shut the fuck up! We ain’t-we ain’t-’
‘Yes, we are. You know it, Ges. You don’t like it, but you know it. We been cut loose. We got us a destiny. Right here. Right now. She’s Destriant and you’re Shield Anvil and I’m Mortal Sword-’
‘Wrong way round,’ Gesler snarled. ‘I’m the Mortal Sword-’
‘Good. Glad we got that settled. Now get her to cook us something-’
‘Oh, is that what Destriants do, then? Cook for us?’
‘I’m hungry and I got no food!’
‘Then ask her. Politely.’
Stormy scowled at Kalyth.
‘Trader tongue,’ Gesler said.
Instead, Stormy pointed at his mouth and then patted his stomach.
Kalyth said, ‘You eat.’
‘Hungry, aye.’
‘Food,’ she said, nodding, and then pointed to a small leather satchel to one side.
Gesler laughed.
Kalyth then rose. ‘They come.’
‘Who come?’ Gesler asked.
‘K’Chain Che’Malle. Army. Soon… war.’
At that moment Gesler felt the trembling ground underfoot. Stormy did the same and as one they both turned to face north.
Fener’s holy crotch.
HARBINGER
FISHER
She’d had an uncle, a prince high on the rungs but, alas, the wrong ladder. He had attempted a coup, only to find that all his agents were someone else’s agents. Was it this conceit that had led to his death? Which choice made it all inevitable? Queen Abrastal had thought many times on the man’s fate. The curious thing was, he’d actually made his escape, out from the city, all the way to the eastern border, in fact. But on the morning of his last ride, a farmer had woken with crippling rheumatism in his legs. This man was fifty-seven years old and, for thirty-odd years, each month through the summers and autumns he had taken the harvest of his own family’s plot up to the village a league and a half away. And he had done this by pulling a two-wheeled cart.
He must have awoken that morning in the turgid miasma of his own mortality. Wearing down, wearing out. And studying the mists wreathing the low hills and glades edging the fields, he must have held a silence in his hands, and in his heart. We pass on. All that was effortless becomes an ordeal, yet the mind remains lucid, trapped inside a failing body. Though the morning promised a fine day, night’s cold darkness remained lodged within him.
He had three sons but all were in the levy and off fighting somewhere. Rumours of some uprising; the old man knew little about it and cared even less. Except for the fact that his sons were not with him. In motions stiff with pain he had hitched up the mule to a rickety flatbed wagon. He could as easily have chosen the cart, but the one mule he owned that wasn’t too old or lame was a strangely long-bodied specimen, too long for the cart’s yoke and spar.
The efforts of preparation, concluding with loading the flatbed, had taken most of the morning, even with his half-blind wife’s help. And when he set out on the road, quirting the beast along, the mists had burned off and the sun was high and strong. The stony track leading to the section road was more suited to a cart than a wagon, and so the going was slow, and upon reaching the section track and drawing close to the high road, he had the sun in his eyes.
On this day, in a heap of stones in the corner of a field just next to the high road, a civil war was erupting in a wild beehive. And only a few moments before the farmer arrived, the hive swarmed.
The old man, half-dozing, had been listening to the rapid approach of a rider, but there was room on the road-it had been built for moving armies to and from the border, after all-and so he was not particularly concerned as those drumming hoofs drew ever closer. Yes, the rider was coming fast. Likely some garrison messenger carrying bad news and all such news was bad, as far as the farmer was concerned. He’d had a moment of worry over his sons, and then the swarm lifted from the side of the road and spun in a frenzied cloud to engulf his mule.
The creature panicked, bolting forward with a bleat. Such was its strength, born of terror, that the old man was flung backward over the low seat back, losing his grip on the traces. The wagon jumped under him and then slewed to one side, spilling him from it. He struck the road in a cloud of dust and crazed bees.
The rider, on his third horse since fleeing the city, arrived at this precise moment. Skill and instinct led him round the mule and wagon, but the sudden appearance of the farmer, directly in the horse’s path, occurred so swiftly, so unexpectedly, that neither he nor his mount had the time to react. Forelegs clipped the farmer, breaking a collar bone and striking the man’s head with stunning impact. The horse stumbled, slammed down on to its chest, and its rider was thrown forward.
Her uncle had removed his helm some time that day-the heat was fierce, after all-and while it was debatable whether that made any difference, Abrastal suspected-or, perhaps, chose to believe-that if he’d been wearing it, he might well have survived the fall. As it was, his neck was snapped clean.
She had studied those events with almost fanatic obsession. Her agents had travelled out to that remote region of the kingdom. Interviews with sons and relatives and indeed, the old farmer himself-who had miraculously survived, though now prone to the falling sickness-all seeking to map out, with precision, the sequence of events.
In truth, she’d cared neither way for the fate of her uncle. The man had been a fool. No, what fascinated and indeed haunted her was that such a convergence of chance events could so perfectly conspire to take a man’s life. From this one example, Abrastal quickly comprehended that such patterns existed everywhere, and could be assembled for virtually every accidental death.
People spoke of ill luck. Mischance. They spoke of unruly spirits and vengeful gods. And some spoke of the most terrible truth of all-that the world and all life in it was nothing but a blind concatenation of random occurrences. Cause and effect did nothing but map out the absurdity of things, before which even the gods were helpless.
Some truths could haunt, colder, crueller than any ghost. Some truths were shaped by a mouth open in horror.
When she stumbled from her tent, guards and aides swarming round her, there had been no time for musings, no time for thoughts on past obsessions. There had been nothing but the moment itself, red as blood in the eyes, loud as a howl trapped inside a skull.
Her daughter had found her. Felash, lost somewhere inside a savage storm at sea, had bargained with a god, and as the echoes of cries from drowning sailors sounded faint and hollow beneath the shrieking winds, the god had opened a path. Ancient, appalling, brutal as a rape. In the tears swimming before Abrastal’s eyes, her fourteenth daughter’s face found shape, as if rising from unfathomable depths; and Abrastal had tasted the salt sea on her tongue, had felt the numbing cold of its immortal hunger.
Mother. Remember the tale of your uncle. The wagon crawls, the mule’s head nods. Thunder in the distance. Remember the tale as you told it to me, as you live it each and every day. Mother, the high road is the Wastelands. And I can hear the swarm-I can hear it!
Elder Gods were reluctant, belligerent oracles. In the grip of such a power, no mortal could speak in freedom. Clarity was defied, precision denied. Only twisted words and images could come forth. Only misdirection played true.
But Felash was clever, the cleverest of all her beloved daughters. And so Abrastal understood. She comprehended the warning.
The moment vanished, but the pain of that assault remained. Weeping blood-clouded tears, she struggled and pushed her way through panicked staff and bodyguards, stumbled outside, naked above the hips, her fiery hair snarled and matted with sweat. On her skin the salt already rimed and she stank as would a body pulled up from the sea bottom.
Arms held out to keep everyone away, she stood, gasping, head hanging down, struggling to recover her breath. And, finally, she managed to speak.
‘Spax. Get me Spax. Now.’
Gilk warriors gathered in their kin groups, checking weapons and gear. Warchief Spax stood watching, scratching his beard, the sour ale from the cask the night before swirling ominously in his belly. Or maybe it was the goat shank, or that fist-sized brick of bitter chocolate-something he’d never seen nor tasted before arriving in Bolkando, but if the good gods shat it was surely chocolate.
He saw Firehair’s runner long before the man arrived. One of those scrawny court mice, all red-faced from the exertion, his quivering lip visible from ten paces away. His own scouts had informed him that they were perhaps a day away from the Bonehunters-they’d made good time, damn near impoverishing Saphinand’s traders in the process, and for all his bravado Spax was forced to admit that both the Khundryl Burned Tears and the Perish were as tough as a cactus-eater’s tongue. Almost as tough as his own Barghast. Common opinion had it that armies with trains were slow beasts even on the most level ground, but clearly neither Gall of the Burned Tears nor Krughava of the Perish paid any heed to common opinion.
Glancing at his own warriors one more time before the runner arrived, he saw that they were showing fatigue. Not enough to worry him, of course. One more day, after all, and then Abrastal could have her parley with the Malazans and they could all turn round and head home at a far more reasonable pace.
‘Warchief!’
‘What’s got her excited now?’ Spax asked, ever pleased to bait these fops, but this time the young man did not react to the overfamiliarity with the usual expression of shock. In fact, he continued as if he’d not heard Spax.
‘The Queen demands your presence. At once.’
Normally, even this command would have elicited a sarcastic comment or two, but Spax finally registered the runner’s fear. ‘Lead on then,’ he replied in a growl.
Dressed now in armour, Queen Abrastal was in no mood for banter, and she’d already said enough to the Gilk Warchief to keep him silent as he rode at her side towards the Perish camp. The morning’s light was clawing details down the furrowed scape of the mountains to the west. Dust hung over the raw tracks leading to and from the Saphinand border, and already lines of wagons and carriages were streaming out from the three camps, beds empty barring chests of coin, merchant guards and prostitutes. They would be back out here and waiting, she knew, for the return of the Evertine Legion.
They might have a long wait.
She had told Spax of the sending, had registered with little surprise his scowl. The Barghast knew enough to have no doubt about such things. He had even commented that his own warlocks and witches had been complaining of weakness and blindness-as if the Barghast gods had been driven away, or did not possess the strength to manifest in the Wastelands.
As the horses were being readied, he’d spoken of the belief in convergence, and she had been impressed to discover that behind his white skull paint and turtle-shelled armour, this barbarian knew of the world beyond his own tribe and his own people. The notion of power drawing power, however, did not seem to draw close to her sense of what was coming.
‘You say that such forces are fated to meet, Spax. But… this is not the same.’
‘How do you mean, Highness?’
‘Is chance the weapon of fate? One might say so, I imagine, but what is drawing close before us, Spax, is something crueller. Random, unpredictable. Stupid, in fact. It is the curse of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
He’d chewed on that for a moment, and then he said, ‘Will you seek to turn them away? Firehair, this Krughava is rooted like a mountain. Her path is the river of its melting crown. You will fail, I think.’
‘I know, Spax. And this forces upon me a dire decision, doesn’t it?’
But he would not see it that way, and he didn’t-she was certain of it, though he’d said nothing, and now the horses were brought forward and they mounted up and kicked the beasts into a quick canter, and then, once beyond the Evertine pickets, into a gallop. Such a pace did not invite conversation beyond a few terse words at best. Neither bothered.
Perish pickets marked them and the banner rising from the socket on Abrastal’s saddle. They quickly and efficiently cleared a path straight to the camp’s centre. As they rode into the main avenue between officer tents, Abrastal and Spax found themselves the subject of growing interest, as soldiers formed lines to either side to watch them pass. Certain moments, fraught and crowded, could spread a chilling fever.
A short time later they reined in at the headquarters of the Grey Helms. The Mortal Sword Krughava and Shield Anvil Tanakalian stood awaiting them, kitted in full armour as was their habit.
Abrastal was the first to slip down from her winded horse. The Gilk followed a moment later.
Krughava bowed with a tilt of her head. ‘Queen, you are welcome among the Perish-’
‘Forget the formal shit,’ Abrastal cut in. ‘Your command tent, if you please.’
A flicker of something in the woman’s hard eyes, and then she gestured to the tent behind her.
Spax said, ‘Might want to summon Gall.’
‘Already done,’ Tanakalian replied with a half-smile that did not belong to this moment. ‘It should not be long.’
Abrastal frowned at the Shield Anvil, and then swept past him and the Mortal Sword, trailed a step behind by Spax. A few moments later the four were in the tent’s main chamber. Krughava ushered her aides away and then sent the guards to the tent’s outer perimeter.
Drawing off her gauntlets, the Mortal Sword faced Abrastal. ‘Highness, the agenda is yours. Will you await Warleader Gall before beginning?’
‘No. He’s a smart man. He’ll work it out. Mortal Sword, we find ourselves in a storm that can only be seen from the outside. We ourselves as yet sense nothing, for we are close to its heart.’ She glanced to the Shield Anvil, and then back to Krughava. ‘Your priests and priestesses are in difficulty, do you deny it?’
‘I do not,’ Krughava replied.
‘Good. Your allies are but a day away-’
‘Half a day if necessary,’ Krughava said.
‘As you say.’ Abrastal hesitated.
At that moment Warleader Gall arrived, sweeping through the curtains of the doorway. He was breathing hard, broad face beaded with sweat.
‘You intend to leave us this day,’ Tanakalian said, glaring at the Queen.
Abrastal frowned. ‘I have said no such thing, Shield Anvil.’
‘Forgive my brother,’ said Krughava. ‘He is precipitate. Highness, what would you warn us against?’
‘I shall use the term Spax has given me-one you will understand at once, or so I am led to believe. The word is convergence.’
Something came alight in Krughava’s eyes, and Abrastal could almost see the woman straightening, swelling as if to meet this moment. ‘So be it-’
‘A moment!’ Tanakalian said, his eyes widening. ‘Highness, this is not the place-rather, you must be wrong. That time is yet to arrive-it is far away, in fact. I cannot see how-’
‘That will be enough,’ Krughava interrupted, her face darkening. ‘Unless, sir, you can speak plainly of knowledge you alone possess. We await you.’
‘You don’t understand-’
‘Correct.’
The man looked half-panicked. Abrastal’s unease regarding Tanakalian-which she had first discovered outside the tent-now deepened. What hid within this young soldier-priest? He seemed somehow knocked awry.
The Shield Anvil drew a breath, and then said, ‘My vision is no clearer than anyone else’s, not here in this place. But all that I sense of the coming convergence tells me that it does not await us in the Wastelands.’
Krughava seemed to be bristling with anger-the first time Abrastal had seen such a thing in the Mortal Sword. ‘Brother Tanakalian, you are not the arbiter of destiny, no matter the vast breadth of your ambition. On this day, and in the matter before us, you would do best to witness. We are without a Destriant-we cannot help but be blind to our future.’ She faced Abrastal. ‘The Grey Helms shall strike for the Bonehunters. We shall find them this day. It may be that they will need our help. It may be that we will need theirs. After all, to stand in the heart of a storm is, as you say, to be blind to all dangers yet safe from none.’
Gall spoke for the first time. ‘The Khundryl shall ride as the tip of the spear, Mortal Sword. We shall send Swifts out ahead, and so be the first to sight our allies. If they be in dire need, word shall wing back.’
‘That is well and I thank you, Warleader,’ said Krughava. ‘Highness, thank you for your warning-’
‘We are coming with you.’
Spax turned, his face expressing shock.
But the Mortal Sword nodded. ‘The glory that is within you, Highness, refutes all disguise. Yet, I humbly suggest that you change your mind, that you heed the objections your Gilk commander is so eager to voice. This is not your destiny, after all. It belongs to the Bonehunters and to the Khundryl and to the Perish Grey Helms.’
‘The Gilk,’ Abrastal replied, ‘are under my command. I believe you have misapprehended Warchief Spax. He is surprised, yes, but so long as he and his Barghast bed themselves in my coin, they are mine to lead.’
‘It is so,’ said Spax. ‘Mortal Sword, you have indeed misapprehended me. The Gilk are without fear. We are the fist of the White Face Barghast-’
‘And if that fist drives into a wasps’ nest?’ Tanakalian asked.
Abrastal started.
Spax bared his teeth. ‘We are not children who die at the sting, Shield Anvil. If we should stir awake such a nest, look to your own.’
‘This is wrong-’
‘Enough!’ snapped Krughava. ‘Shield Anvil, prepare to embrace all who may come to fall this day. That is your task, your responsibility. If you so cherish the gleam of politics then you should have stayed in the kingdom shores of Perish. We who are here refused those games. We left our homes, our place of birth. We left our families and our loved ones. We left the intrigue and the deceit and the court dances of death. Will you now presume to broach that bitter wine? Go, sir, harness your strength.’
Face pale, Tanakalian bowed to Abrastal, Spax and Gall, and then left.
‘Highness,’ Krughava said, ‘you risk too much.’
‘I know,’ she replied.
‘And yet?’
She nodded. ‘And yet.’
Damned women! It’s all women!
She reined in her mount atop a low hill, eyes scanning the south. Was there dust on the horizon? Possibly. Kisswhere arched to ease the ache in her lower back. Her thighs were on fire, as if dipped in acid. She was low on water, and the horse beneath her was half-dead.
Fucking Adjunct. Lostara Yil. That bitch of a sister-it’s not fair! She had been undecided, but no longer. Oh, she’d find the fools, the pompous Perish and the rutting Khundryl who’d weep at a broken pot. She’d deliver all the useless pleas for help to Krughava-another Hood-damned woman-and then she’d be done with it. I’m not going back. I’ve deserted, right? I’m riding right through them. Saphinand. I can get lost there, it’s ringed in with mountains. I don’t care how squalid it is, it’ll do.
What else did they expect from her? Some heroic return at the head of two armies? Riding to the rescue, snatching them all back from the very gates of Hood? That kind of rubbish belonged to Sinter, or even Masan Gilani, who was riding to find an ally that might not even exist-yes, leave the legend to that northern slut, she had all the necessary traits, after all.
Kisswhere was carved from softer stuff. Not bronze. More like wax. And the world was heating up. They’d saluted her on her way. They’d decided to put all their trust and faith in her. And I will find them. That is a dust-cloud. I can see it now. I can reach them, say whatever I need to say. The Adjunct says, O Mortal Sword, that betrayal does not suit the Perish. Nor the Khundryl. Come to her, she asks.
The Adjunct says the sword’s for wearing and wielding, not sitting on. It’s a weapon, it’s not courage, no matter how straight up it holds you. The Adjunct says there is a betrayer among you, and by that betrayer’s words, you doom the Bonehunters. The Adjunct says the blood is on your hands, you frigid cow.
Find whatever means, Sinter had said. Use whatever you need to use. Shame them, shit on them, spit on them. Or turn sly and build up the fires until their boots burn. Blind them by reflecting the blazing sun of their own egos. Beg, plead, drop to your knees and suck them dry. Use your wiles, Kisswhere, it’s what you do best.
Gods, she hated them all. That knowing look in their eyes, that acceptance of everything that wasn’t good within her. Yes, they knew she’d not come back. And they didn’t care. She was expendable, whipped like an arrow and once it struck, why, it was spent, a shattered thing lying on the ground.
So, a broken arrow she would be. Fine. Why not? They expected nothing more, did they?
Kisswhere kicked her horse into motion. It answered reluctantly. ‘Not much further,’ she said as she worked it into a loose canter. ‘See those riders? Khundryl. Almost there.’ I don’t need to convince them of anything-they’re on their way already. I just need to add a few spurs to their boots. Who knows, maybe it’s what Krughava goes for anyway. She has that look about her, I think.
Here, sweetie, I bring spikes and whips-
The riders of the Vedith Swift drawing towards the lone soldier were commanded by Rafala, who held sharp eyes on the stranger. A Malazan to be sure, she could see. On a tired horse. She tasted the excitement, proof that something was happening, yet another clench of history’s jaws, and no struggle could pull one free. Gall had sent them out ahead, riding hard. Find the Bonehunters. Ride into their column and speak to the Adjunct. Tell her to wait, or indeed to angle her march southward.
The terrible gods were gathering-she could see it in the high clouds building to the southwest, tumbling down off the mountains. The armies must come together and so stand as one, facing down those gods. Such a moment awaited them! Adjunct Tavore, commander of the Bonehunters; Gall, Warleader of the Khundryl Burned Tears; Krughava, Mortal Sword of the Wolves; and Abrastal, Queen of Bolkando and commander of the Evertine Legion. Oh, and the Gilk, too. Those Barghast know how to roll in the furs, don’t they just. I won’t cringe with them on one flank, that’s for certain.
What sought them in the Wastelands? Some pathetic tribe, no doubt-not much else could survive out here. No secret kingdom or empire, that was obvious. The land was dead, after all. Well, they would crush whoever the fools were, and then march on, seeking whatever fate the Adjunct knew awaited them all in distant Kolanse. Rafala only hoped she’d get the chance to bloody her blade.
The Malazan soldier was slowing her exhausted mount, as if content to let the Khundryl horses do most of the work. Well enough. The Dal Honese did not look very comfortable on that saddle. For decades the Malazans had been clever in building their armies. They used horse-tribes to create their cavalry, mountain-dwellers for their scouts and skirmishers, and farmers for their infantry. City folk for sappers and coastal folk for marines and sailors. But things had since grown confused. The Dal Honese did not belong on horses.
No matter. I remember the Wickans. I’d barely a month of bleeding then, but I saw them. They humbled us all.
And now it is the Khundryls’ turn to do the same.
She gestured to slow the riders behind her and continued ahead to rein in before the Malazan. ‘I am Rafala-’
‘Happy for you,’ the woman cut in. ‘Just take me to Gall and Krughava-and switch me to a fresher horse, this one’s done.’
‘How many days away?’ Rafala asked as one of her corporals took charge of switching mounts.
The Malazan dropped down from her horse with some difficulty. ‘Who? Oh, not far, I should think. I got lost the first night-thought I could see the mountains on my right. Turned out those were clouds. I’ve been riding south and west for two days now. Is that fool ready yet?’
Rafala scowled. ‘He gives you his finest battle-horse, soldier.’
‘Well, I ain’t paying.’ Wincing, the woman climbed into the saddle. ‘Gods, couldn’t you do with some decent padding? I’m sitting on bones here.’
‘Not my fault,’ drawled Rafala, ‘if you let your muscles get too soft. Let’s ride then, soldier.’ And see if you can keep up with me. To her Swift she said, ‘Continue on. I will provide her escort and then return to you.’
And then they were off. The Swift resumed riding northward; Rafala and the Malazan struck southward, and, trailing at ever greater distance behind them, the lone corporal followed on the spent horse.
Well, thought Kisswhere as she and Rafala approached the vanguard, this will make it easy. A forest of banners marked the presence of a clash-an old Malaz Island joke-of commanders. She could say what needed saying once and then be done with it.
It was obvious to her that disaster awaited them all. Too many women holding skillets here. She’d always preferred men to women. As friends, as lovers, as officers. Men liked to keep things simple. None of that absurd oversensitivity, reacting to every damned expression or glance or gesture. None of that stewing over some careless passing comment. And, most importantly, none of that vicious backstabbing and poison cups so smilingly given. No, she’d long since learned all the nasty lessons of her own gender; she’d seen enough eyes crawling up and down her body and judging the clothes she wore, the cut of her hair, the man at her side. She’d seen women carving up others when those ones weren’t looking, eyes like blades-snip slice snip.
And wasn’t it true-beyond all challenge-that women who preferred the company of men were the most hated women of all?
Too many commanders with tits in this mob. Look at Gall, he’s under siege behind those tattooed tears. And that Barghast, no wonder he’s hiding his face behind all that paint.
‘You can go back now, Rafala,’ Kisswhere said. ‘I won’t get lost.’
‘I need your horse, Malazan.’
‘So I am to walk from now on?’
The young Khundryl looked surprised. ‘Walk where?’
Kisswhere scowled.
They rode through the scattered line of outriders and drew up before the vanguard-the mounted commanders made no concession to their arrival, continuing on at a steady trot, forcing Rafala and Kisswhere to swing round and fall in step beside them. That attitude annoyed Kisswhere-when was the last time they’d even seen each other?
Rafala spoke: ‘Warleader Gall, I bring you a Malazan messenger.’ And then she said to Kisswhere, ‘I will go and find you another horse.’
‘Good. Don’t take too long.’
With a flat look, Rafala pulled her mount round and headed into the trailing columns.
A red-haired woman Kisswhere had never seen before was the first to address her, in the trader tongue. ‘Malazan, where are your kin?’
‘My kin?’
‘Your fellow soldiers.’
‘Not far, I think. You should reach them today, especially at this pace.’
‘Marine,’ said Krughava, ‘what word do you bring us?’
Kisswhere glanced about, noting the various staff officers clumped round the commanders. ‘Can we get a little more private here, Mortal Sword? You and Warleader Gall, I mean-’
‘Queen Abrastal of Bolkando and Warchief Spax of the Gilk White Faces have allied their forces with our own, sir. This said, I will send our staffs a short distance away.’ She faced the Queen. ‘Acceptable, Highness?’
Abrastal’s face registered distaste. ‘Oh yes, they’re worse than flies. Go! All of you!’
Twenty or more riders pulled away from the vanguard, leaving only Krughava, Tanakalian, Gall, the Queen and Spax.
‘Better?’ Krughava asked.
Kisswhere drew a deep breath. She was too tired to have to work at this. ‘Among the seers serving the Adjunct… Mortal Sword, I can say this no other way. The threat of betrayal was judged to be very real. I was sent to confirm the alliance.’
The Mortal Sword went deathly pale. Kisswhere saw the foreign Queen cast a sharp look at the young Shield Anvil, Tanakalian.
What? Fuck, they know more of this than I do. Seems the threat is real after all. Sister, you have eyes that see what others do not. No wonder I’m always running away from you.
Warleader Gall was the first to respond. ‘What is your name, soldier?’
‘Kisswhere. Tenth Squad, Third Company, Eighth Legion.’
‘Kisswhere-spirits know, how you Malazans can make a name an invitation never ceases to delight me-I will answer the Adjunct’s fear as the Khundryl must. We shall advance ahead and ride with you with all haste, and so rejoin the Bonehunters as soon as possible.’
‘Sir,’ said Krughava, ‘there will be no betrayal from the Perish. See the pace of our march. We are apprised of imminent danger, and so hasten to reach the Adjunct’s army. It is our added fortune that the Bolkando Queen leads her Evertine Legion and the Gilk and has vowed to give us whatever aid we may require. Tell me, are the Bonehunters beset? What enemy has appeared out of the Wastelands to so assail them?’
You get around to asking this now? ‘As of two days past, Mortal Sword, our only enemy was clouds of biting flies,’ Kisswhere replied.
‘Yet you were dispatched to find us,’ Krughava observed.
‘I was.’
‘Therefore,’ the Mortal Sword continued, ‘some apprehension of danger-beyond that of possible betrayal-must exist to justify such urgency.’
Kisswhere shrugged. ‘There is little more I can tell you, Mortal Sword.’
‘You ride all this way seeking nothing but reassurance?’
At Gall’s question, Kisswhere glanced away for a moment. ‘Yes, it must seem odd to you. All of you. I have no answer. The alliance was perceived to be in jeopardy-that is all I know of the matter.’
No one seemed satisfied. Too bad. What can I say? My sister’s got a bad feeling. Fid keeps throwing up and the only high priest on Tavore’s staff has been drunk ever since Letheras. And those flies got a vicious bite.
Rafala returned leading a saddled horse, a bay mare with a witless look to her. She led the beast up alongside Kisswhere. ‘Climb over, if you can.’
Scowling, Kisswhere kicked her boots free of the stirrups and drew her right leg over. Rafala pulled the mare a step ahead and the Malazan set her right foot into the stirrup, rose, reaching for the Seven Cities saddle horn, and then pulled herself astride the broad-backed beast.
The transfer was smooth and Rafala’s lips tightened, as if the notion of a compliment threatened nausea. She dropped back to come up behind Kisswhere, taking the reins of her warrior’s battle-horse. Moments later she was leading that mount away.
Kisswhere looked over to see Gall grinning. ‘I know just the place,’ he said.
The Barghast barked a laugh.
‘Ride with the Khundryl then,’ Krughava said to her. ‘Lead them to the Bonehunters.’
Gods below- how to get out of this? ‘I fear I would only slow them, Mortal Sword. While this mount is fresh I, alas, am not.’
‘Ever slept between two horses?’ Gall asked.
‘Excuse me?’
‘A slung hammock, Kisswhere, with tent poles to keep the beasts apart. This is how we carry wounded whilst on the move.’
All these women, looking at her. Knowing, seeing what the men did not. Showing all your sharp little teeth, are you? So delighted to see me trapped. To Gall she said, ‘If it comes to that need, Warleader, I will tell you.’
‘Very good,’ the warrior replied. ‘Then, let us ride to my Burned Tears. Highness, Mortal Sword, when next we meet it shall be in the Adjunct’s command tent. Until then, travel well and may the gods be blinded by your dust.’
Kisswhere set off with the Warleader and they cut eastward and slightly arrears to where the main mass of the horse-warriors rode in loose formations. Once clear of the vanguard, Gall said, ‘My apologies, soldier. I see that you have discarded your uniform, and the last place you want to go is back to where you came from. But the Mortal Sword is a stern woman. Not one Perish Grey Helm has ever deserted, and should one ever try, I doubt they’d manage to live long. She would have acted on the Adjunct’s behalf, no matter the consequences. In every army imaginable, the Bonehunters included I’m sure, desertion is a death sentence.’
Not stupid after all. ‘I was commanded to give nothing away whilst riding alone, Warleader, and so I wore nothing that could be construed to be a uniform.’
‘Ah, I see. Then I must apologize a second time, Kisswhere.’
She shrugged. ‘My sister walks in that column, Warleader. How could I not seek to return as quickly as possible?’
‘Of course. I understand now.’
He fell into something like an amiable silence as they approached the Burned Tears. She wondered if he’d been fooled. True, simple wasn’t necessarily the same as stupid, after all. She’d given reasonable answers, with only a hint of affront. Aye, a little dignity before the insult, as my mother used to say, makes a fine weapon.
‘She will be delighted to see you again, I am sure.’
Kisswhere shot the man a searching look, but said nothing.
Columnar clouds heaped the western horizon ahead, and Masan Gilani could feel a cool breeze freshening against her face. She had taken to spelling her horse every three or so leagues, but the animal was wearying nonetheless. It was this detail that killed most deserters, she knew. The pursuing troop would be leading spare mounts, whilst the fool on the fly generally had nothing but the lone beast he or she was riding.
Of course, no one was chasing her, which, oddly enough, did nothing to assuage her guilt. She belonged with her squad, sharing mouthfuls of the same dust, cursing at the same whining flies. And, if things were as bad as people had intimated, she wanted to be there, right beside her friends, to face whatever arrived. Instead, here she was, hunting for… for what? For the tenth time this day she reached to brush her hand against the small leather pouch tied to her belt, confirming it was still there. Lose it, she knew, and this whole mission was a failure.
It probably already is, anyway. I can’t find what I can’t see, pouch or no pouch.
She could see the rain ahead and not much else, grey-blue sheets angling down on the sliding wind, the curtains sweeping across the land. More misery to add to this overflowing kitty. This is pointless. I’m looking for ghosts. Real ghosts? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe just the ghosts living in the Adjunct’s head, those old hoary hags of lost allegiances and forgotten promises. Tavore, you expect too much. You always did.
Rain spat into her face, swarmed the ground until it seemed the dust danced like crazed ants. In moments all visibility beyond a few dozen paces vanished. She was now more blinded to what she was looking for than at any other time.
The world mocked.
Pointless. I’m going back-
Five figures stood before her, grey as the rain, dull as the muddy dust, sudden as a dream. Cursing, she reined in, fought with her panicking horse. Gravel skittered. The beast snorted, hoofs stamping in the sluicing streams and puddles.
‘We are who you seek.’
She could not tell which one the voice came from. She grasped the pouch containing the seething dirt, gift of the Atri-Ceda Aranict, and gasped at its sudden heat.
They were corpses one and all. T’lan Imass. Battered, broken, limbs missing, weapons dangling from seemingly senseless hands of bone wrapped in blackened skin. Long hair, dirty blond and rust red, was plastered down round their desiccated faces, where rainwater ran like eternal tears.
Breathing hard, Masan Gilani studied them for a time, and then she said, ‘Just five of you? No others?’
‘We are who remain.’
She thought the one speaking was the one standing closest to her, but could not be certain. The rain was a roar around them all, the wind moaning as if trapped in an enormous cave. ‘There should be… more,’ she insisted. ‘There was a vision-’
‘We are the ones you seek.’
‘Are you summoned then?’
‘We are.’ And the lead T’lan Imass pointed to the pouch at her hip. ‘Thenik is incomplete.’
‘Which one of you is Thenik?’
The creature on the outside right stepped forward. Every bone looked to be shattered, with splinters and chips missing. A crazed web of cracks broke up its face beneath a helm made from the skull of some unknown beast.
Fumbling with the ties, Masan finally managed to pull free the pouch. She tossed it over. Thenik made no move to catch it. The pouch landed at its feet, sank into a puddle.
‘Thenik thanks you,’ said the speaker. ‘I am Urugal the Woven. With me is Thenik the Shattered, Beroke Soft Voice, Kahlb the Silent Hunter and Halad the Giant. We are the Unbound, who once numbered seven. Now we are five. Soon we shall be seven again-there are fallen kin in this land. Some refuse the enemy. Some will not follow the one who leads nowhere.’
Frowning, Masan Gilani shook her head. ‘You’ve lost me. No matter. I was sent to find you. Now we must return to the Bonehunters-my army-it’s where-’
‘Yes, she is the hunter of bones indeed,’ Urugal said. ‘Her hunt is soon complete. Ride on your beast. We shall follow.’
She wiped water from her eyes. ‘Thought there’d be more of you,’ she muttered, gathering her reins and dragging her horse round. ‘Can you keep up?’ she asked over one shoulder.
‘You are the banner before us, mortal.’
Masan Gilani’s frown deepened. She’d heard something like that before… somewhere.
Four leagues to the northwest, Onos T’oolan suddenly halted, the first time in days. Something not far away had brushed his senses, but now it was gone. T’lan Imass. Strangers. He hesitated, as the more distant and altogether different wave of compulsion returned, insistent, desperate. He knew its flavour, had known its flavour for weeks now. This was what Toc the Younger had sought, what he had demanded of the First Sword.
But he was no longer the friend Toc once knew, just as Toc was no longer the friend Tool himself remembered. The past was both dead and alive, but between them it was simply dead.
The summons was Malazan. It was the claim of alliance as had been forged long ago, between the Emperor and the Logros T’lan Imass. Somewhere to the east, a Malazan force waited. Danger approached, and the T’lan Imass must stand with allies of old. Such was duty. Such was the ink of honour, written so deep as to stain the immortal soul.
He defied the command. Duty was dead. Honour was a lie-see what the Senan had done to his wife, his children. Mortality was the realm of deceit; the sordid room of horror hid in the house of the living, its walls crusted and streaked, dark stains on the warped floor. Dust crowded the corners, dust made of skin flakes and snarls of hair, nail clippings and clots of phlegm. Every house had its secret room, where memories howled in the thick silence.
He had once been of the Logros. He was no longer. He had one duty now and it was truly lifeless. Nothing would turn him aside, not the wishes of Toc the Younger, not the mad aspirations of Olar Ethil-oh yes, he knew she was close, far too clever to come within his reach, knowing well that he would kill her, destroy her utterly. Demands and expectations descended like that distant rain to the southwest, but it all washed from him and left no trace.
There had been a time when Onos Toolan had chosen to stand close to mortal humans; when he had turned his back upon his own kind, and in so doing he had rediscovered the wonders of gentler emotions, the sensual pleasures of camaraderie and friendship. The gifts of humour and love. And then, at last, he had achieved the rebirth of his life-a true life.
That man had taken that life, for reasons even he could barely understand-a flush of empathy, the fullest cost of humanity paid out in the blade pushing into his chest. Strength fell away, in some other direction than the one taken by his sagging body. He had looked out on the world until all meaning drained of colour.
They had done unspeakable things to his corpse. Desecration was the wound delivered upon the dead, and the living did so with careless conceit-no, they would never lie motionless on the ground. They would never rise from cold meat and bones to witness all that was done to the body that been the only home they had ever known. It did not even occur to them that the soul could suffer from phantom agony, the body like a severed hand.
And his adopted kin had simply looked on, stone-eyed. Telling themselves that Tool’s soul was gone from that mangled thing being dismembered on the bloody grasses; that the laughter and mockery could not reach unseen ears.
Could they even have guessed that love alone was of such power that Tool’s soul had also witnessed the hobbling of his wife and the rapes that followed? That, unable to find his children, he had at last set out for the underworld-to find his beloved Hetan, his family, to escape with finality the cruel spikes of the mortal realm?
And you turned me away. Toc. My friend. You turned me back… to this.
He was not that man, not any more. He was not the First Sword either. He was not a warrior of the Logros. He was none of these things.
He was a weapon.
Onos T’oolan resumed his march. The summons meant nothing. Nothing to him, at any rate. Besides, in a very short time it would cease. For evermore.
There was no road leading them through the Wastelands; no road to take them to their destiny, whatever destiny that happened to be. Accordingly, the companies marched in loose units of six squads, and each company was separated from the others yet close enough to those of their own legion to link if need demanded. Groups of six squads were arranged as befitted their function: marines at the core, the mixed units of heavies next, and outside of them the medium regular infantry, with skirmishers forming the outermost curtain.
The massive column that was the supply train forged its own route, hundreds of ox-drawn wagons and bawling herds of goats, sheep, cattle and rodara that would soon begin to starve in this lifeless land. Herd dogs loped round their charges and beyond them the riders entrusted with driving the beasts kept a watchful eye for any strays that might elude the dogs-although none did.
Flanking wings of lancers and mounted archers protected the sides of the column; units of scouts rode well ahead of the vanguard while others ranged on the south flank and arrears, but not to the north, where marched the legions and brigades under command of Brys Beddict. His columns were arranged in tighter formation, replete with its own supply train-almost as big as the Malazan one. Bluerose cavalry rode in wide flank, sending scouts deep into the wastes in a constant cycle of riders and horses.
Mounted, Commander Brys Beddict rode to the inside of his column, close to its head. Off to his right at a distance of about two hundred paces were the Malazans. Riding beside him on his left was Aranict, and they were in turn trailed by a half-dozen messengers. The heat was savage, and the water-wagons were fast being drained of their stores. The Letherii herds of myrid and rodara could manage this land better than sheep and cattle, but before long even they would begin to suffer. The meals at the beginning of this trek across the Wastelands would be heavy on meat, Brys knew, but then things would change.
What lay beyond this forbidding stretch of dead ground? From what he could glean-and rumours served in place of any direct knowledge-there was a desert of some sort, yet one known to possess caravan tracks, and beyond that the plains of the Elan people, a possible offshoot of the Awl. The Elan Plains bordered on the east the kingdoms and city-states of Kolanse and the Pelasiar Confederacy.
The notion of taking an army across first the Wastelands and then a desert struck Brys as sheer madness. Yet, somehow, the very impossibility of it perversely appealed to him, and had they been at war with those distant kingdoms, it would have signified a bold invasion sure to achieve legendary status. Of course, as far as he knew, there was no war and no cause for war. There was nothing but ominous silence from Kolanse. Perhaps indeed this was an invasion, but if so, it was not a just one. No known atrocities demanding retribution, nor a declaration of hostilities from an advancing empire to be answered. We know nothing.
What happens to the soul of a soldier who knows he or she is in the wrong? That they are the aggressors, the bringers of savagery and violence? The notion worried Brys, for the answers that arrived were grim ones. Something breaks inside. Something howls. Something dreams of suicide. And, as commander, he would be to blame. As much as his brother, Tehol. For they were the leaders, the ones in charge, the ones using the lives of thousands of people as mere playing pieces on some stained board.
It is one thing to lead soldiers into war. And it is one thing to send them into a war. But it is, it seems to me, wholly another to lead and send them into a war that is itself a crime. Are we to be so indifferent to the suffering we will inflict on our own people and upon innocent victims in unknown lands?
In his heart dwelt the names of countless lost gods. Many had broken the souls of their worshippers. Many others had been broken by the mortal madness of senseless wars, of slaughter and pointless annihilation. Of the two, the former suffered a torment of breathtaking proportions. There was, in the very end-there must be-judgement. Not upon the fallen, not upon the victims, but upon those who had orchestrated their fates.
Of course, he did not know if such a thing was true. Yes, he could sense the suffering among those gods whose names he held within him, but perhaps it was his own knowledge that engendered such anguish, and that anguish belonged to his own soul, cursed to writhe in an empathic trap. Perhaps he was doing nothing more than forcing his own sense of righteous punishment upon those long-dead gods. And if so, by what right could he do such a thing?
Troubling notions. Yet onward his legions marched. Seeking answers to questions the Adjunct alone knew. This went beyond trust, beyond even faith. This was a sharing of insanity, and in its maelstrom they were all snared, no matter what fate awaited them.
I should be better than this. Shouldn’t I? I lead, but can I truly protect? When I do not know what awaits us?
‘Commander.’
Startled from his dark thoughts, he straightened in his saddle and looked over to his Atri-Ceda. ‘My apologies, were you speaking?’
Aranict wiped sweat from an oddly pale face, hesitated.
‘I believe you are struck with heat. Dismount, and I will send for-’
‘No, sir.’
‘Atri-Ceda-’
He saw the wash of terror and panic rise into her face. ‘We are in the wrong place! Commander! Brys! We have to get out of here! We have to-we are in the wrong place!’
At that moment, thunder hammered through the earth, a drum roll that went on, and on-
Dust storm or an army? Keneb squinted in the bright glare. ‘Corporal.’
‘Sir.’
‘Ride to the vanguard. I think we’ve sighted the Khundryl and Perish.’
‘Yes, sir!’
As the rider cantered off, Keneb glanced to his left. Brys’s columns had edged slightly ahead-the Malazans had been anything but spry this day. Moods were dark, foul, discipline was crumbling. Knots of acid in his stomach had awakened him this morning, painful enough to start tears in his eyes. The worst of it had passed, but he knew he had to find a capable healer soon.
A sudden wind gusted into his face, smelling of something bitter.
He saw Blistig riding out from his legion, angling towards him. Now what?
Head pounding, Banaschar trudged alongside a heavily laden wagon. He was parched inside, as parched as this wretched land. He held his gaze on the train of oxen labouring in their yokes, the flicking tails, the swarming flies, the fine coat of dust rising up their haunches and flanks. Hoofs thumped on the hard ground.
Hearing some muttering from the troop marching a few paces to his right, he lifted his eyes. The sky had suddenly acquired a sickly hue. Wind buffeted him, tasting of grit, stinging his eyes.
Damned dust storm. She’ll have to call a halt. She’ll have to-
No, that colour was wrong. Mouth dry as stone, he felt a tightening in his throat, a pain in his chest.
Gods no. That wind is the breath of a warren. It’s-oh, Worm of Autumn, no.
He staggered as convulsions took him. Half-blinded in pain, he fell on to his knees.
Sergeant Sunrise dropped his kit bag and hurried over to the fallen priest’s side. ‘Rumjugs! Get Bavedict! He’s looking bad here-’
‘He’s a drunk,’ snapped Sweetlard.
‘No-looks worse than that. Rumjugs-’
‘I’m going-’
Thunder shook the ground beneath them. Cries rose from countless beasts. Something seemed to ripple through the ranks of soldiery, an unease, an instant of uncertainty stung awake. Voices shouted questions but no answers came back, and the confusion rose yet higher.
Sweetlard stumbled against Sunrise, almost knocking him over as he crouched beside the priest. He could hear the old man mumbling, saw his head rock as if buffeted by unseen blows. Something spattered the back of Sunrise’s left hand and he looked down to see drops of blood. ‘Errant’s push! Who stabbed him? I didn’t see-’
‘Someone knifed him?’ Sweetlard demanded.
‘I don’t-I ain’t-here, help me get him round-’
The thunder redoubled. Oxen lowed. Wheels rocked side to side with alarming creaks. Sunrise looked skyward, saw nothing but a solid golden veil of dust. ‘We got us a damned storm-where’s Bavedict? Sweet-go find ’em, will ya?’
‘Thought you wanted my help?’
‘Wait-get Hedge-get the commander-this guy’s sweating blood all over his skin! Right out through the pores! Hurry!’
‘Something’s happening,’ Sweetlard said, now standing directly over him.
Her tone chilled Sunrise to the core.
Captain Ruthan Gudd drew a ragged breath, savagely pushing the nausea away, and the terror that flooded through him in its wake had him reaching for his sword. Roots of the Azath, what was that? But he could see nothing-the dust had slung an ochre canopy across the sky, and on all sides soldiers were suddenly milling, as if they had lost their way-but nothing lay ahead, just empty stretches of land. Teeth bared, Ruthan Gudd kicked his skittish horse forward, rising in his stirrups. His sword was in his hand, steam whirling from its white, strangely translucent blade.
He caught sight of it from the corner of his eye. ‘Hood’s fist!’ The skeins of sorcery that had disguised the weapon-in layers thick and tangled with centuries of magic-had been torn away. Deathly cold burned his hand. She answers. She answers… what?
He pulled free of the column.
A seething line had appeared along a ridge of hills to the southeast.
The thunder rolled on, drawing ever closer. Iron glittered as if tipped with diamond shards, like teeth gnawing through the summits of those hills. The swarming motion pained his eyes.
He saw riders peeling out from the vanguard. Parley flags whipping from upended spears. Closer to hand, foot-soldiers staring at him and his damned weapon, others stumbling from the bitter cold streaming in his wake. His own armour-clad thighs and the back of his horse were rimed in frost.
She answers-as she has never answered before. Gods below, spawn of the Azath-I smell-oh, gods no-
‘Form up! Marines form up! First line on the ridge-skirmishers! Get out of there, withdraw!’ Fiddler wasn’t waiting, not for anything. He couldn’t see the captain but it didn’t matter. He felt as if he’d swallowed a hundred caltrops. The air stank. Pushing past a confused Koryk and then a white-faced Smiles, he caught sight of the squad directly ahead.
‘Balm! Deadsmell-awaken your warrens! Same for Widdershins-where’s Cord, get Ebron-’
‘Sergeant!’
He twisted back, saw Faradan Sort forcing her horse through the milling soldiers.
‘What are you doing?’ she demanded. ‘It’s some foreign army out there-we’ve sent emissaries. You’re panicking the soldiers-’
Fiddler caught Tarr’s level gaze. ‘See they’re formed up-toss the word out fast as it can go, you understand, Corporal?’
‘Aye sir-’
‘Sergeant!’
Fiddler pushed his way to the captain, reached up and dragged her down from the saddle. Cursing, she flailed, unbalanced. As her full weight caught him, Fiddler staggered and then went down, Sort on top of him. In her ear he said, ‘Get the fuck off that horse and stay off it. Those emissaries are already dead, even if they don’t know it. We need to dig in, Captain, and we need to do it now.’
She lifted herself up, face dark with anger, and then glared into his eyes. Whatever she saw in them was hard and sharp as a slap. Sort rolled to one side and rose. ‘Someone get this horse out of here. Where’s our signaller? Flags up: prepare for battle. Ridge defence. Foot to dig in, munitions spread second trench-get on it, damn you!’
Most of the damned soldiers were doing nothing but get in the way. Snarling and cursing, Bottle forced through the press until he reached the closest supply wagon. He scrambled on to it, pulling himself by the rope netting until he was atop the heaped bales. Then he stood.
A half-dozen of the Adjunct’s emissaries were cantering towards that distant army.
The sky above the strangers swarmed with… birds? No. Rhinazan… and some bigger things. Bigger… enkar’al? Wyval? He felt sick enough to void his bowels. He knew that smell. It had soaked into his brain ever since he’d crawled through a shredded tent. That army isn’t human. Adjunct, your emissaries-
Something blinding arced out from the foremost line of one of the distant phalanxes. It cut a ragged path above the ground until it struck the mounted emissaries. Bodies burst into flames. Burning horses reeled and collapsed in clouds of ash.
Bottle stared. Hood’s holy shit.
Sinter ran as fast as she could, cutting between ranks of soldiers. They were finally digging in, while the supply train-the wagons herded like enormous beasts between mounted archers and lancers-had swung northward, forcing, she saw, the Letherii forces to divide almost in half to permit the retreating column through their ranks.
That wasn’t good. She could see the chaos rippling out as the huge wagons plunged into the narrow avenue. Pikes pitched and wavered to either side, the press making figures stumble and fall.
Not her problem. She looked ahead once again, saw the vanguard, saw the Adjunct, Captain Yil, Fists Blistig and Keneb and a score or so honour guard and mounted staff. Tavore was issuing commands and riders were winging out to various units. There wasn’t much time. The distant hills had been swallowed by marching phalanxes, a dozen in sight and more coming-and each formation looked massive. Five thousand? Six? The thunder was the measure of their strides, steady, unceasing. The sky behind them was the colour of bile, winged creatures swarming above the rising dust.
Those soldiers. They aren’t people. They aren’t human-gods below, they are huge.
She reached the vanguard. ‘Adjunct!’
Tavore’s helmed head snapped round.
‘Adjunct, we must retreat! This is wrong! This isn’t-’
‘Sergeant,’ Tavore’s voice cut through like a blade’s edge. ‘There is no time. Furthermore, our obvious avenue of retreat happens to be blocked by the Letherii legions-’
‘Send a rider to Brys-’
‘We have done so, Sergeant-’
‘They aren’t human!’
Flat eyes regarded her. ‘No, they are not. K’Chain-’
‘They don’t want us! We’re just in their fucking way!’
Expressionless, the Adjunct said, ‘It is clear they intend to engage us, Sergeant.’
Wildly, Sinter turned to Keneb. ‘Fist, please! You need to explain-’
‘Sinter,’ said Tavore, ‘K’Chain Nah’ruk.’
Keneb’s face had taken on the colour of the sickly sky. ‘Return to your squad, Sergeant.’
Quick Ben stood wrapped in his leather cloak, thirty paces on from the Malazan vanguard. He was alone. Three hundred paces behind him the Letherii companies were wheeling to form a bristling defensive line along the ridge on which the column had been marching. They had joined their supply train and herds to the Bonehunters’ and it seemed an entire city and all its livestock was wheeling northward in desperate flight. Brys intended to defend that retreat. The High Mage understood the logic of that. It marked, perhaps, the last rational moment of this day.
Ill luck. Stupid, pathetic, miserable mischance. It was absurd. It was sickening beyond all belief. Which gods had clutched together to spin this madness? He had told the Adjunct all he knew. As soon as the warren’s mouth had spread wide, as soon as the earth trembled to the first heavy footfall of the first marching phalanx. We saw their sky keeps. We knew they weren’t gone. We knew they were gathering.
But that was so far away, and so long ago now.
The reek of their oils was heavy on the wind that still poured out from the warren. Beyond the ochre veil he could see a deepness, a darkness that did not belong.
They have come here, to the Wastelands.
They have been this way before.
Ambitions and desires spun like ash from a pyre. All at once, it was clear that nothing was important, nothing beyond this moment and what was about to begin. Could anyone have predicted this? Could anyone have pierced the solid unknown of the future, carving through to this scene?
There were times, he knew, when even the gods staggered back, reeled with bloodied faces. No, the gods didn’t manage this. They could not guess the Adjunct’s heart, that wellspring so full with all she would reveal to none. We were ever the shaved knuckle, but in whose hand would we be found? None knew. None could even dream…
He stood alone, warrens awake and seething within him. He would do what he could, for as long as he was able. And then he would fall, and there would be no one left but a score of squad mages and the Atri-Ceda.
On this day, we shall witness the death of friends. On this day, we may well join them.
The High Mage Adaephon Ben Delat drew from a pouch a handful of acorns and flung them to the ground. He squinted once more at the deepness beyond the veil, and then down to the Nah’ruk legions. Monstrous in their implacability-steal one away and it’s damned near mindless. Gather them in their thousands, and their will becomes one… and that will is… gods below… it is so very cold…
The Nah’ruk were half again as tall as a man and perhaps twice the weight. Little of their upper bodies could be seen, even as they drew to within two hundred paces, for they were clad in sheaths of enamel or boiled-leather armour extending out to their upper arms and reaching down to protect their forward-thrusting thighs. The stubs of their tails bore similar armour, but in finer scales. Wide helms enclosed their heads, short snouts emerging between ornate cheek-guards. Those in the front lines held arcane clubs of some sort, blunt-ended and wrapped in bundles of what looked like wire. For each dozen or so, one warrior walked burdened beneath a massive ceramic pack that sat high on its shoulders.
Behind this first line of warriors the other ranks carried short-handled halberds or falchions, held vertically. Each phalanx presented a breadth of at least a hundred warriors, all marching in perfect time, upper bodies leaning forward above their muscled, reptilian legs. There were no standards, no banners, and no obvious vanguard of commanders. As far as Ruthan Gudd could determine, there was nothing to distinguish one from another, barring those wearing the strange kit bags.
Frost glistened from his entire body now, and ice had spread thick as armour to encase the horse beneath him. It was already dead, he knew, but the ice knew to answer his commands. He rode a dozen paces ahead of the front line of Malazans, knowing that countless eyes were upon him, knowing they were struggling to understand what they were seeing-not just this alien army so clearly intent on their annihilation, but Ruthan Gudd himself, out here astride a horse sheathed in ice, the ice murky with hints of the form it had engulfed.
He held the Stormrider sword as if it was an extension of his forearm-ice had crept up to his shoulder, gleaming yet flowing as would water.
Eyeing the Nah’ruk, he muttered under his breath. ‘Yes, you see me. You mark me. Send your fury my way. First and last, strike me…’
Behind him, from haphazard trenches, an ominous hush. The Bonehunters crouched as if pinned to the ground, caught unawares, so rocked by the unexpected impossibility of this that not a single defiant shout sounded, not a single weapon hammered the rim of a shield. Though he did not turn round, he knew that all motion had ceased. No more orders to be given. None were, truth be told, necessary.
By his rough count, over forty thousand Nah’ruk were advancing upon them. He almost caught an echo of the cacophony only moments away, as if the future’s walls were about to be shattered, flinging horror back into the past-to this moment, to ring deafeningly in his skull.
‘Too bad,’ he muttered. ‘It was such a pretty day.’
‘Hood’s breath, who is that?’
Adjunct Tavore’s eyes narrowed. ‘Captain Ruthan Gudd.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Lostara Yil replied. ‘What’s happened to him?’
In answer the Adjunct could only shake her head.
Lostara shifted on her horse, free hand drifting to the knife at her belt, and then twitching away. Sword, you idiot. Not the knife. The stupid sword. A face drifted into her mind. Henar Vygulf. He would be with Brys right now, ready to set off with orders. The Letherii were set back, forming two distinct outside flanks, like the outer bends of a bow. They would witness the collision of the front lines, and then, she hoped, they’d quickly see the suicidal insanity of standing against these damned lizards, and Brys would deliberately rout his army. Get the Hood out of here-leave all the gear behind-just flee. Don’t die like us, don’t stand just because we’re standing. Just get out, Brys-Henar-I pray you. I beg you.
She heard horse hoofs and glanced over to see Fist Keneb riding down the length of the humped berm, passing the ranks of his dug-in soldiers. What’s he doing?
He was riding for Captain Ruthan Gudd.
Tavore spoke. ‘Sound horn, signaller-order Fist Keneb to personally withdraw.’
A blast of wails lifted into the air.
‘He’s ignoring it,’ Lostara said. ‘The fool!’
Quick Ben caught sight of Ruthan Gudd and he grunted. I’ll be damned. A Maelbit Nerruse-whore-spawn Stormrider. Who knew?
But what was he doing out front like that? After a moment, the High Mage swore under his breath. You want ’em to take you first. You want to draw them to you. You’re giving the Bonehunters a dozen heartbeats to realize what they have to deal with. Captain Ruthan Gudd, or whoever you are… gods, what can I possibly say? Go well, Captain.
Go well.
Swearing, Keneb savagely drove his spurs into the flanks of his mount. That was Ruthan Gudd, and if the fool wasn’t what he pretended to be, then the Malazans needed him more than ever. The man could be a damned god but single-handedly charging those things will still see him chopped to pieces. Ruthan! We need you-whoever and whatever you are-we need you alive!
Could he reach him in time?
Captain Skanarow kicked at one of her soldiers, pushing the idiot back into the shallow trench. ‘Keep digging!’ she snarled, and then returned her attention to that gleaming figure riding out towards the lizards. You stupid lying bastard! A Stormrider? Impossible-they live in the damned seas.
Ruthan, please, what are you doing?
Seeing the first line of the nearest phalanx level their bizarre clubs, Ruthan Gudd gritted his teeth. This Stormrider crap had better work. But gods below, it does hurt to wear. He wheeled his mount to face the Nah’ruk, and then raised high his sword.
Sunlight flashed through the ice.
A rider was coming up from behind and to his left. Poor bastard. That’s what you get for taking orders. Without a backward glance, he drove his spurs into the flanks of his mount. Sparks flashed from the ice. The beast lunged forward.
You sorry Malazans. Watch me, and then ask yourself: How deep can you dig?
Fiddler cocked his crossbow, carefully inserted a sharper-headed quarrel. Now that it was happening, he felt fine. Nothing more to be done, was there? Everything was alight, cut clear, the colours of the world suddenly saturated, beautiful beyond belief. He could taste it. He could taste it all. ‘Everybody loaded?’
Grunts and nods from his squad, all of them crouched down in the trench.
‘Keep your heads right down,’ Fiddler told them again. ‘We’ll hear the charge, count on it. Nobody pokes up for a look until my say so, understood?’
He saw, a few squads down, Balgrid edging up for a look. The healer shouted, ‘Gudd’s charging them!’
Along the entire line of marines, helmed heads sprung up like mushrooms.
Fuck!
Crump was on his hands and knees, a clutch of sharpers set like black-turtle eggs in a shallow pit pushed into the stony floor of the trench.
Ebron stared in horror. ‘Have you lost your mind? Spread ’em down the line, you idiot!’
Crump looked up, eyes widening. ‘Can’t do that, mage. They’re mine! All I got left!’
‘Someone could step on them!’
But Crump was shaking his head. ‘I’m protecting them, mage!’
Ebron swung round. ‘Cord! Sergeant! It’s Crump! He’s-’
The wire-bound clubs in the front line seemed to ignite like torches. Lightning arced from the blunt heads, two serpentine tendrils snaking into the air. From each weapon, one of the bolts twisted and spun to sink into one of the strange ceramic packs-a dozen such arcs for each pack. The second crackling tongue of white fire seemed to throb for an instant, and then as one they lashed out, a score or more converging on the charging, ice-clad rider and horse.
The detonation engulfed Ruthan Gudd and his mount, tore gouts of earth and stone from the ground in a broad, ragged crater.
An instant before the explosion, other front lines had awakened their own weapons, and even as the flash erupted, hundreds of bolts snapped out to strike the front trench.
On his way back to the squad, Bottle was thrown down into the trench, the impact punching the breath from his lungs. Gaping, his head tilted to one side, he saw a row of bodies lifted into the air along the entire length of the berm-all those who had climbed up to watch Ruthan’s charge. Marines, most of them headless or missing everything above their rib cages, twisted amidst dirt and rocks and pieces of armour and weapons.
Still unable to breathe, he saw a second wave of the sorcery lance directly over his trench. The ground shook as ranks behind him were struck. The blue of the sky vanished behind thick clouds. Bodies sailed in and out of those churning clouds.
Bottle writhed, deaf, his lungs howling. He felt the muted impacts of sharpers, too close, too random-
A hand reached down out of the sudden gloom and closed on his chest harness. He was dragged out from the slumped side of the collapsed trench.
Bottle coughed out a mouthful of earth, hacked agonizing breaths, his throat afire. Tarr’s spattered face was above him, shouting-but Bottle could hear nothing. No matter, he pushed Tarr back, nodding. I’m all right. No, honest. I’m fine-where’s my crossbow?
Keneb had come too close. The detonation caught him and his horse and literally ripped them both to pieces. Chunks of flesh sprayed outward. Ebron, leaning hard over the berm, saw part of the Fist’s upper torso-a shoulder, a stub of the arm and a few splayed ribs-cartwheel skyward, lifted on a column of dirt.
Even as the mage stared, disbelieving, a sorcerous bolt caught him dead centre on his sternum. It tore through him, disintegrating his upper chest, shoulders and head.
Limp howled as one of Ebron’s arms flopped down across his thighs.
But no one heard him.
They had seen Quick Ben, but had elected to ignore him. He flinched as the first waves of lightning ploughed into the defences along the ridge. Thunder rattled the ground and the entire facing side of the Bonehunter army vanished inside churning clouds of dirt, stone, and dismembered bodies.
He saw the nodes recharging on the shoulders of the drones. How long? ‘No idea,’ he whispered. ‘Little acorns, listen. Go for the drones-the ones with the packs. Forget the rest… for now.’
Then he set out, walking down towards the nearest phalanx.
The Nah’ruk front was less than a hundred paces away.
They had seen him and now they took note. Lightning blistered all along the front line.
Horse clambering drunkenly from the crater, Ruthan Gudd shook his head, readying his blazing weapon. Dirt streamed down his back beneath his smeared, steaming armour. He spat grit.
That wasn’t so bad now.
Directly in front of him, twenty paces away, looming huge, the front line. Their eyes glittered like diamonds within the shadows beneath the rims of their ornate helms. The fangs lining their snouts glistened like shards of iron.
He had an inkling that they had not expected to see him again. He rode over to say hello.
‘Crossbows at the ready!’ Fiddler yelled. ‘Go for the nodes!’
‘The what?’
‘The lumpy ones! That’s where the magic’s coming from!’
Koryk scrambled to crouch beside Fiddler. The man was sheathed in bloody mud. ‘Who pops up for a look, Fid?’
‘I will,’ said Corabb, surging upward and clawing up the berm. ‘Gods below! That captain’s still alive! He’s in their ranks-’
As Corabb made to clamber out of the trench-clearly intending to join Gudd and charge the whole damned phalanx, Tarr reached out and dragged the fool back down.
‘Stay where you are, soldier! Get that crossbow-no, that one there! Load the fucker!’
‘Range, Corabb?’ Fiddler asked.
‘Forty and slowed, Sergeant-that captain’s carving right through ’em!’
‘Won’t matter much. I don’t care if he’s got Oponn’s poker up his ass, he’s only one man.’
‘We should help him!’
‘We can’t, Corabb,’ Fiddler said. ‘Besides, that’s the last thing he’d want-why d’you think he went out there on his own? Leave him, soldier. We got our own trouble come knocking. Koryk, you take the next look, count of ten. Nine, eight, seven-’
‘I ain’t getting my head blasted off!’
Fiddler swung his crossbow round to point at Koryk’s chest. ‘Four, three, two, one-up you go!’
Snarling, Koryk scrambled upward. Then was back down almost instantly. ‘Shit. Twenty-five and picking up speed!’
Fiddler raised his voice. ‘Everyone ready! The nodes! Hold it-hold it-NOW!’
Hedge led his Bridgeburners just to the rear of the last trenches. ‘I don’t care what Quick thinks, he’s always had backup, he never went it alone. Ever. So that’s us, soldiers-keep up there, Sweetlard! Look at Rumjugs, she ain’t even breathing hard-’
‘She’s forgotten how!’ Sweetlard gasped.
‘Remember what I said,’ Hedge reminded them, ‘Bridgeburners have faced worse than a bunch of stubby lizards. This ain’t nothing, right?’
‘We gonna win, Commander?’
Hedge glanced over at Sunrise. And grinned. ‘Count on it, Sergeant. Now, everyone, check your munitions, and remember to aim for the lumpy ones. We’re about to pull into the open-’
A concussion shook the very air, but it came from the Nah’ruk lines. A billowing black cloud rose like a stain of spilled ink.
‘Gods, what was that?’
Hedge’s grin broadened. ‘That, soldiers, was Quick Ben.’
Lightning arced out from hundreds of clubs, from multiple phalanxes to either side of the one he had attacked. The bolts snapped towards him, then slanted off as Quick Ben flung them aside. And I ain’t Tayschrenn and this ain’t Pale. Got no one behind me, so keep throwing them my way, y’damned geckos. Use it all up!
The first dozen or so ranks of the phalanx he’d struck were down, a few writhing or feebly struggling to rise with crushed limbs and snapped bones. Most were motionless, their bodies boiled from the inside out. As he walked towards those who remained, he saw them regrouping, forming a line to face him once more.
The huge falchions and halberds lifted in readiness.
Quick Ben extended his senses, until he could feel the very air around the creatures, could follow currents of that air as they slipped through gills into reptilian lungs. He reached out to encompass as many of them as possible.
And then he set the air on fire.
Lightning shunted from the High Mage, careened off into the sky and out to the sides.
Sergeant Sunrise shrieked as one bolt twisted and spun straight for Hedge. He flung himself forward, three paces that seemed to tear every muscle in his back and legs. He was a Bridgeburner. He was the man he had always wanted to be; he’d never stood taller, never walked straighter.
And all because of Hedge.
See me? Sunrise-
He was smiling as he flung himself into the lightning’s path.
Hedge’s sergeant erupted, blinding white, and then where he had been was nothing but swirling ashes. His soldiers were screaming behind him. Spinning, Hedge shouted, ‘Everyone down to the ground! We’ll wait it out-we wait it out!’
Fuck you, Quick-this ain’t Pale, you know! And you ain’t Tayschrenn!
Ruthan Gudd slashed down to either side, but the damned things were pressing in-they’d halted his forward progress. Heavy iron blades cracked and skittered against his horse, his thighs. The armour was showing cracks, but after each blow those fissures healed. His sword cut through helms and skulls, necks and limbs, but the Nah’ruk did not relent, closing tighter and tighter about him.
He heard concussions somewhere to his left, caught the stench of howling warrens being forced to do unspeakable things-Quick Ben, how much longer can you hide? Well, Ruthan knew he’d not be around to witness any revelations. They were taking him down with their sheer weight. His horse staggered, head thrashing and flinching with every savage downward strike of falchions.
The rest of the phalanx had moved past the knot trapping him, were ascending the ridge, only moments from reaching the first trench. He caught flashes of other phalanxes marching past.
Four blades struck him simultaneously, lifting him from the saddle with a splintering explosion of ice shards. Cursing, he twisted, lashing out even as he plunged into the maelstrom of reptilian limbs and iron weapons. And then taloned feet, slashing, stamping down. A blow to the face stunned him. White, and then blessed darkness.
Twelve paces. The surviving marines rose as one from the foremost trench. Crossbows thudded. Sharpers cracked and burners ignited. Directly before Fiddler, he saw his bolt glance off a node and then explode immediately behind the lizard’s head. The helm went spinning, whipping fragments of brain and bone in a wild cavorting tail of gore. The node blackened, and then exploded.
The concussion threw Fiddler back, down into the trench. Pieces of hide and meat rained down.
Half-winded, he struggled to reload his lobber. One last cusser-gotta get rid of it, before it goes up like those sharpers down the line-gods, we’ve been chewed up-
Shadows swept over the trench.
He looked up.
The Nah’ruk had arrived.
Corabb had managed to reload. Lifting his head, he saw a giant lizard rising above the berm, maw tilting down as if grinning at him.
His quarrel vanished into its soft throat, punched out through the back of its skull. The creature wobbled. Flinging away the crossbow, Corabb drew his sword and scrambled to his feet. He swung at the nearest shin. The impact nearly broke his wrist and the weapon’s edge bit deep into bone and jammed there.
Still the creature stood, twitches rippling through its massive body.
Corabb struggled to pull loose his sword.
To either side, Nah’ruk clambered over the berm, leapt down into the trench.
The backswing lifted Sergeant Primly into the air, and he rode the iron blade, his blood spilling down as if from a bucket. Shrieking, Neller flung himself on to the lizard’s left arm, pulled himself higher and then forced the sharper down between the enamel chest-plate and the greasy hide. Jaws snapped, closed on his face. Phlegm like acid splashed his eyes and skin. Howling, Neller tightened his grip on the sharper and then drove the fist of his other hand against the armour, directly opposite the munition.
Mulvan Dreader, driving a spear into the lizard’s belly, caught the blast as the creature’s chest exploded. Ceramic shrapnel shredded Mulvan’s neck, punching red gore into the air behind him. Neller was flung back, his right arm gone, his face a slashed, melting horror.
Primly’s corpse landed five paces away, a flopping thing painted crimson.
The lizard toppled.
Two more appeared behind it, falchions lifting.
Stumbling, Drawfirst set her shield and readied her sword. As Skulldeath leapt past her, landing in between the two Nah’ruk.
A bolt sizzled close to her horse’s head. Its muzzle and mane burst into flame. Skin peeled and cracked from mouth to shoulders. The animal collapsed. Lostara Yil managed to roll clear. The heat had flashed against her face and she could smell the stench of scorched hair. Staggering to her feet, she looked over to see a dozen staff riders down, roasted in their armour. The Adjunct was lifting herself from the carnage, her otataral sword in one hand.
‘Get me Keneb-’
‘Keneb’s dead, Adjunct,’ Lostara replied, staggering over. The world spun and then steadied.
Tavore straightened. ‘Where-’
Lostara reached the woman, pulled her down to the ground. ‘You shouldn’t even be alive, Tavore. Stay here-you’re in shock. Stay here-I’ll find help-’
‘Quick Ben-the High Mage-’
‘Aye.’ Lostara stood over the Adjunct, who was sitting as would a child. The captain looked over to where she’d last seen Quick Ben.
He’d annihilated an entire phalanx, and where it had been the fires of superheated flesh, hide and bone still raged in an inferno. She saw him marching towards another phalanx, above him the sky convulsing, blackening like a bruise.
Sorcery erupted from the High Mage, struck the phalanx. Burning corpses lifted into the air.
‘I see him. Adjunct-I can’t-’
From the darkness in the sky a sudden glow, blinding, and then an enormous spear of lightning descended. She saw the High Mage look up, saw him raise his arms-and then the bolt struck. The explosion could have levelled a tenement block. Even the Nah’ruk in the phalanx thirty or more paces away were flattened like sheaves of wheat. Flanking units buckled on the facing sides.
The shock wave staggered Lostara, stole her breath, deafened her. Hands to her face, she slumped down, struck the ground hard.
Pearl?
Skanarow threw herself down into the second trench where the heavies were waiting. ‘The marines are overrun! Sound the fall-back-and make room for the survivors-let ’em through! Get ready to hold this trench!’
She saw a messenger, unhorsed, crouching behind the headless corpse of a heavy. ‘You-find Captain Kindly. I just saw the vanguard go down-and I don’t know where Blistig is, so as far as I’m concerned Kindly’s now in command. Tell him, we need to begin a retreat-we can’t hold. Understood?’
The young man nodded.
‘Go.’
Brys flinched as the Nah’ruk lines struck the Malazan defences. He saw the heavy falchions descending. Barely slowing, the lizards swarmed over the first trench and began closing on the next one.
‘Aranict-’
‘I think she lives, Commander.’
Brys swung round in his saddle, caught the eyes of his outriders. ‘We need to retrieve the Adjunct. Volunteers only.’
One rider pushed through the others. Henar Vygulf.
Brys nodded. ‘Get your spare horses, Lieutenant.’
The huge Bluerose saluted.
‘When you have them,’ Brys said before the man turned away, ‘ride for the supply train.’
The soldier frowned.
Brys gritted his teeth. ‘I will not stand here watching this slaughter. We will close with the enemy.’
They saw the impossibly thick bolt of lightning tear down from the dark stain ahead. As the shockwaves drummed through the ground, Warleader Gall raised an arm to signal a halt. He faced Kisswhere, his face ashen. ‘I am sending you to the Mortal Sword Krughava-tell her the Malazans are assailed, and that the Khundryl ride to their succour.’
She stared at the man. ‘Warleader-’
‘Ride, soldier-you are not Khundryl-you do not understand what it is to fight from a horse. Tell Krughava the gods were cruel this day, for she will not reach the Malazans in time.’
‘Who is their enemy?’ Kisswhere demanded. ‘Your shamans-’
‘Are blind. We know less than you. Ride, Kisswhere.’
She swung her horse round.
Gall rose in his stirrups and faced his warriors. He drew his tulwar and held it high. And said nothing.
In answer, six thousand weapons were freed and lifted skyward.
Gall pulled his horse round. ‘Ride ahead, Rafala, until you sight the enemy.’
The woman kicked her mount into a gallop.
After a moment, Gall led his army after her, at a quick canter, and the sound of thunder grew louder, and the yellow sky deepened to brown in which flashes bloomed like wounds.
He wondered what his wife was doing.
Worse than chopping down trees. Fiddler gave up trying to hack through legs and began hamstringing the bastards, ducking the slashes of notched weapons, dodging the downward swings. The surviving Malazans had been driven from the first trench, were now struggling to hold a fighting withdrawal across the ten paces to the heavies’ trench.
Crossbow quarrels and arrows spat out from the troops arrayed behind the heavies, winging at heights mercifully above the heads of the soldiers in their desperate retreat. Most missiles shattered against enamel, but a few were punching through, finding gaps in the Nah’ruk’s armour. Beasts were toppling here and there.
But not enough. The phalanx was a machine, devouring everything in its path.
Fiddler had lost his cusser and lobber in the first trench. The shortsword felt puny as a thorn in his hand. A glancing blow had sent his helm flying and blood streamed down the right side of his head.
He saw Koryk pushing his sword through a Nah’ruk’s neck; saw another lizard step in behind the man, halberd lifting high. Bolts punched into both armpits. The creature fell forward, burying Koryk. Smiles rushed over, diving and rolling to evade a lashing falchion.
Cuttle stumbled up against Fiddler. ‘Retreat’s sounded!’
‘I heard-’
‘Quick Ben’s been Rannalled, Fid-that giant strike-’
‘I know. Forget him-help me get the squad back-the heavies will hold, enough so we can regroup. Go on, I ain’t seen Corabb or Bottle-’
Nah’ruk and human corpses half-buried Bottle, but he was in no hurry to move. He saw more of the lizards marching past on all sides.
We never even slowed them.
Quick, whatever happened to subtlety?
He could see a sliver of sky, could see the wyval wheeling round up there, eager to descend and feed. Grandma, you always said don’t reach too far. Close your dead eyes now, and remember, I loved you so.
He left his body, winged skyward.
Corabb yanked hard and dragged his sword from the Nah’ruk’s left eye socket, then he reached down to take up again Shoaly’s ankle-but the man had stopped screaming and as he looked he saw in the heavy’s face a slackness, a dullness to the staring eyes.
A line of Nah’ruk was closing, only a few paces away. Swearing, Corabb released his grip and turned to run.
The trench of the heavy infantry was just ahead. He saw helmed faces, weapons readied. Arrows and quarrels hissed over them and the thud and snap of their impacts was torrential behind him. Corabb hurried over.
Cuttle fell in beside him. ‘Seen Tarr?’
‘Seen him go down.’
‘Bottle?’
Corabb shook his head. ‘Smiles? Koryk?’
‘Fid’s got ’em.’
‘Fiddler! He’s-’
The first trench directly behind the two marines erupted. Nah’ruk ranks simply vanished in blue clouds.
‘What-’
‘Some bastard stepped on a cusser!’ Cuttle said. ‘Serves ’em right! C’mon!’
Deathly pale faces beneath helm rims-but the heavies were standing, ready. Two parted and let the marines through.
One shouted over at Cuttle. ‘Those clubs-’
‘Got ’em, soldier!’ Cuttle yelled back. ‘Now it’s just iron.’
At once a shout rose from the length of the trench. ‘HAIL THE MARINES!’
And the faces around Corabb suddenly darkened, teeth baring. The instant transformation took his breath away. Iron, aye, you know all about iron.
The Nah’ruk were five steps behind them.
The heavies rose to meet them.
Hedge watched as the lizards clambered from the enormous crater where Quick Ben had been, watched as they re-formed their ranks and resumed their advance. Twisting from where he was lying, he then looked back to study the Letherii legions drawing up at a steady half-trot, pikes set and slowly angling in overlapping layers.
Hedge grunted. Good weapons for this.
‘Bridgeburners! Listen up! Never mind the High Mage. He’s ashes on the wind. We’re going to soften up the lizards for the Letherii. Ready your munitions. One salvo when I say so and then we retreat and if the Letherii are sharp, they’ll make room for us! If they don’t, then swing to the right-to the right, got it? And run like Hood himself is on your heels!’
‘Commander!’ someone cried out.
‘What?’
‘Who’s Hood?’
Gods below. ‘He’s just the guy you don’t want on your heels, right?’
‘Oh. Right.’
Hedge lifted his head. Shit, these ones got clubs and nodes. ‘Check your munitions! Switch to Blue. You hear me? Blues! And aim for that front line! Nodes, lads and lasses, those white lumps!’
‘Commander!’
‘Hood’s the-’
‘I hear horses! Coming from the southeast-I think-is that horses?’
Hedge rose slightly higher. He saw two lizard phalanxes smartly wheeling. Oh gods…
Rolling into a charge, Gall leaned forward on his horse. Just like the Malazans to find the ugliest foes the whole damned world had to offer. And the scariest. But those squares had no pikes to fend off a cavalry charge-and they would pay for that.
When he’d led his army up to where Rafala had reined in, he’d seen-in the first dozen heartbeats-all he’d needed to see.
The enemy was devouring the Malazan army, driving them back, cutting down hundreds of soldiers if they were no more than children. This was slaughter, and barely a third of the phalanxes had actually closed with the Bonehunters.
He saw the Letherii moving up on both flanks, forming bristling pike walls in a saw-tooth presentation, but they’d yet to meet the enemy. Out to the far flanks mounted troops mustered, yet held far back-unaccountably so, as far as Gall was concerned.
Directly ahead of the Khundryl charge, two phalanxes were closing up to present a solid defensive line, denying the Burned Tears the opportunity to drive between the squares, winging arrows on both sides. Gall needed make no gestures or call out commands-his lead warriors knew to draw up upon loosing their arrows; they knew their lanes, through which the heavier lancers would pass to drive deep into the wounded front ranks of the enemy-drive in, and then withdraw. There would be no chance of shattering these phalanxes-the demons were too big, too heavily armoured. They would not break before a charge.
This is the last day of the Khundryl Burned Tears. My children, do you ride with me? I know you do. My children, be brave this day. See your father, and know that he is proud of you all.
The foremost line of demons began preparing strange clubs.
Hedge saw the lightning erupt from the Nah’ruk line, saw the jagged bolts tear into the mass of Khundryl warriors. The charge seemed to disintegrate inside a horrific cloud of red mist.
Sickened, he twisted on to his back, stared up at the sky. Didn’t look like sky at all. ‘Bridgeburners, get ready! Munitions in hand! One, two, three-UP!’
Brys had thought the bodies lying on the ground ahead were corpses. They suddenly rose, forty or fifty in all, and flung objects at the front line of Nah’ruk. The small dark grenados splashed as they struck the enemy warriors. An instant later, the Nah’ruk who had been struck began writhing as the liquid ate through their armour, and then their hides.
One of the nodes exploded, flinging bodies back. Then another and another. All at once the front ranks of the phalanx were a chaotic mess.
Brys turned to his signaller. ‘Sound the charge! Sound the charge!’
Horns blared.
The legions broke into a dog-trot, pikes levelled.
The sappers were running, swinging to the left and out from the gap between the two forces. They might just make it clear in time.
At six paces, the Letherii ranks surged forward, voices lifting in a savage roar.
The teeth of the saw bit deep, one, three rows, four. The Nah’ruk phalanx buckled. And then the two forces ground to a halt. Pikes were held in place, infighters armed with axes and stabbing swords pushing between the front line to begin their vicious close work. Falchions flashed high, and then descended.
Brys gestured. Another messenger came up alongside him.
‘The onager and arbalest units are to draw up on the hill to the east. Begin enfilade. Cavalry to provide initial screen until they commence firing.’
The man saluted and rode off.
Brys looked southeastward. Miraculously, some remnant of the mounted horse-warriors had survived the sorcerous salvos-he could see riders emerging from the dust and smoke, hammering wildly into the front ranks of the Nah’ruk. They struck with inhuman ferocity and Brys was not surprised-to have come through that would have stripped the sanity of any warrior.
He breathed a soft prayer for them in the name of a dozen long-lost gods.
A messenger reined in on his right. ‘Commander! The west legions have engaged the enemy.’
‘And?’
The man wiped the sweat from his face. ‘Knocked ’em back a step or two, but now…’
Seeing that he could not go on, seeing that he was near tears, Brys simply nodded. He turned to study what he could see of the Malazan position.
Nothing but armoured lizards, weapons lifting and descending, blood rising in a mist.
But, as he stared, he noticed something.
The Nah’ruk were no longer advancing.
You stopped them? Blood of the gods, what manner of soldiers are you?
The heavy infantry stood. The heavy infantry held the trench. Even as they died, they backed not a single step. The Nah’ruk clawed for purchase on the blood-soaked mud of the berm. Iron chewed into them. Halberds slammed down, rebounded from shields. Reptilian bodies reeled back, blocking the advance of rear ranks. Arrows and quarrels poured into the foe from positions behind the trench.
And from above, Locqui Wyval descended by the score, in a frenzy, to tear and rend the helmed heads of the lizard warriors. Others quickly closed to do battle with their kin, and the sky rained blood.
Bottle’s soul leapt from body to body, grasped tight the souls of Locqui Wyval, and flung them down upon the Nah’ruk. As each one was pulled down to the slaughter, he tore himself free to enslave yet another. He had reached out, taking as many as he could-dozens of the creatures-the stench of blood and all that they saw had driven them mad. He needed only crush the tatters of their restraint, loose them upon the nearest beasts that were not wyval.
When kin attacked, he did not resist-the more dead and dying wyval, the better.
But he felt himself being torn apart. He felt his mind shredding away. He could not do much more of this. Yet Bottle did not relent.
Tarr stumbled into a knot of marines. Glared round. ‘Limp-where’s your-’
‘Dead,’ Limp said. ‘Just me an’ Crump-’
‘Ruffle?’
The round-faced woman shook her head. ‘Got separated. Saw Skim die, that’s all-’
‘So what are you doing sitting here? On your feet, marine-those heavies are dying where they stand. And we’re going to join them. You, Reliko! Pull Vastly on his feet there-you’re all coming with me!’
Silent, without a single word of protest, the marines clambered to their feet. They were bleeding. They were exhausted.
They gathered up their weapons, and, Tarr in the lead, set out for the trench.
Nearby, Urb plucked away the shattered fragments of his shield. Hellian crouched beside him, breathing hard, her face streaked with blood and puke, with more of both drenching her chest. She’d said she didn’t know whose blood it was. Glancing at her, he saw her hard eyes, her hard expression. Other soldiers were drawn up behind them.
Urb turned. ‘We do what Tarr says, soldiers. Back into it. Now.’
Hellian almost pushed past him on the way to the trench.
Henar Vygulf reined in beneath the hill-he could see fallen horses and sprawled, scorched bodies where the Adjunct’s command post had been. He slipped down from his horse, drew his two swords and jogged up the slope.
Reaching the summit, he saw four Nah’ruk arriving on the opposite ridge.
Lostara Yil and the Adjunct were lying almost side by side. Likely dead, but he needed to make sure. If he could.
He charged forward.
The clash of iron woke her. Blinking, Lostara stared into the sky, trying to recall what had happened. Her head ached and she could feel dried blood crusting her nostrils, crackling in her ears. She turned her head, saw the Adjunct lying beside her.
Chest slowly rising and falling.
Ah, good.
Someone grunted as if in pain.
She sat up. In time to see Henar Vygulf stagger back, blood spraying from a chest wound. Three Nah’ruk closed.
Henar fell on to his back almost at Lostara’s feet.
She rose, drawing her blades.
He saw her, and the anguish in his eyes took her breath away.
‘I’m sorry-’
‘You’re going to live,’ she told him, stepping past. ‘Prop yourself up, man-that’s an order!’
He managed to lift himself on one elbow. ‘Captain-’
She glanced at the Nah’ruk. Almost upon her, slowed by wounds. Behind them, a dozen more appeared. ‘Just remember, Henar, I don’t do this for just anybody!’
‘Do what?’
She stepped forward, blades lifting. ‘Dance.’
The old forms returned, as if they had but been awaiting her, awaiting this one moment when at last she awoke-possibly one last time-no matter. For you, Henar. For you.
The Shadow Dance belonged to this.
Here.
Now.
Henar watched her, and his eyes slowly widened.
A league to the southeast, Kisswhere dragged herself from her fallen horse. A badger burrow, the den mouth of a fox, something. Her horse thrashed, front legs shattered, its screams shrill in the air.
Kisswhere’s left leg was bent in four places. The stub of bone thrust through her leggings. She drew a knife and twisted round to study the horse, eyes fixing on a pulsing artery in its neck.
Didn’t matter. They were all dead. Even if she could have reached the Mortal Sword and that mad red-haired Queen, it wouldn’t have mattered.
She glanced up. The sky was flesh, and that flesh was rotting before her eyes.
Sinter. Badan.
Bonehunters-Adjunct, are you happy? You killed them all.
You killed us all.
On this dawn they lined the banks of the ancient river, a whole city turned out, near a hundred thousand, as the sun lifted east of the mouth that opened to the deep bay. What had brought them there? What ever brings the multitudes to a moment, a place, an instant when a hundred thousand bodies become one body?
As the red waters spilled into the bay’s salty tears, they stood, saying little, and the great ship pyre took hold of the fires and the wind took hold of the soaked sails, and the sky took hold of the black column of smoke.
Ehrlitan’s great king was dead, the last of the Dessimb line, and the future was blowing sands, the storm’s whisper was but a roar of strife made mercifully distant, a thing of promise drawing ever closer.
They came to weep. They came seeking salvation, for in the end, even grief masks a selfish indulgence. We weep in our lives for the things lost to us, the worlds done. A great man was dead, but we cannot follow him-we dare not, for to each of us death finds a new path.
An age was dead. The new age belonged to generations still to come. In the stalls of the market rounds the potters stacked bowls bearing the face of the dead king, with scenes of his past glories circling round and round, for ever outside of time, and this was the true wish of the multitudes.
Stop. Stop now. Pray this day never ends. Pray the ashes drift for ever. Pray tomorrow never becomes. It is a natural desire, an honest wish.
The tale dies, but this death will take some time. It is said the king lingered, there in the half breath. And people gathered each day at the palace gates, to weep, to dream of other ends, of fates denied.
The tale dies, but this death will take some time.
And the river’s red tongue flows without end. And the spirit of the king said: I see you. I see you all. Can you not hear him? Hear him still?
DEATH OF THE GOLDEN AGE
THENYS BULE
Nom Kala stood with the others, a silent mass of warriors who had forgotten what it was to live, as the wind pulled at rotted furs, strips of hide and dry tangles of hair. Dull, pitted weapons hung like afterthoughts from twisted hands. Air pitched into the bowls of eye sockets and moaned back out. They could be statues, gnawed by age, withering where they stood facing the endless winds, the senseless rains, the pointless waves of heat and cold.
There was nothing useful in this, and she knew she was not alone in her disquiet. Onos T’oolan, the First Sword, crouched down on one knee ten paces ahead of them, hands wrapped round the grip of his flint sword, the weapon’s point buried in the stony ground. His head was lowered, as if he made obeisance before a master, but this master was invisible, little more than a smear of obligations swept aside, but the stain of what had been held him in place-a stain only Onos T’oolan could see. He had not moved in some time.
Patience was no trial, but she could sense the chaos in her kin, the pitch and cant of terrible desires, the rocking rebuffs of vengeance waiting. It was only a matter of time before the first of them broke away, defying this servitude, this claim of righteous command. He would not reach for them. He had yet to do so, why imagine he would change-
The First Sword rose, faced them. ‘I am Onos T’oolan. I am the First Sword of Tellann. I reject your need.’
The wind moaned on, like the flow of sorrow.
‘You shall, however, bow to mine.’
She felt buffeted by those words. This is what it means, then, to yield before a First Sword. We cannot deny him, cannot defy him. She could feel his will, closing like a fist about her. We had our chance-before this. We could have drifted away. He gave us that. But not one T’lan Imass had done any such thing. Instead, we fell inside ourselves, ever deeper, that endless eating and spitting out and eating all we spat out-this is the seductive sustenance of hatred and spite, of rage and vengeance.
He could have led us off a cliff and we would not have noticed.
The three Orshayn bonecasters stepped forward. Ulag Togtil spoke. ‘First Sword, we await your command.’
Onos T’oolan slowly faced south, where the sky above the horizon seemed to boil like pitch. And then he swung north, where a distant cloud caught the sun’s dying light. ‘We go no farther,’ the First Sword said. ‘We shall be dust.’
And what of our dark dreams, First Sword?
Such was his power that he heard her thought and so turned to her. ‘Nom Kala, hold fast to your dreams. There will be an answer. T’lan Imass, we are upon a time of killing.’
The statues shifted. Some straightened. Some hunched down as if beneath terrible burdens. The statues-my kin. My sisters, my brothers. There are none to look upon us now, none to see us, none to wonder at who we once were, at who shaped us with such… loving hands. As she watched, they began, one by one, falling into dust.
None to witness. Dust of dreams, dust of all that we never achieved. Dust of what we might have been and what we cannot help but be.
Statues are never mute. Their silence is a roar of words. Will you hear? Will you listen?
She was the last, alone with Onos T’oolan himself.
‘You possess no rage, Nom Kala.’
‘No, First Sword, I do not.’
‘What might you find to serve in its place?’
‘I do not know. The humans defeated us. They were better than we were, it is as simple as that. I feel only grief, First Sword.’
‘And is there no anger in grief, Nom Kala?’
Yes. It may be that there is. But if I must search for it-
‘There is time,’ said Onos T’oolan.
She bowed to him, and released herself.
Onos T’oolan watched as Nom Kala fell in a gusting cloud. In his mind a figure was approaching, hands held out as if beseeching. He knew that harrowed face, that lone glittering eye. What could he say to this stranger he had once known? He too was a stranger, after all. Yes, they had once known each other. But now look at us, both so intimate with dust.
Nom Kala’s anguish returned to him. Her thoughts had bled with dread power-she was young. She was, he realized, what the Imass might have become, had the Ritual not taken them, had it not stolen their future. A future of pathos. Sordid surrender. The loss of dignity, a slow, slow death.
No, Toc the Younger. I give you nothing but silence. And its torrid roar.
Will you hear? Will you listen?
Any of you?
She had dwelt like a parasite deep in its entrails. She had seen, all around her, the broken remnants of some long abandoned promise, the broken clutter, the spilled fluids. But there had been heat, and a pulsing presence as if the very stone was alive-she should have understood the significance of such things, but her mind had been wallowing in its own darkness, a lifeless place of pointless regrets.
Standing not six paces from the two gold-skinned foreigners, she had turned and, like them, looked with wonder, disbelieving.
Ampelas Rooted.
Ampelas Uprooted. The entire city, its massive, mountainous bulk, filled the northern sky. Its underside was a forest of twisted metal roots, from which drained rainbow rain as if even in pain it could bleed nothing but gifts. Yet, Kalyth could see its agony. It was canted to one side. It was surrounded by smoke and dust. Fissures rose from its base, like the broken knuckles of a god only moments from once again hammering the earth.
She could feel… something, a bristling core of will knotted in breathless pain. The Matron’s? Could it be anyone else? Her blood flowed through the rock. Her lungs howled, winds shrieking between caverns. Her sweat glistened and ran like tears. She bled in a thousand places, bones splintering to vast, ever growing pressures.
The Matron, yes, but… there was no mind left inside that nightmare of oozing flesh.
Uprooted, this long-dead thing. Uprooted, a thousand upon a thousand generations of belief, faith, the solid iron of once immutable laws.
She defies every truth. She wills life into a corpse, and now it staggers across the sky.
‘A sky keep,’ said the one named Gesler. ‘Moon’s Spawn-’
‘But this one is bigger,’ said Stormy, clawing at his beard. ‘If Tayschrenn could see this-’
‘If Rake had been commanding one of these-’
Stormy grunted. ‘Aye. He’d have flattened the High Mage like a cockroach under a thumb. And then he’d have done the same to the whole Hood-damned Malazan Empire.’
‘But look,’ said Gesler. ‘It’s in rough shape-not as ugly as Rake’s rock, but it looks like it could come down at any time.’
Kalyth could now see the Furies marching beneath the Dragon Tower-the sky keep, yes, that is well named. Ve’Gath Soldiers in their thousands. K’ell Hunters well in advance of the legions and ranging out to the sides in looser formations. Behind the ranks of the Furies, drones struggled to pull enormous wagons groaning beneath towering loads.
‘Look at the big ones,’ Gesler said. ‘The heavies-gods below, one of those could rip a Kenyll’rah demon in half.’
Kalyth spoke. ‘Mortal Sword, they are Ve’Gath, the soldiers of the K’Chain Che’Malle. No Matron has ever birthed so many. A hundred was deemed sufficient. Gunth’an Acyl has birthed more than fifteen thousand.’
The man’s amber eyes fixed on her. ‘If Matrons could do that, why didn’t they? They could be ruling this world right now.’
‘There was terrible… pain.’ She hesitated, and then said. ‘Sanity was lost.’
‘Soldiers like those,’ Stormy muttered, ‘what ruler needs to be sane?’
Kalyth grimaced. These two men were irreverent. They seemed to be fearless. They are the ones. But nothing insisted I must like them, or even understand them. No, they frighten me as much as the K’Chain Che’Malle do. ‘She is dying.’
Gesler rubbed at his face. ‘No heir?’
‘Yes. One waits.’ She pointed. ‘There, the two now drawing close. Gunth Mach, the One Daughter. Sag’Churok, her K’ell guardian.’ Then her breath caught as she saw the one trailing them, its motions smooth as oil. ‘The one beyond, that is Bre’nigan, the Matron’s own J’an Sentinel-something is wrong-he should not be here, he should be at her side.’
‘What about those Assassins?’ Stormy asked, squinting skyward. ‘Why ain’t they showed-the one that snatched us-’
‘I do not know, Shield Anvil.’ Something is wrong.
The two foreigners-they called themselves Malazans-backed away as Gunth Mach and Sag’Churok drew closer. ‘Ges, what if they don’t like the look of us?’
‘What do you think?’ Gesler snapped. ‘We’re dead, that’s what.’
‘There is no danger,’ Kalyth assured them. Of course, I am sure Redmask believed the same.
Sag’Churok spoke in her mind. ‘Destriant. The Matron is chained.’
What?
‘The two Shi’gal who remained in the Nest forged an alliance. They have eaten her forebrain and now command what remains of her. Through her body, they have uprooted Ampelas. But her flesh weakens-soon Ampelas will fail. We must find the enemy. We must find our war.’
Kalyth looked to Gunth Mach. ‘Is she safe?’
‘She is.’
‘But… why?’
‘The Shi’gal see no future. The battle is the end. No future. The One Daughter is irrelevant.’
‘And Gu’Rull?’
‘Outlawed. Missing. Possibly dead-he sought to return, sought to defy, but was driven away. Bearing wounds.’
Gesler cut in: ‘You’re speaking with this thing, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. I am sorry. There are powers awake in me… flavours. The One Daughter… it is a gift.’
Stormy said, ‘If we’re to lead this army of elephant-rapers-’
‘Stormy-hold on!’ Gesler advanced on his companion, falling into their foreign language as he continued with a barrage of protestations.
Kalyth did not need to understand the words, as Stormy visibly set his heels, face flushing as if in deadly warning. This was a stubborn man, she could see, far more so than the Mortal Sword. Gesler railed at his friend, but nothing he said altered Stormy’s stance. He said he had dreams. He has accepted this. ‘She will share the flavours,’ Kalyth said to them. ‘It is necessary-’
Stormy faced her. ‘Those Ve’Gath, how fast are they? How smart? Can they answer to commands? Discipline? What sort of signalling do they heed? And who in Hood’s name is the enemy?’
To these questions, Kalyth shook her head. ‘I have no answers. No knowledge. I can say nothing.’
‘Who can?’
‘Damn you, Stormy!’
The big red-bearded man wheeled on his companion. ‘Aye! You’re the Mortal Sword-these are the questions you need to be asking, not me! Who’s going to command here? You are, you stupid lump of dhenrabi shit! So stop lapdogging me and get on with it!’
Gesler’s hands closed into fists and he took a half-step closer to Stormy. ‘That’s it,’ he growled. ‘I’m going to crush your fat head, Stormy, and then I’m going to walk away-’
Stormy bared his teeth, squaring himself to await Gesler’s charge.
Sag’Churok thumped between the two men, sword blades straightening out to the sides, the motion forcing the men apart, lest those notched edges find them. Snarling, Gesler spun round and marched off a dozen or so paces.
Grinning, Stormy straightened. ‘Give me those flavours, lizard. We got to talk.’
‘Not that one,’ Kalyth said. ‘Gunth Mach is the one without swords. There-not the J’an, this one. Go to her.’
‘Fine, and then what?’
‘Then… nothing. You will see.’
He walked up to stand directly in front of Gunth Mach. Brave or stupid-I think I know which way Gesler would say. But she saw that Gesler, arms crossed, had turned to watch.
‘Well? Gods, she stinks-’ He suddenly recoiled. ‘Sorry, lizard,’ he mumbled, ‘I didn’t mean it.’ He wiped at his face, then held out his hand, scowling. ‘I’m covered in something.’
‘Flavour,’ Kalyth said.
Gesler snorted. ‘The lizard in your head now, Stormy? I don’t believe it-if she’d done that she’d be running for the nearest cliff.’
‘I ain’t the one staying deliberately stupid, Ges.’
Gesler glared over at the approaching legions. ‘Fine, tell me what they can do.’
‘No. Find out for yourself.’
‘I ain’t being nobody’s Mortal Sword.’
‘Whatever. You just going to stand there, Ges?’
Swearing something under his breath, the soldier walked over to Gunth Mach. ‘Fine, do your sweat thing, it’s not like I just had a swim or nothing-’ As soon as he drew close he snapped his head back, and then rubbed at his eyes. ‘Ow.’
Kalyth sensed a presence at her side.
Bre’nigan. The J’an Sentinel’s milky eyes caught the deepening blue of the day’s end. ‘Against two Shi’gal, I could do nothing.’
The voice in her head shocked her. This ancient Che’Malle had seemed beyond any acknowledgement of her whatsoever. The voice trembled.
‘I have failed.’
As you said, you could do nothing against two Shi’gal, Bre’nigan.
‘The Matron is no more.’
That has been true for some time.
‘Destriant, the wisdom in your words is bitter, but I cannot deny what you say. Tell me, these two humans-they seem… wayward. But then, I know little of your kind.’
‘Wayward? Yes. I know nothing of these Malazans-I have never heard of any tribe by that name. They are… reckless.’
‘It does not matter. The battle shall be final.’
‘Then you think we are lost, too. If that is so, why fight at all?’ Why force me and these two men to our deaths. Let us go!
‘We cannot. You, Destriant, and the Mortal Sword and the Shield Anvil, you are what remains of Gunth’an Acyl’s will. You are the legacy of her mind. Even now, how can we say she was wrong?’
‘You put too much upon us.’
‘Yes.’
She heard Gesler and Stormy arguing again, in their foreign tongue. The Furies were drawing closer, and now two Ve’Gath loped out ahead of the others. Their backs were strangely shaped. ‘There,’ said Kalyth, drawing the attention of the two Malazans. ‘Your mounts.’
‘We’re going to ride those?’
‘Yes, Mortal Sword. They were bred for you and for the Shield Anvil.’
‘The one for Stormy’s got the saddle around the wrong way. How’s he going to stick his head up the Ve’Gath’s ass, where he’ll feel at home?’
Kalyth’s eyes widened.
Stormy laughed. ‘With you in charge, Ges, I’ll hide anywhere. You barely managed a measly squad. Now you got thirty thousand lizards expectin’ you to take charge.’
Gesler looked sick. ‘Got any spare room up that butt hole, Stormy?’
‘I’ll let you know, but just so you’re clear on this, when I shut the door it stays shut.’
‘You always were a selfish bastard. Can’t figure why we ever ended up friends.’
The Ve’Gath lumbered up to them.
Gesler glanced at Stormy and spoke in Falari. ‘All right, I guess this is it.’
‘I can taste their thoughts-all of them,’ said Stormy. ‘Even these two.’
‘Aye.’
‘Gesler, these Ve’Gath-they ain’t nasty-looking horses-they’re smart. We’re the beasts of burden here.’
‘And we’re supposed to be commanding them. The Matron got it all wrong, didn’t she.’
Stormy shook his head. ‘No point in arguing, though. The One Daughter told me-’
‘Aye, me too. A bloody coup. I imagine those Assassins figured out-and rightly so-just how redundant we are. Kalyth too. Stormy, I can reach out to them all. I can see through the eyes of any one of them. Except Gunth Mach.’
‘Aye, she’s built thick walls. I wonder why. Listen, Ges, I really have no idea what it is a Shield Anvil’s supposed to do.’
‘You’re a giant pit everybody bleeds into, Stormy. Funny your dreams didn’t mention that bit. But for this battle, I need you to command the Ve’Gath directly-’
‘Me? What about you?’
‘The K’ell Hunters. They’re fast, they can get in and out and with their speed they will be the deadliest force on the field.’
‘Ges, this is a stupid war, you know. The world’s not big enough for Long-Tails and Short-Tails both? Stupid. There’s barely any left as it is. Like the last two scorpions busy killing each other, when the desert covers a whole damned continent.’
‘The slaves are loose,’ Gesler replied. ‘With a few hundred generations of repressed hate to feed off. They won’t be satisfied until the last Che’Malle is a chopped-up carcass.’
‘And then?’
Gesler met the man’s eyes. ‘That’s what scares me.’
‘We’re next, you mean.’
‘Why not? What’s to stop them? They fucking breed like ants. They’re laying waste to warrens. Gods below, they’re hunting down and killing dragons. Listen, Stormy, this is our chance. We’ve got to stop the Nah’ruk. Not for the Che’Malle-I don’t care a whit for the Che’Malle-but for everyone else.’
Stormy glanced over at the Che’Malle. ‘They don’t expect to survive this battle.’
‘Aye, bad attitude.’
‘So fix it.’
Gesler glared, and then looked away.
The two Ve’Gath waited. Their backs were malformed, the bones twisted and lifted taut beneath the hide to form high saddles. Something like elongated fingers-or the stretched wings of a bat-slung down the beast’s flanks, the finger-ends and talons curling to form stirrups. Plates of armour ridged the shoulders. Lobster-tail scales encased the forward-thrusting necks. Their helms wrapped about the flattened skulls, leaving only the snouts free. They could look down upon a Toblakai. The damned things were grinning at their riders.
Gesler faced Gunth Mach. ‘One Daughter. The last Assassin-the one that escaped-I need him.’
Kalyth said, ‘We do not know if Gu’Rull even lives-’
Gesler’s eyes remained on Gunth Mach. ‘She knows. One Daughter, I ain’t going to fight a battle I can’t win. If you want us leading you, well, one thing us humans don’t understand, and that’s giving up. We fight when the fight’s been thumped out of us. We rebel when all we got left that’s not in chains is inside our skulls. We defy when the only defiance we got left is up and dying. Aye, I seen people bow their heads, waiting for the axe. I seen people standing in a row in front of fifty crossbows, and doing nothing. But they’ve all made dying their weapon, the last one left, and they are nightmare’s soldiers for ever afterwards. Is this getting through to you? I’m not one for inspiring crap. I need that Assassin, Gunth Mach, because I need his eyes. Up there, high overhead. With those eyes, I can win this battle.
‘You say Matrons never produce more than a hundred Ve’Gath. But your mother made fifteen thousand. Do you really think the Nah’ruk have any idea of what they’re getting into? You’ve filled my head with scenes of past battles-all your pathetic losses-and it’s no wonder you’re all ready to give up. But you’re wrong. The Matron-was she insane? Maybe. Aye. Insane enough to think she could win. And to plan for it. Mad? Mad genius, I’d say. Gunth Mach, One Daughter, summon your Shi’gal-he is yours now, isn’t he? Not ready to give up, not ready to surrender to the fatalism of his brothers. Summon him.’
Silence.
Gesler stared up into the Che’Malle’s eyes. Like staring into a crocodile’s. It’s the game of seeing all but reacting to nothing. Until necessity forces the issue. It’s the game of cold thoughts, if thoughts there are. It’s what makes a man’s balls crawl up looking for somewhere to hide.
She spoke in his mind. ‘Mortal Sword. Your words have been heard. By all. We shall obey.’
‘Gods below,’ Stormy muttered.
Kalyth stepped close to Gesler. Her eyes were wide. ‘A darkness lifts from the K’Chain Che’Malle.’ But in those eyes, beyond the wonder, he saw a flittering fear. She sees me sowing false hope. Gods, woman, what do you think a commander does? He walked up to one of the Ve’Gath, gripped what passed for a saddle horn, set one boot into a stirrup that suddenly clasped tight round his foot, and then swung himself astride the enormous beast.
‘Get ready to march,’ he said, knowing his words were heard by all. ‘We’re not waiting for the Nah’ruk to come to us. We’re heading straight for them, and straight down their damned throats. Kalyth! Does anyone know-will that sky keep follow? Will they fight?’
‘We don’t know, Mortal Sword. We think so. What else is left?’
Stormy was struggling to climb on to his beast. ‘Trying to crush my damned foot!’
‘Relax into it,’ Gesler advised.
The One Daughter spoke in his mind. ‘The Shi’gal comes.’
‘Good. Let’s get this mess started.’
Gu’Rull tilted his wings, swept close round the towering cliff-face of Ampelas Uprooted. There was but one Shi’gal left inside-he’d managed to deliver fatal wounds to the other before he’d been driven from the Nest, and then the city. Deep slashes wept thick blood down his chest, but none of these threatened his life. Already he had begun to heal.
Before him on the plain the massed Furies had resumed their ground-eating march. Thousands of K’ell Hunters spread out to form a vast screen in a crescent as they struck southward, where dark clouds boiled on the horizon, slowly disappearing as the sun finally sank beneath the western hills. The Nah’ruk had fed this day, but the quarry had proved deadlier than they could have anticipated.
This Mortal Sword and his words impressed Gu’Rull, in so far as these soft humans could do so; but then, neither the one named Gesler nor the one named Stormy were truly human. Not any more. The aura of their presence was almost blinding to the Shi’gal’s eyes. Ancient fires had forged them. Thyrllan, Tellann, perhaps even the breath and blood of the Eleint.
The K’Chain Che’Malle did not bow in worship, but when it came to the Eleint, this abhorrence weakened. Children of the Eleint. But we are nothing of the sort. We simply claim the honour. But then, is this not what all mortals do? In grasping their gods, in carving the vicious rules of worship and obedience? Children of the Eleint. We name our cities for the First Born Dragons, those who once sailed the skies of this world.
As if they cared.
As if they even noticed.
This Mortal Sword spoke of a refusal, a defiance of the fate awaiting them. He possessed courage, and stubborn will. Laudable conceits. I answer his summons. I give him my eyes, for as long as I remain in the skies. I do not warn him that such time shall not long survive the commencement of battle. The Nah’ruk will see to that.
Even so. In Gunth’an Acyl’s memory, I shall abide.
Doubts swirled round the red-bearded one, the Shield Anvil. His heart was vast, it was true. He was a thing of sentimentality and compassion, so contrary to his bestial appearance, his simian fire. But such creatures were vulnerable. Their hearts bled too freely, and the scars never knitted true. It was madness to embrace the pain and suffering of the K’Chain Che’Malle-not even a Matron would yield to such a thing. The mind would howl. The mind would die.
No matter, he was but one mortal, a human at that. He would take what he could, and then fail. Falchions would descend, an instant of purest mercy-
‘Enough of that-and I don’t give a flying fuck for all your miserable thoughts. Assassin, I am Gesler. Your Mortal Sword. On the morning to come, on the dawn of battle, you will be my eyes. You will not flee. I don’t care how nasty it gets up there. If you ain’t looking like a pigeon that’s gone through a windmill by the time we’re all done, you’ll have failed me-and your kin, too. So don’t even think-’
I hear your words, Mortal Sword. You shall have my eyes, more’s the pity.
‘So long as we’re understood. Now, what should I be expecting when we sight the Nah’ruk?’
And so Gu’Rull told him. The human interrupted again and again with sharp, percipient questions. And, as the shock of his power-which had so easily torn through his defences to plunder Gu’Rull’s mind-slowly faded to a welt of indignation, the Shi’gal’s esteem for the Mortal Sword grew, grudgingly, half in disbelief, half in resentment. The Assassin would not permit himself the delusion of hope. But, this man was a warrior in the truest sense.
And what is that true sense? Why, it is the insanity of belief. And now you make us believe. With you. In you. And in your madness, which you so insist upon sharing.
You taste bitter, human. You taste of your world.
Cursing, Stormy forced his mount up alongside Gesler. ‘I’m picking up a stink of something. It’s hiding in back thoughts, at the bottom of deep pools-’
‘What in Hood’s name are you talking about?’ Gesler demanded. ‘And be quick, that Assassin’s even now winging towards the enemy-they’re camped, I can see them-there are fires and one big one-lots of smoke. Gods, my head’s ready to explode-’
‘You ain’t listening,’ Stormy said. ‘That stink-they know something. Gunth Mach-she knows something and she’s hiding it from us. I got this-’
Gesler snapped out a hand, and Stormy could see a distant look in his friend’s battered face, and as he watched, he saw horror filling the man’s eyes. ‘Beru fend… Stormy. I’m seeing wreckage-heaps of armour and weapons. Stormy-’
‘Those Nah’ruk-they-’
‘The Bonehunters-they found ’em, they… gods, there’s piles of bones! They fucking ate them!’ As Gesler reeled Stormy reached out to steady him.
‘Ges! Just tell me what you’re seeing!’
‘What do you think I’m doing! Gods below!’
But all at once words dried up, and Gesler could only stare downward as the Assassin wheeled over the battlefield, the massive encampment, a crater that could swallow a palace, and the vast stain of what looked like coals amidst flame-licked tree-stumps-no, not stumps. Limbs. Scorched Nah’ruk, still burning. Was it magic that hit them? Gesler could not believe that. A single release of a warren, torching thousands? And that crater-a hundred cussers maybe… but we didn’t have a hundred cussers.
He could hear Stormy shouting at him, but the voice seemed impossibly distant, too far away to be of any concern. Trenches ribboned a ridge, some of them filled with shattered armour and weapons. Lesser craters pocked the summit, crowded with bones. Off to one side, hundreds of Nah’ruk were moving through the carcasses of horses and blackened bodies. Heavy wagons trailed them, slabs of meat heaped on their beds. Dozens of Nah’ruk were harnessed to them, straining in their yokes.
That was a Khundryl charge. Wiped out. At least some of the allies arrived in time-in time for what? Dying. Gods, this was the Lord’s cruellest push. They weren’t looking for a fight-not with damned lizards, anyway. Not here in the useless Wastelands.
The Shi’gal Assassin’s voice intruded. ‘Your kin have damaged the Nah’ruk. This harvest was paid for, Mortal Sword. At least three Furies have been destroyed.’
Those were my friends. This wasn’t their fight.
‘They were brave. They did not surrender.’
Gesler frowned. Was surrender possible?
‘I do not know. I doubt it. The matter is irrelevant. Against us, tomorrow, there will be no quarter.’
‘You got that right,’ Gesler said in a growl.
‘Gesler!’
Blinking, the scene spinning away from his mind, he turned to Stormy. Wiping his eyes, he said, ‘It’s bad. Bad as it can get. The Nah’ruk were marching to meet these K’Chain Che’Malle. They slammed like a fist right into the Bonehunters. Stormy, there was slaughter, but only one army remains-’
Gu’Rull spoke once again in his mind. ‘I have found a trail, Mortal Sword. Signs of retreat. Shall we pursue it? The Nah’ruk can feel our approach-our Ve’Gath are as thunder in the earth. They prepare to march to meet us-the sky is a place of no light, there are alien winds-I cannot-’
Lightning flashed to the south, cracking through the night. Gesler grunted as the concussion reverberated through his skull. Assassin? Where are you? Answer me-what’s happened?
But he could not reach out to the winged lizard; he could not find Gu’Rull anywhere. Shit.
‘Is that a damned storm cloud up ahead, Gesler? Is that blood on your face? Tell me what the Hood’s going on!’
‘You really that curious?’ Gesler said, baring his teeth. He then spat. ‘The Nah’ruk have dropped everything. They’re coming for us. We’re on our own.’
‘And the Bonehunters?’
‘We’re on our own.’
The scouts emerged from the unforgiving darkness. On this night the Slashes had vanished, taking the stars and the jade glow with them. Even the swollen haze that was the moon did not dare the sky. Shivering in the sudden chill, Warleader Strahl waited for the scouts to reach him.
The two Senan warriors were hunched over, as if fearful, or perhaps wounded. When they halted before him, both knelt. They were exhausted, he saw, their chests heaving.
Look at them. Look at this darkness. Has the world ended this night?
He would not rush them, demanding words they would struggle to feed. The dread was thick enough in their harsh breaths.
Behind the Warleader the Senan Barghast waited. Some slept, but for most sleep would not come. Hunger. Thirst. The famine of loss, a song of soft weeping. He could feel scores of eyes fixed upon him, seeing, he knew, little more than a vague, smudged silhouette. Seeing the truth of him, and before them he had nowhere to hide.
One of the scouts had recovered his wind. ‘Warleader. Two armies on the plain.’
‘The Malazans-’
‘No, Warleader-these are demons-’
The other hissed, ‘There are thousands!’
‘Two armies, you said.’
‘They march towards each other-through the night-we are almost between them! Warleader, we must retreat-we must flee from here!’
‘Go into the camp, both of you. Rest. Leave me. Say nothing.’
Once they’d staggered off, he drew his furs closer about his shoulders. This dusk, they’d sighted a Moon’s Spawn, but one of hard angles and planes-his sharper-eyed warriors claimed it was carved in the shape of a dragon. Two demon armies-what better place to clash than on the Wastelands? Kill each other. Yours is not our war. We mean to find the Malazans… do we not? Our old enemy, a worthy one.
Did they not betray the alliance at Coral? Did they not try to cheat Caladan Brood and steal that city in the name of the cursed Empress? If not for Anomander Rake, they would have succeeded. These Bonehunters claim to be renegades, but then, did not Dujek Onearm say the same? No, this is the usual nest of lies. Whatever they seek, whatever they conquer, they will claim for the Empress.
Onos Toolan, what other enemy existed? Who else could you hope to find? Who else as worthy as the Malazans, conquerors, devourers of history? You said you once served them. But you left them. You came to lead the White Faces. You knew this enemy-you told us so much that we now need-we were fools, that we did not see.
But now I do.
The demons were welcome to their battle.
Yes, they would retreat from this. He swung round.
Dust spun in the Senan camp, silver as moonlight, in spirals rising on all sides. Someone shrieked.
Ghostly warriors-the gleam of bone, rippling blades of chert and flint-
Strahl stared, struggling to comprehend. Screams erupted-the terrible weapons lashed out, tore through mortal flesh and bone. Barghast war-cries sounded, iron rang against stone. Rotted faces, black-pitted eyes.
A hulking figure appeared directly in front of Strahl. The Warleader’s eyes widened-as in the firelight he saw the sword gripped in the creature’s bony hands. No. No! ‘We avenged you! Onos Toolan, we avenged them all! Do not-you cannot-’
The sword hissed a diagonal slash that cut through both of Strahl’s legs, from his right hip to below his left knee. He slid down with that blade, found himself lying on the ground. Above him, only darkness. Sickly cold rushed through him. We did all we could. Our shame. Our guilt. Warleader, please. There are children, there are innocents-
The downward chop shattered his skull.
The Senan died. The White Face Barghast died. Nom Kala stood apart from the slaughter. The T’lan Imass were relentless, and had she a heart, it would have recoiled before this remorseless horror.
The slayers of his wife, his children, were paid in kind. Cut down with implacable efficiency. She heard mothers plead for the lives of their children. She heard their death-cries. She heard tiny wailing voices fall suddenly silent.
This was a crime that would poison every soul. She could almost feel the earth crack and bleed beneath them, as if spirits writhed, as if gods stumbled. The rage emanating from Onos T’oolan was darker than the sky, thicker than any cloud. It gusted outward in waves of his own horrified recognition-he knew, he could see himself, as if torn loose and flung outside his own body-he saw, and the very sight of what he was doing was driving him mad.
And us all. Oh, give me dust. Give me a morning born in oblivion, born in eternal, blessed oblivion.
There were thousands, and scores were fleeing into the night, but so many were already dead. This is what was, once. Terrible armies of T’lan Imass. We hunted down the Jaghut. We gave them what I see here. By all the spirits, is this our only voice? A terrible moaning was rising in the foul wake of the last few death-blows, a moaning that seemed to spin and swirl, coming from the T’lan Imass, from each warrior splashed in gore, dripping weapons in their hands. It was a sound that cut through Nom Kala. She staggered before it in retreat, as if begging the darkness to swallow her whole.
Onos T’oolan. Your vengeance-you delivered it… upon us, upon your pathetic followers. We followed your lead. We did as you did. We broke our own chains. We unleashed ourselves-how many millennia of this anger within us? Lashed loose, lashed into life.
Now, we are become slayers of children. We have stepped into the world, again, after all this time spent so… so free from its crimes. Onos T’oolan, do you see? Do you understand?
Now, once more, we are born into history.
If this is what a Shield Anvil feels, then I don’t want it. Do you hear me? I don’t want it! He knew Gesler, knew what the man’s refusal meant. Through that damned rhizan’s eyes he’d seen the corpses. The slaughtered remains of the Bonehunters and the Letherii. Only two days ago they’d been marching with them-all those faces he knew, all those soldiers he liked to swear at-now gone. Dead.
This was all wrong. He and Ges should have died with them, died fighting at their sides. Brotherhood and sisterhood only found true meaning in the wash of death, in the falling one after another, the darkness and then the shuddering awake before Hood’s Gate. Aye, we’re family when fighting to the last, but the real family is among the fallen. Why else do we stagger half-blind after every battle? Why else do we look upon dead kin and feel so abandoned? They left without us, that’s why.
A soldier knows this. A soldier saying different is a Hood-damned liar.
Dawn was not far off. The last day was close. But this ain’t the family I knew. It ain’t the one I wanted. All I got is Gesler. We been through it all, true, so at least we can die together. At least that makes sense. Been through it all. Falar-gods we were young! Damned fools, aye. Running off, swearing ourselves into the Fener cult-it was the rumours of the orgies that did us in. What rutting lad wouldn’t jump at the thought?
Damned orgies, oh yes. But we should’ve worked it out for ourselves. S’damned god of war, right? Orgies, oh indeed, orgies of slaughter, not sex. Thinking with the wrong brains, is what we did. But, at that age, isn’t it how it’s supposed to be?
Only we never got out, never got wise, did we? We found ourselves in a cesspool and then spent the next twenty years telling each other the smell ain’t so bad. Sweet as rain, in fact.
The K’Chain Che’Malle were going to die. They were going to pour their blood into him, souls crowding for his embrace, whatever that meant. The Matron who wanted all this was dead, but then… ain’t dying the first and most obvious path into ascendancy, into godhood?
Though eating the front of her skull, that’s just sick. She’ll make ’em pay for that, now that she’s a goddess or whatever.
Well, he’d keep the door barred until the last moment-he had an army to order around, after all. A mob of heavies who’d wheel on a horse-hair with an instant’s thought. Imagine what Coltaine could’ve done with these legions. If he’d had ’em, Korbolo Dom wouldn’t be wiggling his finger up Laseen’s backside right now. In fact-
‘Hood’s breath, Stormy, you’re leaking the sickest things.’
‘So get outa my head!’
‘I said “leaking,” you oaf. I ain’t in your head. Listen, stop thinking we’re all vulture shit, all right? I don’t know if these things got anything like morale, but if they do you’ve just beaten it into a pulpy mess.’
‘Those were my thoughts!’
‘So figure out a way of keeping them inside. Just picture your thick skull-it’s got holes, right. Out the eyes, the nose, whatever. So, picture blocking ’em all up. Now you’re safe. Now you can think all the stupid things you like to think about.’
‘Is that why I ain’t getting anything from you?’
‘No. Right now, I’m too witless to think. Sky’s lightening-look at that cloud to the south. It’s not a cloud. It’s a hole in the sky. It’s a warren ripped wide open. Just looking at it makes my skin crawl like a leech under a rock.’
‘Ges, these legions-’
‘Furies.’
‘They ain’t presented for battle, unless you plan on us just marching right up to ’em. Like the Quon used to do.’
‘You’re right. The Quon had badly trained troops, but they had a lot of them. Who needs tactics?’
‘We do.’
‘Right. So, see if we can get ’em sawtooth-’ He stopped suddenly.
In the same instant something rushed through Stormy and he grunted, twisting round.
The massive baggage train had halted. Drones-smaller creatures, not much taller than a human-swarmed the beds, unshipping rectangular slabs of iron. ‘Gesler-are those shields?’
Gesler had halted and wheeled his mount. ‘Aye, I think so. I was wondering at those hand-and-a-half axes the Ve’Gath carried. So, these really are heavies-’
‘I couldn’t pick up one of those shields, let alone hang it from one arm. The Nah’ruk got missile weapons?’
‘Unplug your skull,’ said Gesler, ‘and you’ll get your answer. Another innovation from the Matron. She must have been something, I think.’
‘She was a big fat lizard.’
‘She also broke ten thousand years of changing nothing-and the Che’Malle claim they never had a religion.’
Grunting-and not quite understanding what Gesler had meant-Stormy cast about to find the Destriant.
Twenty paces to the west, Kalyth was astride the back of Sag’Churok, but she was not watching the smooth distribution of the huge shields through the Ve’Gath ranks. Instead, she was squinting south. Stormy followed her gaze.
‘Ges, I see ’em. A line of legions-’
‘Furies,’ said Gesler.
‘Five across making the facing. And what, three deep? Hood’s breath, they look to outnumber us badly. I’m thinking three teeth each legion, ranks no more than thirty deep. We can reach that high ground just ahead, shield-lock there.’
‘You’ll screen my K’ell, then, Stormy. Show your teeth and let the Nah’ruk close jaws on ’em. How long you think you can hold that ridge?’
‘How long do you need?’
‘I want most of the enemy Furies committed to pushing you off that ridge. I want you to savage them, enough to get them ducking their heads and thinking about nothing but the next step forward. I don’t want ’em looking right or left.’
‘What’s Ampelas Uprooted going to be doing during all this?’ Stormy demanded.
‘Unplug your skull.’
‘No, this is better.’
Kalyth had ridden closer. ‘There is sorcery-defences, weapons.’
Stormy wasn’t understanding something. He knew he would if he knocked down the walls he’d raised around his thoughts, but he didn’t want to do that. Ampelas Uprooted-Gesler wasn’t factoring it into his tactics at all. Why not? No matter. ‘Ges, when holding isn’t what we need to do any more, what do you want from us?’
‘Single wedge, advance at the walk. Cut the bastards in half, Stormy. One wing will be healthier than the other. That one needs blocking-we annihilate the weaker wing. Then we can wheel and take down the other half.’
‘Ges, these Ve’Gath never fought this way before. The K’Chain Che’Malle had no tactics at all, from what I can see in my head.’
‘That’s why they need us humans,’ Kalyth said. ‘She understood. You two-’ she shook her head. ‘The Che’Malle-they drink down your confidence. They are sated. They hear you, discussing the battle to come, and they are awestruck with wonder. And… faith.’
Stormy scowled. Woman, if you could read me right now, you’d run screaming. Of course we say we’re doing this and then that and then this other thing and it’s all so perfect and so logical. We know it’s all a joke. We know that once the battle is engaged, it all turns into Hood’s hoary picnic basket.
Me and Ges, we’re just amateurs. Dujek was damned good at this, but Dassem Ultor, ah, he was the best of them all. He could stand there in front of ten thousand soldiers, and he’d take ’em all through every sword-stroke in the battle to come. By the end of all that wheeling here, driving there, breaking through there, we’d all be nodding half bored and ready to get on with it. It was a done deal to us, and the First Sword, why, he’d just take us all in with his eyes and give back one single nod.
Then the day went out and mayhem was a field of flowers and by dusk the enemy was dead or on the run.
Aye, Gesler, I hear you echoing him. I see you taking on his matter-of-fact tone and that face of sun-warmed iron that we all knew would turn to ice when the time came. I’ll give you this, friend, you’re stealing from the best of ’em all, and doing good.
He clawed through his beard. ‘Anyone got a cask of ale? I can’t remember the last time I went into a battle not belching sour brew.’ He studied Kalyth for a moment, and then sighed. ‘Never mind. Go on, Ges, go hide your K’ell, I got it here.’
‘See you when it’s done, Shield Anvil.’
‘Aye, Mortal Sword.’
Heat was building beneath Kalyth. Sag’Churok was flooded with flavours of violence. But she sat hunched, chilled, her very bones feeling like sticks trapped in lakeshore ice. These two soldiers appalled her. Their confidence was insane. The ease with which they took command-and the mockery with which they exchanged their titles moments before separating-left her reeling.
Her people had met with traders from Kolanse. She had seen armoured caravan guards, looking bored as the merchants haggled with the Elan elders. Children had drawn close to them, eyes shining, but none drew close enough to touch, as much as they might have wanted to. Killers were lodestones. Their silence and their flat eyes fed something in the young boys and girls, and Kalyth could see their childlike longing, the whispering romance of the horizons these warriors had seen. Such scenes had frightened her, and she had prayed to the spirits for the strangers to leave, to take their dangerous temptations with them.
Looking into Gesler’s eyes moments ago, she had seen the same terrible promise. The world was ever too small for him. The horizon chained him and that chain’s pull was relentless. He didn’t care what he left in his wake. His kind never did.
Yet I knew. Gu’Rull saw true. These were the ones I was seeking. These two men are the answer to Gunth’an Acyl’s vision. A future alive with hope.
But they don’t care. They will lead us in this battle, and if we all die they will either flee at the last moment, or they will fall-it’s no matter to them. They are no different from Redmask.
Those caravan guards still squatting in her memory, they were dead and they knew it. This knowledge was the one lover every warrior and every soldier shared, a whore of monstrous proportions. Paid in blood, pimped by kings and generals and fanatic prophets. And it’s all twisted round. It’s the whore who does the raping.
You couldn’t catch her in a thousand years.
One time, two young braves had vanished after a caravan’s departure. The elders and parents met to discuss whether or not to set out after them, to drag them back to the village. In the end, the elders wandered off, and the mothers wept softly with their husbands looking on.
They put chains on and called it freedom. The whore stole them.
She wanted Gesler and Stormy to die. She wanted it with all her heart. There was no reason for it. They’d done nothing wrong. In fact, they were about to do precisely what they were meant to do. And they would not shrink from their destiny. They are not to blame for my hate and my fear.
But I want a world without soldiers. I want to see them all kill each other. I want to see kings and generals standing alone-not a single soul within reach of their grasping claws. No weapon to back their will, no blade to sing their threats. I want to see them revealed for the weak, miserable creatures they truly are.
What can bring this about? How do I make such a world?
Spirits bless my ancestors, I wish I knew.
She’d lost her Mahybe, her clay vessel awaiting her soul. For her, death was a nightmare she knew was coming. She had no reason to dream of any future. In this, was she not like those caravan guards? Was she not the same as Gesler and Stormy? What did they see in her eyes?
I am Destriant. And yet I dream of betrayal. When she looked upon the Ve’Gath, the echoes of their agony of birth returned to her, the terrors of the Womb. They did not deserve what was coming, and yet they longed for it. Could she steal them away from this day of dying, she would. She’d lead them, instead, against her own kind. A holy war against the soldiers of the world and their masters.
Leaving only herders and farmers and fisherfolk. Artists and tanners and potters. Story-tellers and poets and musicians. A world for them and them alone. A world of peace.
The Nah’ruk Furies seemed to devour the broken plain as they advanced. The east was bright with the sun’s birth, but the sky above the enemy legions was a vast stain, a bruise, a maw from which wind howled.
Stormy drew his sword. He could see the front ranks of the foe preparing clubs-weapons of sorcery: the visions or stolen memories flashed scenes of devastating magic through his mind. Ready your shields, and pray the iron holds.
He glared over a shoulder to Ampelas Uprooted. A veil of white smoke enwreathed the sky keep. Clouds? Scowling, Stormy turned his attention to his Ve’Gath. They were arrayed upon the ridge as if painted from his own mind-they knew his thoughts now that he’d knocked down his mental walls. They knew what he wanted, what he needed. And they will never break. Never flee-unless panic takes me, and Hood knows, for all the shit I been through, it ain’t happened yet. And it won’t today neither.
‘So, we stand, lizards. We stand.’
A sudden rustling through the ranks as heads lifted.
Stormy swung round.
From the gaping hole in the morning sky shapes were emerging. Towering, black, pushing out from the maelstrom foaming out from the warren.
Sky keeps. None as huge as the one behind him, massing perhaps two-thirds, and none were carved beyond angled plains of black stone. And yet…
Three… five… eight-
‘Beru fend!’
Ampelas Uprooted ignited like a star behind him.
The deafening, blinding salvo of sorcery ripped across the sky. Enormous chunks of gouged, burning stone erupted from the nearest three Nah’ruk sky keeps. Streaming churning smoke and rubble, shattered fragments the size of tenement blocks plunged earthward, slamming into the ground in the midst of the rearmost ranks of the Nah’ruk.
Ears numbed by the concussion, Gesler rose high on his stirrups-Ampelas Uprooted had drawn closer, looming almost directly overhead. ‘Hood’s breath! Ke’ll Hunters-flee the shadow! Get out from under it! East and west-run!’
He charged forward on his Ve’Gath. Stormy! Fuck the stand-charge ’em! You hear? Charge and close!
He’d heard the stories of the Siege of Pale. Moon’s Spawn’s rain of wreckage into the city had broken the backs of the defenders. This deadly rain of rubble could shatter his entire army.
More Nah’ruk sky keeps emerged from the wound.
Lightning crackled, arced savagely out from a half-dozen sky keeps, converging on Ampelas Uprooted.
The detonations thundered. And the rain of slaughter began.
The huge wagons and their scrambling drones vanished beneath an avalanche that lifted nearby K’ell Hunters into the air, tails lashing for balance as they flailed about. Dust rolled out thick as a tidal wave to swallow the spreading horror as massive chunks of stone descended from the battered Uprooted.
Through the torrential, billowing smoke and rubble, Ampelas lashed back.
The saw-tooth line of Ve’Gath lifted as if heaved forward by the ridge itself, and all at once the huge warriors were pouring down the slope, straight for the lines of Nah’ruk.
Sorcery arced out from the wired clubs, crashed into a shield-locked wall of iron. The Ve’Gath staggered, but not one fell.
There was no time for a second salvo.
The Ve’Gath toothed line hammered into the Nah’ruk. The impact of the charge flattened two, then three ranks of the Short-Tails. Weapons lashed down as the Ve’Gath trampled the fallen enemy, closing with the deeper lines still reeling from the impact.
Stormy was at the very heart of the attack. He’d swung his sword twice, and both times his blade had bitten deep into armour-but his targets were in the act of dying anyway, for they had come within reach of his mount. He couldn’t close with anything worth hacking apart. He roared in frustration.
The Nah’ruk warriors were outmatched. They bore no shields. The Ve’Gath simply chewed through them.
Lightning ripped down from the sky, ploughed a bloody, burning swath through the rearmost Ve’Gath ranks, slaying hundreds in an instant.
Stormy snarled, battered by those sudden, terrible deaths. Break formation! Close with the enemy!
Another lash of sorcery scythed down hundreds more.
Close!
Ampelas Rooted burned from a dozen gaping fissures. Massive pieces had shorn clear, revealing exposed innards from which poured black smoke. The sky keep shuddered as attack after attack pounded into it. The edifice’s forward progress had halted, and now it was being buffeted backward. Still it spat its own fury, and Gesler could see one of the Nah’ruk keeps leaning far to one side, billowing flames and smoke, and from this one no lightning winged out.
But there were too many of the damned things. Three had drifted out to the east, and were now angling to draw up behind Ampelas Rooted-where the thick iron plates armouring that side of its flank had been removed to fashion shields for the Ve’Gath. In moments, they would strike a soft target.
And that’ll kill her. Like a knife to the back.
When she’s finished, those keeps will turn on us here below. If they can.
But I won’t let them.
‘K’ell Hunters! Flanking charge from both sides. Cut in behind the contact-hollow out those engaged legions! Don’t piss around, damn you all! Charge!’
The three Nah’ruk sky keeps loosed raging arcs of lightning. Kalyth stared in horror as the lower half of Ampelas Rooted seemed to bulge, limed in red glow. The concussion of the detonation threw Sag’Churok and Gunth Mach down. Kalyth tumbled clear of the thrashing beasts, rocks lacerating her shoulder and face. She rolled on to her back. The sky was burning, and flaming stones rained down.
She cried out, covering her eyes.
At the rush of hot wind, Stormy twisted round. The lower third of Ampelas Rooted was simply gone, and what remained was spilling its guts, everything burning as the wreckage plunged earthward. The impact was driving the keep on to its side-or back-exposing the destroyed maw of its base.
He swore as Ampelas Rooted somehow managed to return fire, two serpents of lightning writhing out behind it.
They must have struck, though he could not see past the Che’Malle keep, but the thunder of impacts trembled the earth-and then he saw one of the Nah’ruk keeps rising behind Ampelas Rooted, climbing on streamers of smoke.
His eyes widened to see the huge thing gaining speed as it shot still higher. With smoke swarming down its flanks, damaged beyond hope of control, the keep seemed to lunge as it shot into the sky-and kept going.
The remaining two ignited in another sorcerous strike.
Light engulfed Ampelas Uprooted-
The K’ell Hunters plunged into the buckling flanks of the Nah’ruk Furies that were locked jaw to jaw with the Ve’Gath. Their massive blades hacked bloody paths into the press. The Nah’ruk could not match their speed, their reach, and they seemed to melt before the attack.
In his mind, Gesler was shouting the same words over and over, a mantra of desperation. Close close close in-close-they won’t fire if-
Two sky keeps, hovering directly above the battle, sent down writhing spears. Nah’ruk, Ve’Gath and K’ell bodies lifted into the air, blackened, iron shattering.
You pieces of shit!
It was lost. All of it. He realized that in this instant.
The keeps would sterilize the plain below them, if that was what it took-
Off to the west, two more sky keeps were swinging round to approach the battle.
Gesler glared at them.
And then both exploded.
My flesh is stone. My blood rages hot as molten iron. I have a thousand eyes. A thousand swords. And one mind.
I have heard the death-cry. Was she kin? She said as much, when first she touched me. We were upon the ground. Far from each other, and yet of a kind.
I heard her die.
And so I came to mourn her, I came to find her body, her silent tomb.
But she dies still. I do not understand. She dies still-and there are strangers. Cruel strangers. I knew them once. I know them now. I know, too, that they will not yield.
Who am I?
What am I?
But I know the answers to these questions. I believe, at last, that I do.
Strangers, you bring pain. You bring suffering. You bring to so many dreams the dust of death.
But, strangers, I am Icarium.
And I bring far worse.
Kalyth’s eyes flickered open, on a scene jostled and chaotic with smoke. She was in Gunth Mach’s clutches, gripped as would be a child. The One Daughter was flanked on the right by Sag’Churok and by Bre’nigan on the left, the three of them running at a steady trot across the valley floor.
The battle raged just beyond the J’an Sentinel. The K’ell Hunters had cut through to the foremost ranks of the Ve’Gath, but now the enemy had begun an encirclement.
Lightning lashed down from the keeps directly above the field, tearing ragged paths of destruction through the press.
Huge drums were pounding the air to her right and she twisted round to look in that direction. Two Nah’ruk keeps were breaking apart, the fires in their cores burning so hot she saw stone melting like wax, falling away from iron bones. The one to the north was descending earthward as if sinking through water. Multiple explosions racked them both.
Rising from behind them, shouldering through thick pillars of black smoke, another Uprooted.
What? Who? Sag’Churok-
‘Kalse Uprooted, Destriant. But there is no Matron within it. The one who commands… it has been a long time since he last walked among the K’Chain Che’Malle and Nah’ruk.’
Sorcery swarmed round Kalse, green, blue and white-a kind she had never before seen-and then suddenly pulsed out in a seething wave. The magic cut through the two dying keeps and Kalyth gasped to see ice explode out from fissures in the ravaged black stone. As the wave burst through the struck keeps, the one to the south simply split in half, the lower section dropping like a mountain, the upper end lifting and spinning inside swirling streams of smoke, rubble and shards of ice. The other one’s upper third disintegrated in a white cloud moments before it struck the ground.
The concussions of the two impacts shook the earth. The hills to the west were crushed flat. The remnants of the keeps blew apart in vast clouds of dust and rock.
At this same moment the wave passed directly over Kalyth and the three K’Chain Che’Malle, carrying with it air so cold it stunned her lungs. Gasping, agony convulsing her chest, she did not see the wave strike the three sky keeps above the battlefield. The explosions deafened her-darkness rushed in, even as Gunth Mach staggered.
The arrival of a second Che’Malle keep filled the sky with a storm of violence. Above them, Gesler could see nothing but churning clouds and deathly flashes-even the bulks of the keeps had vanished. It seemed as if the sky itself burned, raining white-hot stones that snapped as they shot down through bitterly cold air. Impossibly, snow swirled down amidst ashes and rubble.
Nah’ruk keeps crowded the warren’s gate, as if seeking to break through to bring succour to those dying before the stranger’s onslaught, but wave after wave slammed into them, and the unknown Uprooted was bulling ever closer, as if to drive down the very throat of the warren. Lightning lashed into it, tore huge gashes in its flanks. Death poured down from the sky.
Gesler’s mount towered amidst the K’ell Hunters crowded in on all sides-he knew the K’ell were providing a cordon around them-though nothing could defend any of them against the deadly deluge from above. He could see the rear Nah’ruk Furies committing to the battle-they had been and were still being decimated by falling wreckage. Even so, sheer numbers alone were beginning to tell. Stormy’s Ve’Gath had ceased their advance, but Gesler could see his friend, the battle lust upon him, his face red as his hair, his eyes blazing with madness.
‘Stormy! Stormy! Androjan Redarr, you brainless bastard!’
The head swung round. The man smiled.
Gods below, Stormy. ‘We’re encircled!’
‘And we’re cutting ’em to pieces!’
‘We need to break out-the sky’s killing us!’
‘Withdraw your K’ell! Regroup and set up a charge!’
‘Which side?’
‘Whatever’s behind Kalse!’
Kalse. I ain’t been paying attention. ‘And you?’
‘Back-to-back wedges-we’re driving out to the fucking sides! You watch ’em pour into the gap and then you charge ’em! We about face and close the vice!’
Stormy, you Hood-damned genius. ‘Agreed!’
The pain was overwhelming. He bled from wounds sheathing his body. Blow after blow hammered into him. Blind, deafened, he struck back, not even knowing if his sorcery found the enemy. He felt himself tearing loose, moments from being ripped from his flesh of cracked stone, his bones of tortured iron.
I shall become a ghost again. Lost. Where are my children? You have abandoned me-there are too many of them, they close like wolves-my children-help me-
‘You must close the gate.’
Breath?
‘Yes. Feather Witch. The Errant drowned me. I took his eye, he took my life. Never bargain with gods. His eye-I give it to you, Lifestealer. The gate-do you see it? You are drawing nearer-Lifestealer, do not stop-’
Another voice spoke. ‘They killed a dragon for this power, Icarium.’
Taxilian?
‘Its blood burned this hole-if you fail, the sky shall fill with the enemy machines-and the Nah’ruk will triumph this day. See the K’Chain Che’Malle, Icarium? They can win this-if you stop the Gath’ran Citadels, if you stop them from entering this realm. Seal the gate!’
He could see it now. He held in his hand the eye of an Elder God. Slick, soft, smeared with blood.
The wound between the realms was vast-even Kalse Uprooted could not-
‘You must build a wall-’
‘A prison!’
Feather Witch hissed, ‘Root and Blueiron, Lifestealer! Ice Haunt is not enough! You must awaken the warrens within you! Root to the rock and earth. Blueiron to hold life in your machines. Command the breach!’
‘I cannot hold. I am dying.’
‘There are children in the world, Icarium.’
‘Asane? You do not understand. You are not enough-’
‘There are children in the world. The warrens you have made from your own blood-’
Feather Witch snarled. ‘Our blood!’
‘And ours, yes. The warrens, Icarium-did you imagine they belonged to you and none other? It is too late for that. This day is the day of fire, Icarium. The children wait. The children hear.’
In his mind, even as it crumbled on all sides, he could hear a new voice, a sweet voice, one he had never heard before.
‘I dream we are three
Rutt who is not Rutt and Held
Who cannot be held-
The girl knows silence
Is a game
The boy knows the kiss
Of the Eres’al
The mother of wheeling stars
Who seeds all time
Through me they hear your need
I am the voice of the unborn
In crystal I see fire and I see smoke
I see lizards and Fathers
In crystal I see the boy and the girl.
Heal the wound, God,
Your children are close-’
Rautos whispered-the last words Icarium would remember. ‘Icarium, in the name of a blessed wife… have faith.’
Faith. He took hold of that word.
His hand closed about the eye and he heard the shriek of an Elder God, as he transformed the eye into what he needed. For Root.
A seed.
A Finnest.
Kalyth saw Kalse Uprooted plunge into the maw, and then halt as a storm of lightning tore into it. The very sky seemed to tremble, and then the ground began to shake, and as she stared, she saw stone burst upward from the plain, directly beneath Kalse. The bedrock lifted like gnarled arms, as if an enormous upended tree was flinging roots into the air.
Those roots rose yet higher, touched the base of Kalse Uprooted, and then spread in a frenzy outward. Branches of rock twisted, crowded against the edges of the gate, where fires flared only to vanish. The Wastelands seemed to grow ashen on all sides, as if the very last drops of its lifeblood were being drawn into this savage growth.
The four surviving Nah’ruk sky keeps on this side of the portal unleashed a frenzied assault upon Kalse. Stone exploded. Massive fissures ripped through, spewing molten rock-the entire city was moments from bursting apart.
The stranger fails-but, such glory! To see this! To witness such courage!
The stone tree-if that was what it was-did not cease its mad growth, and she saw roots curl into the wounds in the city’s flanks. Where the lightning struck the writhing stone, the sound of the impacts boomed deeper than any thunder, but everywhere that wounds broke open stone swarmed in to heal the damage.
All at once the attacks ceased. Sudden heat washed down upon Kalyth and she cried out in pain.
The four Nah’ruk sky keeps were engulfed in flames, reeling away from the gate. The fires brightened, and then, in a flash, burst incandescent white at their cores. As she watched, in horror, in wonder, the keeps seemed to be vaporizing before her eyes. Churning, the towering pillars of fire pitched eastward, beneath them the ground blackening with scorching heat.
Gunth Mach spoke in her mind. ‘Destriant. See through my eyes. Do you see?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered.
Two figures stood upon a torn, ruined ridge to the northwest. Sorcery poured from them in terrible waves.
A boy.
A girl.
He didn’t care. The world could be moments from being swallowed by the Abyss itself, Stormy was finally in the midst of war’s sharpest truths and nothing else-nothing-mattered. Laughing, he slashed and hacked at the Nah’ruk as they pressed in, as the dead-eyed lizards sought to clamber over the Ve’Gath, sought by numbers alone to overwhelm this savage wall of denial.
Gesler’s charge down the pocket had pierced the bastards like a boar-sticker, forcing them into the narrow spaces between the frenzied K’ell and the shield-locked Ve’Gath. They fought with appalling ferocity, and died in chilling silence.
His mount was wounded. His mount was probably dying-who could tell? All these lizards fought until their last breath. But its defences had slowed, weakened. There was blood everywhere and he could feel its chest heaving with shuddering cadence.
A short-snouted maw lunged at his face.
Cursing, he pitched back to avoid the snapping dagger teeth, struggled to draw close his short-handled axe-but the damned Nah’ruk surged still closer, clawing its way up the Ve’Gath’s shoulder. His mount staggered-
He chopped with his axe, but the range was too tight, and though the edge bit into the side of the lizard’s head the wound it delivered was not enough to sway the creature. The jaws opened wide. The head snapped forward-
Something snarling struck the Nah’ruk, a knotted mass of mottled, scar-seamed hide and muscle, savage canines sinking deep into the lizard’s neck.
Disbelieving, Stormy kicked his boots free of the stirrups to roll further back-
A fucking dog?
Bent?
That you?
Oh, but it surely was.
Greenish blood spilled from the Nah’ruk’s mouth. The eyes dulled, and a heartbeat later dog and lizard pitched down from the Ve’Gath.
At that moment, Stormy saw the burning sky keeps.
And the storm was gone, the thunder vanished, the world filling with sounds of iron, flesh and bone. The song of ten thousand battles, made eerily surreal by there being not a single scream, not a single cry of agony or shriek begging mercy.
The Nah’ruk were falling.
Battle halted. Slaughter commenced.
No song lives upon a single note.
But to a soldier, who had faced death for an eternity since the dawn, this grisly music was the sweetest music of all.
Slaughter! For my brave Ve’Gath! Slaughter! For Gesler and his K’ell! Slaughter, for the Bonehunters-my friends-SLAUGHTER!
As if some fulcrum had been irrevocably destroyed, Ampelas Uprooted slowly rolled upside down. The entire edifice was burning now, spilling sheets of flaming oil that splashed bright upon rubble, corpses and wounded drones directly below.
Gesler knew it was now dead, a lifeless hulk slowly tumbling in the sky.
Two sky keeps still raged in death-throes behind it, leaning like drunks, moments from colliding with one another. The smoke column from a third was shredding apart to high winds, but of the keep itself there was no sign. The rest were but ashes on the black wind.
Before them rose a mountain of gnarled rock, enclosing the wreckage that had once been Kalse Uprooted, holding it up as if it was a gem, or a giant shattered eye. Something about the stone was familiar, but for the moment, he could not place it. The manifestation reached stunningly high, piercing through the dust and smoke.
Stormy’s hunt for the last fleeing Nah’ruk had taken him and a thousand or so Ve’Gath beyond the hills to the southeast.
Exhausted, numbed beyond all reason, Gesler leaned back in the strange saddle. Some damned dog was yapping at his mount’s ankles.
He saw Kalyth, Sag’Churok, Gunth Mach and the J’an Sentinel, and beyond them, approaching at a careless walk, two children.
Grub. Sinn.
Gesler leaned forward and glared down at the yapping dog. ‘Gods below, Roach,’ he said in a hoarse voice, ‘you returning the favour?’ He drew a shuddering breath. ‘Listen, rat, cos I’m only going to say this once-I guarantee it. But right now, your voice is the prettiest sound I’ve ever heard.’
The miserable thing snarled up at him.
It had never learned how to smile.
Slipping down from the Ve’Gath, Gesler sagged on aching legs. Kalyth was kneeling, facing the direction from which Sinn and Grub were approaching. ‘Get up, Destriant,’ he said, finding himself leaning against the Ve’Gath’s hip. ‘Those two got heads so swelled it’s a wonder a mortal woman pushed ’em out.’
She looked over and he saw the muddy streaks of tears on her cheeks. ‘She had… faith. In us humans.’ The woman shook her head. ‘I did not.’
The two children walked up.
Gesler scowled. ‘Stop looking so smug, Sinn. You two are in a lot of trouble.’
‘Bent and Roach found us,’ said Grub, scratching in the wild thatch of hair on his head. It looked as though neither of them had bathed in months. ‘We were safe, Sergeant Gesler.’
‘Happy for you,’ he said in a growl. ‘But they needed you-both of you. The Bonehunters were in the Nah’ruk’s path-what do you think happened to them?’
Grub’s eyes widened.
Sinn walked up to the Ve’Gath and set a hand on its flank. ‘I want one for myself,’ she said.
‘Didn’t you hear me, Sinn? Your brother-’
‘Is probably dead. We were in the warrens-the new warrens. We were on the path, we could taste the blood-so fresh, so strong.’ She looked up at Gesler with bleak eyes. ‘The Azath has sealed the wound.’
‘The Azath?’
She shrugged, facing the tree of rock, its lone knot gripping Kalse Uprooted. She bared her teeth in something that might have been a smile.
‘Who is in there, Sinn?’
‘He’s gone.’
‘Dead stone can’t seal a gate-not for long-even an Azath needs a life force, a living soul-’
She shot him a quick look. ‘That’s true.’
‘So what seals it-if he’s gone-’
‘An eye.’
‘A what?’
Kalyth spoke in the trader tongue. ‘Mortal Sword, the One Daughter is now the Matron of Mach Nest. Bre’nigan stands as her J’an Sentinel. Sag’Churok is the bearer of the seed. She will speak to you now.’
He turned to face the K’Chain Che’Malle.
‘Mortal Sword. The Shield Anvil returns. Shall we await him?’
Don’t bother, Matron, it’s not like he’s smart or anything.
‘I can, even from this distance, breach the defences he has raised.’
Do that. He deserves the headache.
‘Mortal Sword. Shield Anvil. Destriant. You three stand, you three are the mortal truths of my mother’s faith. New beliefs are born. What is an eternity spent in sleep? What is this morning of our first awakening? We honour the blood of our kin spilled this day. We honour too the fallen Nah’ruk and pray that one day they will know the gift of forgiveness.’
You must have seen it for yourself, Matron, Gesler said, that those Nah’ruk are bred down, past any hope of independent thought. Those sky keeps were old. They can repair, but they cannot make anything new. They are the walking dead, Matron. You can see it in their eyes.
Kalyth said, ‘I believed I saw the same in your eyes, Mortal Sword.’
He grunted and then sighed. Too tired for this. I have grieving to do. ‘You might have been right, Destriant. But we shed things like that like snake skin. You wear what you need to get through, that’s all.’
‘Then perhaps we can hope for the Nah’ruk.’
‘Hope all you like. Sinn-can they burn another gate through?’
‘Not for a long time,’ she replied, reaching down to collect up Roach. She cradled the foul thing in her arms, scratching it behind the ears.
The ugly rat’s pink tongue slid in and out as it panted. Its eyes were demonic with witless malice.
Gesler shivered.
The Matron spoke: ‘We are without a Nest. But the need must wait. Wounds must heal, flesh must be harvested. Mortal Sword, we now pledge ourselves to you. We now serve. Among your friends, there will be survivors. We shall find them.’
Gesler shook his head. ‘We led your army, Matron. We had our battle, but it’s over now. You don’t owe us anything. And whatever your mother believed, she never asked us, did she? Me and Stormy, we’re not priests. We’re soldiers and nothing more. Those titles you gave us-well, we’re shedding that skin too.’
Stormy’s voice rumbled through his mind, ‘Same for me, Matron. We can find our friends on our own-you need a city to build, or maybe some other Rooted you can find. Besides, we got Grub and Sinn, and Bent here-gods, he’s almost wagging that stub of a tail and I ain’t never seen that before. Must be all the gore on his face.’
Kalyth laughed, even as tears streamed down her lined cheeks. ‘You two-you cannot shed your titles. They are branded upon your souls-will you just leave me here?’
‘You’re welcome to come with us,’ said Gesler.
‘Where?’
‘East, I think.’
The woman flinched.
‘You’re from there, aren’t you? Kalyth?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Elan. But the Elan are no more. I am the last. Mortal Sword, you must not choose that direction. You will die-all of you.’ She pointed at Grub and Sinn. ‘Even them.’
The Matron said, ‘Then we see the path before us. We shall guard you all. Ve’Gath. K’ell. J’an. Gu’Rull who still lives, still serves. We shall be your guardians. It is the new way our mother foresaw. The path of our rebirth.
‘Humans, welcome us. The K’Chain Che’Malle have returned to the world.’
Sulkit heard her words and something stirred within her. She had been a J’an Sentinel in the time of her master’s need, but her master was gone, and now she was a Matron in her own right.
The time had not yet come when she would make herself known. Old seeds grew within her: the first born would be weak, but that could not be helped. In time, vigour would return.
Her master was gone. The throne was empty, barring a lone eye, embedded in the headrest. She was alone within Kalse.
Life was bleeding into the Rooted’s stone. Strange, alien life. Its flesh and bone was rock. Its mind and soul was the singular imposition of belief. But then, what else are any of us? She would think on this matter.
He was gone. She was alone. But all was well.
‘I have lost him. Again. We were so close, but now… gone.’
With these words the trek staggered to a halt, as if in Mappo’s private loss all other desires had withered, blown away.
The twins had closed on the undead wolf. Faint had a fear that death had somehow addicted them to its hoary promise. They spoke of Toc. They closed small fingers tight in the ratty fur of Baaljagg. The boy slept in Gruntle’s arms-now who could have predicted that bond? No matter, there was something in that huge man that made her think he should have been a father a hundred times by now-to the world’s regret, since he was not anything of the sort.
No, Gruntle had broken loves behind him. Hardly unique, of course, but in that man the loss belonged to everyone.
Ah, I think I just yearn for his shadow. Me and half the lasses here. Oh well. Silly Faint.
Setoc, who had been conversing with Cartographer, now walked over.
‘The storm to the south’s not getting any closer-we have that, at least.’
Faint rubbed the back of her neck and winced at the pressure. ‘Could have done with the rain.’
‘If there was rain.’
She glanced at the girl. ‘Saw you meet Gruntle’s eyes a while back. A look passed between you when we were talking about that storm. So, out with it.’
‘It was a battle, not a storm. Sorcery, and worse. But now it’s over.’
‘Who was fighting, Setoc?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s far away. We don’t have to go there.’
‘Seems like we’re not going anywhere right now.’
‘We will. For now, let’s leave him be,’ she said, eyes on Mappo, who stood a short distance away, motionless as a statue-as he had been for some time.
Amby had been walking alongside the horse-drawn travois carrying his brother-Jula was still close to death. Precious Thimble’s healing was a paltry thing. The Wastelands could not feed her magic, she said. There was still the chance that Jula would die. Amby knelt, shading his brother’s face with one hand. He suddenly looked very young.
Setoc walked back to the horse.
Sighing, Faint looked around.
And saw a rider approaching. ‘Company,’ she said, loud enough to catch everyone’s attention. All but Mappo reacted, turning or rising and following her gaze.
From Setoc: ‘I know him! That’s Torrent!’
More lost souls to this pathetic party. Welcome.
A single flickering fire marked the camp, and occasionally a figure passed in front of it. The wind carried no sound from those gathered there. Among the travellers, sorrow and joy, grief and the soft warmth of newborn love. So few mortals, and yet all of life was there, ringing the fire.
Faint jade light limned the broken ground, as if darkness itself could be painted into a mockery of life. The rider who sat upon a motionless, unbreathing horse, was silent, feeling like a creature too vast to approach any shore-he could look on with one dead eye or the other dead eye. He could remember what it was like to be a living thing among other living things.
The heat, the promise, the uncertainties and all the hopes to sweeten the bitterest seas.
But that shore was for ever beyond him now.
They could feel the warmth of that fire. He could not. And never again.
The figure that rose from the dust beside him said nothing for a time, and when she spoke it was in the spirit language-her voice beyond the ears of the living. ‘We all do as we must, Herald.’
‘What you have done, Olar Ethil…’
‘It is too easy to forget.’
‘Forget what?’
‘The truth of the T’lan Imass. Did you know, a fool once wept for them?’
‘I was there. I saw the man’s barrow-the gifts…’
‘The most horrid of creatures-human and otherwise-are so easily, so carelessly recast. Mad murderers become heroes. The insane wear the crown of geniuses. Fools flower in endless fields, Herald, where history once walked.’
‘What is your point, bonecaster?’
‘The T’lan Imass. Slayers of Children from the very beginning. Too easy to forget. Even the Imass themselves, the First Sword himself, needed reminding. You all needed reminding.’
‘To what end?’
‘Why do you not go to them, Toc the Younger?’
‘I cannot.’
‘No,’ she nodded, ‘you cannot. The pain is too great. The loss you feel.’
‘Yes,’ he whispered.
‘Nor should they yield love to you, should they? Any of them. The children…’
‘They should not, no.’
‘Because, Toc the Younger, you are the brother of Onos T’oolan. His true brother now. And for all the mercy that once dwelt in your mortal heart, only ghosts remain. They must not love you. They must not believe in you. For you are not the man you once were.’
‘Did you think I needed reminding, too, Olar Ethil?’
‘I think… yes.’
She was right. He felt inside for the pain he’d thought-he’d believed-he had lived with for so long. As if lived was even the right word. When he found it, he saw at last its terrible truth. A ghost. A memory. I but wore its guise.
The dead have found me.
I have found the dead.
And we are the same.
‘Where will you go now, Toc the Younger?’
He gathered the reins of his horse and looked back at the distant fire. It was a spark. It would not last the night. ‘Away.’
Snow drifted down, the sky was at peace.
The figure on the throne had been frozen, lifeless, for a long, long time.
A fine shedding of dust from the corpse marked that something had changed. Ice then crackled. Steam rose from flesh slowly thickening with life. The hands, gripping the arms of the throne, suddenly twitched, fingers uncurling.
Light flickered in its pitted eyes.
And, looking out from mortal flesh once more, Hood, who had once been the Lord of Death, found arrayed before him fourteen Jaghut warriors. They stood in the midst of frozen corpses, weapons out but lowered or resting across shoulders.
One spoke. ‘What was that war again?’
The others laughed.
The first one continued, ‘Who was that enemy?’
The laughter this time was louder, longer.
‘Who was our commander?’
Heads rocked back and the thirteen roared with mirth.
The first speaker shouted, ‘Does he live? Do we?’
Hood slowly rose from the throne, melted ice streaming down his blackened hide. He stood, and eventually the laughter fell away. He took one step forward, and then another.
The fourteen warriors did not move.
Hood lowered to one knee, head bowing. ‘I seek… penance.’
A warrior far to the right said, ‘Gathras, he seeks penance. Do you hear that?’
The first speaker replied. ‘I do, Sanad.’
‘Shall we give it, Gathras?’ another asked.
‘Varandas, I believe we shall.’
‘Gathras.’
‘Yes, Haut?’
‘What was that war again?’
The Jaghut howled.
The Errant was lying on wet stone, on his back, unconscious, the socket of one eye a pool of blood.
Kilmandaros, breathing hard, stepped close to look down upon him. ‘Will he live?’
Sechul Lath was silent for a moment, and then he sighed. ‘Live is such a strange word. We know nothing else, after all. Not truly. Not… intimately.’
‘But will he?’
Sechul turned away. ‘I suppose so.’ He halted suddenly, cocked his head and then snorted. ‘Just what he always wanted.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s got an eye on a Gate.’
Her laughter rumbled in the cavern, and when it faded she turned to Sechul and said, ‘I am ready to free the bitch. Beloved son, is it time to end the world?’
Face hidden from her view, Sechul Lath closed his eyes. Then said, ‘Why not?’
This ends the Ninth Tale of The Malazan Book of the Fallen