At night ghosts come
In rivers of grief,
To claw away the sand
Beneath a man’s feet
THE TWIN LONG-KNIVES WERE SLUNG IN A FADED LEATHER HARNESS stitched in swirling Pardu patterns. They hung from a nail on one of the shop’s corner posts, beneath an elaborate Kherahn shaman’s feather headdress. The long table fronting the canopied stall was crowded with ornate obsidian objects looted from some tomb, each one newly blessed in the name of gods, spirits or demons. On the left side, behind the table and flanking the toothless proprietor who sat cross-legged on a high stool, was a tall screened cabinet.
The burly, dark-skinned customer stood examining the obsidian weapons for some time before a slight flip of his right hand signalled an interest to the hawker.
‘The breath of demons!’ the old man squealed, jabbing a gnarled finger at various stone blades in confusing succession. ‘And these, kissed by Mael-see how the waters have smoothed them? I have more-’
‘What lies in the cabinet?’ the customer rumbled.
‘Ah, you’ve a sharp eye! Are you a Reader, perchance? Could you smell the chaos, then? Decks, my wise friend! Decks! And oh, haven’t they awakened! Yes, all anew. All is in flux-’
‘The Deck of Dragons is always in flux-’
‘Ah, but a new House! Oh, I see your surprise at that, friend! A new House. Vast power, ’tis said. Tremors to the very roots of the world!’
The man facing him scowled. ‘Another new House, is it? Some local impostor cult, no doubt-’
But the old man was shaking his head, eyes darting past his lone customer, suspiciously scanning the market crowd-paltry as it was. He then leaned forward. ‘I do not deal in those, friend. Oh, I am as loyal to Dryjhna as the next, make no claims otherwise! But the Deck permits no bias, does it? Oh no, balanced wise eyes and mind is necessary. Indeed. Now, why does the new House ring with truth? Let me tell you, friend. First, a new Unaligned card, a card denoting that a Master now commands the Deck. An arbiter, yes? And then, spreading out like a runaway stubble fire, the new House. Sanctioned? Undecided. But not rejected out of hand, oh no, not rejected. And the Readers-the patterns! The House will be sanctioned-not one Reader doubts that!’
‘And what is the name of this House?’ the customer asked. ‘What throne? Who claims to rule it?’
‘The House of Chains, my friend. To your other questions, there is naught but confusion in answer. Ascendants vie. But I will tell you this: the Throne where the King shall sit-the Throne, my friend, is cracked.’
‘You are saying this House belongs to the Chained One?’
‘Aye. The Crippled God.’
‘The others must be assailing it fiercely,’ the man murmured, his expression thoughtful.
‘You would think, but not so. Indeed, it is they who are assailed! Do you wish to see the new cards?’
‘I may return later and do that very thing,’ the man replied. ‘But first, let me see those poor knives on that post.’
‘Poor knives! Aaii! Not poor, oh no!’ The old man spun on his seat, reached up and collected the brace of weapons. He grinned, blue-veined tongue darting between red gums. ‘Last owned by a Pardu ghost-slayer!’ He drew one of the knives from its sheath. The blade was blackened, inlaid with a silver serpent pattern down its length.
‘That is not Pardu,’ the customer growled.
‘Owned, I said. You’ve a sharp eye indeed. They are Wickan. Booty from the Chain of Dogs.’
‘Let me see the other one.’
The old man unsheathed the second blade.
Kalam Mekhar’s eyes involuntarily widened. Quickly regaining his composure, he glanced up at the proprietor-but the man had seen and was nodding.
‘Aye, friend. Aye…’
The entire blade, also black, was feather-patterned, the inlay an amber-tinged silver-that amber taint… alloyed with otataral. Crow clan. But not a lowly warrior’s weapon. No, this one belonged to someone important.
The old man resheathed the Crow knife, tapped the other one with a finger. ‘Invested, this one. How to challenge the otataral? Simple. Elder magic.’
‘Elder. Wickan sorcery is not Elder-’
‘Oh, but this now-dead Wickan warrior had a friend. See, here, take the knife in your hand. Squint at this mark, there, at the base-see, the serpent’s tail coils around it-’
The long-knife was startlingly heavy in Kalam’s hand. The finger ridges in the grip were overlarge, but the Wickan had compensated for this with thicker leather straps. The stamp impressed into the metal in the centre of the looped tail was intricate, almost beyond belief, given the size of the hand that must have inscribed it. Fenn. Thelomen Toblakai. The Wickan had a friend indeed. And worse, I know that mark. I know precisely who invested this weapon. Gods below, what strange cycles am I striding into here?
There was no point in bartering. Too much had been revealed. ‘Name your price,’ Kalam sighed.
The old man’s grin broadened. ‘As you can imagine, a cherished set-my most valuable prize.’
‘At least until the dead Crow warrior’s son comes to collect it-though I doubt he will be interested in paying you in gold. I will inherit that vengeful hunter, so rein in your greed and name the price.’
‘Twelve hundred.’
The assassin set a small pouch on the table and watched the proprietor loosen the strings and peer inside.
‘There is a darkness to these diamonds,’ the old man said after a moment.
‘It is that shadow that makes them so valuable and you know it.’
‘Aye, I do indeed. Half of what is within will suffice.’
‘An honest hawker.’
‘A rarity, yes. These days, loyalty pays.’
Kalam watched the old man count out the diamonds. ‘The loss of imperial trade has been painful, it seems.’
‘Very. But the situation here in G’danisban is doubly so, friend.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Why, everyone is at B’ridys, of course. The siege.’
‘B’ridys? The old mountain fortress? Who is holed up there?’
‘Malazans. They retreated from their strongholds in Ehrlitan, here and Pan’potsun-were chased all the way into the hills. Oh, nothing so grand as the Chain of Dogs, but a few hundred made it.’
‘And they’re still holding out?’
‘Aye. B’ridys is like that, alas. Still, not much longer, I wager. Now, I am done, friend. Hide that pouch well, and may the gods ever walk in your shadow.’
Kalam struggled to keep the grin from his face as he collected the weapons. ‘And with you, sir.’ And so they will, friend. Far closer than you might want.
He walked a short distance down the market street, then paused to adjust the clasps of the weapon harness. The previous owner had not Kalam’s bulk. Then again, few did. When he was done he slipped into the harness, then drew his telaba’s overcloak around once more. The heavier weapon jutted from under his left arm.
The assassin continued on through G’danisban’s mostly empty streets. Two long-knives, both Wickan. The same owner? Unknown. They were complementary in one sense, true, yet the difference in weight would challenge anyone who sought to fight using both at the same time.
In a Fenn’s hand, the heavier weapon would be little more than a dirk. The design was clearly Wickan, meaning the investment had been a favour, or in payment. Can I think of a Wickan who might have earned that? Well, Coltaine-but he carried a single long-knife, un-patterned. Now, if only I knew more about that damned Thelomen Toblakai…
Of course, the High Mage named Bellurdan Skullcrusher was dead.
Cycles indeed. And now this House of Chains. The damned Crippled God-
You damned fool, Cotillion. You were there at the last Chaining, weren’t you? You should have stuck a knife in the bastard right there and then.
Now, I wonder, was Bellurdan there as well?
Oh, damn, I forgot to ask what happened to that Pardu ghost-slayer…
The road that wound southwest out of G’danisban had been worn down to the underlying cobbles. Clearly, the siege had gone on so long that the small city that fed it was growing gaunt. The besieged were probably faring worse. B’ridys had been carved into a cliffside, a longstanding tradition in the odhans surrounding the Holy Desert. There was no formal, constructed approach-not even steps, nor handholds, cut into the stone-and the tunnels behind the fortifications reached deep. Within those tunnels, springs supplied water. Kalam had only seen B’ridys from the outside, long abandoned by its original inhabitants, suggesting that the springs had dried up. And while such strongholds contained vast storage chambers, there was little chance that the Malazans who’d fled to it had found those chambers supplied.
The poor bastards were probably starving.
Kalam walked the road in the gathering dusk. He saw no-one else on the track, and suspected that the supply trains would not set out from G’danisban until the fall of night, to spare their draught animals the heat. Already, the road had begun its climb, twisting onto the sides of the hills.
The assassin had left his horse with Cotillion in the Shadow Realm. For the tasks ahead, stealth, not speed, would prove his greatest challenge. Besides, Raraku was hard on horses. Most of the outlying sources of water would have been long since fouled, in anticipation of the Adjunct’s army. He knew of a few secret ones, however, which would of necessity have been kept untainted.
This land, Kalam realized, was in itself a land under siege-and the enemy had yet to arrive. Sha’ik had drawn the Whirlwind close, a tactic that suggested to the assassin a certain element of fear. Unless, of course, Sha’ik was deliberately playing against expectations. Perhaps she simply sought to draw Tavore into a trap, into Raraku, where her power was strongest, where her forces knew the land whilst the enemy did not.
But there’s at least one man in Tavore’s army who knows Raraku. And he’d damn well better speak up when the time comes.
Night had arrived, stars glittering overhead. Kalam pressed on. Burdened beneath a pack heavy with food and waterskins, he continued to sweat as the air chilled. Reaching the summit of yet another hill, he discerned the glow of the besiegers’ camp beneath the ragged horizon’s silhouette. From the cliffside itself there was no light at all.
He continued on.
It was midmorning before he arrived at the camp. Tents, wagons, stone-ringed firepits, arrayed haphazardly in a rough semicircle before the rearing cliff-face with its smoke-blackened fortress. Heaps of rubbish surrounded the area, latrine pits overflowing and reeking in the heat. As he made his way down the track, Kalam studied the situation. He judged that there were about five hundred besiegers, many of them-given their uniforms-originally part of Malazan garrisons, but of local blood. There had been no assault in some time. Makeshift wooden towers waited off to one side.
He had been spotted, but no challenge was raised, nor was much interest accorded him as he reached the camp’s edge. Just another fighter come to kill Malazans. Carrying his own food, ensuring he would not burden anyone else, and therefore welcome.
As the hawker in G’danisban had suggested, the patience of the attackers had ended. Preparations were under way for a final push. Probably not this day, but the next. The scaffolds had been left untended for too long-ropes had dried out, wood had split. Work crews had begun the repairs, but without haste, moving slowly in the enervating heat. There was an air of dissolution to the camp that even anticipation could not hide.
The fires have cooled here. Now, they’re only planning an assault so they can get this over with, so they can go home.
The assassin noted a small group of soldiers near the centre of the half-ring where it seemed the orders were coming from. One man in particular, accoutred in the armour of a Malazan lieutenant, stood with hands on hips and was busy haranguing a half-dozen sappers.
The workmen wandered off a moment before Kalam arrived, desultorily making for the towers.
The lieutenant noticed him. Dark eyes narrowed beneath the rim of the helm. There was a crest on that skullcap. Ashok Regiment.
Stationed in Genabaris a few years past. Then sent back to… Ehrlitan, I think. Hood rot the bastards, I’d have thought they would have stayed loyal.
‘Come to see the last of them get their throats cut?’ the lieutenant asked with a hard grin. ‘Good. You’ve the look of an organized and experienced man, and Beru knows, I’ve far too few of them here in this mob. Your name?’
‘Ulfas,’ Kalam replied.
‘Sounds Barghast.’
The assassin shrugged as he set down his pack. ‘You’re not the first to think that.’
‘You will address me as sir. That’s if you want to be part of this fight.’
‘You’re not the first to think that… sir.’
‘I am Captain Irriz.’
Captain… in a lieutenant’s uniform. Felt unappreciated in the regiment, did you? ‘When does the assault begin, sir?’
‘Eager? Good. Tomorrow at dawn. There’s only a handful left up there. It shouldn’t take long once we breach the balcony entrance.’
Kalam looked up at the fortress. The balcony was little more than a projecting ledge, the doorway beyond narrower than a man’s shoulders. ‘They only need a handful,’ he muttered, then added, ‘sir.’
Irriz scowled. ‘You just walked in and you’re already an expert?’
‘Sorry, sir. Simply an observation.’
‘Well, we’ve a mage just arrived. Says she can knock a hole where that door is. A big hole. Ah, here she comes now.’
The woman approaching was young, slight and pallid. And Malazan. Ten paces away, her steps faltered, then she halted, light brown eyes fixing now on Kalam. ‘Keep that weapon sheathed when you’re near me,’ she drawled. ‘Irriz, get that bastard to stand well away from us.’
‘Sinn? What’s wrong with him?’
‘Wrong? Nothing, probably. But one of his knives is an otataral weapon.’
The sudden avarice in the captain’s eyes as he studied Kalam sent a faint chill through the assassin. ‘Indeed. And where did you come by that, Ulfas?’
‘Took it from the Wickan I killed. On the Chain of Dogs.’
There was sudden silence. Faces turned to regard Kalam anew. Doubt flickered onto Irriz’s face. ‘You were there?’
‘Aye. What of it?’
There were hand gestures all round, whispered prayers. The chill within Kalam grew suddenly colder. Gods, they’re voicing blessings… but not on me. They’re blessing the Chain of Dogs. What truly happened there, for this to have been born?
‘Why are you not with Sha’ik, then?’ Irriz demanded. ‘Why would Korbolo have let you leave?’
‘Because,’ Sinn snapped, ‘Korbolo Dom is an idiot, and Kamist Reloe even worse. Personally, I am amazed he didn’t lose half his army after the Fall. What true soldier would stomach what happened there? Ulfas, is it? You deserted Korbolo’s Dogslayers, yes?’
Kalam simply shrugged. ‘I went looking for a cleaner fight.’
Her laugh was shrill, and she spun in mocking pirouette in the dust. ‘And you came here? Oh, you fool! That’s so funny! It makes me want to scream, it’s so funny!’
Her mind is broken. ‘I see nothing amusing in killing,’ he replied. ‘Though I find it odd that you are here, seemingly so eager to kill fellow Malazans.’
Her face darkened. ‘My reasons are my own, Ulfas. Irriz, I would speak with you in private. Come.’
Kalam held his expression impassive as the captain flinched at the imperious tone. Then the renegade officer nodded. ‘I will join you in a moment, Sinn.’ He turned back to the assassin. ‘Ulfas. We want to take most of them alive, to give us sport. Punishment for being so stubborn. I especially want their commander. He is named Kindly-’
‘Do you know him, sir?’
Irriz grinned. ‘I was 3rd Company in the Ashok. Kindly leads the 2nd.’ He gestured at the fortress. ‘Or what’s left of it. This is a personal argument for me, and that is why I intend to win. And it’s why I want those bastards alive. Wounded and disarmed.’
Sinn was waiting impatiently. Now she spoke up, ‘There’s a thought. Ulfas, with his otataral knife-he can make their mage useless.’
Irriz grinned. ‘First into the breach, then. Acceptable to you, Ulfas?’
First in, last out. ‘It won’t be my first time, sir.’
The captain then joined Sinn and the two strode off.
Kalam stared after them. Captain Kindly. Never met you, sir, but for years you’ve been known as the meanest officer in the entire Malazan military. And, it now seems, the most stubborn, too.
Excellent. I could use a man like that.
He found an empty tent to stow his gear-empty because a latrine pit had clawed away the near side of its sand-crusted wall and was now soaking the ground beneath the floor’s single rug along the back. Kalam placed his bag beside the front flap then stretched out close to it, shutting his mind and senses away from the stench.
In moments he was asleep.
He awoke to darkness. The camp beyond was silent. Slipping out from his telaba, the assassin rose into a crouch and began winding straps around his loose-fitting clothes. When he was done, he drew on fingerless leather gloves, then wound a black cloth around his head until only his eyes remained uncovered. He edged outside.
A few smouldering firepits, two tents within sight still glowing with lamplight. Three guards sitting in a makeshift picket facing the fortress-about twenty paces distant.
Kalam set out, silently skirting the latrine pit and approaching the skeletal scaffolding of the siege towers. They had posted no guard there. Irriz was probably a bad lieutenant, and now he’s an even worse captain. He moved closer.
The flicker of sorcery at the base of one of the towers froze him in place. After a long, breathless moment, a second muted flash, dancing around one of the support fittings.
Kalam slowly settled down to watch.
Sinn moved from fitting to fitting. When she finished with the closest tower, she proceeded to the next. There were three in all.
When she was working on the last fitting at the base of the second tower, Kalam rose and slipped forward. As he drew near her, he unsheathed the otataral blade.
He smiled at her soft curse. Then, as realization struck her, she whirled.
Kalam held up a staying hand, slowly raised his knife, then sheathed it once more. He padded to her side. ‘Lass,’ he whispered in Malazan, ‘this is a nasty nest of snakes for you to play in.’
Her eyes went wide, gleaming like pools in the starlight. ‘I wasn’t sure of you,’ she replied quietly. Her thin arms drew tight around herself. ‘I’m still not. Who are you?’
‘Just a man sneaking to the towers… to weaken all the supports. As you have done. All but one of them, that is. The third one is the best made-Malazan, in fact. I want to keep that one intact.’
‘Then we are allies,’ she said, still hugging herself.
She’s very young. ‘You showed fine acting abilities earlier on. And you’ve surprising skill as a mage, for one so…’
‘Minor magicks only, I’m afraid. I was being schooled.’
‘Who was your instructor?’
‘Fayelle. Who’s now with Korbolo Dom. Fayelle, who slid her knife across the throats of my father and mother. Who went hunting for me, too. But I slipped away, and even with her sorcery she could not find me.’
‘And this is to be your revenge?’
Her grin was a silent snarl. ‘I have only begun my revenge, Ulfas. I want her. But I need soldiers.’
‘Captain Kindly and company. You mentioned a mage in that fortress. Have you been in touch with him?’
She shook her head. ‘I have not that skill.’
‘Then why do you believe that the captain will join you in your cause?’
‘Because one of his sergeants is my brother-well, my half-brother. I don’t know if he still lives, though…’
He settled a hand on her shoulder, ignoring the answering flinch. ‘All right, lass. We will work together on this. You’ve your first ally.’
‘Why?’
He smiled unseen behind the cloth. ‘Fayelle is with Korbolo Dom, yes? Well, I have a meeting pending with Korbolo. And with Kamist Reloe. So, we’ll work together in convincing Captain Kindly. Agreed?’
‘Agreed.’
The relief in her voice sent a twinge through the assassin. She’d been alone for far too long in her deadly quest. In need of help… but with no-one around to whom she could turn. Just one more orphan in this Hood-cursed rebellion. He recalled his first sight of those thirteen hundred children he had unwittingly saved all those months back, his last time crossing this land. And there, in those faces, was the true horror of war. Those children had been alive when the carrion birds came down for their eyes… A shudder ran through him.
‘What is wrong? You seemed far away.’
He met her eyes. ‘No, lass, far closer than you think.’
‘Well, I have already done most of my work this night. Irriz and his warriors won’t be worth much come the morning.’
‘Oh? And what did you have planned for me?’
‘I wasn’t sure. I was hoping that, with you up front, you’d get killed quick. Captain Kindly’s mage wouldn’t go near you-he’d leave it to the soldiers with their crossbows.’
‘And what of this hole you were to blast into the cliff-face?’
‘Illusion. I’ve been preparing for days. I think I can do it.’
Brave and desperate. ‘Well, lass, your efforts seem to have far outstripped mine in ambition. I’d intended a little mayhem and not much more. You mentioned that Irriz and his men wouldn’t be worth much. What did you mean by that?’
‘I poisoned their water.’
Kalam blanched behind his mask. ‘Poison? What kind?’
‘Tralb.’
The assassin said nothing for a long moment. Then, ‘How much?’
She shrugged. ‘All that the healer had. Four vials. He once said he used it to stop tremors, such as afflicted old people.’
Aye. A drop. ‘When?’
‘Not long ago.’
‘So, unlikely anyone’s drunk it yet.’
‘Except maybe a guard or two.’
‘Wait here, lass.’ Kalam set out, silent in the darkness, until he came within sight of the three warriors manning the picket. Earlier, they had been seated. That was no longer the case. But there was movement, low to the ground-he slipped closer.
The three figures were spasming, writhing, their limbs jerking. Foam caked their mouths and blood had started from their bulging eyes. They had fouled themselves. A water skin lay nearby in a patch of wet sand that was quickly disappearing beneath a carpet of capemoths.
The assassin drew his pig-sticker. He would have to be careful, since to come into contact with blood, spit or any other fluid was to invite a similar fate. The warriors were doomed to suffer like this for what to them would be an eternity-they would still be spasming by dawn, and would continue to do so until either their hearts gave out or they died from dehydration. Horribly, with Tralb it was often the latter rather than the former.
He reached the nearest one. Saw recognition in the man’s leaking eyes. Kalam raised his knife. Relief answered the gesture. The assassin drove the narrow-bladed weapon down into the guard’s left eye, angled upward. The body stiffened, then settled with a frothy sigh. He quickly repeated the grisly task with the other two. Then meticulously cleaned his knife in the sand. Capemoths, wings rasping, were descending on the scene. Hunting rhizan quickly joined them. The air filled with the sound of crunching exoskeletons.
Kalam faced the camp. He would have to stove the casks. Enemies of the empire these warriors might be, but they deserved a more merciful death than this.
A faint skittering sound spun him around.
A rope had uncoiled down the cliff-face from the stone balcony. Figures began descending, silent and fast.
They had watchers.
The assassin waited.
Three in all, none armed with more than daggers. As they came forward one halted while still a dozen paces distant.
The lead man drew up before the assassin. ‘And who in Hood’s name are you?’ he hissed, gold flashing from his teeth.
‘A Malazan soldier,’ was Kalam’s whispered reply. ‘Is that your mage hanging back over there? I need his help.’
‘He says he can’t-’
‘I know. My otataral long-knife. But he need not get close-all he has to do is empty this camp’s water casks.’
‘What for? There’s a spring not fifty paces downtrail-they’ll just get more.’
‘You’ve another ally here,’ Kalam said. ‘She fouled the water with Tralb-what do you think afflicted these poor bastards?’
The second man grunted. ‘We was wondering. Not pleasant, what happened to them. Still, it’s no less than they deserved. I say leave the water be.’
‘Why not take the issue to Captain Kindly? He’s the one making the decisions for you, right?’
The man scowled.
His companion spoke. ‘That’s not why we’re down here. We’re here to retrieve you. And if there’s another one, we’ll take her, too.’
‘To do what?’ Kalam demanded. He was about to say Starve? Die of thirst? but then he realized that neither soldier before him looked particularly gaunt, nor parched. ‘You want to stay holed up in there for ever?’
‘It suits us fine,’ the second soldier snapped. ‘We could leave at any time. There’s back routes. But the question is, then what? Where do we go? The whole land is out for Malazan blood.’
‘What is the last news you’ve heard?’ Kalam asked.
‘We ain’t heard any at all. Not since we quitted Ehrlitan. As far as we can see, Seven Cities ain’t part of the Malazan Empire any more, and there won’t be nobody coming to get us. If there was, they’d have come long since.’
The assassin regarded the two soldiers for a moment, then he sighed. ‘All right, we need to talk. But not here. Let me get the lass-we’ll go with you. On condition that your mage do me the favour I asked.’
‘Not an even enough bargain,’ the second soldier said. ‘Grab for us Irriz. We want a little sit-down with that fly-blown corporal.’
‘Corporal? Didn’t you know, he’s a captain now. You want him. Fine. Your mage destroys the water in those casks. I’ll send the lass your way-be kind to her. All of you head back up. I may be a while.’
‘We can live with that deal.’
Kalam nodded and made his way back to where he’d left Sinn.
She had not left her position, although instead of hiding she was dancing beneath one of the towers, spinning in the sand, arms floating, hands fluttering like capemoth wings.
The assassin hissed in warning as he drew near. She halted, saw him, and scurried over. ‘You took too long! I thought you were dead!’
And so you danced? ‘No, but those three guards are. I’ve made contact with the soldiers from the fortress. They’ve invited us inside-conditions seem amenable up there. I’ve agreed.’
‘But what about the attack tomorrow?’
‘It will fail. Listen, Sinn, they can leave at any time, unseen-we can be on our way into Raraku as soon as we can convince Kindly. Now, follow me-and quietly.’
They returned to where the three Malazan imperials waited.
Kalam scowled at the squad mage, but he grinned in return. ‘It’s done. Easy when you’re not around.’
‘Very well. This is Sinn-she’s a mage as well. Go on, all of you.’
‘Lady’s luck to you,’ one of the soldiers said to Kalam.
Without replying, the assassin turned about and slipped back into the camp. He returned to his own tent, entered and crouched down beside his kit bag. Rummaging inside it, he drew out the pouch of diamonds and selected one at random.
A moment’s careful study, holding it close in the gloom. Murky shadows swam within the cut stone. Beware of shadows bearing gifts. He reached outside and dragged in one of the flat stones used to hold down the tent walls, and set the diamond onto its dusty surface.
The bone whistle Cotillion had given him was looped on a thong around his neck. He pulled it clear and set it to his lips. ‘Blow hard and you’ll awaken all of them. Blow soft and directly at one in particular, and you’ll awaken that one alone.’ Kalam hoped the god knew what he was talking about. Better if these weren’t Shadowthrone’s toys… He leaned forward until the whistle was a mere hand’s width from the diamond.
Then softly blew through it.
There was no sound. Frowning, Kalam pulled the whistle from his lips and examined it. He was interrupted by a soft tinkling sound.
The diamond had crumbled to glittering dust.
From which a swirling shadow rose.
As I’d feared. Azalan. From a territory in the Shadow Realm bordering that of the Aptorians. Rarely seen, and never more than one at a time. Silent, seemingly incapable of language-how Shadowthrone commanded them was a mystery.
Swirling, filling the tent, dropping to all six limbs, the spiny ridge of its massive, hunched back scraping against the fabric to either side of the ridge-pole. Blue, all-too-human eyes blinked out at Kalam from beneath a black-skinned, flaring, swept-back brow. Wide mouth, lower lip strangely protruding as if in eternal pout, twin slits for a nose. A mane of thin bluish-black hair hung in strands, tips brushing the tent floor. There was no indication of its gender. A complicated harness crisscrossed its huge torso, studded with a variety of weapons, not one of which seemed of practical use.
The azalan possessed no feet as such-each appendage ended in a wide, flat, short-fingered hand. The homeland of these demons was a forest, and these creatures commonly lived in the tangled canopy high overhead, venturing down to the gloomy forest floor only when summoned.
Summoned… only to then be imprisoned in diamonds. If it was me, I’d be pretty annoyed by now.
The demon suddenly smiled.
Kalam glanced away, considering how to frame his request. Get Captain Irriz. Alive, but kept quiet. Join me at the rope. There would need to be some explaining to do, and with a beast possessing no language-
The azalan turned suddenly, nostrils twitching. The broad, squat head dipped down on its long, thickly muscled neck. Down to the tent’s back wall at the base.
Where urine from the latrine pit had soaked through.
A soft cluck, then the demon wheeled about and lifted a hind limb. Two penises dropped into view from a fold of flesh.
Twin streams reached down to the sodden carpet.
Kalam reeled back at the stench, back, out through the flap and outside into the chill night air, where he remained, on hands and knees, gagging.
A moment later the demon emerged. Lifted its head to test the air, then surged into the shadows-and was gone.
In the direction of the captain’s tent.
Kalam managed a lungful of cleansing air, slowly brought his shuddering under control. ‘All right, pup,’ he softly gasped, ‘guess you read my mind.’ After a moment he rose into a crouch, reached back with breath held into the tent to retrieve his pack, then staggered towards the cliff-face.
A glance back showed steam or smoke rising out from his tent’s entrance, a whispering crackle slowly growing louder from within it.
Gods, who needs a vial of Tralb?
He padded swiftly to where the rope still dangled beneath the balcony.
A sputtering burst of flames erupted from where his tent had been.
Hardly an event to go unnoticed. Hissing a curse, Kalam sprinted for the rope.
Shouts rose from the camp. Then screams, then shrieks, each one ending in a strange mangled squeal.
The assassin skidded to a halt at the cliff-face, closed both hands on the rope, and began climbing. He was halfway up to the balcony when the limestone wall shook suddenly, puffing out dust. Pebbles rained down. And a hulking shape was now beside him, clinging to the raw, runnelled rock. Tucked under one arm was Irriz, unconscious and in his bedclothes. The azalan seemed to flow up the wall, hands gripping the rippled ribbons of shadow as if they were iron rungs. In moments the demon reached the balcony and swung itself over the lip and out of sight.
And the stone ledge groaned.
Cracks snaked down.
Kalam stared upward to see the entire balcony sagging, pulling away from the wall.
His moccasins slipped wildly as he tried to scrabble his way to one side. Then he saw long, unhuman hands close on the lip of the stone ledge. The sagging ceased.
H-how in Hood’s name-
The assassin resumed climbing. Moments later he reached the balcony and pulled himself over the edge.
The azalan was fully stretched over it. Two hands gripped the ledge. Three others held shadows on the cliffside above the small doorway.
Shadows were unravelling from the demon like layers of skin, vaguely human shapes stretching out to hold the balcony to the wall-and being torn apart by the immense strain. As Kalam scrambled onto its surface, a grinding, crunching sound came from where the balcony joined the wall, and it dropped a hand’s width along the seam.
The assassin launched himself towards the recessed doorway, where he saw a face in the gloom, twisted with terror-the squad mage. ‘Back off!’ Kalam hissed. ‘It’s a friend!’ The mage reached out and clasped Kalam’s forearm. The balcony dropped away beneath the assassin even as he was dragged into the corridor.
Both men tumbled back, over Irriz’s prone body. Everything shook as a tremendous thump sounded from below. The echoes were slow to fade.
The azalan swung in from under the lintel stone. Grinning. A short distance down the corridor crouched a squad of soldiers. Sinn had an arm wrapped round one of them-her half-brother, Kalam assumed as he slowly regained his feet.
One of the soldiers the assassin had met earlier moved forward, edging past the assassin and-with more difficulty-the azalan, back out to the edge. After a moment he called back. ‘All quiet down there, Sergeant. The camp’s a mess, though. Can’t see anyone about…’ The other soldier from before frowned. ‘No one, Bell?’
‘No. Like they all ran away.’
Kalam offered nothing, though he had his suspicions. There was something about all those shadows in the demon’s possession…
The squad mage had disentangled himself from Irriz and now said to the assassin, ‘That’s a damned frightening friend you have there. And it ain’t imperial. Shadow Realm?’
‘A temporary ally,’ Kalam replied with a shrug.
‘How temporary?’
The assassin faced the sergeant. ‘Irriz has been delivered-what do you plan on doing with him?’
‘Haven’t decided yet. The lass here says you’re named Ulfas. Would that be right? A Genabackan Barghast name? Wasn’t there a war chief by that name? Killed at Blackdog.’
‘I wasn’t about to tell Irriz my real name, Sergeant. I’m a Bridgeburner. Kalam Mekhar, rank of corporal.’
There was silence.
Then the mage sighed. ‘Wasn’t you outlawed?’
‘A feint, one of the Empress’s schemes. Dujek needed a free hand for a time.’
‘All right,’ the sergeant said. ‘It don’t matter if you’re telling the truth or not. We’ve heard of you. I’m Sergeant Cord. The company mage here is Ebron. That’s Bell, and Corporal Shard.’
The corporal was Sinn’s half-brother, and the young man’s face was blank, no doubt numbed by the shock of Sinn’s sudden appearance.
‘Where’s Captain Kindly?’
Cord winced. ‘The rest of the company-what’s left, is down below. We lost the captain and the lieutenant a few days ago.’
‘Lost? How?’
‘They, uh, they fell down a well shaft. Drowned. Or so Ebron found out, once he climbed down and examined the situation more closely. It’s fast-running, an underground river. They were swept away, the poor bastards.’
‘And how do two people fall down a well shaft, Sergeant?’
The man bared his gold teeth. ‘Exploring, I imagine. Now, Corporal, it seems I outrank you. In fact, I’m the only sergeant left. Now, if you aren’t outlawed, then you’re still a soldier of the empire. And as a soldier of the empire…’
‘You have me there,’ Kalam muttered.
‘For now, you’ll be attached to my old squad. You’ve got seniority over Corporal Shard, so you’ll be in charge.’
‘Very well, and what’s the squad’s complement?’
‘Shard, Bell and Limp. You’ve met Bell. Limp’s down below. He broke his leg in a rock-slide, but he’s mending fast. There’s fifty-one soldiers in all. Second Company, Ashok Regiment.’
‘It seems your besiegers are gone,’ Kalam observed. ‘The world hasn’t been entirely still while you’ve been shut up in here, Sergeant. I think I should tell you what I know. There are alternatives to waiting here-no matter how cosy it might be-until we all die of old age… or drowning accidents.’
‘Aye, Corporal. You’ll make your report. And if I want to ask for advice on what to do next, you’ll be first in line. Now, enough with the opinions. Time to go below-and I suggest you find a leash for that damned demon. And tell it to stop smiling.’
‘You’ll have to tell it yourself, Sergeant,’ Kalam drawled.
Ebron snapped, ‘The Malazan Empire don’t need allies from the Shadow Realm-get rid of it!’
The assassin glanced over at the mage. ‘As I said earlier, changes have come, Mage. Sergeant Cord, you’re entirely welcome to try throwing a collar round this azalan’s neck. But I should tell you first-even though you’re not asking for my advice-that even though those weird gourds, pans and knobby sticks strapped on to the beast’s belts don’t look like weapons, this azalan has just taken the lives of over five hundred rebel warriors. And how long did that take? Maybe fifty heartbeats. Does it do what I ask? Now that’s a question worth pondering, don’t you think?’
Cord studied Kalam for a long moment. ‘Are you threatening me?’
‘Having worked alone for some time, Sergeant,’ the assassin replied in a low voice, ‘my skin’s grown thin. I’ll take your squad. I’ll even follow your orders, unless they happen to be idiotic. If you have a problem with all this, take it up with my own sergeant next time you see him. That’d be Whiskeyjack. Apart from the Empress herself, he’s the only man I answer to. You want to make use of me? Fine. My services are available to you… for a time.’
‘He’s on some secret mission,’ Ebron muttered. ‘For the Empress, is my guess. He’s probably back in the Claw-that’s where he started, after all, isn’t it?’
Cord looked thoughtful, then he shrugged and turned away. ‘This is making my head ache. Let’s get below.’
Kalam watched the sergeant push between the clump of soldiers crowding the corridor. Something tells me I’m not going to enjoy this much.
Sinn danced a step.
A blurred sword of dark iron rose along the horizon, a massive, bruised blade that flickered as it swelled ever larger. The wind had fallen off, and it seemed that the island in the path of the sword’s tip grew no closer. Cutter moved up to the lone mast and began storm-rigging the luffing sail. ‘I’m going to man the sweeps for a while,’ he said. ‘Will you take the tiller?’
With a shrug Apsalar moved to the stern.
The storm still lay behind the island of Drift Avalii, over which hung a seemingly permanent, immovable bank of heavy clouds. Apart from a steeply rising shoreline, there seemed to be no high ground; the forest of cedars, firs and redwoods looked impenetrable, their boles ever cloaked in gloom.
Cutter stared at the island for a moment longer, then gauged the pace of the approaching storm. He settled onto the bench behind the mast and collected the sweeps. ‘We might make it,’ he said, as he dropped the oar blades into the murky water and pulled.
‘The island will shatter it,’ Apsalar replied.
He narrowed his eyes on her. It was the first time in days that she had ventured a statement without considerable prodding on his part. ‘Well, I may have crossed a damned ocean, but I still understand nothing of the sea. Why should an island without a single mountain break that storm?’
‘A normal island wouldn’t,’ she answered.
‘Ah, I see.’ He fell silent. Her knowledge came from Cotillion’s memories, appearing to add yet another layer to Apsalar’s miseries. The god was with them once more, a haunting presence between them. Cutter had told her of the spectral visitation, of Cotillion’s words. Her distress-and barely constrained fury-seemed to originate from the god’s recruitment of Cutter himself.
His choosing of his new name had displeased her from the very first, and that he had now become, in effect, a minion of the patron god of assassins appeared to wound her deeply. He had been naive, it now seemed in retrospect, to have believed that such a development would bring them closer.
Apsalar was not happy with her own path-a realization that had rocked the Daru. She drew no pleasure or satisfaction from her own cold, brutal efficiency as a killer. Cutter had once imagined that competency was a reward in itself, that skill bred its own justification, creating its own hunger and from that hunger a certain pleasure. A person was drawn to his or her own proficiency-back in Darujhistan, after all, his thieving habits had not been the product of necessity. He’d suffered no starvation on the city’s streets, no depredation by its crueller realities. He had stolen purely for pleasure, and because he had been good at it. A future as a master thief had seemed a worthy goal, notoriety indistinguishable from respect.
But now, Apsalar was trying to tell him that competence was not justification. That necessity demanded its own path and there was no virtue to be found at its heart.
He’d found himself at subtle war with her, the weapons those of silence and veiled expressions.
He grunted at the sweeps. The seas were growing choppy. ‘Well, I hope you’re right,’ he said. ‘We could do with the shelter… though from what the Rope said, there will be trouble among the denizens of Drift Avalii.’
‘Tiste Andu,’ Apsalar said. ‘Anomander Rake’s own. He settled them there, to guard the Throne.’
‘Do you recall Dancer-or Cotillion-speaking with them?’
Her dark eyes flicked to his for a moment, then she looked away. ‘It was a short conversation. These Tiste Andu have known isolation for far too long. Their master left them there, and has never returned.’
‘Never?’
‘There are… complications. The shore ahead offers no welcome-see for yourself.’
He drew the oars back in and twisted round on the seat.
The shoreline was a dull grey sandstone, wave-worn into undulating layers and shelves. ‘Well, we can draw up easily enough, but I see what you mean. No place to pull the runner up, and tethering it risks battering by the waves. Any suggestions?’
The storm-or the island-was drawing breath, tugging the sail. They were quickly closing on the rocky coast.
The sky’s rumbles were nearer now, and Cutter could see the wavering treetops evincing the arrival of a high and fierce wind, stretching the clouds above the island into long, twisting tendrils.
‘I have no suggestions,’ Apsalar finally replied. ‘There is another concern-currents.’
And he could see now. The island did indeed drift, unmoored to the sea bottom. Spinning vortices roiled around the sandstone. Water was pulled under, flung back out, seething all along the shoreline. ‘Beru fend us,’ Cutter muttered, ‘this won’t be easy.’ He scrambled to the bow.
Apsalar swung the runner onto a course parallel to the shore. ‘Look for a shelf low to the water,’ she called. ‘We might be able to drag the boat onto it.’
Cutter said nothing to that. It would take four or more strong men to manage such a task… but at least we’d get onto shore in one piece. The currents tugged at the hull, throwing the craft side to side. A glance back showed Apsalar struggling to steady the tiller.
The dull grey sandstone revealed, in its countless shelves and modulations, a history of constantly shifting sea levels. Cutter had no idea how an island could float. If sorcery was responsible, then its power was vast, and yet, it seemed, far from perfect.
‘There!’ he shouted suddenly, pointing ahead where the coast’s undulations dropped to a flat stretch barely a hand’s width above the roiling water.
‘Get ready,’ Apsalar instructed, half rising from her seat.
Clambering up alongside the prow, a coil of rope in his left hand, Cutter prepared to leap onto the shelf. As they drew closer, he could see that the stone ledge was thin, deeply undercut.
They swiftly closed. Cutter jumped.
He landed square-footed, knees flexing into a crouch.
There was a sharp crack, then the stone was falling away beneath his moccasined feet. Cold water swept around his ankles. Unbalanced, the Daru pitched backward with a yelp. Behind him, the boat rushed inward on the wave that tumbled into the sinking shelf’s wake. Cutter plunged into deep water, even as the encrusted hull rolled over him.
The currents yanked him downward into icy darkness. His left heel thumped against the island’s rock, the impact softened by a thick skin of seaweed.
Down, a terrifyingly fast plummet into the deep.
Then the rock wall was gone, and he was pulled by the currents under the island.
A roar filled his head, the sound of rushing water. His last lungful of air was dwindling to nothing in his chest. Something hard hammered into his side-a piece of the runner’s hull, wreckage being dragged by the currents-their boat had overturned. Either Apsalar was somewhere in the swirling water with him, or she had managed to leap onto solid sandstone. He hoped it was the latter, that they would not both drown-for drowning was all that was left to him.
Sorry, Cotillion. I hope you did not expect too much of me-
He struck stone once more, was rolled along it, then the current tugged him upward and suddenly spat him loose.
He flailed with his limbs, clawing the motionless water, his pulse pounding in his head. Disorientated, panic ripping through him like wildfire, he reached out one last time.
His right hand plunged into cold air.
A moment later his head broke the surface.
Icy, bitter air poured into his lungs, as sweet as honey. There was no light, and the sounds of his gasping returned no echoes, seeming to vanish in some unknown immensity.
Cutter called out to Apsalar, but there was no reply.
He was swiftly growing numb. Choosing a random direction, he set out.
And quickly struck a stone wall, thick with wet, slimy growth. He reached up, found only sheerness. He swam along it, his limbs weakening, a deadly lassitude stealing into him. He struggled on, feeling his will seep away.
Then his outstretched hand slapped down onto the flat surface of a ledge. Cutter threw both arms onto the stone. His legs, numbed by the cold, pulled at him. Moaning, he sought to drag himself out of the water, but his strength was failing. Fingers gouging tracks through the slime, he slowly sank backward.
A pair of hands closed, one on each shoulder, to gather the sodden fabric in a grip hard as iron. He felt himself lifted clear from the water, then dropped onto the ledge.
Weeping, Cutter lay unmoving. Shivers racked him.
Eventually, a faint crackling sound reached through, seeming to come from all sides. The air grew warmer, a dull glow slowly rising.
The Daru rolled onto his side. He had expected to see Apsalar.
Instead, standing above him was an old man, extraordinarily tall, his white hair long and dishevelled, white-bearded though his skin was black as ebony, with eyes a deep, glittering amber-the sole source, Cutter realized with a shock-of the light.
All around them, the seaweed was drying, shrivelling, as waves of heat radiated from the stranger.
The ledge was only a few paces wide, a single lip of slick stone flanked by vertical walls stretching out to the sides.
Sensation was returning to Cutter’s legs, his clothes steaming now in the heat. He struggled into a sitting position. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said in Malazan.
‘Your craft has littered the pool,’ the man replied. ‘I suppose you will want some of the wreckage recovered.’
Cutter twisted to stare out on the water, but could see nothing. ‘I had a companion-’
‘You arrived alone. It is probable that your companion drowned. Only one current delivers victims here. The rest lead only to death. On the isle itself, there is but one landing, and you did not find it. Few corpses of late, of course, given our distance from occupied lands. And the end of trade.’
His words were halting, as if rarely used, and he stood awkwardly.
She drowned? More likely she made it onto shore. Not for Apsalar the ignoble end that almost took me. Then again… She was not yet immortal, as subject to the world’s cruel indifference as anyone. He pushed the thought away for the moment.
‘Are you recovered?’
Cutter glanced up. ‘How did you find me?’
A shrug. ‘It is my task. Now, if you can walk, it is time to leave.’
The Daru pushed himself to his feet. His clothing was almost dry. ‘You possess unusual gifts,’ he observed. ‘I am named… Cutter.’
‘You may call me Darist. We must not delay. The very presence of life in this place risks his awakening.’
The ancient Tiste Andu turned to face the stone wall. At a gesture, a doorway appeared, beyond which were stone stairs leading upward. ‘That which survived the wrecking of your craft awaits you above, Cutter. Come.’
The Daru set off after the man. ‘Awakening? Who might awaken?’
Darist did not reply.
The steps were worn and slick, the ascent steep and seemingly interminable. The cold water had stolen Cutter’s strength, and his pace grew ever slower. Again and again Darist paused to await him, saying nothing, his expression closed.
They eventually emerged onto a level hallway down which ran, along the walls, pillars of rough-skinned cedars. The air was musty and damp beneath the sharp scent of the wood. There was no-one else in sight. ‘Darist,’ Cutter asked as they walked down the aisle, ‘are we still beneath ground level?’
‘We are, but we shall proceed no higher for the time being. The island is assailed.’
‘What? By whom? What of the Throne?’
Darist halted and swung round, the glow in his eyes somehow deepening. ‘A question carelessly unasked. What has brought you, human, to Drift Avalii?’
Cutter hesitated. There was no love lost between the present rulers of Shadow and the Tiste Andu. Nor had Cotillion even remotely suggested actual contact be made with the Children of Darkness. They had been placed here, after all, to ensure that the true Throne of Shadow remain unoccupied. ‘I was sent by a mage-a scholar, whose studies had led him to believe the island-and all it contained-was in danger. He seeks to discover the nature of that threat.’
Darist was silent for a moment, his lined face devoid of expression. Then he said, ‘What is this scholar’s name?’
‘Uh, Baruk. Do you know him? He lives in Darujhistan-’
‘What lies in the world beyond the island is of no concern to me,’ the Tiste Andu replied.
And that, old man, is why you’re in this mess. Cotillion was right. ‘The Tiste Edur have returned, haven’t they? To reclaim the Throne of Shadow. But it was Anomander Rake who left you here, entrusted with-’
‘He lives still, does he? If Mother Dark’s favoured son is displeased with how we have managed this task, then he must come and tell us so himself. It was not some human mage who sent you here, was it? Do you kneel before the Wielder of Dragnipur? Does he renew his claims to the blood of the Tiste Andu, then? Has he renounced his Draconian blood?’
‘I wouldn’t know-’
‘Does he now appear as an old man-older by far than me? Ah, I see by your face the truth of it. He has not. Well, you may go back to him and tell him-’
‘Wait! I do not serve Rake! Aye, I saw him in person, and not very long ago, and he looked young enough at the time. But I did not kneel to him-Hood knows, he was too busy at the time in any case! Too busy fighting a demon to converse with me! We but crossed paths. I don’t know what you’re talking about, Darist. Sorry. And I am most certainly not in any position to find him and tell him whatever it is you want me to say to him.’
The Tiste Andu studied Cutter for a moment longer, then he swung about and resumed the journey.
The Daru followed, his thoughts wild with confusion. It was one thing to accept the charge of a god, but the further he travelled on this dread path, the more insignificant he himself felt. Arguments between Anomander Rake and these Tiste Andu of Drift Avalii… well, that was no proper business of his. The plan had been to sneak onto this island and remain unseen. To determine if indeed the Edur had found this place, though what Cotillion would do with such knowledge was anyone’s guess.
But that’s something I should think about, I suppose. Damn it, Cutter-Crokus would’ve had questions! Mowri knows, he would’ve hesitated a lot longer before accepting Cotillion’s bargain. If he accepted at all! This new persona was imposing a certain sense of stricture-he’d thought it would bring him more freedom. But now it was beginning to appear that the truly free one had been Crokus.
Not that freedom ensured happiness. Indeed, to be free was to live in absence. Of responsibilities, of loyalties, of the pressures that expectation imposed. Ah, misery has tainted my views. Misery, and the threat of true grieving, which draws nearer-but no, she must be alive. Somewhere up above. On an island assailed… ‘Darist, please, wait a moment.’
The tall figure stopped. ‘I see no reason to answer your questions.’
‘I am concerned… for my companion. If she’s alive, she’s somewhere above us, on the surface. You said you were under attack. I fear for her-’
‘We sense the presence of strangers, Cutter. Above us, there are Tiste Edur. But no-one else. She is drowned, this companion of yours. There is no point in holding out hope.’
The Daru sat down suddenly. He felt sick, his heart stuttering with anguish. And despair.
‘Death is not an unkind fate,’ Darist said above him. ‘If she was a friend, you will miss her company, and that is the true source of your grief-your sorrow is for yourself. My words may displease you, but I speak from experience. I have felt the deaths of many of my kin, and I mourn the spaces in my life where they once stood. But such losses serve only to ease my own impending demise.’
Cutter stared up at the Tiste Andu. ‘Darist, forgive me. You may be old, but you are also a damned fool. And I begin to understand why Rake left you here then forgot about you. Now, kindly shut up.’ He pushed himself upright, feeling hollowed out inside, but determined not to surrender to the despair that threatened to overwhelm him. Because surrendering is what this Tiste Andu has done.
‘Your anger leaves me undamaged,’ Darist said. He turned and gestured to the double doors directly ahead. ‘Through here you will find a place to rest. Your salvage awaits there, as well.’
‘Will you tell me nothing of the battle above?’
‘What is there to tell you, Cutter? We have lost.’
‘Lost! Who is left among you?’
‘Here in the Hold, where stands the Throne, there is only me. Now, best rest. We shall have company soon enough.’
The howls of rage reverberated through Onrack’s bones, though he knew his companion could hear nothing. These were cries of the spirits-two spirits, trapped within two of the towering, bestial statues rearing up on the plain before them.
The cloud cover overhead had broken apart, was fast vanishing in thinning threads. Three moons rode the heavens, and there were two suns. The light flowed with shifting hues as the moons swung on their invisible tethers. A strange, unsettling world, Onrack reflected.
The storm was spent. They had waited in the lee of a small hill while it thrashed around the gargantuan statues, the wind howling past from its wild race through the rubble-littered streets of the ruined city lying beyond. And now the air steamed.
‘What do you see, T’lan Imass?’ Trull asked from where he sat hunched, his back to the edifices.
Shrugging, the T’lan Imass turned away from his lengthy study of the statues. ‘There are mysteries here… of which I suspect you know more than I.’
The Tiste Edur glanced up with a wry expression. ‘That seems unlikely. What do you know of the Hounds of Shadow?’
‘Very little. The Logros crossed paths with them only once, long ago, in the time of the First Empire. Seven in number. Serving an unknown master, yet bent on destruction.’
Trull smiled oddly, then asked, ‘The human First Empire, or yours?’
‘I know little of the human empire of that name. We were drawn into its heart but once, Trull Sengar, in answer to the chaos of the Soletaken and D’ivers. The Hounds made no appearance during that slaughter.’ Onrack looked back at the massive stone Hound before them. ‘It is believed,’ he said slowly, ‘by the bonecasters, that to create an icon of a spirit or a god is to capture its essence within that icon. Even the laying of stones prescribes confinement. Just as a hut can measure out the limits of power for a mortal, so too are spirits and gods sealed into a chosen place of earth or stone or wood… or an object. In this way power is chained, and so becomes manageable. Tell me, do the Tiste Edur concur with that notion?’
Trull Sengar climbed to his feet. ‘Do you think we raised these giant statues, Onrack? Do your bonecasters also believe that power begins as a thing devoid of shape, and thus beyond control? And that to carve out an icon-or make a circle of stones-actually forces order upon that power?’
Onrack cocked his head, was silent for a time. ‘Then it must be that we make our own gods and spirits. That belief demands shape, and shaping brings life into being. Yet were not the Tiste Edur fashioned by Mother Dark? Did not your goddess create you?’
Trull’s smile broadened. ‘I was referring to these statues, Onrack. To answer you-I do not know if the hands that fashioned these were Tiste Edur. As for Mother Dark, it may be that in creating us, she but simply separated what was not separate before.’
‘Are you then the shadows of Tiste Andu? Torn free by the mercy of your goddess mother?’
‘But Onrack, we are all torn free.’
‘Two of the Hounds are here, Trull Sengar. Their souls are trapped in the stone. And one more thing of note-these likenesses cast no shadows.’
‘Nor do the Hounds themselves.’
‘If they are but reflections, then there must be Hounds of Darkness, from which they were torn,’ Onrack persisted. ‘Yet there is no knowledge of such…’ The T’lan Imass suddenly fell silent.
Trull laughed. ‘It seems you know more of the human First Empire than you first indicated. What was that tyrant emperor’s name? No matter. We should journey onward, to the gate-’
‘Dessimbelackis,’ Onrack whispered. ‘The founder of the human First Empire. Long vanished by the time of the unleashing of the Beast Ritual. It was believed he had… veered.’
‘D’ivers?’
‘Aye.’
‘And beasts numbered?’
‘Seven.’
Trull stared up at the statues, then gestured. ‘We didn’t build these. No, I am not certain, but in my heart I feel… no empathy. They are ominous and brutal to my eyes, T’lan Imass. The Hounds of Shadow are not worthy of worship. They are indeed untethered, wild and deadly. To truly command them, one must sit in the Throne of Shadow-as master of the realm. But more than that. One must first draw together the disparate fragments. Making Kurald Emurlahn whole once more.’
‘And this is what your kin seek,’ Onrack rumbled. ‘The possibility troubles me.’
The Tiste Edur studied the T’lan Imass, then shrugged. ‘I did not share your distress at the prospect-not at first. And indeed, had it remained… pure, perhaps I would still be standing alongside my brothers. But another power acts behind the veil in all this-I know not who or what, but I would tear aside that veil.’
‘Why?’
Trull seemed startled by the question, then he shivered. ‘Because what it has made of my people is an abomination, Onrack.’
The T’lan Imass set out towards the gap between the two nearest statues.
After a moment, Trull Sengar followed. ‘I imagine you know little of what it is like to see your kin fall into dissolution, to see the spirit of an entire people grow corrupt, to struggle endlessly to open their eyes-as yours have been opened by whatever clarity chance has gifted you.’
‘True,’ Onrack replied, his steps thumping the sodden ground.
‘Nor is it mere naivete,’ the Tiste Edur went on, limping in Onrack’s wake. ‘Our denial is wilful, our studied indifference conveniently self-serving to our basest desires. We are a long-lived people who now kneel before short-term interests-’
‘If you find that unusual,’ the T’lan Imass muttered, ‘then it follows that the one behind the veil has need for you only in the short term-if indeed that hidden power is manipulating the Tiste Edur.’
‘An interesting thought. You may well be right. The question then is, once that short-term objective is reached, what will happen to my people?’
‘Things that outlive their usefulness are discarded,’ Onrack replied.
‘Abandoned. Yes-’
‘Unless, of course,’ the T’lan Imass went on, ‘they would then pose a threat to one who had so exploited them. If so, then the answer would be to annihilate them once they are no longer useful.’
‘There is the unpleasant ring of truth to your words, Onrack.’
‘I am generally unpleasant, Trull Sengar.’
‘So I am learning. You say the souls of two Hounds are imprisoned within these-which ones again?’
‘We now walk between them.’
‘What are they doing here, I wonder?’
‘The stone has been shaped to encompass them, Trull Sengar. No-one asks the spirit or the god, when the icon is fashioned, if it wishes entrapment. Do they? The need to make such vessels is a mortal’s need. That one can rest eyes on the thing one worships is an assertion of control at worst, or at best the illusion that one can negotiate over one’s own fate.’
‘And you find such notions suitably pathetic, Onrack?’
‘I find most notions pathetic, Trull Sengar.’
‘Are these beasts trapped for eternity, do you think? Is this where they go when they are destroyed?’
Onrack shrugged. ‘I have no patience with these games. You possess your own knowledge and suspicions, yet would not speak them. Instead, you seek to discover what I know, and what I sense of these snared spirits. I care nothing for the fate either way of these Hounds of Shadow. Indeed, I find it unfortunate that-if these two were slain in some other realm and so have ended up here-there are but five remaining, for that diminishes my chances of killing one myself. And I think I would enjoy killing a Hound of Shadow.’
The Tiste Edur’s laugh was harsh. ‘Well, I won’t deny that confidence counts for a lot. Even so, Onrack of the Logros, I do not think you would walk away from a violent encounter with a Hound.’
The T’lan Imass halted and swung towards Trull Sengar. ‘There is stone, and there is stone.’
‘I am afraid I do not understand-’
In answer, Onrack unsheathed his obsidian sword. He strode up to the nearer of the two statues. The creature’s forepaw was itself taller than the T’lan Imass. He raised his weapon two-handed, then swung a blow against the dark, unweathered stone.
An ear-piercing crack ripped the air.
Onrack staggered, head tilting back as fissures shot up through the enormous edifice.
It seemed to shiver, then exploded into a towering cloud of dust.
Yelling, Trull Sengar leapt back, scrambling as the billowing dust rolled outward to engulf him.
The cloud hissed around Onrack. He righted himself, then dropped into a fighting stance as a darker shape appeared through the swirling grey haze.
A second concussion thundered-this time behind the T’lan Imass-as the other statue exploded. Darkness descended as the twin clouds blotted out the sky, closing the horizons to no more than a dozen paces on all sides.
The beast that emerged before Onrack was as tall at the shoulder as Trull Sengar’s full height. Its hide was colourless, and its eyes burned black. A broad, flat head, small ears…
Faint through the grey gloom, something of the two suns’ light, and that reflected from the moons, reached down-to cast beneath the Hound a score of shadows.
The beast bared fangs the size of tusks, lips peeling back in a silent snarl that revealed blood-red gums.
The Hound attacked.
Onrack’s blade was a midnight blur, flashing to kiss the creature’s thick, muscled neck-but the swing cut only dusty air. The T’lan Imass felt enormous jaws close about his chest. He was yanked from his feet. Bones splintered. A savage shake that ripped the sword from his hands, then he was sailing through the grainy gloom-
To be caught with a grinding snap by a second pair of jaws.
The bones of his left arm shattered into a score of pieces within its taut hide of withered skin, then it was torn entirely from his body.
Another crunching shake, then he was thrown into the air once more. To crash in a splintered heap on the ground, where he rolled once, then was still.
There was thunder in Onrack’s skull. He thought to fall to dust, but for the first time he possessed neither the will nor, it seemed, the capacity to do so.
The power was shorn from him-the Vow had been broken, ripped away from his body. He was now, he realized, as those of his fallen kin, the ones that had sustained so much physical destruction that they had ceased to be one with the T’lan Imass.
He lay unmoving, and felt the heavy tread of one of the Hounds as it padded up to stand over him. A dust- and shard-flecked muzzle nudged him, pushed at the broken ribs of his chest. Then lifted away. He listened to its breathing, the sound like waves riding a tide into caves, could feel its presence like a heaviness in the damp air.
After a long moment, Onrack realized that the beast was no longer looming over him. Nor could he hear the heavy footfalls through the wet earth. As if it and its companion had simply vanished.
Then the scrape of boots close by, a pair of hands dragging him over, onto his back.
Trull Sengar stared down at him. ‘I do not know if you can still hear me,’ he muttered. ‘But if it is any consolation, Onrack of the Logros, those were not Hounds of Shadow. Oh, no, indeed. They were the real ones. The Hounds of Darkness, my friend. I dread to think what you have freed here…”
Onrack managed a reply, his words a soft rasp. ‘So much for gratitude.’
Trull Sengar dragged the shattered T’lan Imass to a low wall at the city’s edge, where he propped the warrior into a sitting position. ‘I wish I knew what else I could do for you,’ he said, stepping back.
‘If my kin were present,’ Onrack said, ‘they would complete the necessary rites. They would sever my head from my body, and find for it a suitable place so that I might look out upon eternity. They would dismember the headless corpse and scatter the limbs. They would take my weapon, to return it to the place of my birth.’
‘Oh.’
‘Of course, you cannot do such things. Thus, I am forced into continuation, despite my present condition.’ With that, Onrack slowly clambered upright, broken bones grinding and crunching, splinters falling away.
Trull grunted, ‘You could have done that before I dragged you.’
‘I regret most the loss of an arm,’ the T’lan Imass said, studying the torn muscles of his left shoulder. ‘My sword is most effective when in the grip of two hands.’ He staggered over to where the weapon lay in the mud. Part of his chest collapsed when he leaned down to retrieve it. Straightening, Onrack faced Trull Sengar. ‘I am no longer able to sense the presence of gates.’
‘They should be obvious enough,’ the’Tiste Edur replied. ‘I expect near the centre of the city. We are quite a pair, aren’t we?’
‘I wonder why the Hounds did not kill you.’
‘They seemed eager to leave.’ Trull set off down the street directly opposite, Onrack following. ‘I am not even certain they noticed me-the dust cloud was thick. Tell me, Onrack. If there were other T’lan Imass here, then they would have done all those things to you? Despite the fact that you remain… functional?’
‘Like you, Trull Sengar, I am now shorn. From the Ritual. From my own kind. My existence is now without meaning. The final task left to me is to seek out the other hunters, to do what must be done.’
The street was layered in thick, wet silt. The low buildings to either side, torn away above the ground level, were similarly coated, smoothing every edge-as if the city was in the process of melting. There was no grand architecture, and the rubble in the streets revealed itself to be little more than fired bricks. There was no sign of life anywhere.
They continued on, their pace torturously slow. The street slowly broadened, forming a vast concourse flanked by pedestals that had once held statues. Brush and uprooted trees marred the vista, all a uniform grey that gradually assumed an unearthly hue beneath the now-dominant blue sun, which in turn painted a large moon the colour of magenta.
At the far end was a bridge, over what had once been a river but was now filled with silt. A tangled mass of detritus had ridden up on one side of the bridge, spilling flotsam onto the walkway. Among the garbage lay a small box.
Trull angled over towards it as they reached the bridge. He crouched down. ‘It seems well sealed,’ he said, reaching out to pry the clasp loose, then lifting the lid. ‘That’s odd. Looks like clay pots. Small ones…’
Onrack moved up alongside the Tiste Edur. ‘They are Moranth munitions, Trull Sengar.’
The Tiste Edur glanced up. ‘I have no knowledge of such things.’
‘Weapons. Explosive when the clay breaks. They are generally thrown. As far as is possible. Have you heard of the Malazan Empire?’
‘No.’
‘Human. From my birth realm. These munitions belong to that empire.’
‘Well, that is troubling indeed-for why are they here?’
‘I do not know.’
Trull Sengar closed the lid and collected the box. ‘While I would prefer a sword, these will have to do. I was not pleased at being unarmed for so long.’
‘There is a structure beyond-an arch.’
Straightening, the Tiste Edur nodded. ‘Aye. It is what we seek.’
They continued on.
The arch stood on pedestals in the centre of a cobbled square. Floodwaters had carried silt to its mouth where it had dried in strange, jagged ridges. As the two travellers came closer, they discovered that the clay was rock hard. Although the gate did not manifest itself in any discernible way, a pulsing heat rolled from the space beneath the arch.
The pillars of the structure were unadorned. Onrack studied the edifice. ‘What can you sense of this?’ the T’lan Imass asked after a moment.
Trull Sengar shook his head, then approached. He halted within arm’s reach of the gate’s threshold. ‘I cannot believe this is passable-the heat pouring from it is scalding.’
‘Possibly a ward,’ Onrack suggested.
‘Aye. And no means for us to shatter it.’
‘Untrue.’
The Tiste Edur glanced back at Onrack, then looked down at the box tucked under his arm. ‘I do not understand how a mundane explosive could destroy a ward.’
‘Sorcery depends on patterns, Trull Sengar. Shatter the pattern and the magic fails.’
‘Very well, let us attempt this thing.’
They retreated twenty paces from the gate. Trull unlatched the box and gingerly drew forth one of the clay spheres. He fixed his gaze on the gate, then threw the munition.
The explosion triggered a coruscating conflagration from the portal. White and gold fires raged beneath the arch, then the violence settled back to form a swirling golden wall.
‘That is the warren itself,’ Onrack said. ‘The ward is broken. Still, I do not recognize it.’
‘Nor I,’ Trull muttered, closing the munitions box once more. Then his head snapped up. ‘Something’s coming.’
‘Yes.’ Onrack was silent then for a long moment. He suddenly lifted his sword. ‘Flee, Trull Sengar-back across the bridge. Flee!’
The Tiste Edur spun and began running.
Onrack proceeded to back up a step at a time. He could feel the power of the ones on the other side of the gate, a power brutal and alien. The breaking of the ward had been noted, and the emotion reaching through the barrier was one of indignant outrage.
A quick look over his shoulder showed that Trull Sengar had crossed the bridge and was now nowhere in sight. Three more steps and Onrack would himself reach the bridge. And there, he would make his stand. He expected to be destroyed, but he intended to purchase time for his companion.
The gate shimmered, blindingly bright, then four riders cantered through. Riding white, long-limbed horses with wild manes the colour of rust. Ornately armoured in enamel, the warriors were a match for their mounts-pale-skinned and tall, their faces mostly hidden behind slitted visors, cheek and chin guards. Curved scimitars that appeared to have been carved from ivory were held in gauntleted fists. Long silver hair flowed from beneath the helms.
They rode directly towards Onrack. Canter to gallop. Gallop to charge.
The battered T’lan Imass widened his stance, lifted his obsidian sword and stood ready to meet them.
The riders could only come at him on the narrow bridge two at a time, and even then it was clear that they simply intended their horses to ride Onrack down. But the T’lan Imass had fought in the service of the Malazan Empire, in Falar and in Seven Cities-and he had faced horse warriors in many a battle. A moment before the front riders reached him, Onrack leapt forward. Between the two mounts. Ignoring the sword that whirled in from his left, the T’lan Imass slashed his blade into the other warrior’s midsection.
Two ivory blades struck him simultaneously, the one on his left smashing through clavicle and cutting deep into his shoulder blade, then through in a spray of bone shards. The scimitar on his right chopped down through the side of his face, sheering it off from temple to the base of the jaw.
Onrack felt his own obsidian blade bite deep into the warrior’s armour. The enamel shattered.
Then both attackers were past him, and the remaining two arrived.
The T’lan Imass dropped into a crouch and positioned his sword horizontally over his head. A pair of ivory blades hammered down on it, the impacts thundering through Onrack’s battered frame.
They were all past him now, emerging out onto the concourse to wheel their horses round, visored heads turned to regard the lone warrior who had somehow survived their attacks.
Hoofs thudding the clay-limned cobbles, the four warriors reined in, weapons lowering. The one whose armour had been shattered by Onrack’s obsidian sword was leaning forward, one arm pressed against his stomach. Spatters of blood speckled his horse’s flank.
Onrack shook himself, and pieces of shattered bone fell away to patter on the ground. He then settled his own weapon, point to the ground, and waited while one of the riders walked his horse forward.
A gauntleted hand reached up to draw the visor upward, revealing features that were startlingly similar to Trull Sengar’s, apart from the white, almost luminous skin. Eyes of cold silver fixed on the T’lan Imass with distaste. ‘Do you speak, Lifeless One? Can you understand the Language of Purity?’
‘It seems no purer than any other,’ Onrack replied.
The warrior scowled. ‘We do not forgive ignorance. You are a servant of Death. There is but one necessity when dealing with a creature such as you, and that is annihilation. Stand ready.’
‘I serve no-one,’ Onrack said, raising his sword once more. ‘Come, then.’
But the wounded one held up a hand. ‘Hold, Enias. This world is not ours-nor is this deathless savage one of the trespassers we seek. Indeed, as you yourself must sense, none of them are here. This portal has not been used in millennia. We must needs take our quest elsewhere. But first, I require healing.’ The warrior gingerly dismounted, one arm still pressed against his midsection. ‘Orenas, attend me.’
‘Allow me to destroy this thing first, Seneschal-’
‘No. We shall tolerate its existence. Perhaps it will have answers for us, to guide us further on our quest. Failing that, we can destroy it later.’
The one named Orenas slipped down from his horse and approached the seneschal.
Enias edged his horse closer to the T’lan Imass, as if still mindful of a fight. He bared his teeth. ‘There is not much left of you, Lifeless One. Are those the scorings of fangs? Your chest has been in the jaws of some beast, I think. The same that stole your arm? By what sorcery do you hold on to existence?’
‘You are of Tiste blood,’ Onrack observed.
The man’s face twisted into a sneer. ‘Tiste blood? Only among the Liosan is the Tiste blood pure. You have crossed paths with our tainted cousins, then. They are little more than vermin. You have not answered my questions.’
‘I know of the Tiste Andu, but I have yet to meet them. Born of Darkness, they were the first-’
‘The first! Oh, indeed. And so tragically imperfect. Bereft of Father Light’s purifying blood. They are a most sordid creation. We tolerate the Edur, for they contain something of the Father, but the Andu-death by our hands is the only mercy they deserve. But I grow weary of your rudeness, Lifeless One. I have asked you questions and you are yet to answer a single one.’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes? What does that mean?’
‘I agree that I have not answered them. Nor do I feel compelled to do so. My kind has much experience with arrogant creatures. Although that experience is singular: in answer to their arrogance we proclaimed eternal war, until they ceased to exist. I have always believed the T’lan Imass should seek out a new enemy. There is, after all, no shortage to be noted among arrogant beings. Perhaps you Tiste Liosan are numerous enough in your own realm to amuse us for a time.’ The warrior stared, as if shocked speechless.
Behind him, one of his companions laughed. ‘There is little value in conversing with lesser creatures, Enias. They will seek to confound you with falsehoods, to lead you away from the righteous path.’
‘I see now,’ Enias replied, ‘the poison of which you have long warned me, Malachar.’
‘There will be more to come, young brother, on the trail we must follow.’ The warrior strode up to Onrack. ‘You call yourself a T’lan Imass, yes?’
‘I am Onrack, of the Logros T’lan Imass.’
‘Are there others of your kind in this ruined realm, Onrack?’
‘If I did not answer your brother’s questions, why imagine I would answer yours?’
Malachar’s face darkened. ‘Play such games with young Enias, but not with me-’
‘I am done with you, Liosan.’ Onrack sheathed his sword and swung away.
‘You are done with us! Seneschal Jorrude! If Orenas has completed his ministrations, I humbly request your attention. The Lifeless One seeks to flee.’
‘I hear you, Malachar,’ the seneschal rumbled, striding forward. ‘Hold, Lifeless One! We have not yet released you. You will tell us what we wish to know, or you will be destroyed here and now.’
Onrack faced the Liosan once more. ‘If that was a threat, the pathos of your ignorance proves an amusing distraction. But I weary of it, and of you.’
Four ivory scimitars lifted threateningly.
Onrack drew his sword once more.
And hesitated, his gaze drawn to something beyond them. Sensing a presence at their backs, the warriors turned.
Trull Sengar stood fifteen paces away, the box of munitions at his feet. There was something odd about his smile. ‘This seems an uneven fight. Friend Onrack, do you require assistance? Well, you need not answer, for it has arrived. And for that, I am sorry.’
Dust swirled upward around the Tiste Edur. A moment later, four T’lan Imass stood on the muddy cobbles. Three held weapons ready. The fourth figure stood a pace behind and to Trull’s right. This one was massively boned, its arms disproportionately long. The fur riding its shoulders was black, fading to silver as it rose up to surround the bonecaster’s head in a mangled hood.
Onrack allowed his sword’s point to rest on the muddy cobbles once more. With his link, born of the Ritual, now severed, he could only communicate with these T’lan Imass by speaking out loud. ‘I, Onrack, greet you, Bonecaster, and recognize you as from the Logros, as I once was. You are Monok Ochem. One of many chosen to hunt the renegades, who, as did those of my own hunt, followed their trail into this realm. Alas, I alone of my hunt survived the flood.’ His gaze shifted to the three warriors. The clan leader, its torso and limbs tightly wrapped in the outer skin of a dhenrabi and a denticulated grey flint sword in its hands, was Ibra Gholan. The remaining two, both armed with bone-hafted, double-bladed axes of chalcedony, were of Ibra’s clan, but otherwise unknown to Onrack. ‘I greet you as well, Ibra Gholan, and submit to your command.’
Bonecaster Monok Ochem strode forward with a heavy, shambling gait. ‘You have failed the Ritual, Onrack,’ it said with characteristic abruptness, ‘and so must be destroyed.’
‘That privilege will be contested,’ Onrack replied. ‘These horse warriors are Tiste Liosan and would view me as their prisoner, to do with as they please.’
Ibra Gholan gestured to his two warriors to join him and the three walked towards the Liosan.
The seneschal spoke. ‘We release our prisoner, T’lan Imass. He is yours. Our quarrel with you is at an end, and so we shall leave.’
The T’lan Imass halted, and Onrack could sense their disappointment.
The Liosan commander regarded Trull for a moment, then said, ‘Edur-would you travel with us? We have need of a servant. A simple bow will answer the honour of our invitation.’
Trull Sengar shook his head. ‘Well, that is a first for me. Alas, I will accompany the T’lan Imass. But I recognize the inconvenience this will cause you, and so I suggest that you alternate in the role as servant to the others. I am a proponent of lessons in humility, Tiste Liosan, and I sense that among you there is some need.’
The seneschal smiled coldly. ‘I will remember you, Edur.’ He whirled. ‘On your horses, brothers. We now leave this realm.’
Monok Ochem spoke. ‘You may find that more difficult than you imagine.’
‘We have never before been troubled by such endeavours,’ the seneschal replied. ‘Are there hidden barriers in this place?’
‘This warren is a shattered fragment of Kurald Emurlahn,’ the bonecaster said. ‘I believe your kind have remained isolated for far too long. You know nothing of the other realms, nothing of the Wounded Gates. Nothing of the Ascendants and their wars-’
‘We serve but one Ascendant,’ the seneschal snapped. ‘The Son of Father Light. Our lord is Osric.’
Monok Ochem cocked its head. ‘And when last has Osric walked among you?’
All four Liosan visibly flinched.
In his affectless tone, the bonecaster continued, ‘Your lord, Osric, the Son of Father Light, numbers among the contestants in the other realms. He has not returned to you, Liosan, because he is unable to do so. Indeed, he is unable to do much of anything at the moment.’
The seneschal took a step forward. ‘What afflicts our lord?’
Monok Ochem shrugged. ‘A common enough fate. He is lost.’
‘Lost?’
‘I suggest we work together to weave a ritual,’ the bonecaster said, ‘and so fashion a gate. For this, we shall need Tellann, your own warren, Liosan, and the blood of this Tiste Edur. Onrack, we shall undertake your destruction once we have returned to our own realm.’
‘That would seem expedient,’ Onrack replied.
Trull’s eyes had widened. He stared at the bonecaster. ‘Did you say, my blood?’
‘Not all of it, Edur… if all goes as planned.’