The rage of the Whirlwind Goddess was an inferno, beaten on the forge of Holy Raraku.
The legions that marched in the dust of blood burned by the eye of the sun were cold iron.
There, on the dry harbour of the dead city where the armies joined to battle Hood walked the fated ground where he walked many times before.
The Divided Heart
SHE HAD WORMED HER WAY ALONGSIDE THE CAREFULLY STACKED CUT stones, to the edge of the trench-knowing her mother would be furious at seeing how she had ruined her new clothes-and finally came within sight of her sister.
Tavore had claimed her brother’s bone and antler toy soldiers, and in the rubble of the torn-up estate wall, where repairs had been undertaken by the grounds workers, she had arranged a miniature battle.
Only later would Felisin learn that her nine-year-old sister had been, in fact, recreating a set battle, culled from historical accounts of a century-old clash between a Royal Untan army and the rebelling House of K’azz D’Avore. A battle that had seen the annihilation of the renegade noble family’s forces and the subjugation of the D’Avore household. And that, taking on the role of Duke Kenussen D’Avore, she was working through every possible sequence of tactics towards achieving a victory. Trapped by a series of unfortunate circumstances in a steep-sided valley, and hopelessly outnumbered, the unanimous consensus among military scholars was that such victory was impossible.
Felisin never learned if her sister had succeeded where Kenussen D’Avore-reputedly a military genius-had failed. Her spying had become a habit, her fascination with the hard, remote Tavore an obsession. It seemed, to Felisin, that her sister had never been a child, had never known a playful moment. She had stepped into their brother’s shadow and sought only to remain there, and when Ganoes had been sent off for schooling, Tavore underwent a subtle transformation. No longer in Ganoes’s shadow, it was as if she had become his shadow, severed and haunting.
None of these thoughts were present in Felisin’s mind all those years ago. The obsession with Tavore existed, but its sources were formless, as only a child’s could be.
The stigma of meaning ever comes later, like a brushing away of dust to reveal shapes in stone.
At the very edge of the ruined city on its south side, the land fell away quickly in what had once been elastic slumps of silty clay, fanning out onto the old bed of the harbour. Centuries of blistering sun had hardened these sweeps, transforming them into broad, solid ramps.
Sha’ik stood at the head of the largest of these ancient fans born of a dying sea millennia past, trying to see the flat basin before her as a place of battle. Four thousand paces away, opposite, rose the saw-toothed remnants of coral islands, over which roared the Whirlwind. That sorcerous storm had stripped from those islands the formidable mantle of sand that had once covered them. What remained offered little in the way of a secure ridge on which to assemble and prepare legions. Footing would be treacherous, formations impossible. The islands swept in a vast arc across the south approach. To the east was an escarpment, a fault-line that saw the land falling sharply away eighty or more arm-lengths onto a salt flat-what had once been the inland sea’s deepest bed. The fault was a slash that widened in its southwestward reach, just the other side of the reef islands, forming the seemingly endless basin that was Raraku’s southlands. To the west lay dunes, the sand deep and soft, wind-sculpted and rife with sink-pits.
She would assemble her forces on this very edge, positioned to hold the seven major ramps. Mathok’s horse archers on the wings, Korbolo Dom’s new heavy infantry-the elite core of his Dogslayers-at the head of each of the ramps. Mounted lancers and horse warriors held back as screens for when the Malazans reeled back from the steep approaches and the order was given to advance.
Or so Korbolo Dom had explained-she was not entirely sure of the sequence. But it seemed that the Napan sought an initial defensive stance, despite their superior numbers. He was eager to prove his heavy infantry and shock troops against the Malazan equivalent. Since Tavore was marching to meet them, it was expedient to extend the invitation to its bitter close on these ramps. The advantage was entirely with the Army of the Apocalypse.
Tavore was, once again, Duke Kenussen D’Avore in Ibilar Gorge.
Sha’ik drew her sheep-hide cloak about her, suddenly chilled despite the heat. She glanced over to where Mathok and the dozen bodyguards waited, discreetly distanced yet close enough to reach her side within two or three heartbeats. She had no idea why the taciturn warchief so feared that she might be assassinated, but there was no danger in humouring the warrior. With Toblakai gone and Leoman somewhere to the south, Mathok had assumed the role of protector of her person. Well enough, although she did not think it likely that Tavore would attempt to send killers-the Whirlwind Goddess could not be breached undetected. Even a Hand of the Claw could not pass unnoticed through her multi-layered barriers, no matter what warren they sought to employ.
Because the barrier itself defines a warren. The warren that lies like an unseen skin over the Holy Desert. This usurped fragment is a fragment no longer, but whole unto itself. And its power grows. Until one day, soon, it will demand its own place in the Deck of Dragons. As with the House of Chains. A new House, of the Whirlwind.
Fed by the spilled blood of a slain army.
And when she kneels before me… what then? Dear sister, broken and bowed, smeared in dust and far darker streaks, her legions a ruin behind her, feast for the capemoths and vultures-shall I then remove my warhelm? Reveal to her, at that moment, my face?
We have taken this war. Away from the rebels, away from the Empress and the Malazan Empire. Away, even, from the Whirlwind Goddess herself. We have supplanted, you and I, Tavore, Dryjhna and the Book of the Apocalypse-for our own, private apocalypse. The family’s own blood, and nothing more. And the world, then, Tavore-when I show myself to you and see the recognition in your eyes-the world, your world, will shift beneath you.
And at that moment, dear sister, you will understand. What has happened. What I have done. And why I have done it.
And then? She did not know. A simple execution was too easy indeed, a cheat. Punishment belonged to the living, after all. The sentence was to survive, staggering beneath the chains of knowledge. A sentence not just of living, but of living with; that was the only answer to… everything.
She heard boots crunching on potsherds behind her and turned. No welcoming smile for this one-not this time. ‘L’oric. I am delighted you deigned to acknowledge my request-you seemed to have grown out of the habit of late.’ Oh, how he hides from me, the secrets now stalking him, see how he will not meet my gaze-I sense struggles within him. Things he would tell me. Yet he will say nothing. With all the goddess’s powers at my behest, and still I cannot trap this elusive man, cannot force from him his truths. This alone warns me-he is not as he seems. Not simply a mortal man…
‘I have been unwell, Chosen One. Even this short journey from the camp has left me exhausted.’
‘I grieve for your sacrifice, L’oric. And so I shall come to my point without further delay. Heboric has barred his place of residence-he has neither emerged nor will he permit visitors, and it has been weeks.’
There was nothing false in his wince. ‘Barred to us all, mistress.’
She cocked her head. ‘Yet, you were the last to speak with him. At length, the two of you in his tent.’
‘I was? That was the last time?’
Not the reaction she had anticipated. Very well, then whatever secret he possesses has nothing to do with Ghost Hands. ‘It was. Was he distressed during your conversation?’
‘Mistress, Heboric has long been distressed.’
‘Why?’
His eyes flicked momentarily to hers, wider than usual, then away again. ‘He… grieves for your sacrifice, Chosen One.’
She blinked. ‘L’oric, I had no idea my sarcasm could so wound you.’
‘Unlike you,’ he replied gravely, ‘I was not being facetious, mistress. Heboric grieves-’
‘For my sacrifices. Well, that is odd indeed, since he did not think much of me before my… rebirth. Which particular loss does he mark?’
‘I could not say-you will have to ask him that, I’m afraid.’
‘Your friendship had not progressed to the point of an exchange of confessions, then.’
He said nothing to that. Well, no, he couldn’t. For that would acknowledge he has something to confess.
She swung her gaze from him and turned once more to regard the potential field of battle. I can envision the armies arrayed, yes. But then what? How are they moved? What is possible and what is impossible? Goddess, you have no answer to such questions. They are beneath you. Your power is your will, and that alone. But, dear Goddess, sometimes will is not enough. ‘Korbolo Dom is pleased with this pending… arena.’
‘I am not surprised, mistress.’
She glanced back at him. ‘Why?’
He shrugged, and she watched him search for an alternative to what he had been about to say. ‘Korbolo Dom would have Tavore do precisely what he wants her to do. To array her forces here, or there, and nowhere else. To make this particular approach. To contest where he would have her contest. He expects the Malazan army to march up to be slaughtered, as if by will alone he can make Tavore foolish, or stupid.’ L’oric nodded towards the vast basin. ‘He wants her to fight there. Expects her to. But, why would she?’
She shivered beneath the cloak as her chill deepened. Yes, why would she? Korbolo’s certainty… is it naught but bluster? Does he too demand something to be simply because that is how he must have it? But then, were any of the others any different? Kamist Reloe and his tail-sniffing pups, Fayelle and Henaras? And Febryl and Bidithal? Leoman… who sat with that irritating half-smile, through all of Korbolo’s descriptions of the battle to come. As if he knew something… as if he alone is indeed different. But then, that half-smile… the fool is sunk in the pit of durhang, after all. I should expect nothing of him, especially not military genius. Besides, Korbolo Dom has something to prove…
‘There is danger,’ L’oric murmured, ‘in trusting to a commander who wars with the aim of slaughter.’
‘Rather than what?’
His brows rose fractionally. ‘Why, victory.’
‘Does not slaughter of the enemy achieve victory, L’oric?’
‘But therein lies the flaw in Korbolo’s thinking, Chosen One. As Leoman once pointed out, months ago, the flaw is one of sequence. Mistress, victory precedes slaughter. Not the other way round.’
She stared at him. ‘Why, then, have neither you nor Leoman voiced this criticism when we discussed Korbolo Dom’s tactics?’
‘Discussed?’ L’oric smiled. ‘There was no discussion, Chosen One. Korbolo Dom is not a man who welcomes discussions.’
‘Nor is Tavore,’ she snapped.
‘That is not relevant,’ L’oric replied.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Malazan military doctrine-something Coltaine well understood, but also something that High Fist Pormqual had clearly lost sight of. Tactics are consensual. Dassem Ultor’s original doctrine, when he was finally made First Sword of the Malazan Empire. “Strategy belongs to the commander, but tactics are the first field of battle, and it is fought in the command tent.” Dassem’s own words. Of course, such a system relied heavily upon capable officers. Incompetent officers-such as those that subseqently infiltrated the chain of-’
‘Nobleborn officers, you mean.’
‘Bluntly, yes. The purchasing of commissions-Dassem would never have permitted that, and from what I gather, nor does the Empress. Not any more, in any case. There was a cull-’
‘Yes, I know, L’oric. By your argument, then, Tavore’s personality has no relevance-’
‘Not entirely, mistress. It has, for tactics are the child of strategy. And the truth of Tavore’s nature will shape that strategy. Veteran soldiers speak of hot iron and cold iron. Coltaine was cold iron. Dujek Onearm is cold iron, too, although not always-he’s a rare one in being able to shift as necessity demands. But Tavore? Unknown.’
‘Explain this “cold iron”, L’oric.’
‘Mistress, this subject is not my expertise-’
‘You have certainly fooled me. Explain. Now.’
‘Very well, such as I understand it-’
‘Cease equivocating.’
He cleared his throat, then turned and called out, ‘Mathok. Would you join us, please.’
Sha’ik scowled at the presumption behind that invitation, but then inwardly relented. This is important, after all. I feel it. The heart of all that will follow. ‘Join us, Mathok,’ she said.
He dismounted and strode over.
L’oric addressed him. ‘I have been asked to explain “cold iron”, Warchief, and for this I need help.’
The desert warrior bared his teeth. ‘Cold iron. Coltaine. Dassem Ultor-if the legends speak true. Dujek Onearm. Admiral Nok. K’azz D’Avore of the Crimson Guard. Inish Garn, who once led the Gral. Cold iron, Chosen One. Hard. Sharp. It is held before you, and so you reach.’ He crossed his arms.
‘You reach,’ L’oric nodded. ‘Yes, that’s it. You reach. And are stuck fast.’
‘Cold iron,’ Mathok growled. ‘The warchief’s soul-it either rages with the fire of life, or is cold with death. Chosen One, Korbolo Dom is hot iron, as am I. As are you. We are as the sun’s fires, as the desert’s heat, as the breath of the Whirlwind Goddess herself.’
‘The Army of the Apocalypse is hot iron.’
‘Aye, Chosen One. And thus, we must pray that the forge of Tavore’s heart blazes with vengeance.’
‘That she too is hot iron? Why?’
‘For then, we shall not lose.’
Sha’ik’s knees suddenly weakened and she almost staggered. L’oric moved close to support her, alarm on his face.
‘Mistress?’
‘I am… I am all right. A moment…’ She fixed her gaze on Mathok once more, saw the brief gauging regard in his eyes that then quickly slipped once again behind his impassive mien. ‘Warchief, what if Tavore is cold iron?’
‘The deadliest clash of all, Chosen One. Which shall shatter first?’
L’oric said, ‘Military histories reveal, mistress, that cold iron defeats hot iron more often than not. By a count of three or four to one.’
‘Yet Coltaine! Did he not fall to Korbolo Dom?’
She noted L’oric’s eyes meet Mathok’s momentarily.
‘Well?’ she demanded.
‘Chosen One,’ Mathok rumbled, ‘Korbolo Dom and Coltaine fought nine major engagements-nine battles-on the Chain of Dogs. Of these, Korbolo was clear victor in one, and one only. At the Fall. Outside the walls of Aren. And for that he needed Kamist Reloe, and the power of Mael, as channelled through the jhistal priest, Mallick Rel.’
Her head was spinning, panic ripping through her, and she knew L’oric could feel her trembling.
‘Sha’ik,’ he whispered, close by her ear, ‘you know Tavore, don’t you? You know her, and she is cold iron, isn’t she?’
Mute, she nodded. She did not know how she knew, for neither Mathok nor L’oric seemed able to give a concrete definition, suggesting to her that the notion derived from a gut level, a place of primal instinct. And so, she knew.
L’oric had lifted his head. ‘Mathok.’
‘High Mage?’
‘Who, among us, is cold iron? Is there anyone?’
‘There are two, High Mage. And one of these is capable of both: Toblakai.’
‘And the other?’
‘Leoman of the Flails.’
Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas lay beneath a sheath of sand. The sweat had soaked through his telaba beneath him, packing down his body’s moulded imprint, and had cooled, so that he now shivered unceasingly. The sixth son of a deposed chief among the Pardu, he had been a wanderer of the wastelands for most of his adult life. A wanderer, trader, and worse. When Leoman had found him, three Gral warriors had been dragging him behind their horses for most of a morning.
The purchase price had been pathetically small, since his skin had been flayed away by the burning sands, leaving only a bloodied mass of raw flesh. But Leoman had taken him to a healer, an old woman from some tribe he’d never heard of before, or since, and she in turn had taken him to a rockspring pool, where he’d lain immersed, raving with fever, for an unknown time, whilst she’d worked a ritual of mending and called upon the water’s ancient spirits. And so he had recovered.
Corabb had never learned the reason behind Leoman’s mercy, and, now that he knew him well-as well as any who’d sworn fealty to the man-he knew better than to ask. It was one with his contrary nature, his unknowable qualities that could be unveiled but once in an entire lifetime. But Corabb knew one thing: for Leoman of the Flails, he would give his life.
They had lain side by side, silent and motionless, through the course of the day, and now, late in the afternoon, they saw the first of the outriders appear in the distance, cautiously ranging out as they ventured onto the pan of cracked salts and clay.
Corabb finally stirred. ‘Wickans,’ he hissed.
‘And Seti,’ Leoman rumbled in reply.
‘Those grey-armoured ones look… different.’
The man beside him grunted, then swore. ‘Khundryl, from south of the Vathar River. I had hoped… Still, that arcane armour looks heavy. The Seven know what ancestral tombs they looted for those. The Khundryl came late to the horse, and it’s no wonder with that armour, is it?’
Corabb squinted at the vast dust cloud behind the outriders. ‘The vanguard rides close to the scouts.’
‘Aye. We’ll have to do something about that.’
Without another word the two warriors edged back from the crest, beyond the sight of the outriders, pausing briefly to reach back and brush sand over where their bodies had lain, then made their way back to the gully where they’d left their horses.
‘Tonight,’ Leoman said, collecting his mount’s reins and swinging up into the saddle.
Corabb did the same and then nodded. Sha’ik would know, of course, that she had been defied. For the Whirlwind Goddess had her eyes on all her children. But this was their land, wasn’t it? The invaders could not be left to walk it uncontested. No, the sands would drink their blood, giving voice on this night to the Shrouded Reaper’s dark promise.
L’oric stood near the trail that led to Toblakai’s glade. A casual look around, then the faintest of gestures from one hand marked a careful unveiling of sorcery-that vanished almost as soon as it arrived. Satisfied, he set off down the trail.
She might be distracted, but her goddess was not. Increasingly, he sensed questing attention directed towards him, sorcerous tendrils reaching out in an effort to find him, or track his movements. And it was becoming more difficult to elude such probes, particularly since they were coming from more than a single source.
Febryl was growing more nervous, as was Kamist Reloe. Whilst Bidithal’s paranoia needed no fuel-and nor should it. Sufficient, then, all these signs of increased restlessness, to convince L’oric that whatever plans existed were soon to seek resolution. One way or another.
He had not expected to discover Sha’ik so… unprepared. True, she had conveyed a none too subtle hint that she was preternaturally aware of all that went on in the camp, including an alarming ability to defeat his own disguising wards intended to mask his travels. Even so, there was knowledge that, had she possessed it-or even suspected-would have long since triggered a deadly response. Some places must remain closed to her. I had expected her to ask far more dangerous questions of me today. Where is Felisin? Then again, maybe she didn’t ask that because she already knew. A chilling thought, not just for evincing the breadth of her awareness, but for what it suggested about Sha’ik herself. That she knows what Bidithal did to Felisin… and she does not care.
Dusk ever seemed eager to arrive in the forest of stone trees. The tracks he left in the dusty path revealed, to his relief, that he was still alone in walking the trail these days.
Not that the goddess needed trails. But there was a strangeness to Toblakai’s glade, hinting at some kind of investment, as if the clearing had undergone a sanctification of some sort. And if that had indeed occurred, then it might exist as a blind spot in the eye of the Whirlwind Goddess.
But none of this explained why Sha’ik did not ask about Felisin. Ah, L’oric, you are the blind one. Sha’ik’s obsession is Tavore. With each day that leaves us, bringing the two armies ever closer, her obsession grows. As does her doubt and, perhaps, her fear. She is Malazan, after all-I was right in that. And within that waits another secret, this one buried deepest of all. She knows Tavore.
And that knowledge had guided her every action since the Rebirth. Her recalling the Army of the Apocalpyse when virtually within sight of the Holy City’s walls. Retreating into the heart of Raraku… gods, was all that a flight of terror?
A notion that did not bear thinking about.
The glade appeared before him, the ring of trees with their cold, unhuman eyes gazing down upon the small, bedraggled tent-and the young woman huddled before the stone-lined hearth a few paces from it.
She did not look up as he came near. ‘L’oric, I was wondering, how can one tell Bidithal’s cult of murderers from Korbolo Dom’s? It’s a crowded camp these days-I am glad I am hiding here, and in turn I find myself pitying you. Did you finally speak with her today?’
Sighing, he settled down opposite her, removing his shoulder pack and drawing food from it. ‘I did.’
‘And?’
‘Her concerns for the impending clash are… overwhelming her-’
‘My mother did not ask after me,’ Felisin cut in, with a slight smile.
L’oric looked away. ‘No,’ he conceded in a whisper.
‘She knows, then. And has judged as I have-Bidithal is close to exposing the plotters. They need him, after all, either to join the conspiracy, or stand aside. This is a truth that has not changed. And the night is drawing nearer, the night of betrayal. And so, Mother needs him to play out his role.’
‘I am not sure of that, Felisin,’ L’oric began, then shut up.
But she had understood, and her terrible smile broadened. ‘Then the Whirlwind Goddess has stolen the love from her soul. Ah, well, she has been under siege for a long time, after all. In any case, she was not my mother in truth-that was a title she assumed because it amused her to do so-’
‘Not true, Felisin. Sha’ik saw your plight-’
‘I was the first one to see her, when she returned, reborn. A chance occurrence, that I should be out gathering hen’bara on that day. Before that day, Sha’ik had never noticed me-why would she? I was one among a thousand orphans, after all. But then she was… reborn.’
‘Returned to the living as well, perhaps-’
Felisin laughed. ‘Oh, L’oric, you ever strive, don’t you? I knew then, as you must know by now-Sha’ik Reborn is not the same woman as Sha’ik Elder.’
‘That hardly matters, lass. The Whirlwind Goddess chose her-’
‘Because Sha’ik Elder died, or was killed. You did not see the truth as I did, in the faces of Leoman and Toblakai. I saw their uncertainty-they did not know if their ruse would succeed. And that it did, more or less, was as much to me as to any of them. The Whirlwind Goddess chose her out of necessity, L’oric.’
‘As I said, Felisin, it does not matter.’
‘Not to you, perhaps. No, you don’t understand. I saw Sha’ik Elder up close, once. Her glance swept past me, and that glance saw no-one, and at that moment, child though I was, I knew the truth of her. Of her, and of her goddess.’
L’oric unstoppered the jug that had followed the food and raised it to wet a mouth that had suddenly gone dry. ‘And what truth was that?’ he whispered, unable to meet her eyes. Instead, he drank down a deep draught of the unwatered wine.
‘Oh, that we are, one and all, nothing but slaves. We are the tools she will use to achieve her desires. Beyond that, our lives mean nothing to the goddess. But with Sha’ik Reborn, I thought I saw… something different.’
His peripheral vision caught her shrug.
‘But,’ she continued, ‘the goddess is too strong. Her will too absolute. The poison that is indifference… and I well know that taste, L’oric. Ask any orphan, no matter how old they are now, and they will tell you the same. We all sucked at that same bitter tit.’
He knew his tears had broken from his eyes, were running down his cheeks, yet could do nothing to stem them.
‘And now, L’oric,’ she went on after a moment, ‘we are all revealed. Every one of us here. We are all orphans. Think on it. Bidithal, who lost his temple, his entire cult. The same for Heboric. Korbolo Dom, who once stood as an equal in rank with great soldiers, like Whiskeyjack, and Coltaine. Febryl-did you know he murdered his own father and mother? Toblakai, who has lost his own people. And all the rest of us here, L’oric-we were children of the Malazan Empire, once. And what have we done? We cast off the Empress, in exchange for an insane goddess who dreams only of destruction, who seeks to feed on a sea of blood…’
‘And,’ he asked softly, ‘am I too an orphan?’
She had no need to answer, for they both heard the truth in his own pained words.
Osric…
‘Leaving only… Leoman of the Flails.’ Felisin took the wine from his hands. ‘Ah, Leoman. Our flawed diamond. I wonder, can he save us all? Will he get the chance? Among us, only he remains… unchained. No doubt the goddess claims him, but it is an empty claim-you do see that, don’t you?’
He nodded, wiping at his eyes. ‘And I believe I have led Sha’ik to that realization, as well.’
‘She knows, then, that Leoman is our last hope?’
His sigh was ragged. ‘I think so…’
They were silent for a time. Night had arrived, and the fire had died down to ashes, leaving only starlight to illuminate the glade.
It seemed, then, that eyes of stone had slowly assumed life, a crescent row fixed now upon the two of them. A regard avid, gleaming with hunger. L’oric’s head snapped up. He stared out at the ghostly faces, then at the two Toblakai figures, then settled once more, shivering.
Felisin laughed softly. ‘Yes, they do haunt one, don’t they?’
L’oric grunted. ‘A mystery here, in Toblakai’s creations. Those faces-they are T’lan Imass. Yet…’
‘He thought them his gods, yes. So Leoman told me, once, beneath the fumes of durhang. Then he warned me to say nothing to Toblakai.’ She laughed again, louder this time. ‘As if I would. A fool indeed, to step between Toblakai and his gods.’
‘There is nothing simple about that simple warrior,’ L’oric murmured.
‘Just as you are not simply a High Mage,’ she said. ‘You must act soon, you know. You have choices to make. Hesitate too long and they will be made for you, to your regret.’
‘I could well say the same to you in return.’
‘Well then, it seems we still have more to discuss this night. But first, let us eat-before the wine makes us drunk.’
Sha’ik recoiled, staggered back a step. The breath hissed from her in a gust of alarm-and pain. A host of wards swirled around Heboric’s abode, still flickering with the agitation her collision had triggered.
She bit down on her outrage, pitched her voice low as she said, ‘You know who it is who has come, Heboric. Let me pass. Defy me, and I will bring the wrath of the goddess down, here and now.’
A moment’s silence, then, ‘Enter.’
She stepped forward. There was a moment’s pressure, then she stumbled through, brought up short against the crumbled foundation wall. A sudden… absence. Terrifying, bursting like the clearest light where all had been, but a moment earlier, impenetrable gloom. Bereft… yet free. Gods, free-the light-‘Ghost Hands!’ she gasped. ‘What have you done?’
‘The goddess within you, Sha’ik,’ came Heboric’s words, ‘is not welcome in my temple.’
Temple? Roaring chaos was building within her, the vast places in her mind where the Whirlwind Goddess had been now suddenly vacant, filling with the dark, rushing return of… of all that I was. Bitter fury grew like a wildfire as memories rose with demonic ferocity to assail her. Beneth. You bastard. You closed your hands around a child, but what you shaped was anything but a woman. A plaything. A slave to you and your twisted, brutal world.
I used to watch that knife in your hands, the flickering games that were your idle habits. And that’s what you taught me, isn’t it? Cutting for fun and blood. And oh, how I cut. Baudin. Kulp. Heboric-
A physical presence beside her now, the solid feel of hands-jade green, black-barred-a figure, squat and wide and seemingly beneath the shadow of fronds-no, tattoos. Heboric…
‘Inside, lass. I have made you… bereft. An unanticipated consequence of forcing the goddess from your soul. Come.’
And then he was guiding her into the tent’s confines. The air chill and damp, a single small oil lamp struggling against the gloom-a flame that suddenly moved as he lifted the lamp and brought it over to a brazier, where he used its burning oil to light the bricks of dung. And, as he worked, he spoke. ‘Not much need for light… the passage of time… before tasked with sanctioning a makeshift temple… what do I know of Treach, anyway?’
She was sitting on cushions, her trembling hands held before the brazier’s growing flames, furs wrapped about her. At the name ‘Treach’ she started, looked up.
To see Heboric squatting before her. As he had squatted that day, so long ago now, in Judgement’s Round. When Hood’s sprites had come to him… to foretell of Fener’s casting down. The flies would not touch his spiral tattoos. I remember that. Everywhere else, they swarmed like madness. Now, those tattoos had undergone a transformation. ‘Treach.’
His eyes narrowed on hers-a cat’s eyes, now-he can see! ‘Ascended into godhood, Sha’ik-’
‘Don’t call me that. I am Felisin Paran of House Paran.’ She hugged herself suddenly. ‘Sha’ik waits for me… out there, beyond this tent’s confines-beyond your wards.’
‘And would you return to that embrace, lass?’
She studied the brazier’s fire, whispered, ‘No choice, Heboric.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
A thunderous shock bolted her upright. ‘Felisin!’
‘What?’
‘Felisin Younger! I have not… not seen her! Days? Weeks? What-where is she!’
Heboric’s motion was feline as he straightened, fluid and precise. ‘The goddess must know, lass-’
‘If she does, she’s not told me.’
‘But why would…’
She saw a sudden knowledge in his eyes, and felt her own answering stab of fear. ‘Heboric, what do you-’
Then he was guiding her to the tent flap, speaking as he drove her back step by step. ‘We spoke, you and I, and all is well. Nothing to concern yourself over. The Adjunct and her legions are coming and there is much to do. As well, there are the secret plans of Febryl to keep an eye on, and for that you must rely upon Bidithal-’
‘Heboric!’ She struggled against him, but he would not relent. They reached the flap and he pushed her outside. ‘What are you-’ A hard shove and she stumbled back.
Through a flare of wards.
Sha’ik slowly righted herself. She must have stumbled. Oh yes, a conversation with Ghost Hands. All is well. I’m relieved by that, for it allows me to think on more important things. My nest of betrayers, for example. Must have words with Bidithal again tonight. Yes…
She turned from the ex-priest’s tent and made her way back to the palace.
Overhead, the stars of the desert sky were shimmering, as they often did when the goddess had come close… Sha’ik wondered what had drawn her this time. Perhaps no more than casting a protective eye on her Chosen One…
She was unmindful-as was her goddess-of the barely visible shape that slipped out from the entrance to Heboric’s tent, flowing in a blur into the nearest shadows. Unmindful, also, of the scent that barbed shape now followed.
Westward, to the city’s edge, and then onto the trail, padding between the stone trees, towards a distant glade.
Bidithal sat in the seething shadows, alone once more, although the smile remained fixed on his withered face. Febryl had his games, but so did the once High Priest of the Shadow cult. Even betrayers could be betrayed, after all, a sudden turning of the knife in the hand.
And the sands would fold one more time, the way they did when the air breathed hard, in, out, back, forth, stirring and shifting the grains as would waves against a beach, to lay one layer over another in thin seams of colour. There were no limits to the number of layers, and this Febryl and his fellow conspirators would soon discover, to their grief.
They sought the warren for themselves. It had taken Bidithal a long time to unveil that truth, that deep-buried motivation, for it had remained in the silence between every spoken word. This was not a simple, mundane struggle for power. No. This was usurpation. Expropriation-a detail that itself whispered of yet deeper secrets. They wanted the warren… but why? A question yet to be answered, but find an answer he would, and soon.
In this, he knew, the Chosen One relied upon him, and he would not fail her. In so far as what she expects from me, yes, I will deliver. Of course, there are other issues that extend far beyond Sha’ik, this goddess and the Whirlwind Warren she would rule. The shape of the pantheon itself is at stake… my long-overdue vengeance against those foreign pretenders to the Throne of Shadow.
Even now, if he listened very-very-carefully, he could hear them. And they were coming. Closer, ever closer.
A tremble of fear took his limbs, and shadows scurried away from him momentarily, only returning when he had settled once more. Rashan… and Meanas. Meanas and Thyr. Thyr and Rashan. The three children of the Elder Warrens. Galain, Emurlahn and Thyrllan. Should it be so surprising that they war once more? For do not we ever inherit the spites of our fathers and mothers?
But a ghost of that fear remained. He had not called them, after all. Had not understood the truth of what lay beneath the Whirlwind Warren, the reason why the warren was held in this single place and nowhere else. Had not comprehended how the old battles never died, but simply slept, every bone in the sand restless with memory.
Bidithal raised his hands and the army of shadows crowded within his temple gathered closer.
‘My children,’ he whispered, beginning the Closing Chant.
‘Father.’
‘Do you remember?’
‘We remember.’
‘Do you remember the dark?’
‘We remember the dark. Father-’
‘Ask it and close this moment, children.’
‘Do you remember the dark?’
The priest’s smile broadened. A simple question, one that could be asked of anyone, anyone at all. And perhaps they would understand. But probably not. Yet I understand it.
Do you remember the dark?
‘I remember.’
As, with sighs, the shadows dispersed, Bidithal stiffened once more to that almost inaudible call. He shivered again. They were getting close indeed.
And he wondered what they would do, when they finally arrived.
There were eleven in all. His chosen.
Korbolo Dom leaned back on his cushions, eyes veiled as he studied the silent, shrouded line of figures standing before him. The Napan held a goblet carved from crystal in his right hand, in which swirled a rare wine from the Grisian valleys on Quon Tali. The woman who had kept him amused earlier this night was asleep, her head resting on his right thigh. He had plied her with enough durhang to ensure oblivion for the next dozen bells, though it was the expedience of security rather than any insipid desire on his part that necessitated such measures.
Drawn from his Dogslayers, the eleven killers were appallingly skilled. Five of them had been personal assassins to Holy Falah’dan in the days before the Empire, rewarded with gifts of alchemy and sorcery to maintain their youthful appearance and vigour.
Three of the remaining six were Malazan-Korbolo Dom’s own, created long ago, when he realized he had cause to worry about the Claw. Cause… now that’s a simplification almost quaint in its coyness. A multitude of realizations, of sudden discoveries, of knowledge I had never expected to gain-of things I had believed long dead and gone. There had been ten such bodyguards, once. Evidence of the need for them stood before him now. Three left, the result of a brutal process of elimination, leaving only those with the greatest skill and the most fortuitous alliance of Oponn’s luck-two qualities that fed each other well.
The remaining three assassins were from various tribes, each of whom had proved his worth during the Chain of Dogs. The arrow from one had slain Sormo E’nath, from a distance of seventy paces, on the Day of Pure Blood. There had been other arrows striking true, but it had been the one through the warlock’s neck-the assassin’s-that had filled the lad’s lungs with blood, that had drowned his very breath, so that he could not call upon his damned spirits for healing…
Korbolo sipped wine, slowly licked his lips. ‘Kamist Reloe has chosen among you,’ he rumbled after a moment, ‘for the singular task that will trigger all that subsequently follows. And I am content with his choices. But do not think this diminishes the rest of you. There will be tasks-essential tasks-on that night. Here in this very camp. I assure you, you will get no sleep that night, so prepare yourselves. Also, two of you will remain with me at all times, for I can guarantee that my death will be sought before that fateful dawn arrives.’
I expect you to die in my place. Of course. It is what you are sworn to do, should the need arise.
‘Leave me now,’ he said, waving his free hand.
The eleven assassins bowed in unison, then filed silently out of the tent.
Korbolo lifted the woman’s head from his thigh, by the hair-noting how she remained insensate to the rough handling-and rose from the cushions, letting her head thump back down. He paused to drink a mouthful of the wine, then stepped from the modest dais and approached the side chamber that had been partitioned off by silk hangings.
Within the private room, Kamist Reloe was pacing. Hands wringing, shoulders drawn up, neck taut.
Korbolo leaned against a support post, his mouth twisting into a slight sneer at seeing the High Mage’s fretting. ‘Which of your many fears plagues you now, Kamist? Oh, do not answer. I admit I’ve ceased caring.’
‘Foolish complacency on your part, then,’ the High Mage snapped. ‘Do you think we are the only clever people?’
‘In the world? No. Here, in Raraku, well, that’s another matter. Who should we fear, Kamist Reloe? Sha’ik? Her goddess devours her acuity-day by day, the lass grows less and less aware of what goes on around her. And that goddess barely takes note of us-oh, there are suspicions, perhaps, but that is all. Thus. Who else? L’oric? I’ve known many a man like him-creating mystery around themselves-and I have found that what it usually hides is an empty vessel. He is all pose and nothing more.’
‘You are wrong in that, I fear, but no, I do not worry about L’oric.’
‘Who else? Ghost Hands? The man’s vanished into his own pit of hen’bara. Leoman? He’s not here and I’ve plans for his return. Toblakai? I think we’ve seen the last of him. Who is left? Why, none other than Bidithal. But Febryl swears he almost has him in our fold-it’s simply a question of discovering what the bastard truly desires. Something squalid and disgusting, no doubt. He is slave to his vices, is Bidithal. Offer him ten thousand orphaned girls and the smile will never leave his ugly face.’
Kamist Reloe wrapped his arms about himself as he continued pacing. ‘It’s not who we know to be among us that is the source of my concerns, Korbolo Dom, it’s who is among us that we do not know.’
The Napan scowled. ‘And how many hundreds of spies do we have in this camp? And what of the Whirlwind Goddess herself-do you imagine she will permit the infiltration of strangers?’
‘Your flaw, Korbolo Dom, is that you think in a strictly linear fashion. Ask that question again, only this time ask it in the context of the goddess having suspicions about us.’
The High Mage was too distracted to notice the Napan’s half-step forward, one hand lifting. But Korbolo Dom’s blow died at that very moment, as the import of Kamist Reloe’s challenge reached him. His eyes slowly widened. Then he shook his head. ‘No, that would be too great a risk to take. A Claw let loose in this camp would endanger everyone-there would be no way to predict their targets-’
‘Would there be a need to?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We are the Dogslayers, Korbolo Dom. The murderers of Coltaine, the Seventh, and the legions at Aren. More, we also possess the mage cadre for the Army of the Apocalypse. Finally, who will be commanding that army on the day of battle? How many reasons do the Claw need to strike at us, and at us specifically? What chance would Sha’ik have if we were all dead? Why kill Sha’ik at all? We can fight this war without her and her damned goddess-we’ve done it before. And we’re about to-’
‘Enough of that, Kamist Reloe. I see your point. So, you fear that the goddess will permit a Claw to infiltrate… in order to deal with us. With you, Febryl and myself. An interesting possibility, but I still think it remote. The goddess is too heavy-handed, too ensnared by emotion, to think with such devious, insidious clarity.’
‘She does not have to initiate the scheme, Korbolo Dom. She need only comprehend the offer, and then decide either to acquiesce or not. It is not her clarity that is relevant, but that of Laseen’s Claw. And do you doubt the cleverness of Topper?’
Growling under his breath, Korbolo Dom looked away for a moment. ‘No,’ he finally admitted. ‘But I do rely on the goddess being in no mind to accept communication from the Empress, from Topper, or anyone else who refuses to kneel to her will. You have thought yourself into a nightmare, Kamist Reloe, and now you invite me to join you. I decline the offer, High Mage. We are well protected, and too far advanced in our efforts for all of this fretting.’
‘I have survived this long, Korbolo Dom, because of my talent in anticipating what my enemies would attempt. Soldiers say no plan of battle survives contact with the enemy. But the game of subterfuge is the very opposite. Plans derive from persistent contact with the enemy. Thus, you proceed on your terms, and I will proceed on mine.’
‘As you like. Now, leave me. It is late, and I would sleep.’
The High Mage stopped pacing to fix the Napan with an unreadable look for a moment, then he swung about and left the chamber.
Korbolo listened until he heard the flap in the outer room swish open, then close. He listened on, and was satisfied to hear the draws being tightened by one of his bodyguards positioned just outside the entrance.
Draining the last of the wine-damned expensive but tastes no different from the dockside swill I choked down on the Isle-he flung the goblet down and strode to the mass of cushions at the far end. Beds in every room. I wonder what that signifies of my personality? Then again, those other ones are not for sleeping in, are they. No, only this one…
In the front room on the other side of the silk partitions, the woman lay unmoving on her own heap of cushions, where Korbolo had left her some time back.
Continuous, overwhelming imbibing of durhang-like any other intoxicant-created a process of diminishment of its effects. Until, while a layer of insensate numbness still persisted-a useful barrier against such things as having her head yanked up by her hair then dropped back down-cool awareness remained beneath it.
Advantageous, as well, the rituals her master had inflicted upon her, rituals that eliminated the weakness of pleasure. There could be no loss of control, not any more, for her mind no longer warred with feelings, for of feelings she had none. An easy surrender, she had found to her delight, for there had been little in her life before her initiation to seed warm remembrances of childhood.
And so she was well suited to this task. Uttering the right sounds of pleasure to disguise her indifference to all of Korbolo Dom’s peculiar preferences. And lying motionless, unmindful even of a throat slowly filling with phlegm from the near-liquid smoke of the durhang, for as much time as was needed, before the subtle, tasteless drops she had added to his wine took effect.
When she could hear his deep, slow breaths that told her he would not easily awaken, she rolled onto her side in a fit of coughing. When it had passed she paused again, just to be certain that the Napan still slept. Satisfied, she clambered to her feet and tottered to the tent flap.
Fumbled with the ties until a gruff voice from just beyond said, ‘Scillara, off to the latrines again?’
And another voice softly laughed and added, ‘It’s a wonder there’s any meat on her at all, the way she heaves night after night.’
‘It’s the rust-leaf and the bitter berries crushed in with the durhang,’ the other replied, as his hands took over the task of loosening the draws, and the flap was drawn aside.
Scillara staggered out, bumping her way between the two guards.
The hands that reached out to steady invariably found unusual places to rest, and squeeze.
She would have enjoyed that, once, in a slightly offended, irritated way that none the less tickled with pleasure. But now, it was nothing but clumsy lust to be endured.
As everything else in this world had to be endured, while she waited for her final reward, the blissful new world beyond death. ‘The left hand of life, holding all misery. And the right hand-yes, the one with the glittering blade, dear-the right hand of death, holding, as it does, the reward you would offer to others, and then take upon yourself. At your chosen moment.’
Her master’s words made sense, as they always did. Balance was the heart of all things, after all. And life-that time of pain and grief-was but one side of that balance. ‘The harder, the more miserable, the more terrible and disgusting your life, child, the greater the reward beyond death…’ Thus, as she knew, it all made sense.
No need, then, to struggle. Acceptance was the only path to walk.
Barring this one. She weaved her way between the tent rows. The Dogslayers’ encampment was precise and ordered, in the Malazan fashion-a detail she knew well from her days as a child when her mother followed the train of the Ashok Regiment. Before that regiment went overseas, leaving hundreds destitute-lovers and their get, servants and scroungers. Her mother had then sickened and died. She had a father, of course, one of the soldiers. Who might be alive, or dead, but either way was thoroughly indifferent to the child he had left behind.
Balance.
Difficult with a head full of durhang, even inured to it as she had become.
But there were the latrines, down this slope, and onto the wooden walkways spanning the trench. Smudge-pots smouldering to cover some of the stench and keep the flies away. Buckets beside the holed seats, filled with hand-sized bundles of grass. Larger open-topped casks with water, positioned out over the trench and fixed to the walkways.
Hands held out to either side, Scillara navigated carefully across one of the narrow bridges.
Long-term camp trenches such as this one held more than just human wastes. Garbage was regularly dumped in by soldiers and others-or what had passed for garbage with them. But for the orphans of this squalid city, some of that refuse was seen as treasure. To be cleaned, repaired and sold.
And so, figures swarmed in the darkness below.
She reached the other side, her bare feet sinking into the mud made by splashes that had reached the ridge. ‘I remember the dark!’ she sang out, voice throaty from years of durhang smoke.
There was a scrabbling from the trench, and a small girl, sheathed in excrement, clambered up to her, teeth flashing white. ‘Me too, sister.’
Scillara drew out a small bag of coins from her sash. Their master frowned on such gestures, and indeed, they ran contrary to his teachings, but she could not help herself. She pressed it into the girl’s hands. ‘For food.’
‘He will be displeased, sister-’
‘And of the two of us, I alone will suffer a moment of torment. So be it. Now, I have words from this night, to be brought to our master-’
He had always walked with a pitching gait, low to the ground, sufficient to have earned him a host of unflattering nicknames. Toad, crab-legs… the names children gave each other, some of which were known to persist into adulthood. But Heboric had worked hard as a youth-long before his first, fateful visit into a temple of Fener-to excoriate those appellations, to eventually earn Light Touch, in response to certain skills he had acquired on the streets. But now, his sidling walk had undergone a transformation, yielding to an instinctive desire to drop even lower, even to using his hands to propel him along.
Had he considered it, he would have concluded, sourly, that he moved less like a cat than an ape, such as those found in the jungles of Dal Hon. Unpleasant to the eye, perhaps, but efficacious none the less.
He slowed on the trail as he approached Toblakai’s glade. A faint smell of smoke, the dull gleam of a fast-cooling fire, the murmur of voices.
Heboric slipped to one side, among the stone trees, then sank down within sight of the two seated at the hearth.
Too long his self-obsession, the seemingly endless efforts to create his temple-that now struck him as a strange kind of neurotic nesting; he had ignored the world beyond the walls for too long. There had been, he realized with a surge of bitter anger, a host of subtle alterations to his personality, concomitant with the physical gifts he had received.
He had ceased being mindful.
And that, he realized as he studied the two figures in the glade, had permitted a terrible crime.
She’s healed well… but not well enough to disguise the truth of what has happened. Should I reveal myself? No. Neither of them has made a move to expose Bidithal, else they would not be hiding here.
That means they would try to talk me out of what must be done.
But I warned Bidithal. I warned him, and he was… amused. Well, I think that amusement is about to end.
He slowly backed away.
Then, deep in the shadows, Heboric hesitated. There was no clash between his new and old instincts on this matter. Both demanded blood. And this night. Immediately. But something of the old Heboric was reasserting itself. He was new to this role as Destriant. More than that, Treach himself was a newly arrived god. And while Heboric did not believe Bidithal held any position-not any more-within the realm of Shadow, his temple was sanctified to someone.
An attack would draw in their respective sources of power, and there was no telling how swiftly, and how uncontrollably, that clash could escalate.
Better had I just remained old Heboric. With hands of otataral entwined with an unknown being’s immeasurable power… Then I could have torn him limb from limb.
He realized that, instead, he could do nothing. Not this night, in any case. He would have to wait, seeking an opportunity, a moment of distraction. But to achieve that, he would have to remain hidden, unseen-Bidithal could not discover his sudden elevation. Could not learn that he had become Destriant to Treach, the new god of war.
The rage suddenly returned, and he struggled to push it away.
After a moment his breathing slowed. He turned round and edged back onto the trail. This would require more thought. Measured thought. Damn you, Treach. You knew the guise of a tiger. Gift me some of your cunning ways, a hunter’s ways, a killer’s…
He approached the head of the trail, and halted at a faint sound. Singing. Muted, a child’s, coming from the ruins of what had once been a modest building of some sort. Indifferent to the darkness, his eyes caught movement and fixed hard on that spot, until a shape resolved itself.
A girl in rags, carrying a stick that she held in both hands. A dozen or so dead rhizan hung by their tails from her belt. As he watched, he saw her leap up and swing the stick. It struck something and she scrambled in pursuit, jumping about to trap a tiny shape writhing on the ground. A moment later and she lifted the rhizan into view. A quick twist of the neck, then another tiny body was tied to her belt. She bent down and retrieved her stick. And began singing once more.
Heboric paused. He would have difficulty passing by her unnoticed. But not impossible.
Probably an unnecessary caution. Even so. He held to the shadows as he edged forward, moving only when her back was turned, his eyes never leaving her form for a moment.
A short while later and he was past.
Dawn was approaching, and the camp was moments from stirring awake. Heboric increased his pace, and eventually reached his tent, slipping inside.
Apart from the girl, he’d seen no-one.
And when she judged that he was finally gone, the girl slowly turned about, her singing falling away as she peered out into the gloom. ‘Funny man,’ she whispered, ‘do you remember the dark?’
A sixth of a bell before dawn, Leoman and two hundred of his desert warriors struck the Malazan encampment. The infantry stationed at the pickets were at the end of their watch, gathered in weary groups to await the sun’s rise-a lapse in discipline that presented easy targets for the archers who had, on foot, closed to within thirty paces of the line. A whispery flit of arrows, all loosed at the same time, and the Malazan soldiers were down.
At least half of the thirty or so soldiers had not been killed outright, and their screams of pain and fear broke the stillness of the night. The archers had already set their bows down and were darting forward with their kethra knives to finish the wounded sentries, but they had not gone ten paces before Leoman and his horse warriors thundered around them, striking hard through the breach.
And into the camp.
Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas rode at his commander’s side, a long-hafted weapon that was half sword, half axe, in his right hand. Leoman was the centre of a curved sweep of attackers, protecting a knot of additional horse warriors from which a steady whirring sound rose. Corabb knew what that sound signified-his commander had invented his own answer to Moranth munitions, employing a pair of clay balls filled with oil and connected by a thin chain. Lit like lamps, they were swung and thrown in the manner of bolas.
The desert warriors were among the huge supply wagons now, and Corabb heard the first of those bolas whip outward, the sound followed by a whooshing roar of fire. The darkness vanished in a red glare.
And then Corabb saw a figure running from his horse’s path. He swung his long-bladed axe. The impact, as it struck the back of the fleeing Malazan’s helmed head, nearly dislocated Corabb’s shoulder. A spray of blood spattered hard against his forearm as he dragged the weapon free-it was suddenly heavier, and he glanced down at it, to see that the blade had taken the helm with it, having cut fully half through.
Brains and bits of bone and scalp were spilling from the bronze bowl.
Swearing, he slowed his mount’s wild charge and tried to shake the axe clear. There was fighting on all sides, now, as well as raging flames engulfing at least a dozen wagons-and squad-tents. And soldiers appearing, more and more of them. He could hear barked orders in the Malazan tongue, and crossbow quarrels had begun flitting through the air towards the horse warriors.
A horn sounded, high and wavering. His curses growing fiercer, Corabb wheeled his horse round. He had already lost contact with Leoman, although a few of his comrades were in sight. All of them responding to the call to withdraw. As he must, as well.
The axe dragged at his aching shoulder, still burdened with that damned helm. He drove his horse back up the broad track between the mess-tents. Smoke tumbled, obscuring the view before him, stinging his eyes and harsh in his lungs.
Sudden burning agony slashed across his cheek, snapping his head around. A quarrel clattered against the ground fifteen paces ahead and to one side. Corabb ducked low, twisting in search of where it had come from.
And saw a squad of Malazans, all with crossbows-all but one cocked and trained on the desert warrior, with a sergeant berating the soldier who had fired too early. A scene taken in, in its entirety, between heartbeats. The bastards were less then ten paces distant.
Corabb flung his axe away. With a scream, he pitched his horse sideways, directly into the wall of one of the mess-tents. Ropes tautened and snapped heavy stakes skyward, poles splintering. Amidst this stumbling chaos, the warrior heard the crossbows loose-but his horse was going down, onto its side-and Corabb was already leaping clear of the saddle, his moccasined feet slipping out from the stirrups as he dived.
Into the collapsing tent wall, a moment before his horse, rolling with a scream, followed.
The pressure of that waxed fabric vanished suddenly and Corabb tumbled into a somersault, once, twice, then skidded onto his feet, spinning round-
– in time to see his horse roll back upright.
Corabb leapt alongside his mount and vaulted up into the saddle and they were off.
And in the desert warrior’s mind: numb disbelief.
On the opposite side of the avenue, seven Malazan marines stood or crouched with spent crossbows, staring as the rider thundered off into the smoke.
‘Did you see that?’ one asked.
Another frozen moment, shattered at last when the soldier named Lutes flung his weapon down in disgust.
‘Pick that up,’ Sergeant Borduke growled.
‘If Maybe hadn’t fired early-’
‘I wasn’t sure!’ Maybe replied.
‘Load up, idiots-there might be a few left.’
‘Hey, Sergeant, maybe that horse killed the cook.’
Borduke spat. ‘The gods smiling down on us this night, Hubb?’
‘Well…’
‘Right. The truth remains, then. We’ll have to kill him ourselves. Before he kills us. But never mind that for now. Let’s move…’
The sun had just begun to rise when Leoman drew rein and halted his raiders. Corabb was late in arriving-among the last, in fact-and that earned a pleased nod from his commander. As if he’d assumed that Corabb had been taking up the rear out of a sense of duty. He did not notice that his lieutenant had lost his main weapon.
Behind them, they could see the columns of smoke rising into sunlit sky, and the distant sound of shouts reached them, followed moments later by the thunder of horse hoofs.
Leoman bared his teeth. ‘And now comes the real objective of our attack. Well done thus far, my soldiers. Hear those horses? Seti, Wickans and Khundryl-and that will be the precise order of the pursuit. The Khundryl, whom we must be wary of, will be burdened by their armour. The Wickans will range cautiously. But the Seti, once they sight us, will be headlong in their pursuit.’ He then raised the flail in his right hand, and all could see the bloody, matted hair on the spike ball. ‘And where shall we lead them?’
‘To death!’ came the roaring reply.
The rising sun had turned the distant wall of spinning, whirling sand gold, a pleasing colour to Febryl’s old, watery eyes. He sat facing east, cross-legged atop what had once been a gate tower but was now a shapeless heap of rubble softened by windblown sand.
The city reborn lay to his back, slow to awaken on this day for reasons of which only a scant few were aware, and Febryl was one of those. The goddess devoured. Consuming life’s forces, absorbing the ferocious will to survive from her hapless, misguided mortal servants.
The effect was gradual, yet, day after day, moment by moment, it deadened. Unless one was cognizant of that hunger, of course. And was able to take preventative measures to evade her incessant demands.
Long ago, Sha’ik Reborn had claimed to know him, to have plumbed his every secret, to have discerned the hue of his soul. And indeed, she had shown an alarming ability to speak in his mind-almost as if she was always present, and only spoke to occasionally remind him of that terrifying truth. But such moments had diminished in frequency-perhaps as a result of his renewed efforts to mask himself-until, now, he was certain that she could no longer breach his defences.
Perhaps, however, the truth was far less flattering to his own proficiencies. Perhaps the influence of the goddess had lured Sha’ik Reborn into… indifference. Aye, it may be that I am already dead and am yet to know it. That all I have planned is known to the woman and goddess both. Am I alone in having spies? No. Korbolo has hinted of his own agents, and indeed, nothing of what I seek will come to pass without the efforts of the Napan’s hidden cadre of killers.
It was, he reflected with bitter humour, the nature of everyone in this game to hide as much of themselves from others as they could, from allies as well as enemies, since such appellations were in the habit of reversing without warning.
None the less, Febryl had faith in Kamist Reloe. The High Mage had every reason to remain loyal to the broader scheme-the scheme that was betrayal most prodigious-since the path it offered was the only one that ensured Reloe’s survival in what was to come. And as for the more subtle nuances concerning Febryl himself, well, those were not Kamist Reloe’s business. Were they?
Even if their fruition should prove fatal… to everyone but me.
They all thought themselves too clever, and that was a flaw inviting exploitation.
And what of me? Eh, dear Febryl? Do you think yourself clever? He smiled at the distant wall of sand. Cleverness was not essential, provided one insisted on keeping things simple. Complexity beckoned error, like a whore a soldier on leave. The lure of visceral rewards that proved never quite as straightforward as one would have imagined from the start. But I will avoid that trap. I will not suffer deadly lapses, such as has happened to Bidithal, since they lead to complications-although his failings will lead him into my hands, so I suppose I should not complain too much.
‘The sun’s light folds over darkness.’
He started, twisted around. ‘Chosen One!’
‘Deep breaths, old man, will ease your hammering heart. I can wait a moment, for I am patient.’
She stood almost at his side-of course he had seen no shadow, for the sun was before him. But how had she come with such silence? How long had she been standing there? ‘Chosen One, have you come to join me in greeting the dawn?’
‘Is that what you do, when you come here at the beginning of each day? I’d wondered.’
‘I am a man of humble habits, mistress.’
‘Indeed. A certain bluntness that affects a quality of simplicity. As if by adhering to simple habits in the flesh and bone, your mind will in turn strive towards the same perfection.’
He said nothing, though his heart had anything but slowed its thundering pace.
Sha’ik then sighed. ‘Did I say perfection? Perhaps I should tell you something, then, to aid you in your quest.’
‘Please,’ he gasped softly.
‘The Whirlwind Wall is virtually opaque, barring that diffuse sunlight. And so I am afraid I must correct you, Febryl. You are facing northeast, alas.’ She pointed. ‘The sun is actually over there, High Mage. Do not fret so-you have at least been consistent. Oh, and there is another matter that I believe must be clarified. Few would argue that my goddess is consumed by anger, and so consumes in turn. But what you might see as the loss of many to feed a singular hunger is in truth worthy of an entirely different analogy.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. She does not strictly feed on the energies of her followers, so much as provide for them a certain focus. Little different, in fact, from that Whirlwind Wall out there, which, while seeming to diffuse the light of the sun, in fact acts to trap it. Have you ever sought to pass through that wall, Febryl? Particularly at dusk, when the day’s heat has most fully been absorbed? It would burn you down to bone, High Mage, in an instant. So, you see how something that appears one way is in truth the very opposite way? Burnt crisp-a horrible image, isn’t it? One would need to be desert-born, or possess powerful sorcery to defy that. Or very deep shadows…’
Living simply, Febryl belatedly considered, should not be made synonymous with seeing simply, since the former was both noble and laudable, whilst the latter was a flaw most deadly. A careless error, and, alas, he had made it.
And now, he concluded, it was too late.
And as for altering the plans, oh, it was too late for that as well.
Somehow, the newly arriving day had lost its glamour.