Hear them rattle
These chains of living
Bound to every moment passed
Until the wreckage clamours
In deafening wake
And each stride trails
A dirge of the lost.
House of Chains
HE SAT CROSS-LEGGED IN THE DARKNESS, PERCHED IN HIS USUAL place on the easternmost ridge, his eyes closed, a small smile on his withered face. He had unveiled his warren in the most subtle pattern, an unseen web stretched out across the entire oasis. It would be torn soon, he well knew, but for the moment he could sense every footpad, every tremble. The powers were indeed converging, and the promise of blood and destruction whispered through the night.
Febryl was well pleased. Sha’ik had been isolated, utterly. The Napan’s army of killers were even now streaming from their places of hiding, as panic closed hands around Korbolo Dom’s throat. Kamist Reloe was returning from his secret sojourn through the warrens. And, across the basin, the Malazan army was entrenching, the Adjunct whetting her otataral sword in anticipation of the morning’s battle.
There was but one troubling detail. A strange song, faint yet growing. The voice of Raraku itself. He wondered what it would bring to this fated night. Hood was close-aye, the god himself-and this did much to mask other… presences. But the sands were stirring, awakened perhaps by the Lord of Death’s arrival. Spirits and ghosts, no doubt come to witness the many deaths promised in the hours to come.
A curious thing, but he was not unduly concerned.
There will be slaughter. Yet another apocalypse on Raraku’s restless sands. It is as it should be.
To all outward appearances, L’oric was dead. He had been roughly dragged to one wall in the command tent and left there. The knife had been yanked from his back, and he now lay with his face to the rough fabric of the wall, eyes open and seemingly sightless.
Behind him, the Supreme Commander of the Apocalypse was speaking.
‘Unleash them all, Henaras, barring my bodyguards. I want every one of Bidithal’s cute little spies hunted down and killed-and find Scillara. That bitch has played her last game.
‘You, Duryl, take another and ride out to the Adjunct. Deliver my missive-and make certain you are not seen by anyone. Mathok has his warriors out. Fayelle will work sorcery to aid you. And impress upon Tavore the need to withdraw her killers, lest they do the Whirlwind Goddess’s work for her.’
‘Supreme Commander,’ a voice spoke, ‘what of Leoman of the Flails?’
‘The 4th Company and Fayelle are to leave quietly with the next bell. Leoman will get nowhere near us, or the army. Corporal Ethume, I want you within crossbow range of Febryl-the bastard’s hiding in the usual place. Now, have I missed anything?’
‘My fear is deepening,’ Henaras murmured. ‘Something is happening… in the holy desert. Worse, I feel the approach of terrible powers-’
‘Which is why we need the Adjunct and her damned sword. Are we safe enough in here, Henaras?’
‘I think so-the wards Kamist, Fayelle and I have woven about this tent would confound a god.’
‘That claim might well be challenged,’ Korbolo Dom growled.
He added something more, but a strange gurgling sound, from just beyond the tent wall in front of L’oric, overrode the Napan’s voice. A wetness, spattering the opposite side, then a sigh-audible to L’oric only because he was so close. Talons then raked along the base of the wall, reducing the fabric to ribbons. A four-eyed, immeasurably ugly face peered in through the gap.
‘Brother, you look unwell.’
Appearances deceive, Greyfrog. For example, you have never looked prettier.
The demon reached in and grasped L’oric by one arm. He then began dragging him by increments through the tear. ‘Confident. They are too preoccupied. Disappointed. I have eaten but two guards, the wards sleep and our path of retreat is clear. Things are coming. Suitably ominous. Frankly. I admit to fear, and advise we… hide.’
For a time, yes, we do just that. Find us somewhere, Greyfrog.
‘Assured. I shall.’
Then leave me there and return to Felisin. Assassins are out hunting…
‘Delightful.’
Kasanal had been a Semk shaman once, but now he murdered at his new master’s bidding. And he enjoyed it, although, admittedly, he preferred killing Malazans rather than natives. At least his victims this night would not be Semk-to slay those from his own tribe would be a difficult thing to accept. But that did not seem likely. Korbolo Dom had as much as adopted the last survivors of the clans that had fought for him and Kamist Reloe on the Chain of Dogs.
And these two were mere women, both servants of that butcher, Bidithal.
He was now lying motionless on the edge of the glade, watching the two. One was Scillara, and Kasanal knew his master would be pleased when he returned with her severed head. The other one was also familiar-he had seen her in Sha’ik’s company, and Leoman’s.
It was also clear that they were in hiding, and so likely to be principal agents in whatever Bidithal was planning.
He slowly raised his right hand, and two quick gestures sent his four followers out along the flanks, staying within the trees, to encircle the two women’s position. Under his breath, he began murmuring an incantation, a weaving of ancient words that deadened sound, that squeezed lassitude into the victims, dulling their every sense. And he smiled as he saw their heads slowly settle in unison.
Kasanal rose from his place of concealment. The need for hiding had passed. He stepped into the glade. His four Semk kin followed suit.
They drew their knives, edged closer.
Kasanal never saw the enormous blade that cut him in half, from the left side of his neck and out just above his right hip. He had a momentary sense of falling in two directions, then oblivion swallowed him, so he did not hear the cries of his four cousins, as the wielder of the stone sword marched into their midst.
When Kasanal at last opened ethereal eyes to find himself striding towards Hood’s Gate, he was pleased to find his four kinsmen with him.
Wiping the blood from his sword, Karsa Orlong swung to face the two women. ‘Felisin,’ he growled, ‘your scars burn bright on your soul. Bidithal chose to ignore my warning. So be it. Where is he?’
Still feeling the remnants of the strange dullness that had stolen her senses, Felisin could only shake her head.
Karsa scowled at her, then his gaze shifted to the other woman. ‘Has the night stolen your tongue as well?’
‘No. Yes. No, clearly it hasn’t. I believe we were under sorcerous attack. But we are now recovering, Toblakai. You have been gone long.’
‘And I am now returned. Where is Leoman? Bidithal? Febryl? Korbolo Dom? Kamist Reloe? Heboric Ghost Hands?’
‘An impressive list-you’ve a busy night ahead, I think. Find them where you will, Toblakai. The night awaits you.’
Felisin drew a shaky breath, wrapping her arms about herself as she stared up at the terrible warrior. He had just killed five assassins with five sweeping, almost poetic passes of that enormous sword. The very ease of it horrified her. True, the assassins had intended the same for her and Scillara.
Karsa loosened his shoulders with a shrug, then strode towards the path leading to the city. In moments he was gone.
Scillara moved closer to Felisin and laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Death is always a shock,’ she said. ‘The numbness will pass. I promise.’
But Felisin shook her head. ‘Except for Leoman,’ she whispered.
‘What?’
‘Those he named. He is going to kill them all. Except for Leoman.’
Scillara slowly turned to face the trail, a cool, speculative look stealing across her face.
The last two had taken down four warriors and come within thirty paces of his tent before finally falling. Scowling, Mathok stared down at the arrow-studded, sword-slashed corpses. Six attempted assassinations this night alone, and the first bell had yet to sound.
Enough.
‘T’morol, gather my clan.’
The burly warrior grunted assent and strode off. Mathok drew his furs tighter about himself and returned to his tent.
Within its modest confines, he paused for a long moment, deep in thought. Then he shook himself and walked over to a hide-covered chest near his cot. He crouched, swept aside the covering, and lifted the ornate lid.
The Book of Dryjhna resided within.
Sha’ik had given it into his keeping.
To safeguard.
He closed the lid and locked it, then picked up the chest and made his way outside. He could hear his warriors breaking camp in the darkness beyond. ‘T’morol.’
‘Warchief.’
‘We ride to join Leoman of the Flails. The remaining clans are to guard Sha’ik, though I am confident she is not at risk-she may have need for them in the morning.’
T’morol’s dark eyes were fixed on Mathok, cold and impervious to surprise. ‘We are to ride from this battle, Warchief?’
‘To preserve the Holy Book, such flight may be a necessity, old friend. Come the dawn, we hover… on the very cusp.’
‘To gauge the wind.’
‘Yes, T’morol, to gauge the wind.’
The bearded warrior nodded. ‘The horses are being saddled. I will hasten the preparations.’
Heboric listened to the silence. Only his bones could feel the tingling hum of a sorcerous web spanning the entire oasis and its ruined city, the taut vibrations rising and falling as disparate forces began to move across it, then, with savage disregard, tore through it.
He stirred from the cot, groaning with the stab of force-healed wounds, and climbed shakily to his feet. The coals had died in their braziers. The gloom felt solid, reluctant to yield as he made his way to the doorway. Heboric bared his teeth. His taloned hands twitched.
Ghosts stalked the dead city. Even the gods felt close, drawn to witness all that was to come. Witness, or to seize the moment and act directly. A nudge here, a tug there, if only to appease their egos… if only to see what happens. These were the games he despised, source of his fiercest defiance all those years ago. The shape of his crime, if crime it was. And so they took my hands. Until another god gave them back.
He was, he realized, indifferent to Treach. A reluctant Destriant to the new god of war, despite the gifts. Nor had his desires changed. Otataral Island, and the giant of jade-that is what awaits me. The returning of power. Even as those last words tracked across his mind, he knew that a deceit rode among them. A secret he knew but to which he would fashion no shape. Not yet, perhaps not until he found himself standing in the wasteland, beneath the shadow of that crooked spire.
But first, I must meet a more immediate challenge-getting out of this camp alive.
He hesitated another moment at the doorway, reaching out into the darkness beyond with all his senses. Finding the path clear-his next twenty strides at least-he darted forward.
Rolling the acorn in his fingers one last time, he tucked it into a fold in his sash and eased snake-like from the crack.
‘Oh, Hood’s heartless hands…’
The song was a distant thunder trembling along his bones, and he didn’t like it. Worse yet, there were powers awakened in the oasis ahead that even he, a non-practitioner of sorcery, could feel like fire in his blood.
Kalam Mekhar checked his long-knives yet again, then resheathed them. The temptation was great to keep the otataral weapon out, and so deny any magic sent his way. But that goes both ways, doesn’t it?
He studied the way ahead. The starlight seemed strangely muted. He drew from memory as best he could, from what he had seen from his hiding place during the day. Palms, their boles spectral as they rose above tumbled mudbricks and cut stone. The remnants of corrals, pens and shepherds’ huts. Stretches of sandy ground littered with brittle fronds and husks. There were no new silhouettes awaiting him.
Kalam set forth.
He could see the angular lines of buildings ahead, all low to the ground, suggesting little more than stretches of mudbrick foundations from which canvas, wicker and rattan walls rose. Occupied residences, then.
Far off to Kalam’s right was the grey smudge of that strange forest of stone trees. He had considered making his approach through it, but there was something uncanny and unwelcoming about that place, and he suspected it was not as empty as it appeared.
Approaching what seemed to be a well-trod avenue between huts, he caught a flash of movement, darting from left to right across the aisle. Kalam dropped lower and froze. A second figure followed, then a third, fourth and fifth.
A hand. Now, who in this camp would organize their assassins into hands? He waited another half-dozen heartbeats, then set off. He came opposite the route the killers had taken and slipped into their wake. The five were moving at seven paces apart, two paces more than would a Claw. Damn, did Cotillion suspect? Is this what he wanted me to confirm?
These are Talons.
Seven or five, it made little difference to Kalam.
He came within sight of the trailing assassin. The figure bore magically invested items, making his form blurry, wavering. He was wearing dark grey, tight-fitting clothes, moccasined, gloved and hooded. Blackened daggers gleamed in his hands.
Not just patrolling, then, but hunting.
Kalam padded to within five paces of the man, then darted forward.
His right hand reached around to clamp hard across the man’s mouth and jaw, his left hand simultaneously closing on the head’s opposite side. A savage twist snapped the killer’s neck.
Vomit spurted against Kalam’s leather-sheathed palm, but he held on to his grip, guiding the corpse to the ground. Straddling the body, he released his grip, wiped his hand dry against the grey shirt, then moved on.
Two hundred heartbeats later and there were but two left. Their route had taken them, via a twisting, roundabout path, towards a district marked by the ruins of what had once been grand temples. They were drawn up at the edge of a broad concourse, awaiting their comrades, no doubt.
Kalam approached them as would the third hunter in the line. Neither was paying attention, their gazes fixed on a building on the other side of the concourse. At the last moment Kalam drew both long-knives and thrust them into the backs of the two assassins.
Soft grunts, and both men sank to the dusty flagstones. The blow to the leader of the Talon’s hand was instantly fatal, but Kalam had twisted the other thrust slightly to one side, and he now crouched down beside the dying man. ‘If your masters are listening,’ he murmured, ‘and they should be. Compliments of the Claw. See you soon…’
He tugged the two knives free, cleaned the blades and sheathed them.
The hunters’ target was, he assumed, within the ruined building that had been the sole focus of their attention. Well enough-Kalam had no friends in this damned camp.
He set out along the edge of the concourse.
At the mouth of another alley he found three corpses, all young girls. The blood and knife-wounds indicated they had put up a fierce fight, and two spattered trails led away, in the direction of the temple.
Kalam tracked them until he was certain that they led through the half-ruined structure’s gaping doorway, then he halted.
The bitter reek of sorcery wafted from the broad entrance. Damn, this place has been newly sanctified.
There was no sound from within. He edged forward until he came to one side of the doorway.
A body lay just inside, grey-swathed, fixed in a contortion of limbs, evincing that he had died beneath a wave of magic. Shadows were flowing in the darkness beyond.
Kalam drew his otataral long-knife, crept in through the doorway.
The shadowy wraiths flinched back.
The floor had collapsed long ago, leaving a vast pit. Five paces ahead, at the base of a rubble-strewn ramp, a young girl sat amidst the blood and entrails of three more corpses. She was streaked with gore, her eyes darkly luminous as she looked up at Kalam. ‘Do you remember the dark?’ she asked.
Ignoring her question, he stepped past at a safe distance. ‘Make no move, lass, and you’ll survive my visit.’
A thin voice chuckled from the gloom at the far end of the pit. ‘Her mind is gone, Claw. No time, alas, to fully harden my subjects to the horrors of modern life, try though I might. In any case, you should know that I am not your enemy. Indeed, the one who seeks to kill me this night is none other than the Malazan renegade, Korbolo Dom. And, of course, Kamist Reloe. Shall I give you directions to their abode?’
‘I’ll find it in due course,’ Kalam murmured.
‘Do you think your otataral blade sufficient, Claw? Here, in my temple? Do you understand the nature of this place? I imagine you believe you do, but I am afraid you are in error. Slavemaster, offer our guest some wine from that jug.’
A misshapen figure squirmed wetly across the rubble from Kalam’s left. No hands or feet. A mass of suppurating sores and the mangled rot of leprosy. With horrible absurdity, a silver tray had been strapped to the creature’s back, on which sat a squat, fired clay jug.
‘He is rather slow, I’m afraid. But I assure you, the wine is so exquisite that you will agree it is worth the wait. Assassin, you are in the presence of Bidithal, archpriest of all that is sundered, broken, wounded and suffering. My own… awakening proved both long and torturous, I admit. I had fashioned, in my own mind, every detail of the cult I would lead. All the while unaware that the shaping was being… guided.
‘Blindness, wilful and, indeed, spiteful. Even when the fated new House was laid out before me, I did not realize the truth. This shattered fragment of Kurald Emurlahn, Claw, shall not be the plaything of a desert goddess. Nor of the Empress. None of you shall have it, for it shall become the heart of the new House of Chains. Tell your empress to stand aside, assassin. We are indifferent to who would rule the land beyond the Holy Desert. She can have it.’
‘And Sha’ik?’
‘You can have her as well. Marched back to Unta in chains-and that is far more poetic than you will ever know.’
The shadow-wraiths-torn souls from Kurald Emurlahn-were drawing closer round Kalam, and he realized, with a chill, that his otataral long-knife might well prove insufficient. ‘An interesting offer,’ he rumbled. ‘But something tells me there are more lies than truths within it, Bidithal.’
‘I suppose you are right,’ the archpriest sighed. ‘I need Sha’ik, for this night and the morrow at least. Febryl and Korbolo Dom must be thwarted, but I assure you, you and I can work together towards such an end, since it benefits us both. Korbolo Dom calls himself Master of the Talon. Yes, he would return to Laseen’s embrace, more or less, and use Sha’ik to bargain for his own position. As for Febryl, well, I assure you, what he awaits no-one but he is mad enough to desire.’
‘Why do you bother with all this, Bidithal? You’ve no intention of letting me leave here alive. And here’s another thing. A pair of beasts are coming-hounds, not of Shadow, but something else. Did you summon them, Bidithal? Do you, or your Crippled God, truly believe you can control them? If so, then it is you two who are mad.’
Bidithal leaned forward. ‘They seek a master!’ he hissed.
Ah, so Cotillion was right about the Chained One. ‘One who is worthy,’ Kalam replied. ‘In other words, one who is meaner and tougher than they are. And in this oasis, they will find no such individual. And so, I fear, they will kill everyone.’
‘You know nothing of this, assassin,’ Bidithal murmured, leaning back. ‘Nor of the power I now possess. As for not permitting you to leave here alive… true enough, I suppose. You’ve revealed too much knowledge, and you are proving far less enthusiastic to my proposals than I would have hoped. An unfortunate revelation, but it no longer matters. My servants were scattered about earlier, you see, defending every approach, requiring time to draw them in, to arrange them between us. Ah, Slavemaster has arrived. By all means, have some wine. I am prepared to linger here for that. Once you are done, however, I must take my leave. I made a promise to Sha’ik, after all, and I mean to keep it. Should you, by some strange miracle, escape here alive, know that I will not oppose your efforts against Korbolo Dom and his cadre. You will have earned that much, at least.’
‘Best leave now, then, Bidithal. I have no interest in wine this night.’
‘As you wish.’
Darkness swept in to engulf the archpriest, and Kalam shivered at the uncanny familiarity of the sorcerous departure.
The wraiths attacked.
Both knives slashed out, and inhuman screams filled the chamber. As it turned out, his otataral weapon proved sufficient after all. That, and the timely arrival of a god.
Korbolo Dom seemed to have unleashed an army upon his own allies this night. Again and again, Karsa Orlong found his path blocked by eager killers. Their corpses were strewn in his wake. He had taken a few minor wounds from knives invested with sorcery, but most of the blood dripping from the giant warrior belonged to his victims.
He strode with his sword in both hands now, tip lowered and to one side. There had been four assassins hiding outside Heboric Ghost Hands’ dwelling. After killing them, Karsa slashed a new doorway in the tent wall and entered, only to find the abode empty. Frustrated, he set out for the temple round. Leoman’s pit was unoccupied as well, and appeared to have been so for some time.
Approaching Bidithal’s temple, Karsa slowed his steps as he heard fierce fighting within. Shrill screams echoed. Raising his weapon, the Toblakai edged forward.
A figure was crawling out from the doorway on its belly, gibbering to itself. A moment later Karsa recognized the man. He waited until Slavemaster’s desperate efforts brought him up against the Toblakai’s feet. A disease-ravaged face twisted into view.
‘He fights like a demon!’ Silgar rasped. ‘Both blades cut through the wraiths and leave them writhing in pieces! A god stands at his shoulder. Kill them, Teblor! Kill them both!’
Karsa sneered. ‘I take no commands from you, Slavemaster, or have you forgotten that?’
‘Fool!’ Silgar spat. ‘We are brothers in the House now, you and I. You are the Knight of Chains, and I am the Leper. The Crippled God has chosen us! And Bidithal, he has become the Magi-’
‘Yes, Bidithal. He hides within?’
‘No-he wisely fled, as I am doing. The Claw and his patron god are even now slaying the last of his shadow servants. You are the Knight-you possess your own patron, Karsa Orlong of the Teblor. Kill the enemy-it is what you must do-’
Karsa smiled. ‘And so I shall.’ He reversed his grip on his sword and drove the point down between Silgar’s shoulder blades, severing the spine then punching out through the sternum to bury itself a hand’s width deep between two flagstones.
Vile fluids poured from the Slavemaster. His head cracked down on the stone, and his life was done. Leoman was right, long ago-a quick death would have been the better choice.
Karsa pulled the sword free. ‘I follow no patron god,’ he growled. He turned from the temple entrance. Bidithal would have used sorcery to escape, drawing shadows about himself in an effort to remain unseen. Yet his passage would leave footprints in the dust.
The Toblakai stepped past the body of Silgar, the man who had once sought to enslave him, and began searching.
Twenty of Mathok’s clan warriors accompanied Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas on his return to Leoman’s encampment. Their journey was unopposed, although Corabb was certain hidden eyes followed their progress.
They rode up the slope to the hill’s summit and were challenged by sentinels. A more welcoming sound Corabb could not imagine. Familiar voices, warriors he had fought alongside against the Malazans.
‘It is Corabb!’ He had been given a hook-bladed sword drawn from the Chosen One’s armoury, and he now raised it high in salute as the picket guards emerged from their places of hiding. ‘I must speak with Leoman! Where is he?’
‘Asleep,’ one of the sentinels growled. ‘If you’re lucky, Bhilan, your arrival, loud as it was, has awakened him. Ride to the centre of the summit, but leave your escort here.’
That brought Corabb up short. ‘They are Mathok’s own-’
‘Leoman’s orders. No-one from the oasis is allowed to enter our camp.’
Scowling, Corabb nodded and waved back his fellow horse warriors. ‘Take no offence, friends,’ he called, ‘I beg you.’ Without waiting to gauge their reaction, he dismounted and hurried to Leoman’s tent.
The warleader was standing outside the flap, drinking deep from a waterskin. He was out of his armour, wearing only a thin, sweat-stained linen shirt.
Corabb halted before him. ‘There is much to tell you, Leoman of the Flails.’
‘Out with it, then,’ Leoman replied when he’d finished drinking.
‘I was your only messenger to survive to reach Sha’ik. She has had a change of heart-she now commands that you lead the Army of the Apocalpyse come the morrow. She would have you, not Korbolo Dom, leading us to victory.’
‘Would she now,’ he drawled, then squinted and looked away. ‘The Napan has his assassins between us and Sha’ik?’
‘Aye, but they will not challenge our entire force-they would be mad to attempt such a thing.’
‘True. And Korbolo Dom knows this-’
‘He has not yet been informed of the change of command-at least he hadn’t when I left. Although Sha’ik had issued a demand for his presence-’
‘Which he will ignore. As for the rest, the Napan knows. Tell me, Corabb, do you think his Dogslayers will follow any other commander?’
‘They shall have no choice! The Chosen One has so ordered!’
Leoman slowly nodded. Then he turned back to his tent. ‘Break camp. We ride to Sha’ik.’
Exultation filled Corabb’s chest. Tomorrow would belong to Leoman of the Flails. ‘As it should be,’ he whispered.
Kalam stepped outside. His clothes were in tatters, but he was whole. Though decidedly shaken. He had always considered himself one of the ablest of assassins, and he had drawn a blade against a veritable host of inimical, deadly foes over the years. But Cotillion had put him to shame.
No wonder the bastard’s a god. Hood’s breath, I’ve never before seen such skill. And that damned rope!
Kalam drew a deep breath. He had done as the Patron of Assassins had asked. He had found the source of the threat to the Realm of Shadow. Or at least confirmed a host of suspicions. This fragment of Kurald Emurlahn will be the path to usurpation… by none other than the Crippled God. The House of Chains had come into play, and the world had grown very fraught indeed.
He shook himself. Leave that to Cotillion and Ammanas. He had other, more immediate tasks to attend to this night. And the Patron of Assassins had been kind enough to deliver a pair of Kalam’s favourite weapons…
His eyes lit upon the leprous corpse lying a half-dozen paces away, then narrowed. Kalam moved closer. Gods below, that is some wound. If I didn’t know better, I’d say from the sword of a T’lan Imass. The blood was thickening, soaking up dust from the flagstones.
Kalam paused to think. Korbolo Dom would not establish his army’s camp among the ruins of this city. Nor in the stone forest to the west. The Napan would want an area both clear and level, with sufficient room for banking and trenches, and open lines of sight.
East, then, what had once been irrigated fields for the city, long ago.
He swung in that direction and set out.
From one pool of darkness to the next, along strangely empty streets and alleys. Heavy layers of sorcery had settled upon this oasis, seeming to flow in streams-some of them so thick that Kalam found himself leaning forward in order to push his way through. A miasma of currents, mixed beyond recognition, and none of them palatable. His bones ached, his head hurt, and his eyes felt as if someone was stirring hot sand behind them.
He found a well-trod track heading due east and followed it, staying to one side where the shadows were deep. Then saw, two hundred paces ahead, a fortified embankment.
Malazan layout. That, Napan, was a mistake.
He was about to draw closer when he saw the vanguard to a company emerge through the gate. Soldiers on foot followed, flanked by lancers.
Kalam ducked into an alley.
The troop marched past at half-pace, weapons muffled, the horses’ hoofs leather-socked. Curious, but the fewer soldiers in the camp the better, as far as he was concerned. It was likely that all but the reserve companies would have been ensconced in their positions overlooking the field of battle. Of course, Korbolo Dom would not be careless when it came to protecting himself.
He calls himself master of the Talon, after all. Not that Cotillion, who was Dancer, knows a damned thing about them. Sparing the revelation only a sneer.
The last of the soldiers filed past. Kalam waited another fifty heartbeats, then he set out towards the Dogslayer encampment.
The embankment was preceded by a steep-sided trench. Sufficient encumbrance to a charging army, but only a minor inconvenience to a lone assassin. He clambered down, across, then up the far side, halting just beneath the crest-line.
There would be pickets. The gate was thirty paces on his left, lantern-lit. He moved to just beyond the light’s range, then edged up onto the bank. A guard patrolled within sight on his right, not close enough to spot the assassin as he squirmed across the hard-packed, sun-baked earth to the far edge.
Another trench, this one shallower, and beyond lay the ordered ranks of tents, the very centre of the grid dominated by a larger command tent.
Kalam made his way into the camp.
As he had suspected, most of the tents were empty, and before long he was crouched opposite the wide street encircling the command tent.
Guards lined every side, five paces apart, assault crossbows cocked and cradled in arms. Torches burned on poles every ten paces, bathing the street in flickering light. Three additional figures blocked the doorway, grey-clad and bearing no visible weapons.
Flesh and blood cordon… then sorcerous wards. Well, one thing at a time.
He drew out his pair of ribless crossbows. A Claw’s weapons, screw-torqued, the metal blackened. He set the quarrels in their grooves and carefully cocked both weapons. Then settled back to give the situation some thought.
Even as he watched he saw the air swirl before the command tent’s entrance, and a portal opened. Blinding white light, the flare of fire, then Kamist Reloe emerged. The portal contracted behind him, then winked out.
The mage looked exhausted but strangely triumphant. He gestured at the guards then strode into the tent. The three grey-clothed assassins followed the mage inside.
A hand light as a leaf settled on Kalam’s shoulder, and a voice rasped, ‘Eyes forward, soldier.’
He knew that voice, from more years back than he’d like to think. But that bastard’s dead. Dead before Surly took the throne.
‘Granted,’ the voice continued, and Kalam knew that acid-spattered face was grinning, ‘no love’s lost between me and the company I’m sharing… again. Figured I’d seen the last of every damn one of them… and you. Well, never mind that. Need a way in there, right? Best we mount a diversion, then. Give us fifty heartbeats… at least you can count those, Corporal.’ The hand lifted away.
Kalam Mekhar drew a deep, shaky breath. What in Hood’s name is going on here? That damned captain went renegade. They found his body in Malaz City the morning after the assassinations… or something closely approximating his body…
He focused his gaze once more upon the command tent. From beyond it a scream broke the night, then the unmistakable flash and earth-shaking thump of Moranth munitions. Suddenly the guards were running.
Tucking one of the crossbows into his belt, Kalam drew out the otataral long-knife. He waited until only two Dogslayers were visible, both to the right of the entrance, facing the direction of the attack-where screams ripped the air, as much born of horror as from the pain of wounds-then surged forward.
Raising the crossbow in his left hand. The recoil thrumming the bones of his arm. The quarrel burying itself in the back of the further guard. Long-knife thrusting into the nearer man, point punching through leather between plates of bronze, piercing flesh then sliding between ribs to stab the heart.
Blood sprayed as he tugged the weapon free and darted into the tent’s doorway.
Wards collapsed around him.
Within the threshold he reloaded the crossbow and affixed it in the brace on his wrist-beneath the voluminous sleeves. Then did the same with the other one on his left wrist.
The main chamber before him held but a lone occupant, a grey-robed assassin who spun at Kalam’s arrival, a pair of hooked Kethra knives flashing into guard position. The face within the hood was expressionless, a narrow, sun-darkened visage tattooed in the Pardu style, the swirling artistry broken by a far heavier sigil branded into the man’s forehead-a talon.
The grey-clad assassin suddenly smiled. ‘Kalam Mekhar. I suppose you don’t remember me.’
In answer Kalam drew out his second long-knife and attacked.
Sparks bit the air as the blades clashed and whispered, the Pardu driven back two steps until, with a sweeping backslash, he leapt to the right and sidestepped round to give himself more space. Kalam maintained the pressure, weapons flashing as they darted out, keeping the Talon on the defensive.
He had skill with those heavy Kethra knives, and both quickness and strength. Kalam’s blades took blocking blows that reverberated up the bones of his arms. Clearly, the Pardu was seeking to break the thinner weapons, and, well made as they were, nicks and notches were being driven into the edges.
Further, Kalam knew he was running out of time. The diversion continued, but now, along with the crack of sharpers ripping the air, waves of sorcery had begun rolling in deafening counterpoint. Whatever the nature of the squads attacking the Dogslayers, mages were giving answer.
Worse yet, this Talon didn’t enter here alone.
Kalam suddenly shifted stance, extending the knife in his left hand and drawing his right hand back to take guard position. He led with the point, evading the parries, and, in increments, slowly retracted his left arm, beginning at the shoulder. The faintest pivoting of hips, drawing the lead leg back-
And the Pardu closed the distance with a single step.
Kalam’s right hand shot across, beating aside both Kethra blades, simultaneously lunging high with his left hand.
The Pardu flung both weapons up to parry and trap the thrust.
And Kalam stepped in still closer, stabbing crossways with the long-knife in his right hand. Punching the tip into the man’s lower belly.
A gush of fluids, the edge gouging along the spine, the point then plunging out the other side.
The parry and trap had torn the long-knife in his left hand from its grasp, flinging it to one side.
But the Talon was already sagging, folding over the belly wound and the weapon impaling him.
Kalam leaned closer. ‘No,’ he growled. ‘I don’t.’
He tugged his knife free and let the dying man fall to the layered rugs of the tent floor.
‘A damned shame,’ mused a voice near the back wall.
Kalam slowly turned. ‘Kamist Reloe. I’ve been looking for you.’
The High Mage smiled. He was flanked by the other two Talons, one of whom held Kalam’s second long-knife and was examining it curiously. ‘We’ve been expecting a strike by the Claws,’ Kamist Reloe said. ‘Although an attack by long-dead ghosts was, I admit, not among our expectations. It is Raraku, you understand. This damned land is… awakening. Well, never mind that. Soon, there will be… silence.’
‘He holds an otataral weapon,’ the assassin on Kamist’s right said.
Kalam glanced down at the blood-smeared long-knife in his right hand. ‘Ah, well, that.’
‘Then,’ the High Mage sighed, ‘you two shall have to take him in the, uh, mundane way. Will you suffice?’
The one holding the long-knife flung it behind him and nodded. ‘We’ve watched. He has patterns… and skill. Against either one of us singly we’d be in trouble. But against both of us?’
Kalam had to agree with the man’s assessment. He stepped back, and sheathed his weapon. ‘He’s probably right,’ he rumbled. With his other hand he drew out the acorn and tossed it on the floor. All three men flinched back as it bounced then rolled towards them. The innocuous object came to a halt.
One of the Talons snorted. Kicked it to one side.
Then the two assassins stepped forward, knives flickering.
Kalam raised both arms, twisted his wrists outward, then flexed them hard.
Both Talons grunted, then staggered backward, each impaled by a quarrel.
‘Careless of you,’ Kalam muttered.
Kamist shrieked, unveiling his warren.
The wave of sorcery that struck the High Mage caught him entirely unawares, coming from one side. Death-magic closed around him in a sizzling, raging web of black fire.
His shriek escalated. Then Kamist Reloe sprawled, the sorcery still flickering over his twitching, burned body.
A figure slowly emerged from where the Talon had kicked the acorn moments earlier, and crouched down beside Kamist Reloe. ‘It’s disloyalty that bothers us the most,’ he said to the dying High Mage. ‘We always answer it. Always have. Always will.’
Kalam recovered his second long-knife, eyes on the closed flaps on the chamber’s back wall. ‘He’s through there,’ he said, then paused and grinned. ‘Good to see you, Quick.’
Quick Ben glanced over and nodded.
The wizard was, Kalam saw, looking older. Worn down. Scars not written on his skin, but on his heart. He will, I suspect, have nothing good to tell me when all this is done. ‘Did you,’ he asked Quick Ben, ‘have anything to do with the diversion?’
‘No. Nor did Hood, although the hoary bastard’s arrived. This is all Raraku.’
‘So Kamist said, not that I understand either of you.’
‘I’ll explain later, friend,’ Quick Ben said, rising. He faced the back flap. ‘He has that witch Henaras with him, I think. She’s behind some fierce wards that Kamist Reloe raised.’
Kalam approached the doorway. ‘Leave those to me,’ he growled, unsheathing his otataral long-knife.
The room immediately beyond was small, dominated by a map table, on which was sprawled the corpse of Henaras. Blood was still flowing in streams down the table’s sides.
Kalam glanced back at Quick Ben and raised his brows.
The wizard shook his head.
The assassin gingerly approached, and his eyes caught something glimmering silver-white on the woman’s chest.
A pearl.
‘Seems the way is clear,’ Kalam whispered.
Another flap slashed the wall opposite.
Using the points of his knives, Kalam prised it open.
A large high-backed chair filled the next chamber, on which was seated Korbolo Dom.
His blue skin was a ghastly grey, and his hands shook where they rested on the chair’s ornate arms. When he spoke his voice was high and tight, jittery with fear. ‘I sent an emissary to the Adjunct. An invitation. I am prepared to attack Sha’ik and her tribes-with my Dogslayers.’
Kalam grunted. ‘If you think we’ve come with her answer, you’d be wrong, Korbolo.’
The Napan’s eyes darted to Quick Ben. ‘We assumed you were either dead with the rest of the Bridgeburners, or still on Genabackis.’
The wizard shrugged. ‘Tayschrenn sent me ahead. Even so, he’s brought the fleet across on mage-driven winds. Dujek Onearm and his legions reached Ehrlitan a week past-’
‘What’s left of those legions, you mean-’
‘More than enough to complement the Adjunct’s forces, I should think.’
Kalam stared between the two men. The Bridgeburners… dead? Whiskeyjack? Onearm’s Host-gods below, what happened over there?
‘We can salvage this,’ Korbolo Dom said, leaning forward. ‘All of Seven Cities, returned to the Empire. Sha’ik brought in chains before the Empress-’
‘And for you and your soldiers a pardon?’ Quick Ben asked. ‘Korbolo Dom, you have truly lost your mind-’
‘Then die!’ the Napan shrieked, leaping forward, hands reaching for the wizard’s throat.
Kalam stepped in and, knife reversed, struck Korbolo Dom hard against the side of the head.
The Napan staggered.
A second fist shattered his nose and sent him sprawling.
Quick Ben stared down at the man. ‘Truss him up, Kalam. That diversion’s over, from the silence outside-I’ll find us a way out.’
Kalam began tying the unconscious man’s hands. ‘Where are we taking him?’
‘I’ve a thought to that.’
The assassin glanced up at his friend. ‘Quick? The Bridgeburners? Whiskeyjack?’
The hard, dark eyes softened. ‘Dead. Barring Picker and a handful of others. There’s a tale there, and I promise I will tell it in full… later.’
Kalam stared down at Korbolo Dom. ‘I feel like cutting throats,’ he rasped.
‘Not him. Not now.’
Hold back on the feelings, Kalam Mekhar. Hold back on everything. Quick’s right. In time. In time…
Oh, Whiskeyjack…
There was time for… everything. This night and for the day to come, Bidithal needed Sha’ik. And the Whirlwind Goddess. And perhaps, if all went well, there would be the opportunity for bargaining. Once the goddess’s rage has cooled, annealed into beauty by victory-we can still achieve this.
But I know now what Febryl has done. I know what Korbolo Dom and Kamist Reloe plan for the dawn.
They could be stopped. The knives could be turned.
He hobbled as quickly as he could towards Sha’ik’s palace. Ghosts flitted about on the edges of his vision, but his shadows protected him. In the distance he heard screams, detonations and sorcery-coming, he realized, from the Dogslayers’ camp. Ah, so that Claw’s made it that far, has he? Both good and… troubling. Well, at the very least he’ll keep Kamist occupied.
Of course, the danger posed by the roving assassins still existed, though that was diminishing the closer he got to Sha’ik’s abode.
Still, the streets and alleys were disturbingly deserted.
He came within sight of the sprawling palace, and saw with relief the pools of torchlight surrounding it.
Counter the Napan’s gambit-awaken the goddess to the threat awaiting her. Then hunt down that gnarled bhok’aral Febryl and see his skin stripped from his writhing flesh. Even the goddess-yes, even the goddess will have to recognize me. My power. When flanked by my new pets-
A hand shot out of the darkness and closed about Bidithal’s neck. He was lifted into the air-flailing-then thrown hard to the ground. Blinded. Choking.
His shadow-servants swarmed to defend him.
A growl, the hissing swing of something massive that cut a sweeping path-and suddenly the wraiths were gone.
Slowly, Bidithal’s bulging eyes made out the figure crouched above him.
Toblakai-
‘You should have left her alone,’ Karsa Orlong said quietly, his voice devoid of inflection. Behind and around the giant were gathering ghosts, chained souls.
We are both servants of the same god! You fool! Let me speak! I would save Sha’ik!
‘But you didn’t. I know, Bidithal, where your sick desires come from. I know where your pleasure hides-the pleasure you would take from others. Witness.’
Karsa Orlong set down his stone sword, then reached between Bidithal’s legs.
A hand closed indiscriminately around all that it found.
And tore.
Until, with a ripping of tendons and shreds of muscle, a flood of blood and other fluids, the hand came away with its mangled prize.
The pain was unbearable. The pain was a rending of his soul. It devoured him.
And blood was pouring out, hot as fire, even as deathly cold stole across his skin, seeped into his limbs.
The scene above him blackened, until only Toblakai’s impassive, battered face remained, coolly watching Bidithal’s death.
Death? Yes. You fool, Toblakai-
The hand around his neck relaxed, drew away.
Involuntarily, Bidithal drew in an agonizing breath and made to scream-
Something soft and bloody was pushed into his mouth.
‘For you, Bidithal. For every nameless girl-child you destroyed. Here. Choke on your pleasure.’
And choke he did. Until Hood’s Gate yawned-
And there, gathered by the Lord of Death, waited demons who were of like nature to Bidithal himself, gleefully closing about their new victim.
A lifetime of vicious pleasure. An eternity of pain in answer.
For even Hood understood the necessity for balance.
Lostara Yil edged up from the sinkhole and squinted in an effort to pierce the gloom. A glance behind her revealed a starlit desert, luminous and glittering. Yet, ahead, darkness swathed the oasis and the ruined city within it. A short while earlier she had heard distant thumps, faint screams, but now silence had returned.
The air had grown bitter cold. Scowling, Lostara checked her weapons, then made to leave.
‘Make no move,’ a voice murmured from a pace or two off to her right.
Her head snapped round, then her scowl deepened. ‘If you’re here to watch, Cotillion, there’s little to see. I woke Pearl, and he hardly swore at all, despite the headache. He’s in there, somewhere-’
‘Aye, he is, lass. But already he’s returning… because he can feel what’s coming.’
‘What’s coming. Enough to make you hide here beside me?’
The shadow-shrouded god seemed to shrug. ‘There are times when it is advisable to step back… and wait. The Holy Desert itself senses the approach of an ancient foe, and will rise in answer if need be. Even more precarious, the fragment of Kurald Emurlahn that the Whirlwind Goddess would claim is manifesting itself. The goddess is fashioning a portal, a gate-one massive enough to swallow this entire oasis. Thus, she too makes a play for Raraku’s immortal heart. The irony is that she herself is being manipulated, by a far cleverer god, who would take this fragment for himself, and call it his House of Chains. So you see, Lostara Shadow Dancer, best we remain precisely where we are. For tonight, and in this place, worlds are at war.’
‘It is nothing to Pearl and me,’ she insisted, squinting hard into the gloom. ‘We’re here for Felisin-’
‘And you have found her, but she remains beyond you. Beyond Pearl as well. For the moment…’
‘Then we must needs but await the clearing of the path.’
‘Aye. As I have advised, patience.’
Shadows swirled, hissed over sand, then the god was gone.
Lostara grunted. ‘Goodbye to you as well,’ she muttered, then drew her cloak tighter about herself and settled down to wait.
Assassins armed with crossbows had crept up behind him. Febryl had killed them, one after another, as soon as they arrived, with a host of most painful spells, and now his sorcerous web told him that there were no more. Indeed, Korbolo Dom and Kamist Reloe had been bearded in their den. By ghosts and worse-agents of the Malazan Empire.
Wide and bloody paths had carved messily across his web, leaving him blind here and there, but none stretched anywhere close to his position… so far. And soon, the oasis behind him would become as a nightmare wakened into horrid reality, and Febryl himself would vanish from the minds of his enemies in the face of more immediate threats.
Dawn was but two bells away. While, behind him, darkness had devoured the oasis, the sky overhead and to the east was comparatively bright with the glitter of stars. Indeed, everything was proceeding perfectly.
The starlight also proved sufficient for Febryl to detect the shadow that fell over him.
‘I never liked you much,’ rumbled a voice above him.
Squealing, Febryl sought to dive forward.
But was effortlessly plucked and lifted high from the ground.
Then broken.
The snap of his spine was like brittle wood in the cold night air.
Karsa Orlong flung Febryl’s corpse away. He glared up at the stars for a moment, drew a deep breath into his lungs, and sought to clear his mind.
Urugal’s withered voice was screaming in his skull. It had been that voice, and that will, that had driven him step by step from the oasis.
The false god of the Uryd tribe wanted Karsa Orlong… gone.
He was being pushed hard… away from what was coming, from what was about to happen in the oasis.
But Karsa did not like being pushed.
He lifted his sword clear of his harness rings and closed both hands about the grip, lowering the point to hover just above the ground, then forced himself to turn about and face the oasis.
A thousand ghostly chains stretched taut behind him, then began pulling.
The Teblor growled under his breath and leaned forward. I am the master of these chains. I, Karsa Orlong, yield to none. Not gods, not the souls I have slain. I will walk forward now, and either resistance shall end, or the chains will be snapped.
Besides, I have left my horse tethered in the stone forest.
Twin howls tore the night air above the oasis, sudden and fierce as cracks of lightning.
Karsa Orlong smiled. Ah, they have arrived.
He lifted his sword’s point slightly higher, then surged forward.
It would not do-it turned out-to have the chains sundered. The tension suddenly vanished, and, for this night at least, all resistance to Toblakai’s will had ended.
He left the ridge and descended the slope, into the gloom once more.
Fist Gamet was lying on his cot, struggling to breathe as a tightness seized his throat. Thunder filled his head, in thrumming waves of pain radiating out from a spot just above and behind his right eye.
Pain such as he had never felt before, driving him onto his side, the cot creaking and pitching as nausea racked him, the vomit spraying onto the floor. But the emptying of his stomach offered no surcease from the agony in his skull.
His eyes were open but he was blind.
There had been headaches. Every day, since his fall from his horse. But nothing like this.
The barely healed knife-slash in his palm had reopened during his contortions, smearing sticky blood across his face and brow when he sought to claw the pain out from his head, and the wound now felt as if it was afire, scorching his veins.
Groaning, he clambered sideways from the cot and then halted, on his hands and knees, head hanging down, as waves of trembling shivered through him.
I need to move. I need to act. Something. Anything.
I need-
A time of blankness, then he found himself standing near the tent flap. Weighted in his armour, gauntlets covering his hands, helm on his head. The pain was fading, a cool emptiness rising in its wake.
He needed to go outside. He needed his horse.
Gamet strode from the tent. A guard accosted him but he waved the woman away and hurried towards the corrals.
Ride. Ride out. It’s time.
Then he was cinching the saddle of his horse, waiting for the beast to release its breath, then drawing it a notch tighter. A clever horse. Paran stables, of course. Fast and of almost legendary endurance. Impatient with incompetence, ever testing the rider’s claim to being in charge, but that was to be expected from such a fine breed.
Gamet swung himself into the saddle. It felt good to be riding once more. On the move, the ground whispering past as he rode down the back ramp, then round the jagged island and towards the basin.
He saw three figures ahead, standing at the ridge, and thought nothing strange as to their presence. They are what will come. These three.
Nil. Nether. The lad, Grub.
The last turned as Gamet reined in beside them. And nodded. ‘The Wickans and Malazans are on the flanks, Fist. But your assault will be straight up the Dogslayers’ main ramp.’ And he pointed.
Footsoldiers and cavalry were massing in the basin, moving through the thick gloom. Gamet could hear the whisper of armour, feel the thud of countless horse hoofs. He saw banners and standards, hanging limp and ragged.
‘Ride to them, Fist,’ Grub said.
And he saluted the child and set heels to his mount’s flanks.
Black and rust-red armour, visored helms with ornate cheek-guards, short thrusting javelins and kite shields, the rumble of countless booted feet-he rode alongside one column, casting an appraising eye over the companies of infantry.
Then a wing of cavalry swept round to engulf him. One rider rode close. A dragon-winged helm swivelled to face him. ‘Ride with us, soldier?’
‘I cannot,’ Gamet replied. ‘I am the Fist. I must command.’
‘Not this night,’ the warrior replied. ‘Fight at our sides, as the soldier you are. Remember the old battles? When all that was required was the guarding of the companions flanking you. Such will be this night. Leave the commanding to the lords. Ride with us in freedom. And glory.’
A surge of exultation swept through Gamet. The pain in his head was gone. He could feel his blood racing like fire in his muscles. He wanted this. Yes, he wanted this very thing.
Gamet unsheathed his sword, the sound an echoing rasp in the chill air.
His helmed companion laughed. ‘Are you with us, soldier?’
‘I am, friend.’
They reached the base of the cobbled ramp, slowing to firm up their formation. A broad wedge that then began assailing the slope, hoofs striking sparks off the stones.
The Dogslayers had yet to sound an alarm.
Fools. They’ve slept through it all. Or perhaps sorcery has deadened the sounds of our preparation. Ah, yes. Nil and Nether. They are still there, on the ridge the other side of the basin.
The company’s standard bearer was just a few horses to Gamet’s left. He squinted up at the banner, wondered that he had never seen it before. There was something of the Khundryl in its design, torn and frayed though it was. A clan of the Burned Tears, then-which made sense given the archaic armour his comrades were wearing. Archaic and half rotting, in fact. Too long stored in chests-moths and other vermin have assailed it, but the bronze looks sound enough, if tarnished and pitted. A word to the commanders later, I think…
Cool, gauging thoughts, even as his proud horse thundered alongside the others. Gamet glared upward, and saw the crest directly before them. He lifted high his longsword and loosed a savage scream.
The wedge poured over the crest, swept out into the unaware ranks of Dogslayers, still huddled down in their trenches.
Screams on all sides, strangely muted, almost faint. Sounds of battle, yet they seemed a league distant, as if carried on the wind. Gamet swung his sword, his eyes meeting those of Dogslayers, seeing the horror writ there. Watching mouths open to shriek, yet hardly any sound came forth, as if the sands were swallowing everything, absorbing sound as eagerly as they did blood and bile.
Masses surged over the trenches, blackened swords swinging and chopping down. The ramp to the east had been overrun by the Wickans. Gamet saw the waving standards and grinned. Crow. Foolish Dog. Weasel.
Out of the impenetrably black sky descended butterflies, in swarms, to flit above the carnage in the trenches.
On the ramp to the west there was the flash of Moranth munitions, sending grim reverberations through the earth, and Gamet could watch the slaughter over there, a scene panoramic and dulled, as if he was looking upon a mural-a painting where ancient armies warred in eternal battle.
They had come for the Dogslayers. For the butcherers of unarmed Malazans, soldier and civilian, the stubborn and the fleeing, the desperate and the helpless. The Dogslayers, who had given their souls to betrayal.
The fight raged on, but it was overwhelmingly one-sided. The enemy seemed strangely incapable of mustering any kind of defence. They simply died in their trenches, or seeking to retreat they were run down after but a few strides. Skewered by lances, javelins. Trampled beneath chopping hoofs.
Gamet understood their horror, saw with a certain satisfaction the terror in their faces as he and his comrades delivered death.
He could hear the battle song now, rising and falling like waves on a pebbled shore, yet building towards a climax yet to come-yet to come, but soon. Soon. Yes, we’ve needed a song. We’ve waited a long time for such a song. To honour our deeds, our struggles. Our lives and our deaths. We’ve needed our own voice, so that our spirits could march, march ever onward.
To battle.
To war.
Manning these walls of crumbled brick and sand. Defending the bone-dry harbours and the dead cities that once blazed with ancient dreams, that once flickered life’s reflection on the warm, shallow sea.
Even memories need to be defended.
Even memories.
He fought on, side by side with his dark warrior companions-and so grew to love them, these stalwart comrades, and when at last the dragon-helmed horse warrior rode up and reined in before him, Gamet whirled his sword in greeting.
The rider laughed once again. Reached up a blood-spattered, gauntleted hand, and raised the visor-to reveal the face of a dark-skinned woman, her eyes a stunning blue within a web of desert lines.
‘There are more!’ Gamet shouted-though even to his own ears his voice sounded far away. ‘More enemies! We must ride!’
Her teeth flashed white as she laughed again. ‘Not the tribes, my friend! They are kin. This battle is done-others will shed blood come the morrow. We march to the shores, soldier-will you join us?’
He saw more than professional interest in her eyes.
‘I shall.’
‘You would leave your friends, Gamet Ul’Paran?’
‘For you, yes.’
Her smile, and the laugh that followed, stole the old man’s heart.
A final glance to the other ramps showed no movement. The Wickans to the east had ridden on, although a lone crow was wheeling overhead. The Malazans to the west had withdrawn. And the butterflies had vanished. In the trenches of the Dogslayers, an hour before dawn, only the dead remained.
Vengeance. She will be pleased. She will understand, and be pleased.
As am I.
Goodbye, Adjunct Tavore.
Koryk slowly settled down beside him, stared northeastward as if seeking to discover what so held the man’s attention. ‘What is it?’ he asked after a time. ‘What are you looking at, Sergeant?’
Fiddler wiped at his eyes. ‘Nothing… or nothing that makes sense.’
‘We’re not going to see battle in the morning, are we?’
He glanced over, studied the young Seti’s hard-edged features, wanting to see something in them, though he was not quite certain what. After a moment, he sighed and shrugged. ‘The glory of battle, Koryk, dwells only in the bard’s voice, in the teller’s woven words. Glory belongs to ghosts and poets. What you hear and dream isn’t the same as what you live-blur the distinction at your own peril, lad.’
‘You’ve been a soldier all your life, Sergeant. If it doesn’t ease a thirst within you, why are you here?’
‘I’ve no answer to that,’ Fiddler admitted. ‘I think, maybe, I was called here.’
‘That song Bottle said you were hearing?’
‘Aye.’
‘What does it mean? That song?’
‘Quick Ben will have a better answer to that, I think. But my gut is whispering one thing over and over again. The Bridgeburners, lad, have ascended.’
Koryk made a warding sign and edged away slightly.
‘Or, at least, the dead ones have. The rest of us, we’re just… malingering. Here in the mortal realm.’
‘Expecting to die soon, then?’
Fiddler grunted. ‘Wasn’t planning on it.’
‘Good, because we like our sergeant just fine.’
The Seti moved away. Fiddler returned his gaze to the distant oasis. Appreciate that, lad. He narrowed his eyes, but the darkness defied him. Something was going on there. Feels as if… as if friends are fighting. I can almost hear sounds of battle. Almost.
Suddenly, two howls rose into the night.
Fiddler was on his feet. ‘Hood’s breath!’
From Smiles: ‘Gods, what was that?’
No. Couldn’t have been. But…
And then the darkness above the oasis began to change.
The row of horse warriors rode up before them amidst swirling dust, the horses stamping and tossing heads in jittery fear.
Beside him, Leoman of the Flails raised a hand to halt his company, then gestured Corabb to follow as he trotted his mount towards the newcomers.
Mathok nodded in greeting. ‘We have missed you, Leoman-’
‘My shaman has fallen unconcious,’ Leoman cut in. ‘He chose oblivion over terror. What is going on in the oasis, Mathok?’
The warleader made a warding sign. ‘Raraku has awakened. Ghosts have risen, the Holy Desert’s very own memories.’
‘And who is their enemy?’
Mathok shook his head. ‘Betrayal upon betrayal, Leoman. I have withdrawn my warriors from the oasis and encamped them between Sha’ik and the Malazans. Chaos has claimed all else-’
‘So you do not have an answer for me.’
‘I fear the battle is already lost-’
‘Sha’ik?’
‘I have the Book with me. I am sworn to protect it.’
Leoman frowned.
Shifting on his saddle, Corabb glared northeastward. Preternatural darkness engulfed the oasis, and it seemed to swarm as if filled with living creatures, winged shadows, spectral demons. And on the ground beneath, he thought he could see the movement of masses of soldiery. Corabb shivered.
‘To Y’Ghatan?’ Leoman asked.
Mathok nodded. ‘With my own tribe as escort. Leaving almost nine thousand desert warriors at your disposal… for you to command.’
But Leoman shook his head. ‘This battle will belong to the Dogslayers, Mathok. There is no choice left to me. I have not the time to greatly modify our tactics. The positions are set-she waited too long. You did not answer me, Mathok. What of Sha’ik?’
‘The goddess holds her still,’ the warleader replied. ‘Even Korbolo Dom’s assassins cannot get to her.’
‘The Napan must have known that would happen,’ Leoman muttered. ‘And so he has planned… something else.’
Mathok shook his head. ‘My heart has broken this night, my friend.’
Leoman studied the old warrior for a time, then he nodded. ‘Until Y’Ghatan, then, Mathok.’
‘You ride to Sha’ik?’
‘I must.’
‘Tell her-’
‘I will.’
Mathok nodded, unmindful of the tears glistening down his lined cheeks. He straightened suddenly in his saddle. ‘Dryjhna once belonged to us, Leoman. To the tribes of this desert. The Book’s prophecies were sewn to a far older skin. The Book was in truth naught but a history, a telling of apocalyptic events survived-not of those to come-’
‘I know, my friend. Guard well the Book, and go in peace.’
Mathok wheeled his horse to face the west trail. An angry gesture and his riders followed as he rode into the gloom.
Leoman stared after them for a long moment.
Howls shattered the night.
Corabb saw his commander suddenly bare his teeth as he glared into the darkness ahead. Like two beasts about to come face to face. Spirits below, what awaits us?
‘Weapons!’ Leoman snarled.
The company thundered forward, along the trail Corabb had now traversed what seemed countless times.
The closer they drew to the oasis, the more muted the sound of their passage, as if the darkness was devouring all sound. Those howls had not been repeated, and Corabb was beginning to wonder if they had been real at all. Perhaps not a mortal throat at all. An illusion, a cry to freeze all in their tracks-
The vanguard entered a defile and suddenly quarrels sprouted from riders and horses. Screams, toppling warriors, stumbling horses. From further back in the column, the clash of swords and shields.
Dogslayers!
Somehow, Corabb and his horse found themselves plunging clear. A figure darted close to his left and he shrieked, raising his weapon.
‘It’s me, damn you!’
‘Leoman!’
His commander’s horse had been killed beneath him. He reached up.
Corabb clasped Leoman’s arm and vaulted him onto his horse’s back.
‘Ride, Bhilan! Ride!’
Black-armoured horse warriors plunged through the low wall, massive axes whirling in their gauntleted hands.
Quick Ben yelped and dived for cover.
Cursing, Kalam followed, Korbolo Dom’s bound body bouncing on his shoulders. He flung himself down beside the wizard as hoofs flashed over them, raining sand and bits of mortar.
Then the heavy cavalry was past.
Kalam pushed the Napan off his back and twisted onto his side to glare at Quick Ben. ‘Who in Hood’s name were those bastards?’
‘We’d best lie low for a time,’ the wizard muttered with a grimace, rubbing grit from his eyes. ‘Raraku’s unleashed her ghosts-’
‘And are they the ones singing? Those voices are right inside my head-’
‘Mine, too, friend. Tell me, had any conversations with a Tanno Spiritwalker lately?’
‘A what? No. Why?’
‘Because that is what you’re hearing. If it was a song woven around these ancient ghosts we’re seeing, well, we’d not be hearing it. In fact, we’d not be hearing much of anything at all. And we’d have been chopped into tiny pieces by now. Kalam, that Tanno song belongs to the Bridgeburners.’
What?
‘Makes you wonder about cause and effect, doesn’t it? A Tanno stole our tale and fashioned a song-but for that song to have any effect, the Bridgeburners had to die. As a company. And now it has. Barring you and me-’
‘And Fiddler. Wait! Fid mentioned something about a Spiritwalker in Ehrlitan.’
‘It would have had to have been direct contact. A clasping of hands, an embrace, or a kiss-’
‘That bastard sapper-I remember he was damned cagey about something. A kiss? Remind me to give Fiddler a kiss next time I see him, one he’ll never forget-’
‘Whoever it was and however it happened,’ Quick Ben said, ‘the Bridgeburners have now ascended-’
‘Ascended? What in the Queen’s name does that mean?’
‘Damned if I know, Kalam. I’ve never heard of such a thing before. A whole company-there’s no precedent for this, none at all.’
‘Except maybe the T’lan Imass.’
The wizard’s dark eyes narrowed on his friend. ‘An interesting thought,’ he murmured. Then sighed. ‘In any case, Raraku’s ghosts have risen on that song. Risen… to battle. But there’s more-I swear I saw a Wickan standard back near the Dogslayer trenches just as we were hightailing it out of there.’
‘Well, maybe Tavore’s taken advantage of all this-’
‘Tavore knows nothing of it, Kalam. She carries an otataral sword, after all. Maybe the mages she has with her sense something, but the darkness that’s descended on this oasis is obscuring everything.’
Kalam grunted. ‘Any other good news to tell me, Quick?’
‘The darkness is sorcery. Remember whenever Anomander Rake arrived some place with his warren unveiled? That weight, the trembling ground, the overwhelming pressure?’
‘Don’t tell me the Son of Darkness is coming-’
‘I hope not. I mean, I don’t think so. He’s busy-I’ll explain later. No, this is more, uh, primal, I think.’
‘Those howls,’ Kalam grated. ‘Two hounds, Quick Ben. I had a run in with them myself. They’re like the Shadow Hounds, only somehow worse-’
The wizard was staring across at him.
‘Stop it, Quick. I don’t like that look. I got away because I loosed a handful of azalan demons at them. Didn’t stop those hounds, but it was enough for me to make good my escape.’
Quick Ben’s brows slowly arched. ‘ “A handful of azalan demons,” Kalam? And where have you been lately?’
‘You ain’t the only one with a few tales to tell.’
The wizard cautiously rose into a crouch, scanned the area on the other side of the crumbled wall. ‘Two Hounds of Darkness, you said. The Deragoth, then. So, who broke their chains, I wonder?’
‘That’s just typical!’ Kalam snapped. ‘What don’t you know?’
‘A few things,’ the wizard replied under his breath. ‘For example, what are those hounds doing here?’
‘So long as we stay out of their path, I couldn’t care less-’
‘No, you misunderstood.’ Quick Ben nodded towards where his gaze was fixed on the clearing beyond. ‘What are they doing here?’
Kalam groaned.
Their bristly hackles were raised above their strangely humped, massive shoulders. Thick, long necks and broad, flattened heads, the jaw muscles bulging. Scarred, black hides, and eyes that burned pure and empty of light.
As large as a steppe horse, but bulkier by far, padding with heads lowered into the flagstoned square. There was something about them that resembled a hyena, and a plains bear as well. A certain sly avidness merged with arrogant brutality.
They slowed, then halted, lifting glistening snouts into the air.
They had come to destroy. To tear life from all flesh, to mock all claims of mastery, to shatter all that stood in their path. This was a new world for them. New, yet once it had been old. Changes had come. A world of vast silences where once kin and foe alike had opened throats in fierce challenge.
Nothing was as it had been, and the Deragoth were made uneasy.
They had come to destroy.
But now hesitated.
With eyes fixed on the one who had arrived, who now stood before them, at the far end of the square.
Hesitate. Yes.
Karsa Orlong strode forward. He addressed them, his voice low and rumbling. ‘Urugal’s master had… ambitions,’ he said. ‘A dream of mastery. But now he understands better, and wants nothing to do with you.’ Then the Teblor smiled. ‘So I do.’
Both hounds stepped back, then moved to open more space between them.
Karsa smiled. You do not belong here. ‘You would let me pass?’ He continued on. And I have had my fill of strangers. ‘Do you remember the Toblakai, beasts? But they had been gentled. By civilization. By the soft trappings of foolish peace. So weakened that they could not stand before T’lan Imass, could not stand before Forkrul Assail and Jaghut. And now, they cannot stand before Nathii slavers.
‘An awakening was needed, friends. Remember the Toblakai, if it comforts you.’ He strode directly between the two hounds, as if he intended to accept their invitation to pass.
The hounds attacked.
As he knew they would.
Karsa dropped into a crouch that leaned far to his left, as he brought up the massive stone sword over his head, point sliding left-directly into the path of the hound charging from that side.
Striking it in the chest.
The heavy sternum cracked but did not shatter, and the rippled blade edge scored a bloody path down along the ribs.
Karsa’s crouch then exploded after his weapon, his legs driving his shoulder forward and up to hammer the beast at the level of its collar bones.
Jaws snapped above the back of the Toblakai’s neck, then the impact jolted through warrior and hound both.
And the latter’s sword-gouged ribs splintered.
Jaws closed around Karsa’s right leg just below the knee.
And he was lifted clear of the ground. Then thrown to one side, though the jaws did not loosen. The wrench snapped the sword from his hands.
Molars ground against bone, incisors shredded muscle. The second hound closed on Karsa, savagely shaking the leg in its jaws.
The first hound staggered away a few paces, left foreleg dragging, blood spilling out beneath it.
Karsa made no effort to pull away from the beast seeking to chew off his lower leg. Instead, he pushed himself upright on his one free leg and lunged into the hound. Arms wrapping around the rippling body behind the shoulders.
With a bellow, the Teblor lifted the hound. Hind legs kicked in wild panic, but he was already wrenching the entire beast over.
The jaws were torn loose even as Karsa drove the creature down onto its back.
Flagstones cracked with explosions of dust.
The Teblor then sank to his knees, straddling the writhing hound, and closed both hands around its throat.
A snarling frenzy answered him.
Canines ripped into his forearms, the jaws gnawed frantically, chewing free chunks of skin and flesh.
Karsa released one hand and pushed it against the hound’s lower jaw.
Muscles contracted as two unhuman strengths collided.
Legs scored Karsa’s body, the claws tearing through leathers and into flesh, but the Teblor continued pushing. Harder and harder, his other hand edging up to join in the effort.
The kicks went wild. Panicked.
Karsa both felt and heard a grinding pop, then the flat head of the hound cracked against the flagstones.
A strange keening sound twisted out from the throat.
And the warrior pulled his right hand back, closed it into a fist, and drove it down into the animal’s throat.
Crushing trachea.
The legs spasmed and went limp.
With a roar, Karsa reared upright, dragging the hound by its neck, then hammering it down once more. A loud snap, a spray of blood and saliva.
He straightened, shook himself, his mane raining blood and sweat, then swung his gaze to where the other hound had been.
Only a blood trail remained.
Karsa staggered over to his sword, retrieved it, then set off on that glistening path.
Kalam and Quick Ben slowly rose from behind the wall and stared in silence after the giant warrior.
Shadows had begun swarming in the darkness. They gathered like capemoths to the carcass of the Deragoth, then sped away again as if in terror.
Kalam rolled his shoulders, then, long-knives in his hands, he approached the hound.
Quick Ben followed.
They studied the mangled carcass.
‘Wizard…’
‘Aye?’
‘Let’s drop off the Napan and get out of here.’
‘A brilliant plan.’
‘I just thought it up.’
‘I like it very much. Well done, Kalam.’
‘Like I’ve always told you, Quick, I ain’t just a pretty face.’
The two swung about and, ignoring the shadows pouring out of the burgeoning shattered warren of Kurald Emurlahn, returned to where they had left Korbolo Dom.
‘Friend?’
Heboric stared at the four-eyed, squat demon that had leapt onto the path in front of him. ‘If we’d met, demon, I’m sure I would have remembered it.’
‘Helpful explanation. Brother to L’oric. He lies in clearing twelve paces to your left. Hesitant revision. Fifteen paces. Your legs are nearly as short as mine.’
‘Take me to him.’
The demon did not move. ‘Friend?’
‘More or less. We share certain flaws.’
The creature shrugged. ‘With reservations. Follow.’
Heboric set off into the petrified forest after the shambling demon, his smile broadening as it prattled on.
‘A priest with the hands of a tiger. Sometimes. Other times, human hands glowing depthless green. Impressed. Those tattoos, very fine indeed. Musing. I would have trouble tearing out your throat, I think. Even driven by hunger, as I always am. Thoughtful. A fell night, this one. Ghosts, assassins, warrens, silent battles. Does no-one in this world ever sleep?’
They stumbled into a small clearing.
L’oric’s armour was stained with drying blood, but he looked well enough, seated cross-legged, his eyes closed, his breathing steady. On the dusty ground before him lay a spread of the Deck of Dragons.
Grunting, Heboric settled down opposite the High Mage. ‘Didn’t know you played with those.’
‘I never do,’ L’oric replied in a murmur. ‘Play, that is. A Master has come to the Deck, and that Master has just sanctioned the House of Chains.’
Heboric’s eyes widened. Then narrowed, and he slowly nodded. ‘Let the gods rail, he or she had to do just that.’
‘I know. The Crippled God is now as bound as is every other god.’
‘In the game, aye, after so long outside it. I wonder if he’ll one day come to regret his gambit.’
‘He seeks this fragment of Kurald Emurlahn, and is poised to strike, though his chances are less now than they were at sunset.’
‘How so?’
‘Bidithal is dead.’
‘Good. Who?’
‘Toblakai.’
‘Oh. Not good.’
‘Yet Toblakai has become, I believe, the Knight in the House of Chains.’
‘That is damned unfortunate… for the Crippled God. Toblakai will kneel to no-one. He cannot afford to. He will defy all prediction-’
‘He has already displayed that penchant this night, Ghost Hands, to the possible ruination of us all. Still, at the same time, I have come to suspect he is our only hope.’ L’oric opened his eyes and stared across at Heboric. ‘Two Hounds of Darkness arrived a short while ago-I could sense their presence, though fitfully, but could get no closer. Otataral, and the very darkness that shrouds them.’
‘And why should Toblakai step into their path? Never mind, I can answer that myself. Because he’s Toblakai.’
‘Aye. And I believe he has already done so.’
‘And?’
‘And now, I believe, but one Deragoth remains alive.’
‘Gods forbid,’ Heboric breathed.
‘Toblakai even now pursues it.’
‘Tell me, what brought the hounds here? What or who has Toblakai just thwarted?’
‘The cards are ambivalent on that, Destriant. Perhaps the answer is yet to be decided.’
‘Relieved to hear some things remain so, truth be told.’
‘Ghost Hands. Get Felisin away from this place. Greyfrog here will accompany you.’
‘And you?’
‘I must go to Sha’ik. No, say nothing until I finish. I know that you and she were once close-perhaps not in a pleasing manner, but close none the less. But that mortal child is soon to be no more. The goddess is about to devour her soul even as we speak-and once that is done, there shall be no return. The young Malazan girl you once knew will have ceased to exist. Thus, when I go to Sha’ik, I go not to the child, but to the goddess.’
‘But why? Are you truly loyal to the notion of apocalypse? Of chaos and destruction?’
‘No. I have something else in mind. I must speak with the goddess-before she takes Sha’ik’s soul.’
Heboric stared at the High Mage for a long time, seeking to discern what L’oric sought from that vengeful, insane goddess.
‘There are two Felisins,’ L’oric then murmured, eyes half veiled. ‘Save the one you can, Heboric Light Touch.’
‘One day, L’oric,’ Heboric growled, ‘I will discover who you truly are.’
The High Mage smiled. ‘You will find this simple truth-I am a son who lives without hope of ever matching my father’s stride. That alone, in time, will explain all you need know of me. Go, Destriant. Guard her well.’
Ghosts pivoted, armour shedding red dust, and saluted as Karsa Orlong limped past. At least these ones, he reflected dully, weren’t shackled in chains.
The blood trail had led him into a maze of ruins, an unused section of the city notorious for its cellars and pitfalls and precariously leaning walls. He could smell the beast. It was close and, he suspected, cornered.
Or, more likely, it had decided to make a stand, in a place perfectly suited for an ambush.
If only the slow, steady patter of dripping blood had not given away its hiding place.
Karsa kept his gaze averted from that alleyway of inky shadows five paces ahead and to his right. He made his steps uncertain, uneven with pain and hesitation, not all of it feigned. The blood between his hands and the sword’s grip had grown sticky, but still threatened to betray his grasp on the weapon.
Shadows were shredding the darkness, as if the two elemental forces were at war, with the latter being driven back. Dawn, Karsa realized, was approaching.
He came opposite the alley.
And the hound charged.
Karsa leapt forward, twisting in mid-air to slash his sword two-handed, cleaving an arc into his wake.
The tip slashed hide, but the beast’s attack had already carried it past. It landed on one foreleg, which skidded out from under it. The hound fell onto one shoulder, then rolled right over.
Karsa scrambled back to his feet to face it.
The beast crouched, preparing to charge once again.
The horse that burst out of a side alley caught both hound and Toblakai by surprise. That the panicked animal had been galloping blind was made obvious as it collided with the hound.
There had been two riders on the horse. And both were thrown from the saddle, straight over the hound.
The impact had driven the hound down beneath the wildly stamping hoofs. Somehow, the horse stayed upright, staggering clear with heavy snorts as if seeking to draw breath into stunned lungs. Behind it, the hound’s claws gouged the cobbles as it struggled to right itself.
Snarling, Karsa lunged forward and plunged the sword’s point into the beast’s neck.
It shrieked, surged towards the Toblakai.
Karsa leapt away, dragging his sword after him.
Blood gushing from the puncture in its throat, the hound rose up on its three legs, weaving, head swaying as it coughed red spume onto the stones.
A figure darted out from the shadows. The spiked ball at the end of a flail hissed through the air, and thundered into the hound’s head. A second followed, hammering down from above to audibly crack the beast’s thick skull.
Karsa stepped forward. An overhead two-handed swing finally drove the hound from its wobbling legs.
Side by side, Leoman and Karsa closed in to finish it. A dozen blows later and the hound was dead.
Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas then stumbled into view, a broken sword in his hand.
Karsa wiped the gore from his blade then glared at Leoman. ‘I did not need your help,’ he growled.
Leoman grinned. ‘But I need yours.’
Pearl staggered from the trench, clambering over sprawled corpses. Since his rather elegant assassination of Henaras, things had gone decidedly downhill-steeper than that trench behind me. Countless guards, then the ghostly army whose weapons were anything but illusory. His head still ached from Lostara’s kiss-damned woman, just when I thought I’d figured her out…
He’d been cut and slashed at all the way through that damned camp, and now stumbled half blind towards the ruins.
The darkness was being torn apart on all sides. Kurald Emurlahn was opening like death’s own flower, with the oasis at its dark heart. Beneath the sorcerous pressure of that manifestation, it was all he could do to pitch headlong down the trail.
So long as Lostara stayed put, they might well salvage something out of all this.
He came to the edge and paused, studying the pit where he’d left her. No movement. She was either staying low or had left. He padded forward.
I despise nights like these. Nothing goes as planned-
Something hard struck him in the side of his head. Stunned, he fell and lay unmoving, his face pressed against the cold, gritty ground.
A voice rumbled above him. ‘That was for Malaz City. Even so, you still owe me one.’
‘After Henaras?’ Pearl mumbled, his words puffing up tiny clouds of dust. ‘You should be owing me one.’
‘Her? Not worth counting.’
Something thumped heavily to the ground beside Pearl. That then groaned.
‘All right,’ the Claw sighed-more dust, a miniature Whirlwind-‘I owe you one, then.’
‘Glad we’re agreed. Now, make some more noises. Your lass over there’s bound to take a look… eventually.’
Pearl listened to the footfalls pad away. Two sets. The wizard was in no mood to talk, I suppose.
To me, that is.
I believe I am sorely humbled.
Beside him, the trussed shape groaned again.
Despite himself, Pearl smiled.
To the east, the sky paled.
And this night was done.