On this day, Raraku rises.
xxxiv.II.1.81 ‘Words of the Prophecy’
THE WHIRLWIND GODDESS HAD ONCE BEEN A RAGING STORM OF WIND and sand. A wall surrounding the young woman who had once been Felisin of House Paran, and who had become Sha’ik, Chosen One and supreme ruler of the Army of the Apocalypse.
Felisin had been her mother’s name. She had then made it her adopted daughter’s name. Yet she herself had lost it. Occasionally, however, in the deepest hours of night, in the heart of an impenetrable silence of her own making, she caught a glimpse of that girl. As she once had been, the smeared reflection from a polished mirror. Round-cheeked and flushed, a wide smile and bright eyes. A child with a brother who adored her, who would toss her about on one knee as if it was a bucking horse, and her squeals of fear and delight would fill the chamber.
Her mother had been gifted with visions. This was well known. A respected truth. And that mother’s youngest daughter had dreamed that one day she too would find that talent within her.
But that gift only came with the goddess, with this spiteful, horrific creature whose soul was far more parched and withered than any desert. And the visions that assailed Sha’ik were murky, fraught things. They were, she had come to realize, not born of any talent or gift. They were the conjurings of fear.
A goddess’s fear.
And now the Whirlwind Wall had closed, retracted, had drawn in from the outside world to rage beneath Sha’ik’s sun-darkened skin, along her veins and arteries, careening wild and deafening in her mind.
Oh, there was power there. Bitter with age, bilious with malice. And whatever fuelled it bore the sour taste of betrayal. A heart-piercing, very personal betrayal. Something that should have healed, that should have numbed beneath thick, tough scar tissue. Spiteful pleasure had kept the wound open, had fed its festering heat, until hate was all that was left. Hate for… someone, a hate so ancient it no longer possessed a face.
In moments of cold reason, Sha’ik saw it for what it was. Insane, raised to such extremity that she understood that whatever had been the crime against the goddess, whatever the source of the betrayal, it had not earned such a brutal reaction. The proportions had begun wrong. From the very start. Leading her to suspect that the proclivity for madness had already existed, dark flaws marring the soul that would one day claw its way into ascendancy.
Step by step, we walk the most horrendous paths. Stride tottering along the edge of an unsuspected abyss. Companions see nothing amiss. The world seems a normal place. Step by step, no different from anyone else-not from the outside. Not even from the inside. Apart from that tautness, that whisper of panic. The vague confusion that threatens your balance.
Felisin, who was Sha’ik, had come to comprehend this.
For she had walked that same path.
Hatred, sweet as nectar.
I have walked into the abyss.
I am as mad as that goddess. And this is why she chose me, for we are kindred souls…
Then what is this ledge to which I still cling so desperately? Why do I persist in my belief that I can save myself? That I can return… find once more the place where madness cannot be found, where confusion does not exist.
The place… of childhood.
She stood in the main chamber, the chair that would be a throne behind her, its cushions cool, its armrests dry. She stood, imprisoned in a stranger’s armour. She could almost feel the goddess reaching out to engulf her on all sides-not a mother’s embrace, no, nothing like that at all. This one would suffocate her utterly, would drown out all light, every glimmer of self-awareness.
Her ego is armoured in hatred. She cannot look in, she can barely see out. Her walk is a shamble, cramped and stiff, a song of rusty fittings and creaking straps. Her teeth gleam in the shadows, but it is a rictus grin.
Felisin Paran, hold up this mirror at your peril.
Outside stole the first light of dawn. And Sha’ik reached for her helm.
L’oric could just make out the Dogslayer positions at the tops of the cobbled ramps. There was no movement over there in the grey light of dawn. It was strange, but not surprising. The night just done would make even the hardest soldier hesitant to raise a gaze skyward, to straighten from a place of hiding to begin the mundane tasks that marked the start of a new day.
Even so, there was something strange about those trenches.
He strode along the ridge towards the hilltop where Sha’ik had established her forward post to observe the battle to come. The High Mage ached in every bone. His muscles shouted pain with every step he took.
He prayed she was there.
Prayed the goddess would deign to hear his words, his warning, and, finally, his offer.
All hovered on the cusp. Darkness had been defeated… somehow. He wondered at that, but not for long-there was no time for such idle musings. This tortured fragment of Kurald Emurlahn was awakening, and the goddess was about to arrive, to claim it for herself. To fashion a throne. To devour Raraku.
Ghosts still swirled in the shadows, warriors and soldiers from scores of long-dead civilizations. Wielding strange weapons, their bodies hidden beneath strange armour, their faces mercifully covered by ornate visors. They were singing, although that Tanno song had grown pensive, mournful, sighing soft as the wind. It had begun to rise and fall, a sussuration that chilled L’oric.
Who will they fight for? Why are they here at all? What do they want?
The song belonged to the Bridgeburners. Yet it seemed the Holy Desert itself had claimed it, had taken that multitude of ethereal voices for itself. And every soul that had fallen in battle in the desert’s immense history was now gathered in this place.
The cusp.
He came to the base of the trail leading up to Sha’ik’s hill. There were desert warriors huddled here and there, wrapped in their ochre telabas, spears thrust upright, iron points glistening with dew as the sun’s fire broke on the east horizon. Companies of Mathok’s light cavalry were forming up on the flats to L’oric’s right. The horses were jittery, the rows shifting uneven and restless. The High Mage could not see Mathok anywhere among them-nor, he realized with a chill, could he see the standards of the warleader’s own tribe.
He heard horses approach from behind and turned to see Leoman, one of his officers, and Toblakai riding up towards him.
The Toblakai’s horse was a Jhag, L’oric saw, huge and magnificent in its primal savagery, loping collected and perfectly proportionate to the giant astride its shoulders.
And that giant was a mess. Preternatural healing had yet to fully repair the terrible wounds on him. His hands were a crimson ruin. One leg had been chewed by vicious, oversized jaws.
Toblakai and his horse were dragging a pair of objects that bounced and rolled on the ends of chains, and L’oric’s eyes went wide upon seeing what they were.
He’s killed the Deragoth. He’s taken their heads.
‘L’oric!’ Leoman rasped as he drew rein before him. ‘Is she above?’
‘I don’t know, Leoman of the Flails.’
All three dismounted, and L’oric saw Toblakai favouring his mangled leg. A hound’s jaws did that. And then he saw the stone sword on the giant’s back. Ah, he is indeed the one, then. I think the Crippled God has made a terrible mistake…
Gods, he killed the Deragoth.
‘Where is Febryl hiding?’ Leoman asked as the four of them began the ascent.
Toblakai answered. ‘Dead. I forgot to tell you some things. I killed him. And I killed Bidithal. I would have killed Ghost Hands and Korbolo Dom, but I could not find them.’
L’oric rubbed a hand across his brow, and it came away wet and oily. Yet he could still see his breath.
Toblakai went on, inexorably. ‘And when I went into Korbolo’s tent, I found Kamist Reloe. He’d been assassinated. So had Henaras.’
L’oric shook himself and said to Leoman, ‘Did you receive Sha’ik’s last commands? Shouldn’t you be with the Dogslayers?’
The warrior grunted. ‘Probably. We’ve just come from there.’
‘They’re all dead,’ Toblakai said. ‘Slaughtered in the night. The ghosts of Raraku were busy-though none dared oppose me.’ He barked a laugh. ‘As Ghost Hands could tell you, I have ghosts of my own.’
L’oric stumbled on the trail. He reached up and gripped Leoman’s arm. ‘Slaughtered? All of them?’
‘Yes, High Mage. I’m surprised you didn’t know. We still have the desert warriors. We can still win this, just not here and not now. Thus, we need to convince Sha’ik to leave-’
‘That won’t be possible,’ L’oric cut in. ‘The goddess is coming, is almost here. It’s too late for that, Leoman. Moments from being too late for everything-’
They clambered over the crest.
And there stood Sha’ik.
Helmed and armoured, her back to them as she stared southward.
L’oric wanted to cry out. For he saw what his companions could not see. I’m not in time. Oh, gods below-And then he leapt forward, his warren’s portal flaring around him-and was gone.
The goddess had not lost her memories. Indeed, rage had carved their likenesses, every detail, as mockingly solid and real-seeming as those carved trees in the forest of stone. And she could caress them, crooning her hatred like a lover’s song, lingering with a touch promising murder, though the one who had wronged her was, if not dead, then in a place that no longer mattered.
The hate was all that mattered now. Her fury at his weaknesses. Oh, others in the tribe played those games often enough. Bodies slipped through the furs from hut to hut when the stars fell into their summer alignment, and she herself had more than once spread her legs to another woman’s husband, or an eager, clumsy youth.
But her heart had been given to the one man with whom she lived. That law was sacrosanct.
Oh, but he’d been so sensitive. His hands following his eyes in the fashioning of forbidden images of that other woman, there in the hidden places. He’d used those hands to close about his own heart, to give it to another-without a thought as to who had once held it for herself.
Another, who would not even give her heart in return-she had seen to that, with vicious words and challenging accusations. Enough to encourage the others to banish her for ever.
But not before the bitch killed all but one of her kin.
Foolish, stupid man, to have given his love to that woman.
Her rage had not died with the Ritual, had not died when she herself-too shattered to walk-had been severed from the Vow and left in a place of eternal darkness. And every curious spirit that had heard her weeping, that had drawn close in sympathy-well, they had fed her hungers, and she had taken their powers. Layer upon layer. For they too had been foolish and stupid, wayward and inclined to squander those powers on meaningless things. But she had a purpose.
The children swarmed the surface of the world. And who was their mother? None other than the bitch who had been banished.
And their father?
Oh yes, she went to him. On that last night. She did. He reeked of her when they dragged him into the light the following morning. Reeked of her. The truth was there in his eyes.
A look she would-could-never forget.
Vengeance was a beast long straining at its chains. Vengeance was all she had ever wanted.
Vengeance was about to be unleashed.
And even Raraku could not stop it. The children would die.
The children will die. I will cleanse the world of their beget, the proud-eyed vermin born, one and all, of that single mother. Of course she could not join the Ritual. A new world waited within her.
And now, at last, I shall rise again. Clothed in the flesh of one such child, I shall kill that world.
She could see the path opening, the way ahead clear and inviting. A tunnel walled in spinning, writhing shadows.
It would be good to walk again.
To feel warm flesh and the heat of blood.
To taste water. Food.
To breathe.
To kill.
Unmindful and unhearing, Sha’ik made her way down the slope. The basin awaited her, that field of battle. She saw Malazan scouts on the ridge opposite, one riding back to the encampment, the others simply watching.
It was understood, then. As she had known it would be.
Vague, distant shouts behind her. She smiled. Of course, in the end, it is the two warriors who first found me. I was foolish to have doubted them. And I know, either one would stand in my stead.
But they cannot.
This fight belongs to me. And the goddess.
‘Enter.’
Captain Keneb paused for a moment, seeking to collect himself, then he strode into the command tent.
She was donning her armour. A mundane task that would have been easier with a servant at hand, but that, of course, was not Tavore’s way.
Although, perhaps, that was not quite the truth. ‘Adjunct.’
‘What is it, Captain?’
‘I have just come from the Fist’s tent. A cutter and a healer were summoned at once, but it was far too late. Adjunct Tavore, Gamet died last night. A blood vessel burst in his brain-the cutter believes it was a clot, and that it was born the night he was thrown from his horse. I am… sorry.’
A pallor had come to her drawn, plain face. He saw her hand reach down to steady herself against the table edge. ‘Dead?’
‘In his sleep.’
She turned away, stared down at the accoutrements littering the table. ‘Thank you, Captain. Leave me now, and have T’amber-’
There was a commotion outside, then a Wickan’youth pushed in. ‘Adjunct! Sha’ik has walked down into the basin! She challenges you!’
After a long moment, Tavore nodded. ‘Very well. Belay that last order, Captain. You both may go.’ She turned to resume strapping on her armour.
Keneb gestured the youth ahead and they strode from the tent.
Outside, the captain hesitated. It’s what Gamet would do… isn’t it?
‘Will she fight her?’ the Wickan asked.
He glanced over. ‘She will. Return to Temul, lad. Either way, we have a battle ahead of us this day.’ He watched the young warrior hurry off.
Then swung to face the modest tent situated twenty paces to his left. There were no guards stationed before its flap. Keneb halted before the entrance. ‘Lady T’amber, are you within?’
A figure emerged. Dressed in hard leathers-light armour, Keneb realized with a start-and a longsword strapped to her hip. ‘Does the Adjunct wish to begin her morning practice?’
Keneb met those calm eyes, the colour of which gave the woman her name. They seemed depthless. He mentally shook himself. ‘Gamet died last night. I have just informed the Adjunct.’
The woman’s gaze flicked towards the command tent. ‘I see.’
‘And in the basin between the two armies, Sha’ik now stands… waiting. It occurred to me, Lady, that the Adjunct might appreciate some help with her armour.’
To his surprise she turned back to her tent. ‘Not this morning, Captain. I understand your motives… but no. Not this morning. Good day, sir.’
Then she was gone.
Keneb stood motionless in surprise. All right, then, so I do not understand women.
He faced the command tent once more, in time to see the Adjunct emerge, tightening the straps on her gauntlets. She was helmed, the cheek guards locked in place. There was no visor covering her eyes-many fighters found their vision too impaired by the slits-and he watched her pause, lifting her gaze to the morning sky for a moment, before she strode forward.
He gave her some distance, then followed.
L’oric clawed his way through the swirling shadows, scraped by skeletal branches and stumbling over gnarled roots. He had not expected this. There had to be a path, a way through this blackwood forest.
That damned goddess was here. Close. She had to be-if he could but find the trail.
The air was sodden and chill, the boles of the trees leaning this way and that, as if an earthquake had just shaken the ground. Wood creaked overhead to some high wind. And everywhere flitted wraiths, lost shadows, closing on the High Mage then darting away again. Rising from the humus like ghosts, hissing over his head as he staggered on.
And then, through the trees, the flicker of fire.
Gasping, L’oric ran towards it.
It was her. And the flames confirmed his suspicion. An Imass, trailing the chains of Tellann, the Ritual shattered-oh, she has no place here, no place at all.
Chthonic spirits swarmed her burning body, the accretions of power she had gathered unto herself over hundreds of thousands of years. Hatred and spite had twisted them all into malign, vicious creatures.
Marsh water and mould had blackened the limbs of the Imass. Moss covered the torso like dangling, knotted fur. Ropes of snarled, grey hair hung down, tangled with burrs. From her scorched eye sockets, living flames licked out. The bones of her cheeks were white, latticed in cracks from the heat.
Toothless, the heavy lower jaw hanging-barely held in place by rotting strips of tendon and withered muscle.
The goddess was keening, a wavering, eerie cry that did not pause for breath, and it seemed to L’oric that she was struggling.
He drew closer.
She had stumbled into a web of vines, the twisted ropes entangling her arms and legs, wrapped like serpents about her torso and neck. He wondered that he had not seen them earlier, then realized that they were flickering, one moment there, the other gone-although no less an impediment for their rhythmic disappearance-and they were changing…
Into chains.
Suddenly, one snapped. And the goddess howled, redoubled her efforts.
Another broke, whipping to crack against a tree.
L’oric edged forward. ‘Goddess! Hear me! Sha’ik-she is not strong enough for you!’
‘My-my-my child! Mine! I stole her from the bitch! Mine!’
The High Mage frowned. Who? What bitch? ‘Goddess, listen to me, please! I offer myself in her stead! Do you understand?’
Another chain broke.
And a voice spoke low behind L’oric. ‘Interfering bastard.’
He spun, but too late, as a wide-bladed knife was driven deep between his ribs, tearing a savage path to his heart.
Or where his heart should have been, had L’oric been human.
The serrated tip missed, sliding in front of the deep-seated organ, then jammed into the side of the sternum.
L’oric groaned and sagged.
The killer dragged his knife free, crouched and pulled L’oric’s head back by the jaw. Reached down with the blade.
‘Never mind that, fool!’ hissed another voice. ‘She’s breaking the chains!’
L’oric watched the man hesitate, then growl and move away.
The High Mage could feel blood filling his chest. He slowly turned onto his side, and could feel the warm flow seep down from the wound. The change in position gave him a mostly unobscured view of the goddess-
– and the assassins now closing in on her.
Sorcery streamed from their knives, a skein of death-magics.
The goddess shrieked as the first knife was driven into her back.
He watched them kill her. A prolonged, brutal butchering. Korbolo’s Talons, his chosen assassins, who had been waiting in ambush, guided here by Febryl-no-one else could have managed that path-and abetted by the sorcerous powers of Kamist Reloe, Henaras and Fayelle. She fought back with a ferocity near to match, and soon three of the four assassins were dead-torn limb from limb. But more chains now ensnared the goddess, dragging her down, and L’oric could see the fires dying in her eye sockets, could see spirits writhe away, suddenly freed and eager to flee. And the last killer darted in, hammering down with his knife. Through the top of the skull. A midnight flash, the detonation flinging the killer back. Both skull and blade had shattered, lacerating the Talon’s face and chest. Blinded and screaming, he reeled back, tripped over a root and thumped to the ground.
L’oric listened to the man moaning.
Chains snaked over the fallen body of the goddess, until nothing visible was left of her, the black iron links heaped and glistening.
Whatever high wind had lashed the treetops now fell away, leaving only silence.
They all wanted this shattered warren. This fraught prize. But Toblakai killed Febryl. He killed the two Deragoth.
He killed Bidithal.
And as for Korbolo Dom-something tells me the Empress will soon speak to him in person. The poor bastard.
Beneath the High Mage, his lifeblood soaked the moss.
It came to him, then, that he was dying.
Twigs snapped nearby.
‘I’m hardly surprised. You sent your familiar away, didn’t you? Again.’
L’oric twisted his head around, stared upward, and managed a weak smile. ‘Father.’
‘I don’t think much has changed in your room, son, since you left it.’
‘Dusty, I would think.’
Osric grunted. ‘The entire keep is that, I would hazard. Haven’t been there in centuries.’
‘No servants?’
‘I dismissed them… about a thousand years ago.’
L’oric sighed. ‘I’d be surprised if the place is still standing.’
Osric slowly crouched down beside his son, the sorcerous glow of Denul now surrounding him. ‘Oh, it still stands, son. I always keep my options open. An ugly cut you have there. Best healed slowly.’
L’oric closed his eyes. ‘My old bed?’
‘Aye.’
‘It’s too short. It was when I left, anyway.’
‘Too bad he didn’t cut off your feet, then, L’oric.’
Strong arms reached under him and he was lifted effortlessly.
Absurdly-for a man my age-he felt at peace. In his father’s arms.
‘Now,’ Osric said, ‘how in Hood’s name do we get out of here?’
The moment passed.
She stumbled, barely managing to right herself. Behind the iron mesh, she blinked against the hot, close air. All at once, the armour seemed immeasurably heavy. A surge of panic-the sun was roasting her alive beneath these plates of metal.
Sha’ik halted. Struggled to regain control of herself.
Myself. Gods below… she is gone.
She stood alone in the basin. From the ridge opposite a lone figure was descending the slope. Tall, unhurried, the gait achingly familiar.
The ridge behind Tavore, and those on every battered island of ancient coral, was now lined with soldiers.
The Army of the Apocalypse was watching as well, Sha’ik suspected, though she did not turn about.
She is gone. I have been… abandoned.
I was Sha’ik, once. Now, I am Felisin once more. And here, walking towards me, is the one who betrayed me. My sister.
She remembered watching Tavore and Ganoes playing with wooden swords. Beginning on that path to deadly familiarity, to unthinking ease wielding the weight of that weapon. Had the world beyond not changed-had all stood still, the way children believed it would-she would have had her turn. The clack of wood, Ganoes laughing and gently instructing her-there was joy and comfort to her brother, the way he made teaching subservient to the game’s natural pleasures. But she’d never had the chance for that.
No chance, in fact, for much of anything that could now return to her, memories warm and trusting and reassuring.
Instead, Tavore had dismembered their family. And for Felisin, the horrors of slavery and the mines.
But blood is the chain that can never break.
Tavore was now twenty strides away. Drawing out her otataral sword.
And, though we leave the house of our birth, it never leaves us.
Sha’ik could feel the weight of her own weapon, dragging hard enough to make her wrist ache. She did not recall unsheathing it.
Beyond the mesh and through the slits of the visor, Tavore strode ever closer, neither speeding up nor slowing.
No catching up. No falling back. How could there be? We are ever the same years apart. The chain never draws taut. Never slackens. Its length is prescribed. But its weight, oh, its weight ever varies.
She was lithe, light on her feet, achingly economical. She was, for this moment, perfect.
But, for me, the blood is heavy. So heavy.
And Felisin struggled against it-that sudden, overwhelming weight. Struggled to raise her arms-unthinking of how that motion would be received.
Tavore, it’s all right-
A thunderous clang, a reverberation jolting up her right arm, and the sword’s enervating weight was suddenly gone from her hand.
Then something punched into her chest, a stunning blossom of cold fire piercing through flesh, bone-and then she felt a tug from behind, as if something had reached up, clasped her hauberk and yanked on it-but it was just the point, she realized. The point of Tavore’s sword, as it drove against the underside of the armour shielding her back.
Felisin looked down to see that rust-hued blade impaling her.
Her legs gave way and the sword suddenly bowed to her weight.
But she did not slide off that length of stained iron.
Her body held on to it, releasing only in shuddering increments as Felisin fell back, onto the ground.
Through the visor’s slit, she stared up at her sister, a figure standing behind a web of black, twisted iron wire that now rested cool over her eyes, tickling her lashes.
A figure who now stepped closer. To set one boot down hard on her chest-a weight that, now that it had arrived, seemed eternal-and dragged the sword free.
Blood.
Of course. This is how you break an unbreakable chain.
By dying.
I just wanted to know, Tavore, why you did it. And why you did not love me, when I loved you. I-I think that’s what I wanted to know.
The boot lifted from her chest. But she could still feel its weight.
Heavy. So very heavy…
Oh, Mother, look at us now.
Karsa Orlong’s hand snapped out, caught Leoman before the man fell, then dragged him close. ‘Hear me, friend. She is dead. Take your tribes and get out of here.’
Leoman lifted a hand and passed it across his eyes. Then he straightened. ‘Dead, yes. I’m sorry, Toblakai. It wasn’t that. She’-his face twisted-‘she did not know how to fight.’
‘True, she did not. And now she’s dead, and the Whirlwind Goddess with her. It is done, friend. We have lost.’
‘More than you know,’ Leoman groaned, pulling away.
In the basin below, the Adjunct was staring down at Sha’ik’s corpse. From both armies lining the ridges, silence. Karsa frowned. ‘The Malazans do not cheer.’
‘No,’ Leoman snarled, turning to where Corabb waited with the horses. ‘They probably hate the bitch. We ride to Y’Ghatan, Toblakai-’
‘Not me,’ Karsa growled.
His friend paused and then nodded without turning around, and vaulted onto his horse. He took the reins from Corabb then glanced over at Toblakai. ‘Fare well, my friend.’
‘And you, Leoman of the Flails.’
‘If L’oric returns from wherever he went, tell him…’ His voice trailed away, then he shrugged. ‘Take care of him if he needs help.’
‘I shall, but I do not think we will see him again.’
Leoman nodded. Then he said to Corabb, ‘Tell the warchiefs to scatter with their tribes. Out of Raraku as fast as they can manage it-’
‘Out of the Holy Desert, Leoman?’ Corabb asked.
‘Can’t you hear it? Never mind. Yes. Out. Rejoin me on the western road-the ancient one that runs straight.’
Corabb saluted, then pulled his horse round and rode off.
‘You too, Toblakai. Out of Raraku-’
‘I will,’ Karsa replied, ‘when I am done here, Leoman. Now, go-officers are riding to the Adjunct. They will follow with an attack-’
‘Then they’re fools,’ Leoman spat.
Karsa watched his friend ride off. Then strode to his own mount. He was tired. His wounds hurt. But some issues remained unsettled, and he needed to take care of that.
The Teblor swung himself onto Havok’s back.
Lostara walked down the slope, the cracked ground crunching underfoot. At her side marched Pearl, breathing hard beneath the weight of Korbolo Dom’s bound, limp form.
Tavore still stood alone on the flats, a few paces from Sha’ik’s body. The Adjunct’s attention had been fixed on the Dogslayer trenches, and on the lone, ragged standard rising from the highest ground at the central ramp’s summit.
A standard that had no right being here. No right existing at all.
Coltaine’s standard, the wings of the Crow Clan.
Lostara wondered who had raised it, where it had come from, then decided she didn’t want to know. One truth could not be ignored, however. They’re all dead. The Dogslayers. All. And the Adjunct did not need to even raise a hand to achieve that.
She sensed her own cowardice and scowled. Skittering away, again and again, from thoughts too bitter with irony to contemplate. Their journey to the basin had been nightmarish, as Kurald Emurlahn swarmed the entire oasis, as shadows warred with ghosts, and the incessant rise and fall of that song grew audible enough for Lostara to sense, if not hear. A song still climbing in crescendo.
But, at the feet of… of everything. A simple, brutal fact.
They had come too late.
Within sight, only to see Tavore batter Sha’ik’s weapon out of her hands, then thrust that sword right through her… name it, Lostara Yil, you damned coward. Name it! Her sister. Through her sister. There. It’s done, dragged out before us.
She would not look at Pearl, could say nothing. Nor did he speak.
We are bound, this man and I. I didn’t ask for this. I don’t want it. I’ll never be without it. Oh, Queen forgive me…
Close enough now to see Tavore’s face beneath the helm, an expression stern-almost angry-as she turned to watch their approach.
Officers were riding down, though slowly.
There would be time, Lostara realized, for a private conversation.
She and Pearl halted six paces from the Adjunct.
The Claw dumped Korbolo Dom onto the ground between them. ‘He won’t wake up any time soon,’ he said, taking a deep breath, then sighing and looking away.
‘What are you two doing here?’ the Adjunct asked. ‘Did you lose the trail?’
Pearl did not glance at Lostara, but simply shook his head in answer to Tavore’s question. A pause, then, ‘We found her, Adjunct. With deep regret… Felisin is dead.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘Yes, Adjunct.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘I can say one thing for certain, Tavore. She died quickly.’
Lostara’s heart felt ready to explode at Pearl’s quiet words. Jaws clenching, she met the Adjunct’s eyes, and slowly nodded.
Tavore stared at them both for a long moment, then lowered her head. ‘Well, there is mercy in that, I suppose.’
And then sheathed her sword, turned away and began walking towards her approaching officers.
Under her breath, so low that only Pearl could hear her, Lostara said, ‘Yes, I suppose there is…’
Pearl swung to her suddenly. ‘Here comes Tene Baralta. Stall him, lass.’ He walked over to Sha’ik’s body. ‘The warrens are clear enough… I hope.’ He bent down and tenderly picked her up, then faced Lostara once more. ‘Yes, she’s a heavier burden than you might think.’
‘No, Pearl, I don’t think that. Where?’
The Claw’s smile lanced into her heart. ‘A hilltop… you know the one.’
Lostara nodded. ‘Very well. And then?’
‘Convince them to get out of Raraku, lass. As fast as they can. When I’m done…’ he hesitated.
‘Come and find me, Pearl,’ she growled. ‘Or else I’ll come looking for you.’
A flicker of life in his weary eyes. ‘I will. I promise.’
She watched his gaze flit past her shoulder and she turned. Tavore was still twenty paces from the riders, who had all but Baralta halted their horses. ‘What is it, Pearl?’
‘Just watching her… walking away,’ he replied. ‘She looks so…’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes. That is the word, isn’t it. See you later, lass.’
She felt the breath of the warren gust against her back, then the day’s heat returned. Lostara hitched her thumbs in her belt, and waited for Tene Baralta.
Her once-commander would have wanted Sha’ik’s body. A trophy for this day. He would be furious. ‘Well,’ she muttered, ‘that’s just too damned bad.’
Keneb watched her approach. There was none of the triumph there he thought he would see. Indeed, she looked worn down, as if the falling of spirit that followed every battle had already come to her, the deathly stillness of the mind that invited dire contemplation, that lifted up the host of questions that could never be answered.
She had sheathed her sword without cleansing it, and Sha’ik’s blood had run crooked tracks down the plain scabbard.
Tene Baralta rode past her, on his way, Keneb suspected, to Sha’ik’s body. If he said anything to the Adjunct in passing, she made no reply.
‘Fist Blistig,’ she announced upon arriving. ‘Send scouts to the Dogslayer ramps. Also, a detachment of guards-the Claw have delivered to us Korbolo Dom.’
Ah, so that was what that man was carrying. Keneb glanced back to where the duel had taken place. Only the woman stood there now, over the prone shape that was the Napan renegade, her face turned up to Tene Baralta, who remained on his horse and seemed to be berating her. Even at this distance, something told Keneb that Baralta’s harangue would yield little result.
‘Adjunct,’ Nil said, ‘there is no need to scout the Dogslayer positions. They are all dead.’
Tavore frowned. ‘Explain.’
‘Raraku’s ghosts, Adjunct.’
Nether spoke up. ‘And the spirits of our own slain. Nil and I-we were blind to it. We’d forgotten the ways of… of seeing. The cattle dog, Adjunct. Bent. It should have died at Coltaine’s feet. At the Fall. But some soldiers saved it, saw to the healing of its wounds.’
‘A cattle dog? What are you talking about?’ Tavore demanded, revealing, for the very first time, an edge of exasperation.
‘Bent and Roach,’ Nil said. ‘The only creatures still living to have walked the Chain the entire way. Two dogs.’
‘Not true,’ Temul said from behind the two Wickan shamans. ‘This mare. It belonged to Duiker.’
Nil half turned to acknowledge the correction, then faced Tavore once more. ‘They came back with us, Adjunct-’
‘The dogs.’
He nodded. ‘And the spirits of the slain. Our own ghosts, Adjunct, have marched with us. Those that fell around Coltaine at the very end. Those that died on the trees of Aren Way. And, step by step, more came from the places where they were cut down. Step by step, Adjunct, our army of vengeance grew.’
‘And yet you sensed nothing?’
‘Our grief blinded us,’ Nether replied.
‘Last night,’ Nil said, ‘the child Grub woke us. Led us to the ridge, so that we could witness the awakening. There were legions, Adjunct, that had marched this land a hundred thousand years ago. And Pormqual’s crucifed army and the legions of the Seventh on one flank. The three slaughtered clans of the Wickans on the other. And still others. Many others. Within the darkness last night, Tavore, there was war.’
‘Thus,’ Nether said, smiling, ‘you were right, Adjunct. In the dreams that haunted you from the very first night of this march, you saw what we could not see.’
‘It was never the burden you believed it to be,’ Nil added. ‘You did not drag the Chain of Dogs with you, Adjunct Tavore.’
‘Didn’t I, Nil?’ A chilling half-smile twisted her thin-lipped mouth, then she looked away. ‘All those ghosts… simply to slay the Dogslayers?’
‘No, Adjunct,’ Nether answered. ‘There were other… enemies.’
‘Fist Gamet’s ghost joined them,’ Nil said.
Tavore’s eyes narrowed sharply. ‘You saw him?’
Both Wickans nodded, and Nether added, ‘Grub spoke with him.’
The Adjunct shot Keneb a querying look.
‘He can be damned hard to find,’ the captain muttered, shrugging. ‘As for talking with ghosts… well, the lad is, uh, strange enough for that.’
The Adjunct’s sigh was heavy.
Keneb’s gaze caught movement and he swung his head round, to see Tene Baralta riding back in the company of two soldiers wearing little more than rags. Both were unshaven, their hair long and matted. Their horses bore no saddles.
The Fist reined in with his charges. His face was dark with anger. ‘Adjunct. That Claw has stolen Sha’ik’s body!’
Keneb saw the woman approaching on foot, still twenty paces distant. She looked… smug.
Tavore ignored Tene Baralta’s statement and was eyeing the two newcomers. ‘And you are?’ she asked.
The elder of the two saluted. ‘Captain Kindly, Adjunct, of the Ashok Regiment. We were prisoners in the Dogslayer camp. Lieutenant Pores and myself, that is.’
Keneb started, then leaned forward on his saddle. Yes, he realized, through all that filth… ‘Captain,’ he said in rough greeting.
Kindly squinted, then grimaced. ‘Keneb.’
Tavore cleared her throat, then asked, ‘Are you two all that’s left of your regiment, Captain?’
‘No, Adjunct. At least, we don’t think so-’
‘Tell me later. Go get cleaned up.’
‘Aye, Adjunct.’
‘One more question first,’ she said. ‘The Dogslayer camp…’
Kindly made an involuntary warding gesture. ‘It was not a pleasant night, Adjunct.’
‘You bear shackle scars.’
Kindly nodded. ‘Just before dawn, a couple of Bridgeburners showed up and burned out the locks.’
‘What?’
The captain waved for his lieutenant to follow, said over one shoulder, ‘Don’t worry, they were already dead.’
The two rode into the camp.
Tavore seemed to shake herself, then faced Keneb. ‘You two know each other? Will that prove problematic, Captain?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Then he won’t resent your promotion to Fist. Now ride to your new legion. We will follow the fleeing tribes. If we have to cross this entire continent, I will see them cornered, and then I will destroy them. This rebellion will be ashes on the wind when we are done. Go, Fist Keneb.’
‘Aye, Adjunct.’ And he gathered his reins.
‘Weapons out!’ Temul suddenly shouted.
And all spun to see a rider cantering down from the hill where Sha’ik had first appeared.
Keneb’s eyes thinned, even as he drew his sword. There was something wrong… a skewing of scale…
A small squad from Blistig’s legion had been detailed as guard to the Adjunct, and they now moved forward. Leading them was one of Blistig’s officers-none other, Keneb realized, than Squint. The slayer of Coltaine, who was now standing stock still, studying the approaching horse warrior.
‘That,’ he growled, ‘is a Thelomen Toblakai! Riding a damned Jhag horse!’
Crossbows were levelled.
‘What’s that horse dragging?’ asked the woman who had just arrived on foot-whom Keneb now recognized, belatedly, as one of Tene Baralta’s officers.
Nether suddenly hissed, and she and her brother flinched back as one.
Heads. From some demonic beasts-
Weapons were readied.
The Adjunct lifted a hand. ‘Wait. He’s not drawn his weapon-’
‘It’s a stone sword,’ Squint rasped. ‘T’lan Imass.’
‘Only bigger,’ one of the soldiers spat.
No-one spoke as the huge, blood-spattered figure rode closer.
To halt ten paces away.
Tene Baralta leaned forward and spat onto the ground. ‘I know you,’ he rumbled. ‘Bodyguard to Sha’ik-’
‘Be quiet,’ the Toblakai cut in. ‘I have words for the Adjunct.’
‘Speak, then,’ Tavore said.
The giant bared his teeth. ‘Once, long ago, I claimed the Malazans as my enemies. I was young. I took pleasure in voicing vows. The more enemies the better. So it was, once. But no longer. Malazan, you are no longer my enemy. Thus, I will not kill you.’
‘We are relieved,’ Tavore said drily.
He studied her for a long moment.
During which Keneb’s heart began to pound hard and fast in his chest.
Then the Toblakai smiled. ‘You should be.’
With that he wheeled his Jhag horse round and rode a westerly path down the length of the basin. The huge hound heads bounced and thumped in their wake.
Keneb’s sigh was shaky.
‘Excuse my speaking,’ Squint rasped, ‘but something tells me the bastard was right.’
Tavore turned and studied the old veteran. ‘An observation,’ she said, ‘I’ll not argue, soldier.’
Once more, Keneb collected his reins.
Surmounting the ridge, Lieutenant Ranal sawed hard on the reins, and the horse reared against the skyline.
‘Gods take me, somebody shoot him.’
Fiddler did not bother to turn round to find out who had spoken. He was too busy fighting his own horse to care much either way. It had Wickan blood, and it wanted his. The mutual hatred was coming along just fine.
‘What is that bastard up to?’ Cuttle demanded as he rode alongside the sergeant. ‘We’re leaving even Gesler’s squad behind-and Hood knows where Borduke’s gone to.’
The squad joined their lieutenant atop the ancient raised road. To the north stretched the vast dunes of Raraku, shimmering in the heat.
Ranal wheeled his mount to face his soldiers. Then pointed west. ‘See them? Have any of you eyes worth a damn?’
Fiddler leaned to one side and spat grit. Then squinted to where Ranal was pointing. A score of riders. Desert warriors, likely a rearguard. They were at a loping canter. ‘Lieutenant,’ he said, ‘there’s a spider lives in these sands. Moves along under the surface, but drags a strange snake-like tail that every hungry predator can’t help but see. Squirming away along the surface. It’s a big spider. Hawk comes down to snatch up that snake, and ends up dissolving in a stream down that spider’s throat-’
‘Enough with the damned horse-dung, Sergeant,’ snapped Ranal. ‘They’re there because they were late getting out of the oasis. Likely too busy looting the palace to notice that Sha’ik had been skewered, the Dogslayers were dead and everyone else was bugging out as fast as their scrawny horses could take ’em.’ He glared at Fiddler. ‘I want their heads, you grey-whiskered fossil.’
‘We’ll catch them sooner or later, sir,’ Fiddler said. ‘Better with the whole company-’
‘Then get off that saddle and sit your backside down here on this road, Sergeant! Leave the fighting to the rest of us! The rest of you, follow me!’
Ranal kicked his lathered horse into a gallop.
With a weary gesture, Fiddler waved the marines on, then followed on his own bucking mare.
‘Got a pinched nerve,’ Koryk called out as he cantered past.
‘Who, my horse or the lieutenant?’
The Seti grinned back. ‘Your horse… naturally. Doesn’t like all that weight, Fid.’
Fiddler reached back and readjusted the heavy pack and the assembled lobber crossbow. ‘I’ll pinch her damned nerve,’ he muttered. ‘Just you wait.’
It was past midday. Almost seven bells since the Adjunct cut down Sha’ik. Fiddler found himself glancing again and again to the north-to Raraku, where the song still rushed out to embrace him, only to fall away, then roll forward once more. The far horizon beyond that vast basin of sand, he now saw, now held up a bank of white clouds.
Now that don’t look right…
Sand-filled wind gusted suddenly into his face.
‘They’ve left the road!’ Ranal shouted.
Fiddler squinted westward. The riders had indeed plunged down the south bank, were cutting out diagonally-straight for a fast-approaching sandstorm. Gods, not another sandstorm… This one, he knew, was natural. The kind that plagued this desert, springing up like a capricious demon to rage a wild, cavorting path for a bell or two, before vanishing as swiftly as it had first appeared.
He rose up on his saddle. ‘Lieutenant! They’re going to ride into it! Use it as cover! We’d better not-’
‘Flap that tongue at me one more time, Sergeant, and I’ll tear it out! You hear me?’
Fiddler subsided. ‘Aye, sir.’
‘Full pursuit, soldiers!’ Ranal barked. ‘That storm’ll slow them!’
Oh, it will slow them, all right…
Gesler glared into the blinding desert. ‘Now who,’ he wondered under his breath, ‘are they?’
They had drawn to halt when it became obvious that the four strange riders were closing fast on an intercept course. Long-bladed white swords flashing over their heads. Bizarre, gleaming white armour. White horses. White everything.
‘They’re none too pleased with us,’ Stormy rumbled, running his fingers through his beard.
‘That’s fine,’ Gesler growled, ‘but they ain’t renegades, are they?’
‘Sha’ik’s? Who knows? Probably not, but even so…’
The sergeant nodded. ‘Sands, get up here.’
‘I am,’ the sapper snapped.
‘What’s your range, lad, with that damned thing?’
‘Ain’t sure. No chance to try it yet. Fid’s is anywhere from thirty to forty paces with a cusser-which is ugly close-’
‘All right. Rest of you, dismount and drive your horses down the other side. Truth, hold on good to their reins down there-if they bolt we’re done for.’
‘Saw Borduke and his squad south of here,’ Pella ventured.
‘Aye, as lost as we are-and you can’t see ’em now, can you?’
‘No, Sergeant.’
‘Damn that Ranal. Remind me to kill him when we next meet.’
‘Aye, Sergeant.’
The four attackers were tall bastards. Voicing eerie warcries now as they charged towards the base of the hill.
‘Load up, lad,’ Gesler muttered, ‘and don’t mess up.’
The lobber had been copied from Fiddler’s own. It looked decent, at least as far as lobbers went-which ain’t far enough. Thirty paces with a cusser. Hood roast us all…
And here they came. Base of the slope, horses surging to take them up the hill.
A heavy thud, and something awkward and grey sailed out and down.
A cusser-holy f-‘Down! Down! Down!’
The hill seemed to lift beneath them. Gesler thumped in the dust, coughing in the spiralling white clouds, then, swearing, he buried his head beneath his arms as stones rained down.
Some time later, the sergeant clambered to his feet.
On the hill’s opposite side, Truth was trying to run in every direction at once, the horses trailing loose reins as they pelted in wild panic.
‘Hood’s balls on a skillet!’ Gesler planted his hands on his hips and glared about. The other soldiers were picking themselves up, shaken and smeared in dust. Stormy closed on Sands and grabbed him by the throat.
‘Not too hard, Corporal,’ Gesler said as Stormy began shaking the sapper about. ‘I want him alive for my turn. And dammit, make sure he ain’t got any sharpers on his body.’
That stopped Stormy flat.
Gesler walked to the now pitted edge of the hill and looked down. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘they won’t be chasing us any more, I’d say.’
‘Wonder who they were?’ Pella asked.
‘Armour seems to have weathered the blast-you could go down and scrape out whatever’s left inside ’em… on second thought, never mind. We need to round up our horses.’ He faced the others. ‘Enough pissing about, lads. Let’s get moving.’
Lying on the smoking edge of the crater, sprayed in horseflesh and deafened by the blast, Jorrude groaned. He was a mass of bruises, his head ached, and he wanted to throw up-but not until he pried the helm from his head.
Nearby in the rubble, Brother Enias coughed. Then said, ‘Brother Jorrude?’
‘Yes?’
‘I want to go home.’
Jorrude said nothing. It would not do, after all, to utter a hasty, heartfelt agreement, despite their present circumstance. ‘Check on the others, Brother Enias.’
‘Were those truly the ones who rode that ship through our realm?’
‘They were,’ Jorrude answered as he fumbled with the helm’s straps. ‘And I have been thinking. I suspect they were ignorant of Liosan laws when they travelled through our realm. True, ignorance is an insufficient defence. But one must consider the notion of innocent momentum.’
From off to one side, Malachar grunted. ‘Innocent momentum?’
‘Indeed. Were not these trespassers but pulled along-beyond their will-in the wake of the draconian T’lan Imass bonecaster? If an enemy we must hunt, then should it not be that dragon?’
‘Wise words,’ Malachar observed.
‘A brief stay in our realm,’ Jorrude continued, ‘to resupply and requisition new horses, along with repairs and such, seems to reasonably obtain in this instance.’
‘Truly judged, brother.’
From the other side of the crater sounded another cough.
At least, Jorrude dourly reflected, they were all still alive.
It’s all the dragon’s fault, in fact. Who would refute that?
They rode into the sandstorm, less than fifty strides behind the fleeing horse warriors, and found themselves floundering blind in a maelstrom of shrieking winds and whipping gravel.
Fiddler heard a horse scream.
He drew hard on his own reins, the wind hammering at him from all sides. Already he’d lost sight of his companions. This is wide-eyed stupid.
Now, if I was the commander of those bastards, I’d-
And suddenly figures flashed into view, scimitars and round shields, swathed faces and ululating warcries. Fiddler threw himself down against his horse’s withers as a heavy blade slashed, slicing through sand-filled air where his head had been a moment earlier.
The Wickan mare lunged forward and to one side, choosing this precise moment to buck its hated rider from the saddle.
With profound success.
Fiddler found himself flying forward, his bag of munitions rolling up his back, then up over his head.
Still in mid-air, but angling down to the ground, he curled himself into a tight ball-though he well knew, in that instant, that there was no hope of surviving. No hope at all. Then he pounded into the sand, and rolled-to see, upside-down, a huge hook-bladed sword spinning end over end across his own wake. And a stumbling horse. And its rider, a warrior thrown far back on his saddle-with the munition bag wrapped in his arms.
A surprised look beneath the ornate helm-then rider, horse and munitions vanished into the whirling sands.
Fiddler clambered to his feet and began running. Sprinting, in what he hoped-what he prayed-was the opposite direction.
A hand snagged his harness from behind. ‘Not that way, you fool!’
And he was yanked to one side, flung to the ground, and a body landed on top of him.
The sergeant’s face was pushed into the sand and held there.
Corabb bellowed. The bulky, heavy sack was hissing in his arms. As if filled with snakes. It had clunked hard against his chest, arriving like a flung boulder out of the storm, and he’d time only to toss his sword away and raise both arms.
The impact threw him onto the horse’s rump, but his feet stayed in the stirrups.
The bag’s momentum carried it over his face, and the hissing filled his ears.
Snakes!
He slid on his back down one side of the mount’s heaving hindquarters, letting the bag’s weight pull his arms with it. Don’t panic! He screamed.
Snakes!
The bag tugged in his hands as it brushed the ground.
He held his breath, then let go.
Tumbling clunks, a burst of frenzied hissing-then the horse’s forward charge carried him blissfully away.
He struggled to right himself, his leg and stomach muscles fiercely straining, and finally was able to grasp the horn and pull himself straight.
One pass, Leoman had said. Then wheel and into the storm’s heart.
He’d done that much. One pass. Enough.
Time to flee.
Corabb Bhilan Thun’alas leaned forward, and bared muddy teeth.
Spirits below, it is good to be alive!
The detonation should have killed Fiddler. There was fire. Towering walls of sand. The air concussed, and his breath was torn from his lungs even as blood spurted from his nose and both ears.
And the body lying atop him seemed to wither in shreds.
He’d recognized the voice. It was impossible. It was… infuriating.
Hot smoke rolled over them.
And that damned voice whispered, ‘Can’t leave you on your own for a Hood-damned minute, can I? Say hello to Kalam for me, will ya? I’ll see you again, sooner or later. And you’ll see me, too. You’ll see us all.’ A laugh. ‘Just not today. Damned shame ’bout your fiddle, though.’
The weight vanished.
Fiddler rolled over. The storm was tumbling away, leaving a white haze in its wake. He groped with his hands.
A terrible, ragged moan ripped from his throat, and he lifted himself onto his knees. ‘Hedge!’ he screamed. ‘Damn you! Hedge!’
Someone jogged into view, settled down beside him. ‘Slamming gates, Fid-you’re Hood-damned alive!’
He stared at the man’s battered face, then recognized it. ‘Cuttle? He was here. He-you’re covered in blood-’
‘Aye. I wasn’t as close as you. Luckily. ’Fraid I can’t say the same for Ranal. Someone had taken down his horse. He was stumbling around.’
‘That blood-’
‘Aye,’ Cuttle said again, then flashed a hard grin. ‘I’m wearing Ranal.’
Shouts, and other figures were closing in. Every one of them on foot.
‘-killed the horses. Bastards went and-’
‘Sergeant! You all right? Bottle, get over here-’
‘Killed the-’
‘Be quiet, Smiles, you’re making me sick. Did you hear that blast? Gods below-’
Cuttle clapped Fiddler on one shoulder, then dragged him to his feet.
‘Where’s the lieutenant?’ Koryk asked.
‘Right here,’ Cuttle answered, but did not elaborate.
He’s wearing Ranal.
‘What just happened?’ Koryk asked.
Fiddler studied his squad. All here. That’s a wonder.
Cuttle spat. ‘What happened, lad? We got slapped down. That’s what happened. Slapped down hard.’
Fiddler stared at the retreating storm. Aw, shit. Hedge.
‘Here comes Borduke’s squad!’
‘Find your horses, everyone,’ Corporal Tarr said. ‘Sergeant’s been knocked about. Collect whatever you can salvage-we gotta wait for the rest of the company, I reckon.’
Good lad.
‘Look at that crater,’ Smiles said. ‘Gods, Sergeant, you couldn’t have been much closer to Hood’s Gate and lived, could you?’
He stared at her. ‘You’ve no idea how right you are, lass.’
And the song rose and fell, and he could feel his heart matching that cadence. Ebb and flow. Raraku has swallowed more tears than can be imagined. Now comes the time for the Holy Desert to weep. Ebb and flow, his blood’s song, and it lived on.
It lives on.
They had fled in the wrong direction. Fatal, but unsurprising. The night had been a shambles. The last survivor of Korbolo Dom’s cadre of mages, Fayelle rode a lathered horse in the company of thirteen other Dogslayers down the channel of a long-dead river, boulders and banks high on either side.
Herself and thirteen battered, bloodied soldiers. All that was left.
The clash with Leoman had begun well enough, a perfectly sprung ambush. And would have ended perfectly, as well.
If not for the damned ghosts.
Ambush turned over, onto its back like an upended tortoise. They’d been lucky to get out with their lives, these few. These last.
Fayelle well knew what had happened to the rest of Korbolo’s army. She had felt Henaras’s death. And Kamist Reloe’s.
And Raraku was not finished with them. Oh no. Not at all finished.
They reached a slope leading out of the defile.
She had few regrets-
Crossbow quarrels whizzed down. Horses and soldiers screamed. Bodies thumped onto the ground. Her horse staggered, then rolled onto its side. She’d no time to kick free of the stirrups, and as the dying beast pinned her leg its weight tore the joint from her hip, sending pain thundering through her. Her left arm was trapped awkwardly beneath her as her own considerable weight struck the ground-and bones snapped.
Then the side of her head hammered against rock.
Fayelle struggled to focus. The pain subsided, became a distant thing. She heard faint pleas for mercy, the cries of wounded soldiers being finished off.
Then a shadow settled over her.
‘I’ve been looking for you.’
Fayelle frowned. The face hovering above her belonged to the past. The desert had aged it, but it nevertheless remained a child’s face. Oh, spirits below. The child. Sinn. My old… student…
She watched the girl raise a knife between them, angle the point down, then set it against her neck.
Fayelle laughed. ‘Go ahead, you little horror. I’ll wait for you at Hood’s Gate… and the wait won’t be long-’
The knife punched through skin and cartilage.
Fayelle died.
Straightening, Sinn swung to her companions. They were, one and all, busy gathering the surviving horses.
Sixteen left. The Ashok Regiment had fallen on hard times. Thirst and starvation. Raiders. This damned desert.
She watched them for a moment, then something else drew her gaze.
Northward.
She slowly straightened. ‘Cord.’
The sergeant turned. ‘What-oh, Beru fend!’
The horizon to the west had undergone a transformation. It was now limned in white, and it was rising.
‘Double up!’ Cord bellowed. ‘Now!’
A hand closed on her shoulder. Shard leaned close. ‘You ride with me.’
‘Ebron!’
‘I hear you,’ the mage replied to Cord’s bellow. ‘And I’ll do what I can with these blown mounts, but I ain’t guaranteeing-’
‘Get on with it! Bell, help Limp onto that horse-he’s busted up that knee again!’
Sinn cast one last glance at Fayelle’s corpse. She’d known, then. What was coming.
I should be dancing. The bloodied knife fell from her hands.
Then she was roughly grasped and pulled up onto the saddle behind Shard.
The beast’s head tossed, and it shook beneath them.
‘Queen take us,’ Shard hissed, ‘Ebron’s filled these beasts with fire.’
We’ll need it…
And now they could hear the sound, a roar that belittled even the Whirlwind Wall in its fullest rage.
Raraku had risen.
To claim a shattered warren.
The Wickan warlocks had known what was coming. Flight was impossible, but the islands of coral stood high-higher than any other feature this side of the escarpment-and it was on these that the armies gathered.
To await what could be their annihilation.
The north sky was a massive wall of white, billowing clouds. A cool, burgeoning wind thrashed through the palms around the oasis.
Then the sound reached them.
A roar unceasing, building, of water, cascading, foaming, tumbling across the vast desert.
The Holy Desert, it seemed, held far more than bones and memories. More than ghosts and dead cities. Lostara Yil stood near the Adjunct, ignoring the baleful glares Tene Baralta continued casting her way. Wondering… if Pearl was on that high ground, standing over Sha’ik’s grave… if that ground was in fact high enough.
She wondered, too, at what she had seen these past months. Visions burned into her soul, fraught and mysterious, visions that could still chill her blood if she allowed them to rise before her mind’s eye once more. Crucified dragons. Murdered gods. Warrens of fire and warrens of ashes.
It was odd, she reflected, to be thinking these things, even as a raging sea was born from seeming nothing and was sweeping towards them, drowning all in its path.
Odder, still, to be thinking of Pearl. She was hard on him, viciously so at times. Not because she cared, but because it was fun. No, that was too facile, wasn’t it? She cared indeed.
What a stupid thing to have let happen.
A weary sigh close beside her. Lostara scowled without turning. ‘You’re back.’
‘As requested,’ Pearl murmured.
Oh, she wanted to hit him for that.
‘The task is… done?’
‘Aye. Consigned to the deep and all that. If Tene Baralta still wants her, he’ll have to hold his breath.’
She looked then. ‘Really? The sea is already that deep?’ Then we’re-
‘No. High and dry, actually. The other way sounded more… poetic.’
‘I really hate you.’
He nodded. ‘And you’ll have plenty of time in which to luxuriate in it.’
‘You think we’ll survive this?’
‘Yes. Oh, we’ll get our feet wet, but these were islands even back then. This sea will flood the oasis. It will pound up against the raised road west of here-since it was the coastal road back then. And wash up close to the escarpment, maybe even reach it.’
‘That’s all very well,’ she snapped. ‘And what will we be doing, stuck here on these islands in the middle of a landlocked sea?’
Infuriatingly, Pearl simply shrugged. ‘A guess? We build a flotilla of rafts and bind them together to form a bridge, straight to the west road. The sea will be shallow enough there anyway, even if that doesn’t work as well as it should-but I have every confidence in the Adjunct.’
The wall of water then struck the far side of the oasis, with the sound of thunder. Palms waved wildly, then began toppling.
‘Well, now we know what turned that other forest to stone,’ Pearl said loudly over the thrashing roar of water-
That now flowed across the ruins, filling the Dogslayer trenches, tumbling down into the basin.
And Lostara could see that Pearl was right. Its fury was already spent, and the basin seemed to swallow the water with a most prodigious thirst.
She glanced over to study the Adjunct.
Impassive, watching the seas rise, one hand on the hilt of her sword.
Oh, why does looking at you break my heart?
The sands were settling on the carcasses of the horses. The three squads sat or stood, waiting for the rest of the legion. Bottle had walked up to the road to see the source of the roar, had come staggering back with the news.
A sea.
A damned sea.
And its song was in Fiddler’s soul, now. Strangely warm, almost comforting.
One and all, they then turned to watch the giant rider and his giant horse thunder along that road, heading westward. Dragging something that kicked up a lot of dust.
The image of that stayed with Fiddler long after the clouds of dust had drifted off the road, down the near side of the slope.
Could have been a ghost.
But he knew it wasn’t.
Could have been their worst enemy.
But if he was, it didn’t matter. Not right now.
A short while later there was a startled shout from Smiles, and Fiddler turned, in time to see two figures stride out from a warren.
Despite everything, he found himself grinning.
Old friends, he realized, were getting harder to find.
Still, he knew them, and they were his brothers.
Mortal souls of Raraku. Raraku, the land that had bound them together. Bound them all, as was now clear, beyond even death.
Fiddler was unmindful of how it looked, of what the others thought, upon seeing the three men close to a single embrace.
The horses clambered up the slope to the ridge. Where their riders reined them in, and one and all turned to stare at the yellow, foaming seas churning below. A moment later a squat four-eyed demon scrabbled onto the summit to join them.
The Lord of Summer had lent wings to their horses-Heboric could admit no other possibility, so quickly had they covered the leagues since the night past. And the beasts seemed fresh even now. As fresh as Greyfrog.
Though he himself was anything but.
‘What has happened?’ Scillara wondered aloud.
Heboric could only shake his head.
‘More importantly,’ Felisin said, ‘where do we go now? I don’t think I can sit in the saddle much longer-’
‘I know how you feel, lass. We should find somewhere to make camp-’
The squeal of a mule brought all three around.
A scrawny, black-skinned old man was riding up towards them, seated cross-legged atop the mule. ‘Welcome!’ he shrieked-a shriek because, even as he spoke, he toppled to one side and thumped hard onto the stony trail. ‘Help me, you idiots!’
Heboric glanced at the two women, but it was Greyfrog who moved first.
‘Food!’
The old man shrieked again. ‘Get away from me! I have news to tell! All of you! Is L’oric dead? No! My shadows saw everything! You are my guests! Now, come prise my legs loose! You, lass. No, you, the other lass! Both of you! Beautiful women with their hands on my legs, my thighs! I can’t wait! Do they see the avid lust in my eyes? Of course not, I’m but a helpless wizened creature, potential father figure-’
Cutter stood in the tower’s uppermost chamber, staring out of the lone window. Bhok’arala chittered behind him, pausing every now and then to make crooning, mournful sounds.
He’d woken alone.
And had known, instantly, that she was gone. And there would be no trail for him to follow.
Iskaral Pust had conjured up a mule and ridden off earlier. Of Mogora there was, mercifully, no sign.
Thoroughly alone, then, for most of this day.
Until now.
‘There are countless paths awaiting you.’
Cutter sighed. ‘Hello, Cotillion. I was wondering if you’d show up… again.’
‘Again?’
‘You spoke with Apsalar. Here in this very chamber. You helped her decide.’
‘She told you?’
He shook his head. ‘Not entirely.’
‘Her decision was hers to make, Cutter. Hers alone.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Never mind. Odd, though. You see countless paths. Whilst I see… none worth walking.’
‘Do you seek, then, something worthy?’
Cutter slowly closed his eyes, then sighed. ‘What would you have me do?’
‘There was a man, once, whose task was to guard the life of a young girl. He did the best he could-with such honour as to draw, upon his sad death, the attention of Hood himself. Oh, the Lord of Death will look into a mortal’s soul, given the right circumstances. The, uh, the proper incentive. Thus, that man is now the Knight of Death-’
‘I don’t want to be Knight of anything, nor for anyone, Cotillion-’
‘The wrong track, lad. Let me finish my tale. This man did the best he could, but he failed. And now the girl is dead. She was named Felisin. Of House Paran.’
Cutter’s head turned. He studied the shadowed visage of the god. ‘Captain Paran? His-’
‘His sister. Look down upon the path, here, out the window, lad. In a short time Iskaral Pust will return. With guests. Among them, a child named Felisin-’
‘But you said-’
‘Before Paran’s sister… died, she adopted a waif. A sorely abused foundling. She sought, I think-we will never know for certain, of course-to achieve something… something she herself had no chance, no opportunity, to achieve. Thus, she named the waif after herself.’
‘And what is she to me, Cotillion?’
‘You are being obstinate, I think. The wrong question.’
‘Oh, then tell me what is the right question.’
‘What are you to her?’
Cutter grimaced.
‘The child approaches in the company of another woman, a very remarkable one, as you-and she-will come to see. And with a priest, sworn now to Treach. From him, you will learn… much of worth. Finally, a demon travels with these three humans. For the time being…’
‘Where are they going? Why stop here, as Iskaral’s guests?’
‘Why, to collect you, Cutter.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Symmetry, lad, is a power unto itself. It is the expression, if you will, of nature’s striving for balance. I charge you with protecting Felisin’s life. To accompany them on their long, and dangerous, journey.’
‘How epic of you.’
‘I think not,’ Cotillion snapped.
Silence, for a time, during which Cutter regretted his comment.
Finally, the Daru sighed. ‘I hear horses. And Pust… in one of his nauseating diatribes.’
Cotillion said nothing.
‘Very well,’ Cutter said. ‘This Felisin… abused, you said. Those ones are hard to get to. To befriend, I mean. Their scars stay fresh and fierce with pain-’
‘Her adopted mother did well, given her own scars. Be glad, lad, that she is the daughter, not the mother. And, in your worst moments, think of how Baudin felt.’
‘Baudin. The elder Felisin’s guardian?’
‘Yes.’
‘All right,’ Cutter said. ‘It will do.’
‘What will?’
‘This path. It will do.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘Cotillion. This notion of… balance. Something has occurred to me-’
Cotillion’s eyes silenced him, shocked him with their unveiling of sorrow… of remorse. The patron of assassins nodded. ‘From her… to you. Aye.’
‘Did she see that, do you think?’
‘All too clearly, I’m afraid.’
Cutter stared out the window. ‘I loved her, you know. I still do.’
‘So you do not wonder why she has left.’
He shook his head, unable to fight back the tears any more. ‘No, Cotillion,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t.’
The ancient coast road long behind him, Karsa Orlong guided Havok northward along the shore of the new inland sea. Rain clouds hung over the murky water to the east, but the wind was pushing them away.
He studied the sky for a moment, then reined in on a slight rise studded with boulders and slipped down from the horse’s back. Walking over to a large, flat-topped rock, the Teblor unslung his sword and set it point downward against a nearby boulder, then sat. He drew off his pack and rummaged in an outside pocket for some salted bhederin, dried fruit, and goat cheese.
Staring out over the water, he ate. When he was done, he loosened the pack’s straps and dragged out the broken remains of the T’lan Imass. He held it up so that Siballe’s withered face looked out upon the rippling waves.
‘Tell me,’ Karsa said, ‘what do you see?’
‘My past.’ A moment of silence, then, ‘All that I have lost…’
The Teblor released his grip and the partial corpse collapsed into a cloud of dust. Karsa found his waterskin and drank deep. Then he stared down at Siballe. ‘You once said that if you were thrown into the sea, your soul would be freed. That oblivion would come to you. Is this true?’
‘Yes.’
With one hand he lifted her from the ground, rose and walked to the sea’s edge.
‘Wait! Teblor, wait! I do not understand!’
Karsa’s expression soured. ‘When I began this journey, I was young. I believed in one thing. I believed in glory. I know now, Siballe, that glory is nothing. Nothing. This is what I now understand.’
‘What else do you now understand, Karsa Orlong?’
‘Not much. Just one other thing. The same cannot be said for mercy.’ He raised her higher, then swung her body outward.
It struck the water in the shallows. And dissolved into a muddy bloom, which the waves then swept away.
Karsa swung about. Faced his sword of stone. He then smiled. ‘Yes. I am Karsa Orlong of the Uryd, a Teblor. Witness, my brothers. One day I will be worthy to lead such as you. Witness.’
Sword once more slung on his back, Havok once more solid beneath him, the Toblakai rode from the shoreline. West, into the wastes.