Discipline is the greatest weapon against the self-righteous. We must measure the virtue of our own controlled response when answering the atrocities of fanatics. And yet, let it not be claimed, in our own oratory of piety, that we are without our own fanatics; for the selfrighteous breed wherever tradition holds, and most often when there exists the perception that tradition is under assault. Fanatics can be created as easily in an environment of moral decay (whether real or imagined) as in an environment of legitimate inequity or under the banner of a common cause.
Discipline is as much facing the enemy within as the enemy before you; for without critical judgement, the weapon you wield delivers – and let us not be coy here – naught but murder.
And its first victim is the moral probity of your cause. (Words to the Adherents) Mortal Sword Brukhalian The Grey Swords It was growing harder, Ganoes Paran realized, not to regret certain choices he had made. While scouts reported that the Deragoth were not trailing his army as it marched north and east across virtually empty lands, this very absence led to suspicion and trepidation. After all, if those hoary beasts were not following them, what were they up to?
Ganath, the Jaghut sorceress, had more or less intimated that Paran's decision to unleash those beasts was a terrible mistake. He probably should have listened to her. It was a conceit to imagine he could manipulate indefinitely all the forces he had let loose to deal with the T'rolbarahl. And, perhaps, there had been a lack of confidence in the capabilities of ascendants already active in this realm. The Deragoth were primal, but sometimes, that which was primal found itself assailed by a world that no longer permitted its unmitigated freedom.
Well, enough of that. It's done, isn't it. Let someone else clean up the mess I made, just for a change.
Then he frowned. Granted, that's probably not the proper attitude for the Master of the Deck. But I didn't ask for the title, did I?
Paran rode in the company of soldiers, somewhere in the middle of the column. He didn't like the notion of an entourage, or a vanguard. Fist Rythe Bude was leading the way at the moment, although that position rotated among the Fists. While Paran remained where he was, with only Noto Boil beside him and, occasionally, Hurlochel, who appeared when there was some message to deliver – and there were, blissfully, scant few of those.
'You were more forceful, you know,' Noto Boil said beside him, 'when you were Captain Kindly.'
'Oh, be quiet,' Paran said.
'An observation, High Fist, not a complaint.'
'Your every observation is a complaint, healer.'
'That's hurtful, sir.'
'See what I mean? Tell me something interesting – Kartoolian, right?
Were you a follower of D'rek, then?'
'Hood, no! Very well, if you wish to hear something interesting, I shall tell you of my own history. As a youth, I was a leg-breaker-'
'A what?'
'I broke dog legs. Just one per mongrel, mind you. Lame dogs were important for the festival-'
'Ah, you mean the D'rek festival! That disgusting, barbaric, filthstrewn day of sordid celebration! So, you broke the legs of poor, bemused animals, so they could be stoned to death in alleys by psychotic little children.'
'What is your point, High Fist? Yes, that is precisely what I did.
Three crescents a dog. It was a living. Alas, I eventually tired of that-'
'The Malazans outlawed the festival-'
'Yes, that too. A most unfortunate decision. It has made my people moribund, forcing us to search elsewhere for our-'
'For your sick, obnoxious tastes in delivering misery and suffering.'
'Well, yes. Whose story is this?'
'Abyss take me, please accept my apologies. Do go on – assuming I can stomach it.'
Noto Boil tilted his nose skyward. 'I was not busy running around skewering goddesses in my youth-'
'Neither was I, although I suppose, like any healthy young non-legbreaking boy, I lusted after a few. At least, based on their statues and the like. Take Soliel, for instance-'
'Soliel! A likeness expressly visualized to encourage notions of motherhood!'
'Oh, really? My, that's a little too revealing, isn't it?'
'Mind you,' Noto Boil said in a commiserating tone, 'you were a young boy…'
'So I was, now let's forget all that. You were saying? After your legbreaker career died with a whimper, then what?'
'Oh, how very droll, sir. I should also point out, the Manifestation of Soliel back in G'danisban-'
'Damned disappointing,' Paran agreed. 'You've no idea how many adolescent fantasies were obliterated by that.'
'I thought you had no desire to discuss that subject any further?'
'Fine. Go on.'
'I was apprenticed for a short time to a local healer-'
'Healing lame dogs?'
'Not our primary source of income, sir. There was a misunderstanding, as a consequence of which I was forced to depart his company, in some haste. A local recruiting drive proved opportune, especially since such efforts by the Malazans rarely garnered more than a handful of Kartoolians – and most of those either destitute or criminal-'
'And you were both.'
'The principal source of their delight at my joining the ranks derived from my skills as a healer. Anyway my first campaign was in Korel, the Theftian Campaigns, where I was fortunate to acquire further tutelage from a healer who would later become infamous. Ipshank.'
'Truly?'
'Indeed, none other. And yes, I met Manask as well. It must be said – and you, High Fist, will comprehend more than most the necessity of this – it must be said, both Ipshank and Manask remained loyal to Greymane… to the last. Well, as far as I knew, that is – I was healer to a full legion by then, and we were sent to Genabackis. In due course-'
'Noto Boil,' Paran interrupted, 'it seems you have a singular talent for consorting with the famous and the infamous.'
'Why, yes, sir. I suppose I have at that. And now, I suspect, you are wondering into which category I place you?'
'Me? No, don't bother.'
The healer prepared to speak again but was interrupted by the arrival of Hurlochel.
'High Fist.'
'Outrider.'
'The trail ahead, sir, has up until now revealed little more than a scattering of your so-called pilgrims. But it seems that a troop of riders have joined the migration.'
'Any idea how many?'
'More than five hundred, High Fist. Could be as many as a thousand – they are riding in formation so it's difficult to tell.'
'Formation. Now, who might they be, I wonder? All right, Hurlochel, advance your scouts and flanking outriders – how far ahead are they?'
'Four or five days, sir. Riding at a collected canter for the most part.'
'Very good. Thank you, Hurlochel.'
The outrider rode back out of the column.
'What do you think this means, High Fist?'
Paran shrugged at the healer's question. 'I imagine we'll discover soon enough, Boil.'
'Noto Boil, sir. Please.'
'Good thing,' Paran continued, unable to help himself, 'you became a healer and not a lancer.'
'If you don't mind, sir, I think I hear someone complaining up ahead about saddle sores.' The man clucked his mount forward.
Oh my, he prefers saddle sores to my company. Well, to each his own…
'High Fist Paran,' Captain Sweetcreek muttered. 'What's he doing riding back there, and what's all that about no saluting? It's bad for discipline. I don't care what the soldiers think – I don't even care that he once commanded the Bridgeburners – after all, he took them over only to see them obliterated. It's not proper, I'm saying. None of it.'
Fist Rythe Bude glanced over at the woman. Her colour was up, the Fist observed, eyes flashing. Clearly, the captain was not prepared to forget that punch in the jaw. Mind you, I probably wouldn't forgive something like that either.
'I think the Fists need to organize a meeting-'
'Captain,' Rythe Bude warned, 'you forget yourself.'
'My apologies, sir. But, now that we're trailing some kind of army, well, I don't want to end up like the Bridgeburners. That's all.'
'Dujek Onearm's confidence in Paran, and his admiration for the man, Captain, is sufficient for me. And my fellow Fists. I strongly advise you to suppress your anger and recall your own discipline. As for the army ahead of us, even a thousand mounted warriors hardly represents a significant threat to the Host. This rebellion is over – there's noone left to rebel, after all. And little left to fight over.' She gestured forward with one gauntleted hand. 'Even these pilgrims keep falling to the wayside.'
A low mound of stones was visible to one side of the rough track – another sad victim of this pilgrimage – and from this one rose a staff bedecked in crow feathers.
'That's eerie, too,' Sweetcreek said. 'All these Coltaine worshippers…'
'This land breeds cults like maggots in a corpse, Captain.'
Sweetcreek grunted. 'A most appropriate image, Fist, in this instance.'
Rythe Bude grunted. Aye, I stumble on those every now and then.
Behind the two riders, Corporal Futhgar said, 'Sirs, what are those?'
They twisted round in their saddles, then looked to where the man was pointing. The eastern sky. Voices were rising among the soldiers now, invoked prayers, a few shouts of surprise.
A string of suns, a dozen in all, each small but bright enough to burn blinding holes in the blue sky. From two stretched tails of fiery mist. The row of suns curved like a longbow, the ends higher, and above it was the blurred, misshapen face of the moon.
'An omen of death!' someone shouted.
'Captain,' Rythe Bude snapped, 'get that fool to shut his mouth.'
'Aye, sir.'
'The sky falls,' Noto Boil said as he fell back in beside the High Fist.
Scowling, Paran continued studying the strange appearance in the eastern sky, seeking some sense of what it was they were witnessing.
Whatever it is, I don't like it.
'You doubt me?' the healer asked. 'High Fist, I have walked the lands of Korel. I have seen the craters left behind by all that descended from the sky. Have you ever perused a map of Korel? The entire northern subcontinent and its host of islands? Fling a handful of gravel into mud, then wait whilst water fills the pocks. That is Korel, sir. The people still tell tales of the countless fires that fell from the sky, in the bringing down of the Crippled God.'
'Ride to the head of the column, Noto Boil,' Paran said.
'Sir?'
'Call a halt. Right now. And get me Hurlochel and his outriders. I need a sense of the surrounding area. We may need to find cover.'
For once, the healer made no complaint.
Paran stared at the string of fires, growing like a salvo from the Abyss. Damn, where's Ormulogun? I need to find him, and he'd better have that Deck ready – or at least the cards etched out, preferably scribed and ready for the threads of paint. Gods below, he'd better have something, because I don't have time to… his thoughts trailed away.
He could feel them now, coming ever closer – he could feel their heat – was that even possible?
The damned moon – I should have paid attention. I should have quested, found out what has happened up there, to that forlorn world. And then another thought struck him, and he went cold.
War among the gods.
Is this an attack? A salvo in truth?
Paran bared his teeth. 'If you're out there,' he whispered, glaring at the eastern sky as his horse shied nervously beneath him, 'you're not playing fair. And… I don't like that.' He straightened, stood in his stirrups, and looked about.
'Ormulogun! Where in Hood's name are you!'
'Against this,' Iskaral Pust muttered, 'I can do nothing.' He hugged himself. 'I think I should start gibbering, now. Yes, that would be highly appropriate. A crazed look in my eyes. Drool, then froth, yes.
Who could blame me? We're all going to die!'
These last words were a shriek, sufficient to shake Mappo from his insensate lethargy. Lifting his head, he looked across at the High Priest of Shadow. The Dal Honese was huddled beside his mule, and both were bathed in a strange light, green-hued – no, the Trell realized, that light was everywhere.
Spite descended from the forecastle, and Mappo saw in her expression cold rage. 'We are in trouble,' she said in a grating voice. 'Out of time – I had hoped… never mind-' Suddenly her head snapped round and she stared southwestward. Her eyes narrowed. Then she said, 'Oh… who in Hood's name are you? And what do you think you are up to?' Falling silent once more, her frown deepening.
Blinking, Mappo Runt pushed himself upright, and saw that the sky was on fire – almost directly above them. As if the sun had spawned a host of children, a string of incandescent pearls, their flames wreathed in haloes of jade. Growing… descending. What are those?
The sea seemed to tremble around them, the waves choppy, clashing in confusion. The air felt brittle, hot, and all wind had fallen away.
And there, above the mass of land to the east that was Otataral Island… Mappo looked back at Iskaral Pust. The High Priest, crouching now, had his hands covering his head. Bhoka'rala were converging, around him, mewling and whimpering, reaching out to touch the shivering old man. As he babbled, 'We didn't plan for this, did we? I don't remember – gods, I don't remember anything! Mogora, my dear hag, where are you? This is my moment of greatest need. I want sex! Even with you! I'll drink the white paralt later – what choice?
It's that, or the memory of most regrettable weakness on my part!
There is only so much I can suffer. Stop touching me, you vile apes!
Shadowthrone, you miserable insane shade – where are you hiding and is there room for me, your most devoted servant, your Magus? There'd better be! Come get me, damn you – never mind anyone else! Just me! Of course there's room! You mucus-smeared knee-in-the-groin fart-cloud!
Save me!'
'Spirits below,' Mogora muttered at Mappo's side, 'listen to that pathetic creature! And to think, I married him!'
Spite suddenly wheeled and ran back to the bow, bhok'arala scattering from her path. Once there, she spun round and shouted. 'I see them!
Make for them, fools! Quickly!'
And then she veered, rising above the wallowing, rocking ship, silveretched wings spreading wide. Swirling mists, writhing, growing solid, until an enormous dragon hovered before the ship, dwarfing the craft in its immensity. Lambent eyes flared like quicksilver in the eerie, emerald light. The creature's long, sinuous tail slithered down, snake-like, and coiled round the upthrust prow. The dragon then twisted in the air, a savage beat of the wings-and with an alarming jolt the ship lunged forward.
Mappo was flung back into the cabin wall, wood splintering behind him.
Gasping, the Trell regained his feet and clambered towards the bows.
She sees them? Who?
The sky was filling with spears of green fire, plunging towards them.
Iskaral Pust screamed.
Over a thousand leagues away, westward, Bottle stood with the others and stared at the eastern horizon – where darkness should have been, crawling heavenward to announce the unending cycle of day's death and night's birth. Instead they could see distinctly a dozen motes of fire, descending, filling a third of the sky with a lurid, incandescent, greenish glow.
'Oh,' Bottle whispered, 'this is bad.'
Fiddler clutched at his sleeve, pulled him close. 'Do you understand this?' the sergeant demanded in a harsh whisper.
Bottle shook his head.
'Is this – is this another Crippled God?'
Bottle stared at Fiddler, eyes widening. Another? 'Gods below!'
'Is it?'
'I don't know!'
Swearing, Fiddler pushed him away. Bottle staggered back, shouldering into Sergeant Balm – who barely reacted – then he twisted through the press, stumbling as he made his way clear, looked across the waters.
To the south, the Nemil ships – war biremes and supply transports – had every sheet to the wind as they raced back towards their homeland, the former swiftly outdistancing the latter, many of the transports still half-filled with cargo – the resupply abandoned.
Aye, it's every fool for himself now. But when those things hit, that shock wave will roll fast. It will smash us all into kindling. Poor bastards, you'll never make it. Not even those ugly biremes.
The unceasing wind seemed to pause, as if gathering breath, then returned with redoubled force, sending everyone on deck staggering.
Sailcloth bucked, mast and spars creaking – the Silanda groaned beneath them.
Quick Ben? Best make your escape now, and take whoever you can with you. Against what's coming… there is no illusion that will dissuade it. As for those Tiste Edur, well, they're as finished as we are. I will accept that as consolation.
Well, Grandma, you always said the sea will be the death of me.
Sergeant Hellian wandered across the deck, marvelling at the green world she had found. This Nemil brandy packed a punch, didn't it just?
People were screaming, or just standing, as if frozen in place, but that's how things usually were, those times she accidentally – oops – slipped over that blurry line of not-quite drunk. Still, this green was making her a little sick.
Hood-damned Nemil brandy – what idiots drank this rubbish? Well, she could trade it for some Falari sailor's rum. There were enough idiots on this ship who didn't know better, she just had to find one. A sailor, like that one there.
'Hey. Look, I got N'm'l brandy, but I'm thirsty for rum, right? Paid ten crescents for this, I know, it's a lot, but my squad, they love me y'see. Took up a c'lection. So's, I'm thinking, how 'bout we trade.
Straight across, baw'll for baw'll. Sure, I drunk most a this, but it' s worth more, right. Which, as you can see, e'ens thingzup.' Then she waited.
The man was a tall bastard. Kind of severe looking. Other people were staring – what was their problem, anyway?
Then the man took the bottle, swished it back and forth and frowned.
He drank it down, three quick swallows.
'Hey-'
And reached beneath his fancy cloak, drawing out a flask, which he passed across to her. 'Here, soldier,' he said. 'Now get below and drink until you pass out.'
She collected the flask with both hands, marvelling at its polished silver surface, even the gouge that ran diagonally across one side, and the sigils stamped into it, very nice. The Imperial Sceptre, and four old ones – the ones that used to identify flagships – she'd seen those before. There, that was Cartheron Crust's, and that one was Urko's, and that one she didn't know, but the last one was the same as on the flag up top of this ship she was on. That's a coincidence now, ain't it? She blinked at the man. 'Can't,' she said. 'I got orders-'
'I am countermanding those orders, Sergeant.'
'You can do that?'
'Under these circumstances, yes.'
'Well then, I'll never forget you, sailor. Promise. Now, where's the hatch…?'
He guided her, with one firm hand on her shoulder, in the right direction. Clutching the beautiful and beautifully swishing flask against her chest, Hellian made her way along, through the green murk, and all the staring faces. She stuck out her tongue.
They can get their own.
Apsalar turned at the sigh from the Adjunct.
Tavore's expression was… philosophic, as she stared at the eastern horizon. 'Humbling, is it not?'
'Yes, Adjunct, I suppose it is.'
'All of our plans… our conceits… as if the sheer force of our wills, each of us, can somehow ensure that all else remains unchanged around us, awaiting naught but what we do, what we say.'
'The gods-'
'Yes, I know. But that' – she nodded eastward – 'does not belong to them.'
'No?'
'It is too devastating, soldier. Neither side is that desperate… yet. And now,' she shrugged, 'even their games dwindle into insignificance.'
'Adjunct,' Apsalar said, 'you lack confidence.'
'Do I? In what?'
'Our resilience.'
'Perhaps.'
But Apsalar could feel her own confidence crumbling, clinging to a single thought – and the resolve behind that thought was itself weakening. Even so. A single thought. This – this was anticipated. By someone. It had to be.
Someone saw this coming.
Most people were blind, wilfully or otherwise. But, there were some who weren't.
So now, my prescient friend, you had better do something about it. And quick.
Ormulogun, trailed by his toad, stumbled into view, an overflowing leather satchel in his arms. The toad was bleating something about delusional artists and the brutal world in a tone of pessimistic satisfaction. Ormulogun tripped and fell almost at Paran's feet, the satchel tipping and spilling its contents – including scores of wooden cards, most of them blank.
'You've barely started! You damned fool!'
'Perfection!' Ormulogun shrieked. 'You said-'
'Never mind,' Paran snarled. He looked back at the eastern sky. Spears of fire were descending like rain. 'Mainland? Into the sea?' he wondered aloud. 'Or Otataral Island?'
'Maybe all three,' Noto Boil said, licking his lips.
'Well,' Paran said, crouching down and clearing a space in the sand before him, 'sea's worse. That means…' He began drawing with his index finger.
'I have some!' Ormulogun whimpered, fumbling through the cards.
Mael. I hope you're paying attention – I hope you're ready to do what needs doing. He studied the streaks he had etched in the sand. Enough?
It has to be. Closing his eyes, he focused his will. The Gate is before me'I have this one!'
The shout was loud in Paran's right ear, and even as the force of his will was unleashed, he opened his eyes – and saw, hovering before him, another cardAnd all of his power rushed into itOnto his knees, skidding on clay that deformed beneath him, hands thrusting out to catch himself. Grey air, a charnel stench, and Paran lifted his head. Before him stood a gate, a mass of twisted bones and pale, bruised flesh, dangling strands of hair, innumerable staring eyes, and beyond it was grey, murky oblivion.
'Oh, Hood.'
He was at the very threshold. He had damned near flung himself right throughA figure appeared in the portal, black-cloaked, cowled, tall. This isn't one of his servants. This is the hoary old bastard himself'Is there time for such unpleasant thoughts, mortal?' The voice was mild, only faintly rasping. 'With what is about to happen… well, Ganoes Paran, Master of the Deck of Dragons, you have positioned yourself in a most unfortunate place, unless you wish to be trampled by the multitudes who shall momentarily find themselves on this path.'
'Oh, be quiet, Hood,' Paran hissed, trying to climb to his feet, then stopping when he realized that doing so would not be a good idea. '
Help me. Us. Stop what's coming – it'll destroy-'
'Far too much, yes. Too many plans. I can do little, however. You have sought out the wrong god.'
'I know. I was trying for Mael.'
'Pointless…' Yet, even as Hood spoke that word, Paran detected a certain… hesitation.
Ah, you've had a thought.
'I have. Very well, Ganoes Paran, bargain.'
'Abyss take us – there's no time for that!'
'Think quickly, then.'
'What do you want? More than anything else, Hood. What do you want?'
And so Hood told him. And, among the corpses, limbs and staring faces in the gate, one face in particular suddenly grew animate, its eyes opening very wide – a detail neither noticed.
Paran stared at the god, disbelieving. 'You can't be serious.'
'Death is always serious.'
'Oh, enough with the portentous crap! Are you certain?'
'Can you achieve what I ask, Ganoes Paran?'
'I will. Somehow.'
'Do you so vow?'
'I do.'
'Very well. Leave here. I must open this gate.'
'What? It is open!'
But the god had turned away, and Paran barely heard Hood's reply: 'Not from this side.'
Chaur squealed as a hail of firestones struck the roiling waters barely a ship's-breadth away. Explosions of steam, a terrible shrieking sound tearing through the air. Cutter pushed hard on the steering oar, trying to scull the wallowing craft – but he didn't have the strength for that. The Grief wasn't going anywhere. Except, I fear, to the bottom.
Something struck the deck; a thud, splintering, reverberations trembling the entire hull, then steam was billowing from the fistsized hole. The Grief seemed to sag beneath them.
Cursing, Barathol scrambled to the breach, dragging a bundle of spare sailcloth. Even as he sought to push it down into the hole, two more stones struck the craft, one up front tearing away the prow, another – a flash of heat against Cutter's left thigh and he looked down to see steam then water gushing up.
The air seethed like the breath from a forge. The entire sky overhead seemed to be on fire.
The sail above them was burning, ripped through.
Another concussion, and more than half of the port rail was simply gone, pulverized wood a mist drifting away, flaring with motes of flame.
'We're sinking!' Scillara shouted, grasping hold of the opposite rail as the Grief's deck tilted alarmingly.
Cargo shifted – too many supplies – we got greedy – making the dying craft lean further.
The wrapped corpse of Heboric rolled towards the choppy waves.
Crying out, Cutter sought to make his way towards it, but he was too far away – the cloth-wrapped form slid down into the waterAnd, wailing, Chaur followed it.
'No!' Barathol yelled. 'Chaur – no!'
The mute giant's huge arms closed about the corpse, a moment before both simply slipped from sight.
Sea. Bara called it sea. Warm now, wet. Was so nice. Now, sky bad, and sea bad – up there – but nice now. Here. Dark, night, night is coming, ears hurt. Ears hurt. Hurt. Bara said never breathe in sea. Need to breathe now. Oh, hurt! Breathe!
He filled his lungs, and fire burst through his chest, then… cool, calm, the spasms slowing. Darkness closed in round him, but Chaur was no longer frightened by that. The cold was gone, the heat was gone, and numbness filled his head.
He had so loved the sea.
The wrapped body in his arms pulled ever down, and the limbs that had been severed and that he had collected when Bara told him to, seemed to move about within as the canvas stretched, lost shape.
Darkness, now, inside and out. Something hot and savage tore past him, racing downward like a spear of light, and Chaur flinched. And he closed his eyes to make those things go away. The ache was finally gone from his lungs.
I sleep now.
Geysers of steam shooting skyward, thunderous concussions racking the air and visibly battering the sea so that it shook, trembled, and Cutter saw Barathol dive into the churning water, into Chaur's wake.
The body. Heboric – Chaur, oh gods…
He reached Scillara's side and pulled her close, into his arms. She clutched his sodden shirt. 'I'm so glad,' she whispered, as the Grief groaned and canted further onto its side.
'About what?'
'That I left her. Back there. I left her.'
Cutter hugged her all the tighter.
I'm sorry, Apsalar. For everythingSudden buffeting winds, a sweeping shadow. He looked up and his eyes widened at the monstrous shape occluding the sky, descendingA dragon. What now?
And then he heard shouts – and at that moment, the Grief seemed to explode.
Cutter found himself in the water, thrashing, panic awakened within him, like a fist closing round his heart.
… Reaching… reaching…
What is this sound? Where am I?
A million voices – screaming, plunging into terrible death – oh, they had travelled the dark span for so long, weightless, seeing before them that vast… emptiness. Unmindful of their arguing, their discussions, their fierce debates, it swallowed them. Utterly. Then, out, through to the other side… a net of power spreading out, something eager for mass, something that grew ever stronger, and the journey was suddenly in crazed, violent motion – a world beneath – so many lost then – and beyond it, another, this one larger'Oh, hear us, so many… annihilated. Mountains struck to dust, rock spinning away into dark, blinding clouds that scintillated in harsh sunlight – and now, this beast world that fills our vision – is this home? 'Have we come home?'
Reaching… hands of jade, dusty, raw, not yet polished into lurid brightness. I remember… you had to die, Treach, didn't you? Before ascendancy, before true godhood. You had to die first.
Was I ever your Destriant?
Did that title ever belong to me?
Did I need to be killed?
Reaching – these hands, these unknown, unknowable hands – how can I answer these screams? These millions in their shattered prisons – I touched, once, fingertip to fingertip, I touched, oh… the voices'This is not salvation. We simply die. Destruction-'
'No, no, you fool. Home. We have come home-'
'Annihilation is not salvation. Where is he? Where is our god?'
'I tell you, the search ends!'
'No argument there.'
Listen to me.
'Who is that?'
'He returns! The one outside – the brother!'
Listen to me, please. I – I'm not your brother. I'm no-one. I thought… Destriant… did I know it for certain? Have I been lied to? Destriant… well, maybe, maybe not. Maybe we all got it wrong, every one of us. Maybe even Treach got it wrong.
'He has lost his mind.'
'Forget him – look, death, terrible death, it comes-'
'Mad? So what. I'd rather listen to him than any of you. He said listen, he said that, and so I shall.'
'We will all listen, idiot – we have no choice, have we?'
Destriant. We got it all wrong. Don't you see? All I have done… cannot be forgiven. Can never be forgiven – he's sent me back. Even Hood – he's rejected me, flung me back. But… it's slipping away, so tenuous, I am failing'Failing, falling, what's the difference?'
Reaching.
'What?'
My hands – do you see them? Cut loose, that's what happened. The hands… cut loose. Freed. I can't do this… but I think they can.
Don't you see? 'Senseless words.'
'No, wait-'
Not Destriant.
Shield Anvil.
Reaching… look upon me – all of you! Reach! See my hands! See them!
They're reaching – reaching out for you!
They… are… reaching…
Barathol swam down into darkness. He could see… nothing. No-one.
Chaur, oh gods, what have I done? He continued clawing his way downward. Better he drowned as well – he could not live with this, not with that poor man-child's death on his hands – he could notHis own breath was failing, the pressure closing in, pounding in his skull. He was blindA flash of emerald green below, blooming, incandescent, billowing out – and at its core – Oh gods, wait – wait for meLimp, snagged in unravelled folds of canvas, Chaur was sinking, arms out to the sides, his eyes closed, his mouth… open.
No! No, no!
From the pulsing glow, heat – such heat – Barathol fought closer, his chest ready to explode – and reached down, down**** A section of the aft deck floated free from what was now little more than pummelled wreckage. The firestones tore down on all sides as Cutter struggled to help Scillara clamber onto the pitching fragment.
Those firestones – they were smaller than pebbles, despite the fistsized holes they had punched through the Grief. Smaller than pebbles – more like grains of sand, glowing bright green, like spatters of glass, their colour changing, almost instantly, into rust red as they plummeted into the depths.
Scillara cried out.
'Are you hit? Oh, gods – no-'
She twisted round. 'Look! Hood take us – look!' And she lifted an arm, pointed as a swelling wave lifted them – pointed eastwardTowards Otataral Island.
It had… ignited. Jade green, a glowing dome that might have spanned the entire island, writhing, lifting skyward, and, rising up through it… hands. Of jade. Like… like Heboric's. Rising, like trees. Arms – huge – dozens of them – rising, fingers spreading, green light spiralling out – from their upturned palms, from the fingers, from the veins and arteries cabling their muscled lengths – green light, slashing into the heavens like sword-blades. Those arms were too big to comprehend, reaching upward like pillars through the dome-as the fires filling the sky seemed to flinch… tremble… and then began to converge.
Above the island, above the hands of jade reaching up, through the billowing green light.
The first falling sun struck the glowing dome.
The sound was like a drum beat, on a scale to deafen the gods. Its pulse rippled through the dome's burgeoning flanks, racing outward and seeming to strip the surface of the sea, shivering through Cutter's bones, a concussion that triggered bursting agony in his ears – then another, and another as sun after sun plunged into that buckling, pocked dome. He was screaming, yet unable to hear himself. Red mist filled his eyes – he felt himself sliding from the raft, down into the foam-laden wavesEven as an enormous clawed foot reached down, spread wide over Cutter – and Scillara, who was grasping him by an arm, seeking to drag him back onto the raft – and talons the size of scimitars closed round them both. They were lifted from the thrashing water, upward, up**** Reaching… yes. For me, closer, closer.
Never mind the pain.
It will not last. I promise. I know, because I remember.
No, I cannot be forgiven.
But maybe you can, maybe I can do that, if you feel it's needed – I don't know – I was the wrong one, to have touched… there in that desert. I didn't understand, and Baudin could never have guessed what would happen, how I would be marked.
Marked, yes, I see now, for this, this need.
Can you hear me? Closer – do you see the darkness? There, that is where I am.
Millions of voices, weeping, crying out, voices, filled with yearning – he could hear themAh gods, who am I? I cannot remember.
Only this. The darkness that surrounds me. We, yes, all of you – we can all wait here, in this darkness.
Never mind the pain.
Wait with me. In this darkness.
And the voices, in their millions, in their vast, unbearable need, rushed towards him.
Shield Anvil, who would take their pain, for he could remember such pain.
The darkness took them, and it was then that Heboric Ghost Hands, Shield Anvil, realized a most terrible truth.
One cannot, in any real measure, remember pain.
Two bodies tumbling like broken dolls onto the deck. Mappo struggled towards them, even as Spite wheeled away one more time – he could feel the dragon's agony with every ragged breath she drew, and the air was foul with the reek of scorched scales and flesh.
The rain of fire had descended in a torrent all round them, wild as a hailstorm and far deadlier; yet not one particle had struck their ship – protection gifted, Mappo realized, not by Spite, nor indeed by Iskaral Pust or Mogora. No, as the High Priest's fawning, wet kisses gave proof, some power born in that damned black-eyed mule was responsible. Somehow.
The beast simply stood, unmoving and seemingly indifferent, tail flicking the absence of flies. Slowly blinking, as if half-asleep, its lips twitching every now and then.
While the world went mad around them; while it tore that other ship to piecesMappo rolled the nearer figure over. Blood-smeared face, streams from the ears, the nose, the corners of the eyes – yet he knew this man. He knew him. Crokus, the Daru. Oh, lad, what has brought you to this?
Then the young man's eyes opened. Filled with fear and apprehension.
'Be at ease,' Mappo said, 'you are safe now.'
The other figure, a woman, was coughing up seawater, and there was blood flowing down from her left ear to track the underside of her jaw before dripping from her chin. On her hands and knees, she lifted her head and met the Trell's gaze.
'Are you all right?' Mappo asked.
She nodded, crawled closer to Crokus.
'He will live,' the Trell assured her. 'It seems we all shall live…
I had not believed-'
Iskaral Pust screamed.
Pointed.
A large, scarred, black-skinned arm had appeared over the port rail, like some slithering eel, the hand grasping, hard on the slick wood, the muscles straining.
Mappo clambered over.
The man he looked down upon was holding onto another body, a man easily as large as he was, and it was clear that the former was fast losing his strength. Mappo reached down and dragged them both onto the deck.
'Barathol,' the woman gasped.
Mappo watched as the man named Barathol quickly rolled his companion over and began pushing the water from his lungs.
'Barathol-'
'Quiet, Scillara-'
'He was under too long-'
'Quiet!'
Mappo watched, trying to remember what such ferocity, such loyalty, felt like. He could almost recall… almost. He has drowned, this one.
See all that water? Yet Barathol would not cease in his efforts, pulling the limp, flopping body about this way and that, rocking the arms, then, finally, dragging the head and shoulders onto his lap, where he cradled the face as if it was a newborn babe.
The man's expression twisted, terrible in its grief. 'Chaur! Listen to me! This is Barathol. Listen! I want you to – to bury the horses! Do you hear me? You have to bury the horses! Before the wolves come down!
I'm not asking, Chaur, do you understand? I'm telling you!'
He has lost his mind. From this, there is no recovery. I know, I know'Chaur! I will get angry, do you understand? Angry… with you! With you, Chaur! Do you want Barathol angry at you, Chaur? Do you want-'
A cough, gouting water, a convulsion, then the huge man held so tenderly in Barathol's arms seemed to curl up, one hand reaching up, and a wailing cry worked its way through the mucus and froth.
'No, no my friend,' Barathol gasped, pulling the man into a tight, rocking embrace. 'I'm not angry. No, I'm not. Never mind the horses.
You did that already. Remember? Oh, Chaur, I'm not angry.'
But the man bawled, clutching at Barathol like a child.
He is a simpleton. Otherwise, this Barathol, he would not have spoken to him in such a manner. He is a child in a man's body, this Chaur…
Mappo watched. As the two huge men wept in each other's arms.
Spite now stood beside the Trell, and as soon as Mappo became aware of her, he sensed her pain – and then her will, pushing it away with such ferocity – he dragged his gaze from the two men on the deck and stared at her.
Pushing, pushing away all that pain'How? How did you do that?' he demanded.
'Are you blind, Mappo Runt?' she asked. 'Look – look at them, Trell.
Chaur, his fear is gone, now. He believes Barathol, he believes him.
Utterly, without question. You cannot be blind to this, to what it means.
'You are looking upon joy, Mappo Runt. In the face of this, I will not obsess on my own pain, my own suffering, do you understand? I will not.'
Ah, spirits below, you break my heart, woman. He looked back at the two men, then across to where Scillara held Crokus in her arms, stroking the man's hair as he came round. Broken, by all this. Again.
I had… forgotten.
Iskaral Pust was dancing round Mogora, who watched him with a sour expression, her face contracting until it resembled a dried-up prune.
Then, in a moment when the High Priest drew too close, she lashed out with a kick that swept his feet out from beneath him. He thumped hard onto the deck, then began swearing. 'Despicable woman! Woman, did I say woman? Hah! You're what a shedding snake leaves behind! A sickly snake! With scabs and pustules and weals and bunions-'
'I heard you lusting after me, you disgusting creep!'
'I tried to, you mean! In desperation, but even imminent death was not enough! Do you understand? Not enough!'
Mogora advanced on him.
Iskaral Pust squealed, then slithered his way beneath the mule. 'Come any closer, hag, and my servant will kick you! Do you know how many fools die each year from a mule kick? You'd be surprised.'
The Dal Honese witch hissed at him, then promptly collapsed into a swarm of spiders – that raced everywhere, and moments later not one remained in sight.
The High Priest, his eyes wide, looked about frantically, then began scratching beneath his clothes. 'Oh! You awful creature!'
Mappo's bemused attention was drawn away by Crokus, who had moved towards Barathol and Chaur.
'Barathol,' the Daru said. 'There was no chance?'
The man looked over, then shook his head. 'I'm sorry, Cutter. But, he saved Chaur's life. Even dead, he saved Chaur.'
'What do you mean?'
'The body was glowing,' Barathol said. 'Bright green. It's how I saw them. Chaur was snagged in the bolt cloth – I had to cut him free. I could not carry both of them to the surface – I barely made it-'
'It's all right,' Crokus said.
'He sank, down and down, and the glow ebbed. The darkness swallowed him. But listen, you got him close enough – do you understand? Not all the way, but close enough. Whatever happened, whatever saved us all, it came from him.'
Mappo spoke: 'Crokus – it is Cutter, now, yes? Cutter, who are you speaking about? Did someone else drown?'
'No, Mappo. I mean, not really. A friend, he died – I, well, I was trying to take his body to the island – it's where he wanted to go, you see. To give something back.'
Something. 'I believe your friend here is right, then,' the Trell said. 'You brought him close enough. To make a difference, to do what even death could not prevent him doing.'
'He was named Heboric Ghost Hands.'
'I will remember that name, then,' Mappo said. 'With gratitude.'
'You… you look different.' Cutter was frowning. 'Those tattoos.'
Then his eyes widened, and he asked what Mappo feared he would ask. '
Where? Where is he?'
Doors within the Trell that had cracked open suddenly slammed shut once more. He looked away. 'I lost him.'
'You lost him?'
'Gone.' Yes, I failed him. I failed us all. He could not look at the Daru. He could not bear it. My shame…
'Oh, Mappo, I am sorry.'
You are… what?
A hand settled on his shoulder, and that was too much. He could feel the tears, the grief flooding his eyes, running down. He flinched away. 'My fault… my fault…'
Spite stood watching for a moment longer. Mappo, the Trell. Who walked with Icarium. Ah, he now blames himself. I understand. My… that is… unfortunate. But such was our intent, after all. And, there is the chance – the one chance I most cherish. Icarium, he may well encounter my sister, before all of this is done. Yes, that would be sweet, delicious, a taste I could savour for a long, long time. Are you close enough, Envy, to sense my thoughts? My… desire? I hope so.
But no, this was not the time for such notions, alluring as they were.
Aching still with wounds, she turned and studied the wild, roiling clouds above Otataral Island. Blooms of colour, as if flames ravaged the land, tongues of fire flickering up those gargantuan jade arms, spinning from the fingers. Above the seething dome, night was dimming the penumbra of dust and smoke, where slashes of falling matter still cut through every now and then.
Spite then faced the west, the mainland. Whoever you are… thank you.
With a gasp, Paran opened his eyes, to find himself pitching forward – sandy gravel rising fast – then he struck, grunting with the impact.
His arms felt like unravelled ropes as he slowly dragged them up, sufficiently to push himself onto his side, which let him roll onto his back.
Above him, a ring of faces, all looking down.
'High Fist,' Rythe Bude asked, 'did you just save the world?'
'And us with it?' Noto Boil added, then frowned. 'Never mind that one, sir. After all, in answering the Fist's query, the second is implicitly-'
'Be quiet,' Paran said. 'If I saved the world – and by no means would I make such a claim – I am already regretting it. Does anyone have some water? With where I've just come back from, I've got a rather unpleasant taste in my mouth.'
Skins sloshed into view.
But Paran held up a hand. 'The east – how bad does it look?'
'Should have been much, much worse, sir,' Fist Rythe Bude said. '
There's a real ruckus over there, but nothing's actually coming out, if you understand me.'
'Good.' Good.
Oh, Hood. Did you truly mean it?
Gods, me and my promises…
Night to the east was a lurid, silent storm. Standing near the Adjunct, with Nil and Nether a few strides off to one side, Fist Keneb shivered beneath his heavy cloak, despite the peculiar, dry sultriness of the steady wind. He could not comprehend what had happened beyond that eastern horizon, not before, not now. The descent of green-flamed suns, the raging maelstrom. And, for a time there, a pervasive malaise enshrouding everyone – from what was coming, it had seemed, there would be no reprieve, no escape, no hope of survival.
Such a notion had, oddly enough, calmed Keneb. When struggle was meaningless, all pressure simply drained away. It struck him, now, that there was something to be said for holding on to such sentiments.
After all, death was itself inevitable, wasn't it? Inescapable – what point scratching and clawing in a doomed effort to evade it?
The comfort of that was momentary, alas. Death took care of itself – it was in life, in living, that things mattered. Acts, desires, motives, fears, the gifts of joy and the bitter taste of failure – a feast we must all attend.
At least until we leave.
Stars wavered overhead, streaks of cloud clung to the north, the kind that made Keneb think of snow. And yet here I stand sweating, the sweat cooling, this chill fashioned not by night or the wind, but by exhaustion. Nether had said something about this wind, its urgency, the will behind it. Thus, not natural. A god, then, manipulating us yet again.
The fleets of Nemil patrolled a vast stretch of this coast. Their war biremes were primitive, awkward-looking, never straying far from the rocky shoreline. That shoreline traditionally belonged to the Trell, but there had been wars, generations of wars, and now Nemil settlements dotted the bays and inlets, and the Trell, who had never been seafarers, had been driven far inland, into the hills, a dwindling enclave surrounded by settlers. Keneb had seen mixed-bloods among the Nemil crews in the trader ships that sailed out with supplies.
Belligerent as the Nemil were towards the Trell, they were not similarly inclined when facing a huge Malazan fleet entering their territorial waters. Sages among them had foretold this arrival, and the lure of profit had triggered a flotilla of merchant craft setting forth from the harbours, accompanied by a disorganized collection of escorts, some private, others royal. The resupply had resembled a feeding frenzy for a time there, until, that is, the eastern sky suddenly burst into savage light.
Not a single Nemil ship remained now, and that coastline had been left behind, as the second bell after midnight tolled dully at the sandwatcher's hand – the sound taken up by nearby ships, rippling outward through the imperial fleet.
From a Nemil captain, earlier in the day, had come interesting news, and it was that information that, despite the lateness, the Adjunct continued to discuss with her two Wickan companions.
'Are there any details from Malazan sources,' Nether was asking Tavore, 'of the peoples beyond the Catal Sea?'
'No more than a name,' the Adjunct replied, then said to Keneb, 'Fist, do you recall it?'
'Perish.'
'Yes.'
'And nothing more is known of them?' Nether asked.
There was no answer forthcoming from the others. And it seemed that the Wickans then waited.
'An interesting suggestion,' the Adjunct said after a moment. 'And, given this near-gale, we shall discover for ourselves soon enough what manner of people are these Perish.'
The Nemil captain had reported – second-hand – that another Edur fleet had been sighted the day before. Well to the north, less than a score of ships, struggling eastward in the face of this unceasing wind.
Those ships were in a bad way, the captain had said. Damaged, limping.
Struck by a storm, perhaps, or they had seen battle. Whatever the cause, they were not eager to challenge the Nemil ships, which in itself was sufficient matter for comment – apparently, the roving Edur ships had been preying on Nemil traders for nearly two years, and on those instances when Nemil escorts were close enough to engage, the results had been disastrous for the antiquated biremes.
Curious news. The Adjunct had pressed the Nemil captain on information regarding the Perish, the inhabitants of the vast, mountain-girdled peninsula on the western side of the Catal Sea, which was itself a substantial, southward-jutting inlet, at the very bottom of which was the heart of the Nemil Kingdom. But the man had simply shaken his head, suddenly mute.
Nether had, moments earlier, suggested that perhaps the Edur fleet had clashed with these Perish. And suffered in consequence.
The Malazan fleet was cutting across the mouth of the Catal Inlet now – as it was called on the Malazan maps – a distance the captain had claimed was a journey of four days' sailing under ideal conditions.
The lead ships were already a fourth of the way across.
There was more than wind, magic or otherwise – the way the horizons looked blurry, especially headlands…
'The Nemil,' Nil said, 'were not reluctant to speak of the Edur.'
'Yet they would say nothing at all of the Perish,' Nether added.
'History between them,' Keneb suggested.
The others turned to him.
Keneb shrugged. 'Just a thought. The Nemil are clearly expansionist, and that entails a certain… arrogance. They devoured the Trell peoples, providing a reassuring symbol of Nemil prowess and righteousness. It may be that the Perish delivered an opposing symbol, something that both shocked and humbled the Nemil – neither sentiment quite fitting with their own notions of grandiosity. And so they will not speak of it.'
'Your theory makes sense,' the Adjunct said. 'Thank you, Fist.' She turned and studied the riotous eastern sky. 'Humbled, yes,' she said in a low voice. 'In the writings of Duiker, he speaks of the manifold scales to be found in war, from the soldier facing another soldier, to the very gods themselves locked in mortal combat. At first glance, it seems an outrage to consider that such extremes can coexist, yet Duiker then claims that the potential for cause and effect can proceed in both directions.'
'It would be comforting to think so,' Keneb said. 'I can think of a few gods that I'd love to trip up right now.'
'It may be,' the Adjunct said, 'that someone has preceded you.'
Keneb frowned. 'Do you know who, Adjunct?'
She glanced at him, said nothing.
Thus ends her momentary loquaciousness. Well. And what did it tell me?
She's well read, but I already knew that. Anything else?
No.
Kalam pushed his way forward, slumped once more at Quick Ben's side. '
It's official,' he said in the gloom of the musty hold.
'What is?'
'We're still alive.'
'Oh, that's good, Kal. I was sitting on coals down here waiting for that news.'
'I prefer that image to the reality, Quick.'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, the idea that you were hiding, your loincloth suddenly baggy and a puddle spreading beneath you.'
'You don't know anything. I do. I know more than I'd ever want to-'
'Impossible. You drink in secrets like Hellian does rum. The more you know the drunker and more obnoxious you get.'
'Oh yeah? Well, I know things you'd want to know, and I was going to tell you, but now I think I'll change my mind-'
'Out with it, wizard, before I go back up and tell the Adjunct where she can find you.'
'You can't do that. I need time to think, damn you.'
'So talk. You can think while you're doing that, since with you the two activities are clearly distinct and mostly unrelated.'
'What's got you so miserable?'
'You.'
'Liar.'
'All right, me.'
'That's better. Anyway, I know who saved us.'
'Really?'
'Well, sort of – he started the big rock rolling, at least.'
'Who?'
'Ganoes Paran.'
Kalam scowled. 'All right, I'm less surprised than I should be.'
'Then you're an idiot. He did it by having a conversation with Hood.'
'How do you know?'
'I was there, listening in. At Hood's Gate.'
'What were you doing hanging around there?'
'We were all going to die, weren't we?'
'Oh, so you wanted to beat the rush?'
'Hilarious, Kalam. No, I was planning on doing some bargaining, but that's irrelevant now. Ended up, it was Paran who did the bargaining.
Hood said something. He wants something – by his own damned breath, it shocked me, let me tell you-'
'So do that.'
'No. I need to think.'
Kalam closed his eyes and leaned back against the bale. It smelled of oats. 'Ganoes Paran.' A pause, then, 'Do you think she knows?'
'Who, Tavore?'
'Yes, who else?'
'I have no idea. Wouldn't surprise me. Nothing about her would surprise me, in fact. She might even be listening in right now-'
'Wouldn't you sense that?'
'Kalam, something's wandering through this fleet tonight, and it isn't pleasant, whatever it is. I keep feeling it brush by… close, then, before I can grab it by the throat, it whispers away again.'
'So, you are hiding down here!'
'Of course not. Not any more, I mean. Now I'm staying here, in order to lay a trap.'
'A trap. Right. Very clever, High Mage.'
'It is. For the next time it sidles close.'
'Do you really expect me to believe that?'
'Believe what you like, Kalam. What do I care, even if it's my oldest friend who no longer trusts me-'
'For Hood's sake, Quick Ben, I've never trusted you!'
'Now that's hurtful. Wise, but still hurtful.'
'Tell me something, Quick, exactly how did you manage hiding at Hood's Gate, with both Paran and the god himself standing there?'
A sniff. 'They were distracted, of course. Sometimes the best place to hide is in plain sight.'
'And between them, they saved the world.'
'Gave the rock a nudge, Kal. The rest belonged to someone else. Don't know who, or what. But I will tell you one thing, those falling suns, they were filled with voices.'
'Voices?'
'Enormous pieces of stone. Jade, sailing down from the stars. And in those broken mountains or whatever they were, there were souls.
Millions of souls, Kalam. I heard them.'
Gods, no wonder you hid down here, Quick. 'That's… uncanny. You're sending shivers all through me.'
'I know. I feel the same way.'
'So, how did you hide from Hood?'
'I was part of the Gate, of course. Just another corpse, just another staring face.'
'Hey, now that was clever.'
'Wasn't it?'
'What was it like, among all those bones and bodies and stuff?'
'Kind of… comforting…'
I can see that. Kalam scowled again. Hold on… I wonder… is there maybe something wrong with us? 'Quick, you and me.'
'Yes?'
'I think we're insane.'
'You're not.'
'What do you mean?'
'You're too slow. You can't be insane if you only just realized that we're insane. Understand?'
'No.'
'As I said, then.'
'Well,' the assassin grunted, 'that's a relief.'
'For you, yes. Shh!' The wizard's hand clutched Kalam's arm. 'It's back!' he hissed. 'Close!'
'Within reach?' Kalam asked in a whisper.
'Gods, I hope not!'
A solitary resident in this cabin, and in the surrounding alcoves and cubby berths, a cordon of Red Blades, fiercely protective of their embittered, broken commander, although none elected to share the Fist' s quarters, despite the ship's crowded conditions. Beyond those soldiers, the Khundryl Burned Tears, seasick one and all, filling the air below-decks with the sour reek of bile.
And so he remained alone. Wreathed by his own close, fetid air, no lantern light to beat back the dark, and this was well. For all that was outside matched what was inside, and Fist Tene Baralta told himself, again and again, that this was well.
Y'Ghatan. The Adjunct had sent them in, under strength, knowing there would be slaughter. She didn't want the damned veterans and their constant gnawing at her command. She wanted to be rid of the Red Blades, and the marines – soldiers like Cuttle and Fiddler. She had probably worked it out, conspiring with Leoman himself. That conflagration, its execution had been too perfect, too well-timed.
There had been signals – those fools with the lanterns on the rooftops, along the wall's battlements.
And the season itself – a city filled with olive oil, an entire year's harvest – she hadn't rushed the army after Leoman, she hadn't shown any haste at all, when any truly loyal commander would have… would have chased that bastard down, long before he reached Y'Ghatan.
No, the timing was… diabolical.
And here he was, maimed and trapped in the midst of damned traitors.
Yet, again and again, events had transpired to befoul the Adjunct and her treasonous, murderous plans. The survival of the marines – Lostara among them. Then, Quick Ben's unexpected countering of those Edur mages. Oh yes, his soldiers reported to him, every morsel of news.
They understood – although they revealed nothing of their suspicions – he could well see it in their eyes, they understood. That necessary things were coming. Soon.
And it would be Fist Tene Baralta himself who would lead them. Tene Baralta, the Maimed, the Betrayed. Oh yes, there would be names for him. There would be cults to worship him, just as there were cults worshipping other great heroes of the Malazan Empire. Like Coltaine.
Bult. Baria Setral and his brother, Mesker, of the Red Blades.
In such company, Tene Baralta would belong. Such company, he told himself, was his only worthy company.
One eye left, capable of seeing… almost… In daylight a blurred haze swarmed before his vision, and there was pain, so much pain, until he could not even so much as turn his head – oh yes, the healers had worked on him – with orders, he now knew, to fail him again and again, to leave him with a plague of senseless scars and phantom agonies. And, once out of his room, they would laugh, at the imagined success of their charade.
Well, he would deliver their gifts back into their laps, all those healers.
In this soft, warm darkness, he stared upward from where he lay on the cot. Things unseen creaked and groaned. A rat scuttled back and forth along one side of the cramped chamber. His sentinel, his bodyguard, his caged soul.
A strange smell reached him, sweet, cloying, numbing, and he felt his aches fading, the shrieking nerves falling quiescent.
'Who's there?' he croaked.
A rasping reply, 'A friend, Tene Baralta. One, indeed, whose visage matches your own. Like you, assaulted by betrayal. You and I, we are torn and twisted to remind us, again and again, that one who bears no scars cannot be trusted. Ever. It is a truth, my friend, that only a mortal who has been broken can emerge from the other side, whole once more. Complete, and to all his victims, arrayed before him, blindingly bright, yes? The searing white fires of his righteousness. Oh, I promise you, that moment shall taste sweet.'
'An apparition,' Tene Baralta gasped. 'Who has sent you? The Adjunct, yes? A demonic assassin, to end this-'
'Of course not – and even as you make such accusations, Tene Baralta, you know them to be false. She could kill you at any time-'
'My soldiers protect me-'
'She will not kill you,' the voice said. 'She has no need. She has already cast you away, a useless, pathetic victim of Y'Ghatan. She has no realization, Tene Baralta, that your mind lives on, as sharp as it has ever been, its judgement honed and eager to draw foul blood. She is complacent.'
'Who are you?'
'I am named Gethol. I am the Herald of the House of Chains. And I am here, for you. You alone, for we have sensed, oh yes, we have sensed that you are destined for greatness.'
Ah, such emotion here, at his words… no, hold it back. Be strong… show this Gethol your strength. 'Greatness,' he said. 'Yes, of that I have always been aware, Herald.'
'And the time has come, Tene Baralta.'
'Yes?'
'Do you feel our gift within you? Diminishing your pain, yes?'
'I do.'
'Good. That gift is yours, and there is more to come.'
'More?'
'Your lone eye, Tene Baralta, deserves more than a clouded, uncertain world, don't you think? You need a sharpness of vision to match the sharpness of your mind. That seems reasonable, indeed, just.'
'Yes.'
'That will be your reward, Tene Baralta.'
'If I do what?'
'Later. Such details are not for tonight. Until we speak again, follow your conscience, Tene Baralta. Make your plans for what will come. You are returning to the Malazan Empire, yes? That is good. Know this, the Empress awaits you. You, Tene Baralta, more than anyone else in this army. Be ready for her.'
'Oh, I shall, Gethol.'
'I must leave you now, lest this visitation be discovered – there are many powers hiding in this army. Be careful. Trust no-one-'
'I trust my Red Blades.'
'If you must, yes, you will need them. Goodbye, Tene Baralta.'
Silence once more, and the gloom, unchanged and unchanging, inside and out. Destined, yes, for greatness. They shall see that. When I speak with the Empress. They shall all see that.
Lying in her bunk, the underside of the one above a mere hand'sbreadth away, knotted twine and murky tufts of bedding, Lostara Yil kept her breathing slow, even. She could hear the beat of her own heart, the swish of blood in her ears.
The soldier in the bunk beneath her grunted, then said in a low voice, 'He's now talking to himself. Not good.'
The voice from within Tene Baralta's cabin had been murmuring through the wall for the past fifty heartbeats, but had now, it seemed, stopped.
Talking to himself? Hardly, that was a damned conversation. She closed her eyes at the thought, wishing she had been asleep and unmindful of the ever more sordid nightmare that was her commander's world: the viscous light in his eye when she looked upon him, the muscles of his frame sagging into fat, the twisted face beginning to droop, growing flaccid where there were no taut scars. Pallid skin, strands of hair thick with old sweat.
What has burned away is what tempered his soul. Now, there is only malice, a mottled collection of stains, fused impurities.
And I am his captain once more, by his own command. What does he want with me? What does he expect?
Tene Baralta had ceased speaking. And now she could sleep, if only her mind would cease its frantic racing.
Oh Cotillion, you knew, didn't you? You knew this would come. Yet, you left the choice to me. And now freedom feels like curse.
Cotillion, you never play fair.
The western coast of the Catal Sea was jagged with fjords, high black cliffs and tumbled boulders. The mountains rising almost immediately behind the shoreline were thick with coniferous trees, their green needles so dark as to be almost black. Huge red-tailed ravens wheeled overhead, voicing strange, harsh laughter as they banked and pitched towards the fleet of ominous ships that approached the Malazans, swooping low only to lift with heavy, languid beats of their wings.
The Adjunct's flagship was now alongside Nok's own, and the Admiral had just crossed over to join Tavore as they awaited the arrival of the Perish.
Keneb stared with fascination at the massive warships drawing ever nearer. Each was in fact two dromons linked by arching spans, creating a catamaran of cyclopean proportions. The sudden dying of the wind had forced oars into the becalmed waters, and this included a double bank of oars on the inward side of each dromon, foreshortened by the spans.
The Fist had counted thirty-one of the giant craft, arrayed in a broad, flattened wedge. He could see ballistae mounted to either side of the wolf-head prows, and attached to the outer rails along the length of the ships was a double row of overlapping rectangular shields, their bronze facings polished and glinting in the muted sunlight.
As the lead ship closed, oars were lifted, shipped.
One of Nok's officers said, 'Look beneath the surface between the hulls, Admiral. The spans above are matched by ones below the waterline… and those possess rams.'
'It would be unwise indeed,' Nok said, 'to invite battle with these Perish.'
'Yet someone had done just that,' the Adjunct said. 'Mage-fire damage, there, on the one flanking the flagship. Admiral, what do you imagine to be the complement of soldiers aboard each of these catamarans?'
'Could be as many as two hundred marines or the equivalent for each dromon. Four hundred per craft – I wonder if some of them are at the oars. Unless, of course, there are slaves.'
The flag visible beneath the crow's nest on the lead ship's mainmast showed a wolf's head on a black field bordered in grey.
They watched as a long craft resembling a war canoe was lowered between the flagship's two hulls, then armoured soldiers descended, taking up paddles. Three more figures joined them. All but one wore iron helms, camailed at the back, with sweeping cheek-guards. Grey cloaks, leather gauntlets. The lone exception was a man, tall, gaunt and bald, wearing a heavy woollen robe of dark grey. Their skins were fair, but all other characteristics remained unseen beneath armour.
'That's a whole lot of chain weighing down that canoe,' the same officer muttered. 'If she rolls, a score lumps rusting on the bottom…'
The craft slid over the submerged ram, swiftly propelled by the paddlers whose blades flashed in perfect unison. Moments later a softvoiced command triggered a withdrawal of the paddles, barring that of the soldier at the very stern, who ruddered, bringing the canoe around to draw up alongside the Malazan flagship.
At Nok's command, sailors rushed over to help the Perish contingent aboard.
First to appear was a tall, broad-shouldered figure, black-cloaked.
Beneath the thick wool was a surcoat of blackened chain that glistened with oil. The longsword at the left hip revealed a silver wolf's-head pommel. The Perish paused, looked round, then approached the Adjunct as others appeared from the rail. Among them was the robed man, who called out something to the one Keneb surmised was the commander. That person halted, half-turned, and the voice that emerged from behind the visored helm startled Keneb, for it was a woman's.
She's a damned giant – even the women heavies in our army would hesitate facing this one.
Her question was short.
The bald man replied with a single word, at which the woman in armour bowed and stepped to one side.
Keneb watched the robed man stride forward, eyes on the Adjunct. '
Mezla,' he said. 'Welcome.'
He speaks Malazan. Well, that should make this easier.
The Adjunct nodded. 'Welcome in return, Perish. I am Adjunct Tavore Paran, and this is Admiral Nok-'
'Ah, yes, that name is known to us, sir.' A low bow towards Nok, who seemed startled for a moment, before replying in kind.
'You speak our language well,' Tavore said.
'Forgive me, Adjunct. I am Destriant Run'thurvian.' He gestured to the huge woman beside him. 'This is the Mortal Sword Krughava.' And then, stepping to one side, he bowed to another soldier standing two steps behind the Mortal Sword. 'Shield Anvil Tanakalian.' The Destriant added something in his own language, and in response both the Mortal Sword and the Shield Anvil removed their helms.
Ah, these are hard, hard soldiers. Krughava, iron-haired, was blueeyed, her weathered face seamed with scars, yet the bones beneath her stern, angular features were robust and even. The Shield Anvil was, in contrast, quite young, and if anything broader of shoulder, although not as tall as the Mortal Sword. His hair was yellow, the colour of stalks of wheat; his eyes deep grey.
'Your ships have seen fighting,' Admiral Nok said to the Destriant.
'Yes sir. We lost four in the engagement.'
'And the Tiste Edur,' the Adjunct asked, 'how many did they lose?'
The Destriant suddenly deferred to the Mortal Sword, bowing, and the woman replied in fluent Malazan, 'Uncertain. Perhaps twenty, once their sorcery was fended aside. Although nimble, the ships were understrength. Nonetheless, they fought well, without quarter.'
'Are you in pursuit of the surviving ships?'
'No, sir,' Krughava replied, then fell silent.
The Destriant said, 'Noble sirs, we have been waiting for you. For the Mezla.'
He turned then and walked to stand at the Shield Anvil's side.
Krughava positioned herself directly opposite the Adjunct. 'Admiral Nok, forgive me,' she said, holding her gaze on Tavore. The Mortal Sword then drew her sword.
As with every other Malazan officer witness to this, Keneb tensed, reaching for his own weapon.
But the Adjunct did not flinch. She wore no weapon at all.
The length of blue iron sliding from the scabbard was etched from tip to hilt, two wolves stretched in full charge, every swirl of fur visible, their fangs polished brighter than all else, gleaming, the eyes blackened smears. The artisanship was superb, yet that blade's edge was notched and battered. Its length gleamed with oil.
The Mortal Sword held the sword horizontally, against her own chest, and there was a formal rigidity to her words as she said, 'I am Krughava, Mortal Sword of the Grey Helms of the Perish, sworn to the Wolves of Winter. In solemn acceptance of all that shall soon come to pass, I pledge my army to your service, Adjunct Tavore Paran. Our complement: thirty-one Thrones of War. Thirteen thousand and seventynine brothers and sisters of the Order. Before us, Adjunct Tavore, awaits the end of the world. In the name of Togg and Fanderay, we shall fight until we die.'
No-one spoke.
The Mortal Sword settled onto one knee, and laid the sword at Tavore's feet.
On the forecastle, Kalam stood beside Quick Ben, watching the ceremony on the mid deck. The wizard beside the assassin was muttering under his breath, the sound finally irritating Kalam enough to draw his gaze from the scene below, even as the Adjunct, with a solemnity to match the Mortal Sword's, picked up the sword and returned it to Krughava.
'Will you be quiet, Quick!' Kalam hissed. 'What's wrong with you?'
The wizard stared at him with a half-wild look in his dark eyes. 'I recognize these… these Perish. Those titles, the damned formality and high diction – I recognize these people!'
'And?'
'And… nothing. But I will say this, Kal. If we ever end up besieged, woe to the attackers.'
The assassin grunted. 'Grey Helms-'
'Grey Helms, Swords… gods below, Kalam – I need to talk to Tavore.'
'Finally!'
'I really need to talk to her.'
'Go on down and introduce yourself, High Mage.'
'You must be mad…'
Quick Ben's sudden trailing away brought Kalam's gaze back round to the crowd below, and he saw the Destriant, Run'thurvian, looking up, eyes locked with Quick's own. Then the robed man smiled, and bowed low in greeting.
Heads turned.
'Shit,' Quick Ben said at his side.
Kalam scowled. 'High Mage Ben Adaephon Delat,' he said under his breath, 'the Lord of High Diction.'