Paint a line with blood and, standing over it, shake a nest of spiders good and hard. They fall to this side of the divide. They fall to that side of the divide. Thus did the gods fall, taut-legged and ready, as the heavens trembled, and in the scattering rain of drifting web – all these dread cut threads of scheming settling down – skirling now in the winds that roared sudden, alive and vengeful, to pronounce in tongues of thunder, the gods were at war.
Slayer of Magic
A history of the Host of Days
Sarathan Through slitted eyes, in the bar of shadow cast by the great helm's ridged brow, Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas studied the woman.
Harried aides and functionaries rushed past her and Leoman of the Flails, like leaves in a torrential flood. And the two, standing there, like stones. Boulders. Like things… rooted, yes, rooted to bedrock. Captain Dunsparrow, now Third Dunsparrow. A Malazan.
A woman, and Leoman… well, Leoman liked women.
So they stood, oh yes, discussing details, finalizing the preparations for the siege to come. The smell of sex a heady smugness enveloping the two like a poisonous fog. He, Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas, who had ridden at Leoman's side through battle after battle, who had saved Leoman's life more than once, who had done all that had ever been asked of him, was loyal. But she, she is desirable.
He told himself it made no difference. There had been other women. He' d had a few himself from time to time, although not the same ones as Leoman had known, of course. And, one and all, they had been nothing before the faith, withering into insignificance in the face of hard necessity. The voice of Dryjhna the Apocalyptic overwhelmed with its descending squall of destruction. This was as it should be.
Dunsparrow. Malazan, woman, distraction and possible corrupter. For Leoman of the Flails was hiding something from Corabb, and that had never before happened. Her fault. She was to blame. He would have to do something about her, but what?
He rose from the Falah'd's old throne, that Leoman had so contemptuously discarded, and walked to the wide, arched window overlooking the inner keep compound. More chaotic scurrying below, dust twisting in the sun-speared air. Beyond the palace wall, the bleached rooftops of Y'Ghatan, clothes drying in the sun, awnings rippling in the wind, domes and the cylindrical, flat-topped storage buildings called maethgara that housed in vast containers the olive oil for which the city and its outlying groves were renowned. In the very centre of the city rose the eight-sided, monstrously buttressed Temple of Scalissara, with its inner dome a mottled hump of remnant gold-leaf and green copper tiles liberally painted by bird droppings.
Scalissara, Matron Goddess of Olives, the city's own, cherished protector, now in abject disrepute. Too many conquests she could not withstand, too many gates battered down, walls pounded into rubble.
While the city itself seemed capable of ever rising again from the dust of destruction, Scalissara had revealed a more finite number of possible resurrections. And, following the last conquest, she did not return to pre-eminence. Indeed, she did not return at all.
Now, the temple belonged to the Queen of Dreams.
A foreign goddess. Corabb scowled. Well, maybe not entirely foreign, but still…
The great statues of Scalissara that once rose from the corners of the city's outer fortifications, marble arms plump and fleshy, upraised, an uprooted olive tree in one hand, a newborn babe in the other, the umbilical cord wrapped snake-like up her forearm, then across and down, into her womb – the statues were gone. Destroyed in the last conflagration. Now, on three of the four corners, only the pedestal remained, bare feet broken clean above the ankles, and on the fourth even that was gone.
In the days of her supremacy, every foundling child was named after her if female, and, male or female, every abandoned child was taken into the temple to be fed, raised and schooled in the ways of the Cold Dream, a mysterious ritual celebrating a kind of divided spirit or something – the esoterica of cults were not among Corabb's intellectual strengths, but Leoman had been one such foundling child, and had spoken once or twice of such things, when wine and durhang loosened his tongue. Desire and necessity, the war within a mortal's spirit, this was at the heart of the Cold Dream. Corabb did not understand much of that. Leoman had lived but a few years under the guidance of the temple's priestesses, before his wild indulgences saw him expelled into the streets. And from the streets, out into the Odhans, to live among the desert tribes, and so to be forged by the sun and blowing sands of Raraku into the greatest warrior Seven Cities had ever beheld. At least in Corabb's lifetime. The Fala'dhan of the Holy Cities possessed grand champions in their day, of course, but they were not leaders, they had nothing of the wiles necessary for command. Besides, Dassem Ultor and his First Sword had cut them down, every one of them, and that was that.
Leoman had sealed Y'Ghatan, imprisoning within its new walls an emperor's ransom in olive oil. The maethgara were filled to bursting and the merchants and their guilds were shrieking their outrage, although less publicly since Leoman, in a fit of irritation, had drowned seven representatives in the Grand Maeth attached to the palace. Drowned them in their very own oil. Priests and witches were now petitioning for beakers of that fell amber liquid.
Dunsparrow had been given command of the city garrison, a mob of drunken, lazy thugs. The first tour of the barracks had revealed the military base as little more than a raucous harem, thick with smoke and pool-eyed, prepubescent boys and girls staggering about in a nightmare world of sick abuse and slavery. Thirty officers were executed that first day, the most senior one by Leoman's own hand. The children had been gathered up and redistributed among the temples of the city with the orders to heal the damage and purge what was possible of their memories. The garrison soldiers had been given the task of scouring clean every brick and tile of the barracks, and Dunsparrow had then begun drilling them to counter Malazan siege tactics, with which she seemed suspiciously familiar.
Corabb did not trust her. It was as simple as that. Why would she choose to fight against her own people? Only a criminal, an outlaw, would do that, and how trustworthy was an outlaw? No, there were likely horrific murders and betrayals crowding her sordid past, and now here she was, spreading her legs beneath Falah'd Leoman of the Flails, the known world's most feared warrior. He would have to watch her carefully, hand on the grip of his new cutlass, ready at a moment' s notice to cut her clean in half, head to crotch, then across, diagonally, twice – swish swish! – right shoulder to left hip, left shoulder to right hip, and watch her part ways. A duty-bound execution, yes. At the first hint of betrayal.
'What has so lightened your expression, Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas?'
Stiffening, he turned, to find Dunsparrow standing at his side. '
Third,' he said in sour grunt of greeting. 'I was thinking, uh, of the blood and death to come.'
'Leoman says you are the most reasonable of the lot. I now dread closer acquaintance with his other officers.'
'You fear the siege to come?'
'Of course I do. I know what Imperial Armies are capable of. There is said to be a High Mage among them, and that is the most disturbing news of all.'
'The woman commanding them is simple-minded,' Corabb said. 'No imagination, or none that she's bothered showing.'
'And that is my point on that issue, Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas.'
He frowned. 'What do you mean?'
'She's had no need, as yet, to display the extent of her imagination.
Thus far, it's been easy for her. Little more than marching endless leagues in Leoman's dust.'
'We are her match, and better,' said Corabb, straightening, chest swelling. 'Our spears and swords have already drawn their foul Malazan blood, and shall do so again. More of it, much more.'
'That blood,' she said after a moment, 'is as red as yours, warrior.'
'Is it? Seems to me,' he continued, looking out upon the city once more, 'that betrayal is a dark taint upon it, to so easily twist one of its own into switching sides.'
'As with, for example, the Red Blades?'
'Corrupted fools!'
'Of course. Yet… Seven Cities born, yes?'
'They have severed their own roots and now flow on the Malazan tide.'
'Nice image, Corabb. You do stumble on those often, don't you?'
'You'd be amazed at the things I stumble on, woman. And I will tell you this, I guard Leoman's back, as I have always done. Nothing has changed that. Not you and your… your-'
'Charms?'
'Wiles. I have marked you, Third, and best you be mindful of that.'
'Leoman has done well to have such a loyal friend.'
'He shall lead the Apocalypse-'
'Oh, he will at that.'
'-for none but he is equal to such a thing. Y'Ghatan shall be a curse name in the Malazan Empire for all time-'
'It already is.'
'Yes, well, it shall be more so.'
'What is it about this city, I wonder, that has driven so deep a knife into the empire? Why did the Claw act here against Dassem Ultor? Why not somewhere else? Somewhere less public, less risky? Oh yes, they made it seem like a wayward accident of battle, but no-one was fooled.
I admit to a fascination with this city, indeed, it is what brought me here in the first place.'
'You are an outlaw. The Empress has a price on your head.'
'She does? Or are you just guessing?'
'I am certain of it. You fight against your own people.'
'My own people. Who are they, Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas? The Malazan Empire has devoured many peoples, just as it has done those of Seven Cities. Now that the rebellion is over, are your kin now Malazan? No, that thought is incomprehensible to you, isn't it? I was born on Quon Tali, but the Malazan Empire was born on Malaz Island. My people too were conquered, just as yours have been.'
Corabb said nothing, too confused by her words. Malazans were…
Malazans, dammit. All of a kind, no matter the hue of their skin, the tilt of their eyes, no matter all the variations within that Hoodcursed empire. Malazans! 'You will get no sympathy from me, Third.'
'I did not ask for it.'
'Good.'
'Now, will you accompany us?'
Us? Corabb slowly turned. Leoman stood a few paces behind them, arms crossed, leaning against the map-table. In his eyes a sly, amused expression.
'We are going into the city,' Leoman said. 'I wish to visit a certain temple.'
Corabb bowed. 'I shall accompany you, sword at the ready, Warleader.'
Leoman's brows lifted fractionally. 'Warleader. Is there no end of titles you will bestow upon me, Corabb?'
'None, Hand of the Apocalypse.'
He flinched at that honorific, then turned away. A half-dozen officers stood waiting at one end of the long table, and to these warriors, Leoman said, 'Begin the evacuation. And no undue violence! Kill every looter you catch, of course, but quietly. Ensure the protection of families and their possessions, including livestock-'
One of the warriors started. 'But Commander, we shall need-'
'No, we shall not. We have all we need. Besides, those animals are the only wealth most of the refugees will have to take with them. I want escorts on the west road.' He glanced over at Dunsparrow. 'Have the messengers returned from Lothal?'
'Yes, with delighted greetings from the Falah'd.'
'Delighted that I am not marching on to his city, you mean.'
Dunsparrow shrugged.
'And so he is dispatching troops to manage the road?'
'He is, Leoman.'
Ah! She is already beyond titles! Corabb struggled to keep the snarl from his voice. 'He is Warleader to you, Third. Or Commander, or Falah'd-'
'Enough,' cut in Leoman. 'I am pleased enough with my own name to hear it used. From now on, friend Corabb, we shall dispense with titles when only officers are present.'
As I thought, the corruption has begun. He glared at Dunsparrow, but she was paying him no attention, her eyes settled possessively on Leoman of the Flails. Corabb's own gaze narrowed. Leoman the Fallen.
No track, alley or street in Y'Ghatan ran straight for more than thirty paces. Laid upon successive foundations, rising, it was likely, from the very first maze-wound fortress city built here ten thousand years or more past, the pattern resembled a termite mound with each twisting passageway exposed to the sky, although in many cases that sky was no more than a slit, less than an arm's length wide, overhead.
To look upon Y'Ghatan, and to wander its corridors, was to step into antiquity. Cities, Leoman had once told Corabb, were born not of convenience, nor lordship, nor markets and their babbling merchants.
Born not even of harvest and surplus. No, said Leoman, cities were born from the need for protection. Fortresses, that and nothing more, and all that followed did just that: follow. And so, cities were always walled, and indeed, walls were often all that remained of the oldest ones.
And this was why, Leoman had explained, a city would always build upon the bones of its forebears, for this lifted its walls yet higher, and made of the place a more formidable protection. It was the marauding tribes, he had said, laughing, that forced the birth of cities, of the very cities capable of defying them and, ultimately, conquering them.
Thus did civilization arise from savagery.
All very well, Corabb mused as they walked towards this city's heart, and possibly even true, but already he longed for the open lands of the Odhans, the desert's sweet whispering wind, the sultry heat that could bake a man's brain inside his helmet until he dreamed raving that he was being pursued by herds of fat aunts and leathery grandmothers who liked to pinch cheeks.
Corabb shook his head to dispel the recollection and all its attendant terrors. He walked at Leoman's left, cutlass drawn and a scowl of belligerence ready for any suspicious-looking citizen. Third Dunsparrow was to Leoman's right, the two brushing arms every now and then and exchanging soft words, probably grim with romance, that Corabb was pleased he could not overhear. That, or they were talking about ways of doing away with him.
'Oponn pull me, push her,' he said under his breath.
Leoman's head turned. 'You said something, Corabb?'
'I was cursing this damned rat path, Avenger.'
'We're almost there,' Leoman said, uncharacteristically considerate, which only deepened Corabb's foul mood. 'Dunsparrow and I were discussing what to do with the priesthood.'
'Were you now? That's nice. What do you mean, what to do with them?'
'They are resisting the notion of leaving.'
'I am not surprised.'
'Nor am I, but leave they shall.'
'It's all the wealth,' Corabb said. 'And their reliquaries and icons and wine cellars – they fear they will be set upon on the road, raped and robbed and their hair all unbunned.'
Both Leoman and Dunsparrow peered over at him with odd expressions.
'Corabb,' Leoman said, 'I think it best you remove that new great helm of yours.'
'Yes,' Dunsparrow added. 'There are streams of sweat pouring down your face.'
'I am fine,' Corabb said in growl. 'This was the Champion's helm. But Leoman would not take it. He should have. In truth, I am only carrying it for him. At the appropriate time, he will discover the need to tear it from my head and don it himself, and the world shall right itself once more, may all the yellow and blue gods be praised.'
'Corabb-'
'I am fine, although we had better do something about all those old women following us. I will spit myself on my own sword before I let them get me. Ooh what a nice little boy! Enough of that, I say.'
'Give me that helm,' Leoman said.
'It's about time you recognized your destiny, Adjunct Slayer.'
Corabb's head was pounding by the time they reached the Temple of Scalissara. Leoman had elected not to wear the great helm, even with its sodden quilted under-padding removed – without which it would have been too loose in any case. At least the old women were gone; in fact, the route they had taken was almost deserted, although they could hear the chaotic sounds of crowds in the main thoroughfares, being driven from the city, out onto the west road that led to Lothal on the coast.
Panic rode the sweltering currents, yet it was clear that most of the four thousand soldiers now under Leoman's command were out in the streets, maintaining order.
Seven lesser temples, each dedicated to one of the Seven Holies, encircled the octagonal edifice now sanctified in the name of the Queen of Dreams. The formal approach was spiral, wending through these smaller domed structures. The flanking compound walls had been twice defaced, first with rededication to Malazan gods soon after the conquest; then again with the rebellion, when the temples and their new foreign priesthoods had been assailed, the sanctuaries sundered and hundreds slaughtered. Friezes and metopes, caryatids and panels were all ruined now, entire pantheons defiled and made incomprehensible.
All, that is, but the temple of the Queen of Dreams, its impressive fortifications making it virtually impregnable. There were in any case mysteries surrounding the Queen, Corabb knew, and it was generally believed that her cult had not originated in the Malazan Empire. The Goddess of Divinations cast a thousand reflections upon a thousand peoples, and no one civilization could claim her as exclusively its own. So, having battered futilely at the temple's walls for six days, the rebels had concluded that the Queen was not their enemy after all, and had thereafter left her in peace. Desire and necessity, Leoman had said, laughing, upon hearing the tale.
Nonetheless, as far as Corabb was concerned, the goddess was… foreign.
'What business do we have,' Corabb asked, 'visiting this temple?'
Leoman replied with a question of his own: 'Do you recall, old friend, your vow to follow me no matter what seeming madness I undertake?'
'I do, Warleader.'
'Well, Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas, you shall find yourself sorely tested in that promise. For I intend to speak with the Queen of Dreams.'
'The High Priestess-'
'No, Corabb,' said Leoman, 'with the goddess herself.'
'It is a difficult thing, killing dragons.'
Blood the colour of false dawn continued to spread across the buckled pavestones. Mappo and Icarium remained beyond its reach, for it would not do to make contact with that dark promise. The Jhag was seated on a stone block that might have once been an altar but had been pushed up against the wall to the left of the entrance. The warrior's head was in his hands, and he had said nothing for some time.
Mappo alternated his attention between his friend and the enormous draconean corpse rearing over them. Both scenes left him distraught.
There was much worthy of grieving in this cavern, in the terrible ritual murder that had taken place here, and in the fraught torrent of memories unleashed within Icarium upon its discovery.
'This leaves naught but Osserc,' Mappo said. 'And should he fall, the warren of Serc shall possess no ruler. I believe, Icarium, that I am beginning to see a pattern.'
'Desecration,' the Jhag said in a whisper, not looking up.
'The pantheon is being made vulnerable. Fener, drawn into this world, and now Osserc – the very source of his power under assault. How many other gods and goddesses are under siege, I wonder? We have been away from things too long, my friend.'
'Away, Mappo? There is no away.'
The Trell studied the dead dragon once more. 'Perhaps you are right.
Who could have managed such a thing? Within the dragon is the heart of the warren itself, its well-fount of power. Yet… someone defeated Sorrit, drove her down into the earth, into this cavern within a sky keep, and spiked her to Blackwood – how long ago, do you think? Would we not have felt her death?' With no answers forthcoming from Icarium, Mappo edged closer to the blood pool and peered upward, focusing on that massive iron, rust-streaked spike. 'No,' he murmured after a moment, 'that is not rust. Otataral. She was bound by otataral. Yet, she was Elder – she should have been able to defeat that eager entropy. I do not understand this…'
'Old and new,' Icarium said, his tone twisting the words into a curse.
He rose suddenly, his expression ravaged and eyes hard. 'Speak to me, Mappo. Tell me what you know of spilled blood.'
He turned away. 'Icarium-'
'Mappo, tell me.'
Gaze settling on the aquamarine pool, the Trell was silent as emotions warred within him. Then he sighed. 'Who first dipped their hands into this fell stream? Who drank deep and so was transformed, and what effect did that otataral spike have upon that transformation? Icarium, this blood is fouled-'
'Mappo.'
'Very well. All blood spilled, my friend, possesses power. Beasts, humans, the smallest bird, blood is the life-force, the soul's own stream. Within it is locked the time of living, from beginning to end.
It is the most sacred force in existence. Murderers with their victims' blood staining their hands feed from that force, whether they choose to or not. Many are sickened, others find a new hunger within themselves, and so become slaves to the violence of slaying. The risk is this: blood and its power become tainted by such things as fear and pain. The stream, sensing its own demise, grows stressed, and the shock is as a poison.'
'What of fate?' Icarium asked in a heavy voice.
Mappo flinched, his eyes still on the pool. 'Yes,' he whispered, 'you cut to the matter's very heart. What does anyone take upon themselves when such blood is absorbed, drawn into their own soul? Must violent death be in turn delivered upon them? Is there some overarching law, seeking ever to redress the imbalance? If blood feeds us, what in turn feeds it, and is it bound by immutable rules or is it as capricious as we are? Are we creatures on this earth the only ones free to abuse our possessions?'
'The K'Chain Che'Malle did not kill Sorrit,' Icarium said. 'They knew nothing of it.'
'Yet this creature here was frozen, so it must have been encompassed in the Jaghut's ritual of Omtose Phellack – how could the K'Chain Che'
Malle not have known of this? They must have, even if they themselves did not slay Sorrit.'
'No, they are innocent, Mappo. I am certain of it.'
'Then… how?'
'The crucifix, it is Blackwood. From the realm of the Tiste Edur. From the Shadow Realm, Mappo. In that realm, as you know, things can be in two places at once, or begin in one yet find itself eventually manifesting in another. Shadow wanders, and respects no borders.'
'Ah, then… this… was trapped here, drawn from Shadow-'
'Snared by the Jaghut's ice magic – yet the spilled blood, and perhaps the otataral, proved too fierce for Omtose Phellack, thus shattering the Jaghut's enchantment.'
'Sorrit was murdered in the Shadow Realm. Yes. Now the pattern, Icarium, grows that much clearer.'
Icarium fixed bright, fevered eyes upon the Trell. 'Is it? You would blame the Tiste Edur?'
'Who else holds such command of Shadow? Not the Malazan pretender who now sits on the throne!'
The Jhag warrior said nothing. He walked along the pool's edge, head down as if seeking signs from the battered floor. 'I know this Jaghut.
I recognize her work. The carelessness in the unleashing of Omtose Phellack. She was… distraught. Impatient, angry, weary of the endless paths the K'Chain Che'Malle employed in their efforts to invade, to establish colonies on every continent. She cared nothing for the civil war afflicting the K'Chain Che'Malle. These Short-Tails were fleeing their kin, seeking a refuge. I doubt she bothered asking questions.'
'Do you think,' Mappo asked, 'that she knows of what has happened here?'
'No, else she would have returned. It may be that she is dead. So many are…'
Oh, Icarium, would that such knowledge remained lost to you.
The Jhag halted and half-turned. 'I am cursed. This is the secret you ever keep from me, isn't it? There are… recollections. Fragments.'
He lifted a hand as if to brush his brow, then let it fall. 'I sense… terrible things…'
'Yes. But they do not belong to you, Icarium. Not to the friend standing before me now.'
Icarium's deepening frown tore at Mappo's heart, but he would not look away, would not abandon his friend at this tortured moment.
'You,' Icarium said, 'are my protector, but that protection is not as it seems. You are at my side, Mappo, to protect the world. From me.'
'It is not that simple.'
'Isn't it?'
'No. I am here to protect the friend I look upon now, from the… the other Icarium…'
'This must end, Mappo.'
'No.'
Icarium faced the dragon once more. 'Ice,' he said in murmur. 'Omtose Phellack.' He turned to Mappo. 'We shall leave here now. We travel to the Jhag Odhan. I must seek out kin of my blood. Jaghut.'
To ask for imprisonment. Eternal ice, sealing you from all life. But they will not trust that. No, they will seek to kill you. Let Hood deal with you. And this time, they will be right. For their hearts do not fear judgement, and their blood… their blood is as cold as ice.
Sixteen barrows had been raised half a league south of Y'Ghatan, each one a hundred paces long, thirty wide, and three man-heights high.
Rough-cut limestone blocks and internal columns to hold up the curved roofs, sixteen eternally dark abodes, home to Malazan bones. Newly cut, stone-lined trenches reached out to them from the distant city, carrying Y'Ghatan's sewage in turgid flows swarming with flies.
Sentiments, Fist Keneb reflected sourly, could not be made any clearer.
Ignoring the stench as best he could, Keneb guided his horse towards the central barrow, which had once been surmounted by a stone monument honouring the empire's fallen. The statue had been toppled, leaving only the broad pedestal. Standing on it now were two men and two dogs, all facing Y'Ghatan's uneven, whitewashed walls.
The Barrow of Dassem Ultor and his First Sword, which held neither Dassem nor any of his guard who had fallen outside the city all those years ago. Most soldiers knew the truth of that. The deadly, legendary fighters of the First Sword had been buried in unmarked graves, to keep them from desecration, and Dassem's own grave was believed to be somewhere outside Unta, on Quon Tali.
Probably empty.
The cattle-dog, Bent, swung its huge head to watch Keneb push his horse up the steep slope. Red-rimmed eyes, set wide in a nest of scars, a regard that chilled the Malazan, reminding him yet again that he but imagined his own familiarity with that beast. It should have died with Coltaine. The animal looked as though pieced together from disparate, unidentifiable parts, only roughly approximating a dog's shape. Humped, uneven shoulder muscles, a neck as thick round as a grown man's thigh, misshapen, muscle-knitted haunches, a chest deep as a desert lion's. Beneath the empty eyes the creature was all jaw, overwide, the snout misaligned, the three remaining canines visible even when Bent's fierce mouth was closed, for most of the skin covering them had been torn away at the Fall, and nothing had replaced it. One shorn ear, the other healed flat and out to the side.
The stub that was all that was left of Bent's tail did not wag as Keneb dismounted. Had it done so, Keneb allowed the possibility that he would have been shocked to death.
The mangy, rat-like Hengese dog, Roach, trotted up to sniff at Keneb's left boot, whereupon it squatted ladylike and urinated against the leather. Cursing, the Malazan stepped away, cocking one foot for a savage kick, then halting the motion at a deep growl from Bent.
Warleader Gall rumbled a laugh. 'Roach but claims this heap of stones, Fist. Hood knows, there's no-one below to get offended.'
'Too bad one cannot say the same for the other barrows,' Keneb said, drawing off his riding gloves.
'Ah, but that insult belongs at the feet of the citizens of Y'Ghatan.'
'Roach should have displayed more patience, then, Warleader.'
'Hood take us, man, she's a damned dog. Besides, you think she'll run out of piss any time soon?'
If I had my way, she'd run out of a lot more besides. 'Not likely, I' ll grant you. That rat has more malign fluids in it than a rabid bhederin bull.'
'Poor diet.'
Keneb addressed the other man: 'Fist Temul, the Adjunct wishes to know if your Wickan scouts have ridden round the city.'
The young warrior was a child no longer. He had grown two hands' widths since Aren. Lean, hawk-faced, with far too many losses pooled in his black eyes. The Crow clan warriors who had so resented his command at Aren were silent these days. Gaze fixed on Y'Ghatan, he gave no indication of having heard Keneb's words.
More and more like Coltaine with every passing day, Gall says. Keneb knew enough to wait.
Gall cleared his throat. 'The west road shows signs of an exodus, no more than a day or two before we arrived. A half-dozen old Crow horsewarriors demanded that they pursue and ravage the fleeing refugees.'
'And where are they now?' Keneb asked.
'Guarding the baggage train, hah!'
Temul spoke. 'Inform the Adjunct that all gates are sealed. A trench has been dug at the base of the tel, cutting through the ramped roads on all sides, to a depth of nearly a man's height. Yet, this trench is but two paces wide – clearly the enemy ran out of time.'
Out of time. Keneb wondered at that. With pressed workers, Leoman could have had a far broader barrier excavated within the span of a single day. 'Very well. Did your scouts report any large weapons mounted on the walls or on the roofs of the corner towers?'
'Malazan-built ballistae, an even dozen,' Temul replied, 'ranged about at equal intervals. No sign of concentrations.'
'Well,' Keneb said with a grunt, 'foolish to suppose that Leoman would give away his perceived weak-points. And those walls were manned?'
'Yes, crowds, all shouting taunts to my warriors.'
'And showing their naked backsides,' Gall added, turning to spit.
Roach trotted over to sniff at the gleaming phlegm, then licked it up.
Nauseous, Keneb looked away, loosening the chin-strap of his helm. '
Fist Temul, have you made judgement as to our surest approach?'
Temul glanced over, expressionless. 'I have.'
'And?'
'And what, Fist? The Adjunct cares nothing for our opinions.'
'Perhaps not, but I would like to hear your thoughts in any case.'
'Ignore the gates. Use Moranth munitions and punch right through a wall midway between tower and gate. Any side will do. Two sides would be even better.'
'And how will the sappers survive camping out at the base of a wall?'
'We attack at night.'
'That is a risky thing to do.'
Temul scowled, and said nothing.
Gall turned to regard Keneb, his tear-etched face mildly incredulous.
'We begin a siege, man, not a Hood-damned fly dance.'
'I know. But Leoman must have mages, and night will not hide sappers from them.'
'They can be countered,' Gall retorted. 'It's what our mages are for.
But we waste our breaths with such things. The Adjunct will do as she chooses.'
Keneb faced right and studied the vast encampment of the Fourteenth Army, arrayed to fend off a sortie, should Leoman prove so foolish.
The investiture would be a careful, measured exercise, conducted over two or three days. The range of the Malazan ballistae on the walls was well known, so there would be no surprises there. Even so, encirclement would stretch their lines appallingly thin. They would need advance emplacements to keep an eye on the gates, and Temul's Wickans and Seti, as well as Gall's Khundryl horse-warriors, divided into companies and positioned to respond should Leoman surprise them.
The Fist shook his head. 'This is what I do not understand. Admiral Nok's fleet is even now sailing for Lothal with five thousand marines on board, and once Dujek forces the last city to capitulate he will begin a fast march to join us. Leoman must know his position is hopeless. He cannot win, even should he maul us. We will still be able to keep this noose knotted tight round Y'Ghatan, whilst we wait for reinforcements. He is finished. So why does he continue to resist?'
'Aye,' said Gall. 'He should have carried on riding west, out into the odhan. We would never have caught him out there, and he could begin rebuilding, drawing warriors to his cause.'
Keneb glanced over. 'So, Warleader, you are as nervous about this as I am.'
'He means to bleed us, Keneb. Before he falls, he means to bleed us.'
A rough gesture. 'More barrows to ring this cursed city. And he will die fighting, and so will become yet another martyr.'
'So, the killing of Malazans is sufficient cause to fight. What have we done to deserve this?'
'Wounded pride,' Temul said. 'It is one thing to suffer defeat on a field of battle, it is another to be crushed when your foe has no need even to draw a sword.'
'Humiliated in Raraku,' Gall said, nodding. 'The growing cancer in their souls. This cannot be carved out. The Malazans must be made to know pain.'
'That is ridiculous,' Keneb said. 'Was not the Chain of Dogs glory enough for the bastards?'
'The first casualty among the defeated is recalling their own list of crimes, Fist,' Temul said.
Keneb studied the young man. The foundling Grub was often in Temul's company, and among the strange lad's disordered host of peculiar observations, Grub had hinted of glory, or perhaps infamy, bound to Temul's future. Of course, that future could be tomorrow. Besides, Grub might be no more than a brain-addled waif… all right, I don't believe that – he seems to know too much. If only half the things he said made any sense… Well, in any case, Temul still managed to startle Keneb with statements more suited to some veteran campaigner.
'Very well, Fist Temul. What would you do, were you in Leoman's place?'
Silence, then a quick look at Keneb, something like surprise in Temul' s angular features. A moment later the expressionless mask returned, and he shrugged.
'Coltaine walks in your shadow, Temul,' Gall said, running his fingers down his own face as if to mimic the tears tattooed there. 'I see him, again and again-'
'No, Gall. I have told you before. You see naught but the ways of the Wickans; all else is but your imagination. Coltaine sent me away; it is not to me that he will return.'
He haunts you still, Temul. Coltaine sent you with Duiker to keep you alive, not to punish or shame you. Why won't you accept that? 'I have seen plenty of Wickans,' Gall said in a growl.
This had the sound of an old argument. Sighing, Keneb walked over to his horse. 'Any last words for the Adjunct? Either of you? No? Very well.' He swung up into the saddle and gathered the reins.
The cattle-dog Bent watched him with its sand-coloured, dead eyes.
Nearby, Roach had found a bone and was lying sprawled on its belly, legs spread out as it gnawed with the mindless concentration unique to dogs.
Halfway down the slope, Keneb realized where that bone had likely come from. A kick, all right, hard enough to send that rat straight through Hood's Gate.
Corporal Deadsmell, Throatslitter and Widdershins were sitting round a game of Troughs, black stones bouncing off the rudder and rolling in the cups, as Bottle walked up.
'Where's your sergeant?' he asked.
Deadsmell glanced up, then back down. 'Mixing paint.'
'Paint? What kind of paint?'
'It's what Dal Honese do,' said Widdershins, 'death-mask paint.'
'Before a siege?'
Throatslitter hissed – what passed for laughter, Bottle supposed – and said, 'Hear that? Before a siege. That's very cute, very cute, Bottle.'
'It's a death mask, idiot,' Widdershins said to Bottle. 'He paints it on when he thinks he's about to die.'
'Great attitude for a sergeant,' Bottle said, looking around. The other two soldiers of the Ninth Squad, Galt and Lobe, were feuding over what to put in a pot of boiling water. Both held handfuls of herbs, and as each reached to toss the herbs in the other soldier pushed that hand away and sought to throw in his own. Again and again, over the boiling water. Neither spoke. 'All right, where is Balm finding his paint?'
'There's a local cemetery north of the road,' Deadsmell said. 'I'd guess maybe there.'
'If I don't find him,' Bottle said, 'the captain wants a meeting with all the sergeants in her company. Dusk.'
'Where?'
'The sheep pen back of the farm south of the road, the one with the caved-in roof.'
Over by the hearth the pot had boiled dry and Galt and Lobe were fighting over water jugs.
Bottle moved on to the next encampment. He found Sergeant Moak sprawled with his back resting on a heap of bedrolls. The Falari, copper-haired and bearded, was picking at his overlarge teeth with a fish spine. His soldiers were nowhere in sight.
'Sergeant. Captain Faradan Sort's called a meeting-'
'I heard. I ain't deaf.'
'Where's your squad?'
'Got the squats.'
'All of them?'
'I cooked last night. They got weak stomachs, that's all.' He belched, and a moment later Bottle caught a whiff of something like rotting fish guts.
'Hood take me! Where'd you find anywhere to catch fish on this trail?'
'Didn't. Brought it with me. Was a bit high, it's true, but nothing a real soldier couldn't handle. There's some scrapings in the pot – want some?'
'No.'
'No wonder the Adjunct's in trouble, what with a whole damn army of cowardly whiners.'
Bottle stepped past to move on.
'Hey,' Moak called out, 'tell Fid the wager's still on as far as I'm concerned.'
'What wager?'
'Between him and me and that's all you got to know.'
'Fine.'
He found Sergeant Mosel and his squad dismantling a broken wagon in the ditch. They had piled up the wood and Flashwit and Mayfly were prying nails, studs and fittings from the weathered planks, whilst Taffo and Uru Hela struggled with an axle under the sergeant's watchful eye.
Mosel glanced over. 'Bottle, isn't it? Fourth Squad, Fid's, right? If you're looking for Neffarias Bredd you just missed him. A giant of a man, must have Fenn blood in him.'
'No, I wasn't, Sergeant. You saw Bredd?'
'Well, not me, I've just come back, but Flashwit…'
At mention of her name the burly woman looked up. 'Yah. I heard he was just by here. Hey, Mayfly, who was it said he was just by?'
'Who?'
'Neffarias Bredd, you fat cow, who else would we be talking 'bout?'
'I don't know who said what. I was only half listening, anyway. I think it was Smiles, was it Smiles? Might have been. Anyway, I'd like to roll in the blankets with that man-'
'Smiles isn't a man-'
'Not her. Bredd, I mean.'
Bottle asked, 'You want to bed Bredd?'
Mosel stepped closer, eyes narrowing. 'You making fun of my soldiers, Bottle?'
'I'd never do that, Sergeant. Just came to tell there's a meeting-'
'Oh, yes, I heard.'
'From who?'
The lean man shrugged. 'Can't remember. Does it matter?'
'It does if it means I'm wasting my time.'
'You ain't got time to waste? Why, what makes you unique?'
'That axle doesn't look broken,' Bottle observed.
'Who said it was?'
'Then why are you taking the wagon apart?'
'We been eating its dust so long we just took revenge.'
'Where's the wagoner, then? The load crew?'
Flashwit laughed an ugly laugh.
Mosel shrugged again, then gestured further down the ditch. Four figures, bound and gagged, were lying motionless in the yellow grass.
The two squads of sergeants Sobelone and Tugg were gathered round a wrestling match between, Bottle saw as he pushed his way in for a better look, Saltlick and Shortnose. Coins were being flung down, puffing the dust of the road, as the two heavy infantrymen strained and heaved in a knot of arm and leg holds. Saltlick's massive, round face was visible, red, sweaty and streaked with dust, the expression fixed in its usual cow-like, uninterested incomprehensibility. He blinked slowly, and seemed to be concentrating on chewing something.
Bottle nudged Toles, the soldier on his right. 'What are they fighting over?'
Toles looked down on Bottle, his thin, pallid face twitching. 'It's very simple. Two squads, marching in step, one behind the other, then the other in front of the one that had been in front beforehand, proving the mythical camaraderie to be no more than some epic instigator of bad poetry and bawdy songs designed to appease lowbrows, in short, a lie. Culminating at the last in this disreputable display of animal instincts-'
'Saltlick bit Shortnose's ear off,' cut in Corporal Reem, standing on Bottle's left.
'Oh. Is that what he's chewing?'
'Yeah. Taking his time with it, too.'
'Do Tugg and Sobelone know about the captain's meeting?'
'Yeah.'
'So, Shortnose who got his nose tip cut off now has only one ear, too.'
'Yeah. He'll do anything to spite his face.'
'Is he the one who got married last week?'
'Yeah, to Hanno there. She's the one betting against him. Anyway, from what I hear, it ain't his face that she adores, if you know what I mean.'
Bottle caught sight of a low hill on the north side of the road on which stood a score of twisted, hunched guldindha trees. 'Is that the old cemetery?'
'Looks like it, why?'
Without answering, Bottle pushed his way back through the crowd and set off for the burial ground. He found Sergeant Balm in a looter's pit, face streaked with ash, making a strange monotonous nasal groaning sound as he danced in tight circles.
'Sergeant, captain wants a meeting-'
'Shut up, I'm busy.'
'Dusk, in the sheep pen-'
'Interrupt a Dal Honese death dirge and you'll know a thousand thousand lifetimes of curses, your bloodlines for ever. Hairy old women will steal your children and your children's children and chop them up and cook them with vegetables and tubers and a few precious threads of saffron-'
'I'm done, Sergeant. Orders delivered. Goodbye.'
'-and Dal Honese warlocks wearing snake girdles will lie with your woman and she'll birth venomous worms all covered in curly black hair-'
'Keep it up, Sergeant, and I'll make a doll of you-'
Balm leapt from the pit, eyes suddenly wide. 'You evil man! Get away from me! I never done nothing to you!' He spun about and ran away, gazelle-skins flapping.
Bottle turned and began the long walk back to the camp.
He found Strings assembling his crossbow, Cuttle watching with avid interest. A crate of Moranth munitions was to one side, the lid pried loose and the grenados lying like turtle eggs in nests of padding. The others of the squad were sitting some distance away, looking nervous.
The sergeant glanced up. 'Bottle, you found them all?'
'Aye.'
'Good. So, how are the other squads holding up?'
'Just fine,' Bottle replied. He regarded the others on the far side of the hearth. 'What's the point?' he asked. 'If that box goes up, it'll knock down Y'Ghatan's wall from here, and you and most of this army will be red hail.'
Sudden sheepish expressions. Grunting, Koryk rose, deliberately casual. 'I was already sitting here,' he said. 'Then Tarr and Smiles crawled over to huddle in my shadow.'
'The man lies,' Smiles said. 'Besides, Bottle, why did you volunteer to go wandering with the captain's orders?'
'Because I'm not stupid.'
'Yeah?' Tarr said. 'Well, you're back now, aren't you?'
'I thought they'd be finished by now.' He waved a fly away that had been buzzing in front of his face, then walked over to sit downwind of the hearth. 'So, Sergeant, what do you figure the captain's got to say?'
'Sappers and shields,' Cuttle said in a growl.
'Shields?'
'Aye. We scurry in hunched low and the rest of you shield us from all the arrows and rocks until we're done planting the mines, then whoever's left runs back out, as fast as they can and it won't be fast enough.'
'A one-way trip, then.'
Cuttle grinned.
'It'll be more elaborate than that,' Strings said. 'I hope.'
'She goes straight in, that's what she does.'
'Maybe, Cuttle. Maybe not. She wants most of her army still breathing when the dust's settled.'
'Minus a few hundred sappers.'
'We're getting rare enough as it is,' Strings said. 'She won't want to waste us.'
'That'd be a first for the Malazan Empire;'
The sergeant looked over at Cuttle. 'Tell you what, why don't I just kill you now and be done with it?'
'Forget it. I want to take the rest of you sorry humpers with me.'
Nearby, Sergeant Gesler and his squad had appeared and were making their camp. Corporal Stormy, Bottle noted, wasn't with them. Gesler strode over. 'Fid.'
'Kalam and Quick back, too?'
'No, they went on, with Stormy.'
'On? Where?'
Gesler crouched opposite Strings. 'Let's just say I'm actually glad to see your ugly face, Fid. Maybe they'll make it back, maybe they won't.
I'll tell you about it later. Spent the morning with the Adjunct. She had lots of questions.'
'About what?'
About the stuff I'll tell you about later. So we've got a new captain.'
'Faradan Sort.'
'Korelri?'
Strings nodded. 'Stood the Wall, we think.'
'So she can probably take a punch.'
'Then punch back, aye.'
'Well that's just great.'
'She wants all the sergeants for a meeting tonight.'
'I think I'll go back and answer a few more of the Adjunct's questions.'
'You can't avoid meeting her for ever, Gesler.'
'Oh yeah? Watch me. So, where did they move Captain Kindly to?'
Strings shrugged. 'To some company that needs pulling into shape, I'd imagine.'
'And we don't?'
'Harder terrifying us than most in this army, Gesler. I think he'd already given up on us, in any case. I'm not sorry to see the miserable bastard on his way. This meeting tonight will likely be about what we'll be doing in the siege. Either that or she just wants to waste our time with some inspiring tirade.'
'For the glory of the empire,' Gesler said, grimacing.
'For vengeance,' Koryk said from where he sat tying fetishes onto his baldric.
'Vengeance is glorious, so long as it's us delivering it, soldier.'
'No it's not,' said Strings. 'It's sordid, no matter how you look at it.'
'Ease up, Fid. I was only half serious. You're so tense you'd think we was heading into a siege or something. Anyway, why ain't there a few hands of Claw to do the dirty work? You know, infiltrate the city and the palace and stick a knife in Leoman and be done with it. Why do we have to get messed up with a real fight? What kind of empire are we, these days?'
No-one spoke for a time. Bottle watched his sergeant. Strings was testing the pull on the crossbow, but Bottle could see that he was thinking.
Cuttle said, 'Laseen's pulled 'em in. Close and tight.'
The regard Gesler fixed on the sapper was level, gauging. 'That the rumour, Cuttle?'
'One of 'em. What do I know? Maybe she caught something on the wind.'
'You certainly have,' Strings muttered as he examined the case of quarrels.
'Only that the few veteran companies still on Quon Tali were ordered to Unta and Malaz City.'
Strings finally looked up. 'Malaz City? Why there?'
'The rumour weren't that specific, Sergeant. Just the where, not the why. Anyway, there's something going on.'
'Where'd you catch all this?' Gesler asked.
'That new sergeant, Hellian, from Kartool.'
'The drunk one?'
'That's her.'
'Surprised she noticed anything,' Strings observed. 'What got her shipped out here?'
'That she won't talk about. In the wrong place at the wrong time, I figure, from the way her face twists all sour on the subject. Anyway, she went to Malaz City first, then joined up with the transports at Nap, then on to Unta. She never seems so drunk she can't keep her eyes open.'
'You trying to get your hand on her thigh, Cuttle?'
'A bit too young for me, Fid, but a man could do worse.'
'A bleary-eyed wife,' Smiles said with a snort. 'That's probably the best you could manage, Cuttle.'
'When I was a lad,' the sapper said, reaching out to collect a grenado – a sharper, Bottle noted with alarm as Cuttle began tossing it up in the air and catching it one-handed – 'every time I said something disrespectful of my betters, my father'd take me out back and slap me half-unconscious. Something tells me, Smiles, your da was way too indulgent when it came to his little girl.'
'You just try it, Cuttle, and I'll stick a knife in your eye.'
'If I was your da, Smiles, I'd have long ago killed myself.'
She went pale at that, although no-one else seemed to notice, since their eyes were following the grenado up and down.
'Put it away,' Strings said.
An ironic lifting of the brows, then, smiling, Cuttle returned the sharper to the crate. 'Anyway, it looks like Hellian's got a capable corporal, which tells me she'd held onto good judgement, despite drinking brandy like water.'
Bottle rose. 'Actually, I forgot about her. Where are they camped, Cuttle?'
'Near the rum wagon. But she already knows about the meeting.'
Bottle glanced over at the crate of munitions. 'Oh. Well, I'm going for a walk in the desert.'
'Don't stray too far,' the sergeant said, 'could be some of Leoman's warriors out there.'
'Right.'
A short while later he came within sight of the intended meeting place. Just beyond the collapsed building was an overgrown rubbish heap, misshapen with tufts of yellow grass sprouting from the barrowsized mound. There was no-one in sight. Bottle made his way towards the midden, the sounds of the encampment dwindling behind him. It was late afternoon but the wind remained hot as the breath of a furnace.
Chiselled wall and foundation stones, shattered idols, lengths of splintered wood, animal bones and broken pottery. Bottle clambered up the side, noting the most recent leavings – Malazan-style pottery, black-glazed, squat, fragmented images of the most common motifs:
Dassem Ultor's death outside Y'Ghatan, the Empress on her throne, the First Heroes and the Quon pantheon. The local style, Bottle had seen from the villages they had passed through, was much more elegant, elongated with cream or white glazing on the necks and rims and faded red on the body, adorned with full-toned and realistic images. Bottle paused at seeing one such shard, a body-piece, on which had been painted the Chain of Dogs. He picked it up, wiped dust from the illustrated scene. Part of Coltaine was visible, affixed to the cross of wood, overhead a wild flurry of black crows. Beneath him, dead Wickans and Malazans, and a cattle-dog impaled on a spear. A chill whispered along his spine and he let the shard drop.
Atop the mound, he stood for a time, studying the sprawl of the Malazan army along the road and spilling out to the sides. The occasional rider wending through carrying messages and reports; carrion birds, capemoths and rhizan wheeling overhead like swarming flies.
He so disliked omens.
Drawing off his helm, Bottle wiped sweat from his brow and turned to face the odhan to the south. Once fertile, perhaps, but now a wasteland. Worth fighting for? No, but then, there wasn't much that was. The soldier at your side, maybe – he'd been told that enough times, by old veterans with nothing left but that dubious companionship. Such bonds could only be born of desperation, a closing in of the spirit, down to a manageable but pitiful area containing things and people one could care about. For the rest, pure indifference, twisting on occasion into viciousness.
Gods, what am I doing here?
Stumbling into ways of living didn't seem a worthy path to take.
Barring Cuttle and the sergeant, the squad was made up of people no different from Bottle. Young, eager for a place to stand that didn't feel so isolated and lonely, or filling oneself with bravado to mask the fragile self hiding within. But all that was no surprise. Youth was headlong, even when it felt static, stagnant and stifling. It liked its emotions extreme, doused in fiery spices, enough to burn the throat and set flame to the heart. The future was not consciously rushed into – it was just the place you suddenly ended up in, battered and weary and wondering how in Hood's name you got there. Well. He could see that. He didn't need the echoes of his grandmother's ceaseless advice whispering through his thoughts.
Assuming, of course, that voice belonged to his grandmother. He had begun to suspect otherwise.
Bottle crossed the heap, moved down onto the south side. At the base here the desiccated ground was pitted, revealing much older leavings of rubbish – red-glazed sherds with faded images of chariots and stilted figures wearing ornate headdresses and wielding strange hookbladed weapons. The massive olive-oil jars common to this region retained these old forms, clinging to a mostly forgotten antiquity as if the now lost golden age was any different from the present one.
His grandmother's observations, those ones. She'd had nothing good to say about the Malazan Empire, but even less about the Untan Confederacy, the Li Heng League and all the other despotic rulers of the pre-empire days on Quon Tali. She had been a child through all the Itko Kan-Cawn Por wars, the Seti Tide, the Wickan migrations, the Quon attempt at hegemony. All blood and stupidity, she used to say. All prod and pull. The old with their ambitions and the young with their eager mindless zeal. At least the Emperor put an end to all that – a knife in the back for those grey tyrants and distant wars for the young zealots. It ain't right but nothing ever is. Ain't right, as I said, but better than worst, and I remember the worst.
Now here he was, in the midst of one of those distant wars. Yet there had been no zeal in his motivations. No, something far more pathetic.
Boredom was a poor reason to do anything. Better to hold high some raging brand of righteousness, no matter how misguided and lacking in subtlety.
Cuttle talks of vengeance. But he makes his trying to feed us something too obvious, and we're not swelling with rage like we're supposed to. He couldn't be sure of it, but this army felt lost. At its very core was an empty place, waiting to be filled, and Bottle feared it would wait for ever.
He settled down onto the ground, began a silent series of summonings.
Before long, a handful of lizards scampered across the dusty earth towards him. Two rhizan settled down onto his right thigh, their wings falling still. An arch spider, big as a horse's hoof and the colour of green glass, leapt from a nearby rock and landed light as a feather on his left knee. He studied his array of companions and decided they would do. Gestures, the stroke of fingers, silent commands, and the motley servants hurried off, making one and all towards the sheep pen where the captain would address the sergeants.
It paid to know just how wide Hood's Gate was going to be come the assault.
And then something else was on its way.
Sudden sweat on Bottle's skin.
She appeared from the heat haze, moving like an animal – prey, not predator, in her every careful, watchful motion – fine-furred, deep brown, a face far more human than ape, filled with expression – or at least its potential, for the look she fixed upon him now was singular in its curiosity. As tall as Bottle, lean but heavy-breasted, belly distended. Skittish, she edged closer.
She is not real. A manifestation, a conjuration. A memory sprung from the dust of this land.
He watched her crouch to collect a handful of sand, then fling it at him, voicing a loud barking grunt. The sand fell short, a few pebbles bouncing off his boots.
Or maybe I am the conjured, not her. In her eyes the wonder of coming face to face with a god, or a demon. He looked past her, and saw the vista of a savannah, thick with grasses, stands of trees and wildlife.
Nothing like it should have been, only what it once was, long ago. Oh, spirits, why won't you leave me alone?
She had been following. Following them all. The entire army. She could smell it, see the signs of its passing, maybe even hear the distant clack of metal and wooden wheels punching down the sides of stones in the road as they rocked along. Driven on by fear and fascination, she had followed, not understanding how the future could echo back to her world, her time. Not understanding? Well, he couldn't either. As if all is present, as if every moment co-exists. And here we two are, face to face, both too ignorant to partition our faith, our way of seeing the world – and so we see them all, all at once, and if we're not careful it will drive us mad.
But there was no turning back. Simply because back did not exist.
He remained seated and she came closer, chattering now in some strange glottal tongue filled with clicks and stops. She gestured at her own belly, ran an index figure along it as if drawing a shape on the downy, paler pelt.
Bottle nodded. Yes, you carry a child. I understand that much. Still, what is that to me?
She threw more sand at him, most of it striking below his chest. He waved at the cloud in front of his stinging eyes.
A lunge forward, surprisingly swift, and she gripped his wrist, drew his arm forward, settled his hand on her belly.
He met her eyes, and was shaken to his very core. This was no mindless creature. Eres'al. The yearning in those dark, stunningly beautiful eyes made him mentally reel.
'All right,' he whispered, and slowly sent his senses questing, into that womb, into the spirit growing within it.
For every abomination, there must emerge its answer. Its enemy, its counterbalance. Here, within this Eres'al, is such an answer. To a distant abomination, the corruption of a once-innocent spirit.
Innocence must be reborn. Yet… I can see so little… not human, not even of this world, barring what the Eres'al herself brought to the union. Thus, an intruder. From another realm, a realm bereft of innocence. To make them part of this world, one of their kind must be born… in this way. Their blood must be drawn into this world's flow of blood.
But why an Eres'al? Because… gods below… because she is the last innocent creature, the last innocent ancestor of our line. After her… the degradation of spirit begins. The shifting of perspective, the separation from all else, the carving of borders – in the ground, in the mind's way of seeing. After her, there's only… us.
The realization – the recognition – was devastating. Bottle pulled his hand away. But it was too late. He knew too many things, now. The father… Tiste Edur. The child to come… the only pure candidate for a new Throne of Shadow – a throne commanding a healed realm.
And it would have so many enemies. So many…
'No,' he said to the creature, shaking his head. 'You cannot pray to me. Must not. I'm not a god. I'm only a…'
Yet… to her I must seem just that. A vision. She is spirit-questing and she barely knows it. She's stumbling, as much as we all are, but within her there's a kind of… certainty. Hope. Gods… faith.
Humbled beyond words, filling with shame, Bottle pulled away, clawing up the slope of the mound, amidst the detritus of civilization, potsherds and fragments of mortar, rusted pieces of metal. No, he didn't want this. Could not encompass this… this need in her. He could not be her… her faith.
She drew yet closer, hands closing round his neck, and dragged him back. Teeth bared, she shook him.
Unable to breathe, Bottle flailed in her grip.
She threw him down, straddled him, released his neck and raised two fists as if to batter him.
'You want me to be your god?' he gasped, 'Fine, then! Have it your way!' He stared up at her eyes, at the fists lifted high, framed by bright, blinding sunlight.
So, is this how a god feels?
A flash of glare, as if a sword had been drawn, an eager hiss of iron filling his head. Something like a fierce challengeBlinking, he found himself staring up at the empty sky, lying on the rough scree. She was gone, but he could still feel the echo of her weight on his hips, and the appalling erection her position had triggered in him.
Fist Keneb walked into the Adjunct's tent. The map-table had been assembled and on it was an imperial map of Y'Ghatan that had been delivered a week earlier by a rider from Onearm's Host. It was a scholar's rendition drawn shortly after Dassem's fall. Standing at Tavore's side was Tene Baralta, busy scrawling all over the vellum with a charcoal stick, and the Red Blade was speaking.
'… rebuilt here, and here, in the Malazan style of sunk columns and counter-sunk braces. The engineers found the ruins beneath the streets to be a maze of pockets, old rooms, half-buried streets, wells and inside-wall corridors. It should all have been flattened, but at least one age of construction was of a stature to rival what's possible these days. Obviously, that gave them problems, which is why they gave up on the fourth bastion.'
'I understand,' the Adjunct said, 'however, as I stated earlier, Fist Baralta, I am not interested in assailing the fourth bastion.'
Keneb could see the man's frustration, but he held his tongue, simply tossing down the charcoal stick and stepping away from the table.
Over in the corner sat Fist Blistig, legs sprawled out in a posture bordering on insubordination.
'Fist Keneb,' Tavore said, eyes still on the map, 'have you met with Temul and Warleader Gall?'
'Temul reports the city has been evacuated – an exodus of citizens on the road to Lothal. Clearly, Leoman is planning for a long siege, and is not interested in feeding anyone but soldiers and support staff.'
'He wants room to manoeuvre,' said Blistig from where he sat. 'Panic in the streets won't do. We shouldn't read too much into it, Keneb.'
'I suspect,' Tene Baralta said, 'we're not reading enough into it. I am nervous, Adjunct. About this whole damned situation. Leoman didn't come here to defend the last rebel city. He didn't come to protect the last believers – by the Seven Holies, he has driven them from their very homes, from their very own city! No, his need for Y'Ghatan was tactical, and that's what worries me, because I can make no sense of it.'
The Adjunct spoke: 'Did Temul have anything else to say, Keneb?'
'He had thoughts of a night attack, with sappers, taking out a section of wall. Presumably, we would then follow through in strength, into that breach, thrusting deep into Y'Ghatan's heart. Cut through far enough and we can isolate Leoman in the Falah'd's palace…'
'Too risky,' Tene Baralta said in a grumble. 'Darkness won't cover those sappers from their mages. They'd get slaughtered-'
'Risks cannot be avoided,' Tavore said.
Keneb's brows rose. 'Temul said much the same, Adjunct, when the danger was discussed.'
'Tene Baralta,' Tavore continued after a moment, 'you and Blistig have been directed as to the disposition of your companies. Best you begin preparations. I have spoken directly with Captain Faradan Sort on what will be required of her and her squads. We shall not waste time on this. We move tonight. Fist Keneb, remain, please. The rest of you are dismissed.'
Keneb watched Blistig and Baralta leave, reading in an array of small signs – posture, the set of their shoulders and the stiffness of their gaits – the depth of their demoralization.
'Command does not come from consensus,' the Adjunct said, her tone suddenly hard as she faced Keneb. 'I deliver the orders, and my officers are to obey them. They should be relieved that is the case, for all responsibility lies with me and me alone. No-one else shall have to answer to the Empress.'
Keneb nodded, 'As you say, Adjunct. However, your officers do feel responsible – for their soldiers-'
'Many of whom will die, sooner or later, on some field of battle.
Perhaps even here in Y'Ghatan. This is a siege, and sieges are messy.
I do not have the luxury of starving them out. The longer Leoman resists, the greater the risk of flare-ups all over Seven Cities. High Fist Dujek and I are fully agreed on this.'
'Then why, Adjunct, did we not accept his offer of more troops?'
She was silent for a half-dozen heartbeats, then, 'I am aware of the sentiments among the squads of this army, none of whom, it seems, are aware of the true condition of Onearm's Host.'
'The true condition?'
She stepped closer. 'There's almost nothing left, Keneb. The core – the very heart – of Onearm's Host – it's gone.'
'But – Adjunct, he has received replacements, has he not?'
'What was lost cannot be replaced. Recruits: Genabarii, Nathii, half the Pale Garrison, oh, count the boots and they look to be intact, up to full complement, but Keneb, know this – Dujek is broken. And so is the Host.'
Shaken, Keneb turned away. He unstrapped his helm and drew the battered iron from his head, then ran a hand through his matted, sweaty hair. 'Hood take us, the last great imperial army…'
'Is now the Fourteenth, Fist.'
He stared at her.
She began pacing. 'Of course Dujek offered, for he is, well, he is Dujek. Besides, the ranking High Fist could do no less. But he – they – have suffered enough. Their task now is to make the imperial presence felt – and we should all pray to our gods that they do not find their mettle tested, by anyone.'
'That is why you are in such a hurry.'
'Leoman must be taken down. Y'Ghatan must fall. Tonight.'
Keneb said nothing for a long moment, then he asked, 'Why, Adjunct, are you telling me this?'
'Because Gamet is dead.'
Gamet? Oh, I see.
'And T'amber is not respected by any of you. Whereas,' she glanced at him, with an odd expression, 'you are.'
'You wish for me to inform the other Fists, Adjunct?'
'Regarding Dujek? Decide that for yourself, but I advise you, Fist, to think very carefully before reaching that decision.'
'But they should be told! At least then they will understand…'
'Me? Understand me? Perhaps. But that is not the most important issue here.'
He did not comprehend. Not at once. Then, a growing realization. '
Their faith, beyond you, beyond the Fourteenth, lies with Dujek Onearm. So long as they believe he is there, poised behind us and ready to march to our aid, they will do as you command. You do not want to take that away from them, yet by your silence you sacrifice yourself, you sacrifice the respect they would accord you-'
'Assuming such respect would be granted, Fist, and of that I am not convinced.' She returned to the map-table. 'The decision is yours, Fist.'
He watched her studying the map, then, concluding he had been dismissed, Keneb left the tent. He felt sick inside. The Host – broken? Was that simply her assessment? Maybe Dujek was just tired… yet, who might know better? Quick Ben, but he wasn't here. Nor that assassin, Kalam Mekhar. Leaving… well, one man. He paused outside the tent, studied the sun's position. There might be time, before Sort spoke to them all, if he hurried.
Keneb set out towards the camps of the marines.
'What do you want me to say, Fist?' The sergeant had laid out a halfdozen heavy quarrels. He had already tied sharpers to two of them and was working on a third.
Keneb stared at the clay-ball grenado in Strings's hands. 'I don't know, but make it honest.'
Strings paused and looked over at his squad, eyes narrowing. 'Adjunct' s hoping for reinforcements if things go bad?' He was speaking in a low voice.
'That's just it, Sergeant. She isn't.'
'So, Fist,' Strings said, 'she thinks Dujek's finished. And so's the Host. Is that what she thinks?'
'Yes. You know Quick Ben, and the High Mage was there, after all. At Coral. He's not here for me to ask him, so I'm asking you. Is the Adjunct right?'
He resumed affixing the grenado to the quarrel head.
Keneb waited.
'Seems,' the sergeant muttered, 'I misjudged the Adjunct.'
'In what way?'
'She's better at reading signs than I thought.'
Hood's balls, I really did not want to hear that.
'You are looking well, Ganoes Paran.'
His answering smile was wry. 'My new life of ease, Apsalar.'
Shouts from the sailors on the deck as the carrack swung towards the harbour of Kansu, the sound of gulls a muted accompaniment to the creak of cordage and timber. A cool breeze rode the salty air coming through the cabin's round window portside, smelling of the shore.
Apsalar studied the man seated across from her a moment longer, then returned to her task of roughing with a pumice stone the grip of one of her in-fighting knives. Polished wood was pretty, but far too slick in a sweaty hand. Normally she used leather gloves, but it never hurt to consider less perfect circumstances. For an assassin, the ideal situation was choosing when and where to fight, but such luxuries were not guaranteed.
Paran said, 'I see that you're as methodical as ever. Although at least now, there's more animation in your face. Your eyes…'
'You've been at sea too long, Captain.'
'Probably. Anyway, I'm not a captain any more. My days as a soldier are done.'
'Regrets?'
He shrugged. 'Some. I was never where I wanted to be with them. Until the very end, and then,' he paused, 'well, it was too late.'
'That might have been for the better,' Apsalar said. 'Less… sullied.'
'Odd, how the Bridgeburners mean different things for us. Memories, and perspectives. I was treated well enough among the survivors-'
'Survivors. Yes, there's always survivors.'
'Picker, Antsy, Blend, Mallet, a few others. Proprietors of K'rul's Bar, now, in Darujhistan.'
'K'rul's Bar?'
'The old temple once sanctified to that Elder God, aye. It's haunted, of course.'
'More than you realize, Paran.'
'I doubt that. I've learned a lot, Apsalar, about a lot of things.'
A heavy thud to starboard, as the harbour patrol arrived to collect the mooring fees. The slap of lines. More voices.
'K'rul played a very active role against the Pannion Domin,' Paran went on. 'Since that time, I've grown less easy with his presence – the Elder Gods are back in the game-'
'Yes, you've already said something to that effect. They are opposing the Crippled God, and one cannot find fault in that.'
'Are they? Sometimes I'm convinced… other times,' he shook his head.
Then rose. 'We're pulling in. I need to make arrangements.'
'What kind of arrangements?'
'Horses.'
'Paran.'
'Yes?'
'Are you now ascended?'
His eyes widened. 'I don't know. Nothing feels different. I admit I'm not even sure what ascendancy means.'
'Means you're harder to kill.'
'Why?'
'You have stumbled onto power, of a personal nature, and with it, well, power draws power. Always. Not the mundane kind, but something other, a force in nature, a confluence of energies. You begin to see things differently, to think differently. And others take notice of you – that's usually bad, by the way.' She sighed, studying him, and said, 'Perhaps I don't need to warn you, but I will. Be careful, Paran; of all the lands in this world, there are two more dangerous than all others-'
'Your knowledge, or Cotillion's?'
'Cotillion's for one, mine for the other. Anyway, you're about to set foot on one of those two. Seven Cities, Paran, is not a healthy place to be, especially not for an ascendant.'
'I know. I can feel that… what's out there, what I have to deal with.'
'Get someone else to do your fighting for you, if possible.'
His gaze narrowed on her. 'Now that's a clear lack of faith.'
'I killed you once-'
'And you were possessed by a god, by the Patron of Assassins himself, Apsalar.'
'Who played by the rules. There are things here that do not.'
'I'll give that some consideration, Apsalar. Thank you.'
'And remember, bargain from strength or don't bargain at all.'
He gave her a strange smile, then headed topside.
A skittering sound from one corner, and Telorast and Curdle scampered into view, bony feet clattering on the wooden floor.
'He is dangerous, Not-Apsalar! Stay away, oh, you've spent too long with him!'
'Don't worry about me, Telorast.'
'Worry? Oh, we have worries, all right, don't we, Curdle?'
'Endless worries, Telorast. What am I saying? We're not worried.'
Apsalar said, 'The Master of the Deck knows all about you two, no doubt compounding those worries.'
'But he told you nothing!'
'Are you so certain of that?'
'Of course!' The bird-like skeleton bobbed and weaved in front of its companion. 'Think on it, Curdle! If she knew she'd step on us! Wouldn' t she?'
'Unless she has a more devious betrayal in mind, Telorast! Have you thought of that? No, you haven't, have you? I have to do all the thinking.'
'You never think! You never have!'
Apsalar rose. 'They've dropped the gangplank. Time to leave.'
'Hide us under your cloak. You have to. There are dogs out there, in the streets!'
She sheathed the knife. 'All right, but no squirming.'
A squalid port, four of the six piers battered into treacherous hulks by Nok's fleet a month earlier, Kansu was in no way memorable, and Apsalar was relieved as they rode past the last sprawl of shanties on the inland road and saw before them a scattering of modest stone buildings, marking the herders, the pens and the demon-eyed goats gathered beneath guldindha trees. And beyond that, tharok orchards with their silvery, thread-like bark prized for rope-making, the uneven rows looking ghostly with their boles shimmering in the wind.
There had been something odd in the city behind them, the crowds smaller than was normal, the voices more muted. A number of merchant shops had been shut, and this during peak market time. The modest garrison of Malazan soldiers was present only at the gates and down at the docks, where at least four trader ships had been denied berths.
And no-one seemed inclined to offer explanations to outsiders.
Paran had spoken quietly with the horse trader and Apsalar had watched as more coin than was necessary changed hands, but the ex-captain had said nothing during their ride out.
Reaching a crossroads, they drew rein.
'Paran,' Apsalar said, 'did you note anything strange about Kansu?'
He grimaced. 'I don't think we need worry,' he said. 'You've been possessed by a god, after all, and as for me, well, as I said, there's no real cause for worry.'
'What are you talking about?'
'Plague. Hardly surprising, given all the unburied corpses following this rebellion. It began a week or so ago, somewhere east of Ehrlitan.
Any ships that made port or hail from there are being turned away.'
Apsalar said nothing for a time. Then she nodded. 'Poliel.'
'Aye.'
'And not enough healers left to intercede.'
'The horse trader said officials went to the Temple of D'rek, in Kansu. The foremost healers are found there, of course. They found everyone within slaughtered.'
She glanced over at him.
'I take the south track,' Paran said, fighting with his edgy gelding.
Yes, there is nothing more to be said, is there. The gods are indeed at war. 'The west for us,' Apsalar replied, already uncomfortable with the Seven Cities style of saddle. Neither she nor Cotillion had ever had much success with horses, but at least the mare beneath her seemed a docile beast. She opened her cloak and dragged out Telorast, then Curdle, tossing them both onto the ground, where they raced ahead, long tails flicking.
'All too short,' Paran said, meeting her eyes.
She nodded. 'But just as well, I think.'
Her comment was not well received. 'I am sorry to hear you say that.'
'I do not mean to offend, Ganoes Paran. It's just that, well, I was rediscovering… things.'
'Like comradeship?'
'Yes.'
'And that is something you feel you cannot afford.'
'Invites carelessness,' she said.
'Ah, well. For what it is worth, Apsalar, I believe we will see each other again.'
She allowed that sentiment, and nodded. 'I will look forward to that.'
'Good, then there's hope for you yet.'
She watched him ride away, his two packhorses trailing. Changes came to a man in ways few could imagine. He seemed to have let go of so much… she was envious of that. And already, she realized with a faint stab of regret, already she missed him. Too close, too dangerous by far. Just as well.
As for plague, well, he was probably right. Neither he nor Apsalar had much to fear. Too bad for everyone else, though.
The broken remnants of the road made for an agonized traverse up the limestone hillside, rocks tumbling and skittering down in clouds of dust. A flash flood had cut through the passage unknown years or decades past, revealing countless layers of sediments on the channel's steep-cut walls. Leading her horse and the pack-mules by the reins, Samar Dev studied those multi-hued layers. 'Wind and water, Karsa Orlong, without end. Time's endless dialogue with itself.'
Three paces ahead, the Toblakai warrior did not reply. He was nearing the summit, taking the down-flow path of the past flood, ragged, gnawed rock rising to either side of him. The last hamlet was days behind them now; these lands were truly wild. Reclaimed, since surely this road must have led somewhere, once, but there were no other signs of past civilization. In any case, she was less interested in what had gone before. What was to come was her fascination, the wellspring of all her inventions, her inspirations.
'Sorcery, Karsa Orlong, that is the heart of the problem.'
'What problem now, woman?'
'Magic obviates the need for invention, beyond certain basic requirements, of course. And so we remain eternally stifled-'
'To the Faces with stifled, witch. There is nothing wrong with where we are, how we are. You spit on satisfaction, leaving you always unsettled and miserable. I am a Teblor – we live simply enough, and we see the cruelty of your so-called progress. Slaves, children in chains, a thousand lies to make one person better than the next, a thousand lies telling you this is how things should be, and there's no stopping it. Madness called sanity, slavery called freedom. I am done talking now.'
'Well, I'm not. You're no different, calling ignorance wisdom, savagery noble. Without striving to make things better, we're doomed to repeat our litany of injustices-'
Karsa reached the summit and turned to face her, his expression twisting. 'Better is never what you think it is, Samar Dev.'
'What does that mean?'
He raised a hand, suddenly still. 'Quiet. Something's not right.' He slowly looked round, eyes narrowing. 'There's a… smell.'
She joined him, dragging the horse and mules onto level ground. High rocks to either side, the edge of a gorge just beyond – the hill they were on was a ridge, blade-edged, with more jagged rock beyond. A twisted ancient tree squatting on the summit. 'I don't smell anything…'
The Toblakai drew his stone sword. 'A beast has laired here, nearby, I think. A hunter, a killer. And I think it is close…'
Eyes widening, Samar Dev scanned the area, her heart pounding hard in her chest. 'You may be right. There are no spirits here…'
He grunted. 'Fled.'
Fled. Oh.
Like a mass of iron filings, the sky was slowly lowering on all sides, a heavy mist that was dry as sand. Not that that made any sense, Kalam Mekhar allowed, but this was what came of sustained terror, the wild pathetic conjurations of a beleaguered imagination. He was clinging with every part of his body that was capable of clinging to the sheer, battered underside of a sky keep, the wind or whatever it was moaning in his ears, a trembling stealing the strength from his limbs as he felt the last of Quick Ben's magic seep away.
Unanticipated, this sudden repudiation of sorcery – he could see no otataral, nothing veined through this brutal, black basalt. No obvious explanation. Leather gloves cut through, blood slicking his hands, and above, a mountain to climb, with this dry silver mist closing in around him. Somewhere far below crouched Quick Ben and Stormy, the former wondering what had gone wrong and, hopefully, trying to come up with an idea for dealing with it. The latter likely scratching his armpits and popping lice with his fingernails.
Well, there was no point in waiting for what might not come, when what was going to come was inevitable. Groaning with the effort, Kalam began pulling himself along the rock.
The last sky keep he had seen had been Moon's Spawn, and its pocked sides had been home to tens of thousands of Great Ravens. Fortunately, this did not seem to be the case here. A few more man-heights' worth of climbing and he would find himself on a side, rather than virtually upside-down as he was now. Reach there, he knew, and he would be able to rest.
Sort of.
That damned wizard. That damned Adjunct. Damned everybody, in fact, since not one of them was here, and of course they weren't, since this was madness and nobody else was this stupid. Gods, his shoulders were on fire, the insides of his thighs a solid ache edging towards numbness. And that wouldn't be good, would it?
Too old for this by far. Men his age didn't reach his age falling for stupid plans like this one. Was he getting soft? Soft-brained.
He pulled himself round a chiselled projection, scrabbled with his feet for a moment, then edged over, drew himself up and found ledges that would take his weight. A whimper escaped him, sounding pathetic even to his own ears, as he settled against the stone.
A while later, he lifted his head and began looking round, searching for a suitable outcrop or knob of rock that he could loop his rope over.
Quick Ben's rope, conjured out of nothing. Will it even work here, or will it just vanish? Hood's breath, I don't know enough about magic.
Don't even know enough about Quick, and I've known the bastard for bloody ever. Why isn't he the one up here?
Because, if the Short-Tails noticed the gnat on their hide, Quick was better backup, even down there, than Kalam could have been. A crossbow quarrel would be spent by the time it reached this high – you could just pluck it out of the air. As for Stormy – a whole lot more expendable than me, as far as I'm concerned – the man swore he couldn' t climb, swore that as a babe he never once made it out of his crib without help.
Hard imagining that hairy-faced miserable hulk ever fitting into a crib in the first place.
Regaining control of his breathing, Kalam looked down.
To find Quick Ben and Stormy nowhere in sight. Gods below, now what?
The modest features of the ash-laden plain beneath offered little in the way of cover, especially from this height. Yet, no matter where he scanned, he saw no-one. The tracks they had made were faintly visible, leading to where the assassin had left them, and at that location there was… something dark, a crack in the ground. Difficult to determine scale, but maybe… maybe big enough to swallow both of the bastards.
He resumed his search for projections for the rope. And could see none. 'All right, I guess it's time. Cotillion, consider this a sharp tug on your rope. No excuses, you damned god, I need your help here.'
He waited. The moan of the wind, the slippery chill of the mist.
'I don't like this warren.'
Kalam turned his head to find Cotillion alongside him, one hand and one foot holding the god in place. He held an apple in the other hand, from which he now took a large bite.
'You think this is funny?' Kalam demanded.
Cotillion chewed, then swallowed. 'Somewhat.'
'In case you hadn't noticed, we're clinging to a sky keep, and it's got companions, a whole damned row of them.'
'If you needed a ride,' the god said, 'you'd be better off with a wagon, or a horse.'
'It's not moving. It stopped. And I'm trying to break into this one.
Quick Ben and a marine were waiting below, but they've just vanished.'
Cotillion examined the apple, then took another bite.
'My arms are getting tired.'
Chewing. Swallowing. 'I'm not surprised, Kalam. Even so, you will have to be patient, since I have some questions. I'll start with the most obvious one. Why are you trying to break into a fortress filled with K'Chain Che'Malle?'
'Filled? Are you sure?'
'Reasonably.'
'Then what are they doing here?'
'Waiting, looks like. Anyway, I'm the one asking questions.'
'Fine. Go ahead, I've got all day.'
'Actually, I think that was my only question. Oh, wait, there's one more. Would you like me to return you to solid ground, so we can resume our conversation in more comfort?'
'You're enjoying this way too much, Cotillion.'
'The opportunities for amusement grow ever rarer. Fortunately, we're in something like this keep's shadow, so our descent will be relatively easy.'
'Any time.'
Cotillion tossed the apple aside, then reached out to grasp Kalam's upper arm. 'Step away and leave the rest to me.'
'Hold on a moment. Quick Ben's spells were dispelled – that's how I ended up stuck here-'
'Probably because he's unconscious.'
'He is?'
'Or dead. We should confirm things either way, yes?'
You sanctimonious blood-lapping sweat-sucking'Risky,' Cotillion cut in, 'making your cursing sound like praying.' A sharp tug, and Kalam bellowed as he was snatched out from the rockface. And was held, suspended in the air by Cotillion's grip on his arm. 'Relax, you damned ox, "easy" is a relative term.'
Thirty heartbeats later their feet touched ground. Kalam pulled his arm away and headed over to the fissure gaping in the place where Quick and Stormy had been waiting. He approached the edge carefully.
Called down into the dark. 'Quick! Stormy!' No answer.
Cotillion was at his side. 'Stormy? That wouldn't be Adjutant Stormy, would it? Pig-eyed, hairy, scowling-'
'He's now a corporal,' Kalam said. 'And Gesler's a sergeant.'
A snort from the god, but no further comment.
The assassin leaned back and studied Cotillion. 'I didn't really think you'd answer my prayer.'
'I am a god virtually brimming with surprises.'
Kalam's gaze narrowed. 'You came damned fast, too. As if you were… close by.'
'An outrageous assumption,' Cotillion said. 'Yet, oddly enough, accurate.'
The assassin drew the coil of rope from his shoulder, then looked around, and swore.
Sighing, Cotillion held out one hand.
Kalam gave him one end of the rope. 'Brace yourself,' he said, as he tumbled the coil down over the pit's edge. He heard a distant snap.
'Don't worry about that,' Cotillion said. 'I'll make it as long as you need.'
Hood-damned gods. Kalam worked his way over the edge, then began descending through the gloom. Too much climbing today. Either that or I'm gaining weight. His moccasins finally settled on stone. He stepped away from the rope.
From overhead a small globule of light drifted down, illuminating the nearest wall, vertical, man-made, featuring large painted panels, the images seeming to dance in the descending light. For a moment, Kalam simply stared. No idle decoration, this, but a work of art, a master's hand exuberantly displayed in each and every detail. Heavily clothed, more or less human in form, the figures were in positions of transcendence, arms upraised in worship or exaltation, faces filled with joy. Whilst, crowding their feet, dismembered body parts had been painted, blood-splashed and buzzing with flies. The mangled flesh continued down to the chamber's floor, then on out, and Kalam saw now that the bloody scene covered the entire expanse of floor, as far as he could see in every direction.
Pieces of rubble were scattered here and there, and, less than a halfdozen paces away, two motionless bodies.
Kalam headed over.
Both men lived, he was relieved to discover, though it was difficult to determine the extent of their injuries, beyond the obvious. Stormy had broken both legs, one above the knee, the other both bones below the knee. The back of his helm was dented, but he breathed evenly, which Kalam took for a good sign. Quick Ben seemed physically intact – nothing obviously shattered, at least, nor any blood. For both of them, however, internal injuries were another matter. Kalam studied the wizard's face for a moment, then slapped it.
Quick's eyes snapped open. He blinked, looked round, coughed, then sat up. 'One half of my face is numb – what happened?'
'No idea,' Kalam said. 'You and Stormy fell through a hole. The Falari's in rough shape. But somehow you made it unscathed – how did you do that?'
'Unscathed? I think my jaw's broken.'
'No it isn't. Must have hit the floor – looks a little puffy but you wouldn't be talking if it was broke.'
'Huh, good point.' He climbed to his feet and approached Stormy. 'Oh, those legs look bad. We need to set those before I can do any healing.'
'Healing? Dammit, Quick, you never did any healing in the squad.'
'No, that was Mallet's task. I was the brains, remember?'
'Well, as I recall, that didn't take up much of your time.'
'That's what you think.' The wizard paused and looked round. 'Where are we? And where did that light come from?'
'Compliments of Cotillion, who is on the other end of that rope.'
'Oh. Well, he can do the healing, then. Get him down here.'
'Then who will hold the rope?'
'We don't need it. Hey, weren't you climbing the Moon's Spawn? Ah, that's why your god is here. Right.'
'To utter the demon's name is to call him,' Kalam said, looking up to watch Cotillion's slow, almost lazy descent.
The god settled near Stormy and Quick Ben. A brief nod to the wizard, one eyebrow lifting, then Cotillion crouched beside the marine. '
Adjutant Stormy, what has happened to you?'
'That should be obvious,' Kalam said. 'He broke his legs.'
The god rolled the marine onto his back, pulled at each leg, drawing the bones back in line, then rose. 'That will do, I think.'
'Hardly-'
'Adjutant Stormy,' Cotillion said, 'is not quite as mortal as he might seem. Annealed in the fires of Thyrllan. Or Kurald Liosan. Or Tellann.
Or all three. In any case, as you can see, he's mending already. The broken ribs are completely healed, as is the failing liver and shattered hip. And the cracked skull. Alas, nothing can be done for the brain within it.'
'He's lost his mind?'
'I doubt he ever had one,' the god replied. 'He's worse than Urko. At least Urko has interests, peculiar and pointless as they are.'
A groan from Stormy.
Cotillion walked over to the nearest wall. 'Curious,' he said. 'This is a temple to an Elder God. Not sure which one. Kilmandaros, maybe.
Or Grizzin Farl. Maybe even K'rul.'
'A rather bloody kind of worship,' Kalam muttered.
'The best kind,' Quick Ben said, brushing dust from his clothes.
Kalam noted Cotillion's sly regard of the wizard and wondered at it.
Ben Adaephon Delat, Cotillion knows something about you, doesn't he?
Wizard, you've got too many secrets by far. The assassin then noticed the rope, still dangling from the hole far above. 'Cotillion, what did you tie the rope to?'
The god glanced over, smiled. 'A surprise. I must be going.
Gentlemen…' And he faded, then was gone.
'Your god makes me nervous, Kalam,' Quick Ben said as Stormy groaned again, louder this time.
And you in turn make him nervous. And now… He looked down at Stormy.
The rips in the leggings were all that remained of the ghastly compound fractures. Adjutant Stormy. Annealed in holy fires. Still scowling.
High rock, the sediments stepped and ragged, surrounded their camp, an ancient tree to one side. Cutter sat near the small dung-fire they had lit, watching as Greyfrog circled the area, evincing ever more agitation. Nearby, Heboric Ghost Hands looked to be dozing, the hazy green emanations at the ends of his wrists dully pulsing. Scillara and Felisin Younger were packing their pipes for their new sharing of a post-meal ritual. Cutter's gaze returned to the demon.
Greyfrog, what's ailing you? 'Nervous. I have intimations of tragedy, swiftly approaching.
Something… worried and uncertain. In the air, in the sands. Sudden panic. We should leave here. Turn back. Flee.'
Cutter felt sweat bead his skin. He had never heard the demon so… frightened. 'We should get off this ridge?'
The two women looked up at his spoken words. Felisin Younger glanced at Greyfrog, frowned, then paled. She rose. 'We're in trouble,' she said.
Scillara straightened and walked over to Heboric, nudged him with a boot. 'Wake up.'
The Destriant of Treach blinked open his eyes, then sniffed the air and rose in a single, fluid motion.
Cutter watched all this in growing alarm. Shit. He kicked sand over the fire. 'Collect your gear, everyone.'
Greyfrog paused in his circling and watched them. 'So imminent?
Uncertain. Troubled, yes. Need for panic? Changing of mind?
Foolishness? Uncertain.'
'Why take chances?' Cutter asked. 'There's enough light – we'll see if we can find a more defensible place to camp.'
'Appropriate compromise. Nerves easing their taut sensitivity.
Averted? Unknown.'
'Usually,' Heboric said in a rough voice, pausing to spit. 'Usually, running from one thing throws you into the path of another.'
'Well, thanks for that, old man.'
Heboric gave Cutter an unpleasant smile. 'My pleasure.'
The cliff-face was pocked with caves which had, over countless centuries, seen use as places of refuge, as crypts for internment of the dead, as storage chambers, and as sheltered panels for rockpaintings. Detritus littered the narrow ledges that had been used as pathways; here and there a dark sooty stain marred overhangs and crevasses where fires had been lit, but nothing looked recent to Mappo's eye, and he recognized the funerary ceramics as belonging to the First Empire era.
They were approaching the summit of the escarpment, Icarium scrambling up towards an obvious notch cut into the edge by past rains. The lowering sun on their left was red behind a curtain of suspended dust that had been raised by the passing of a distant storm. Bloodflies buzzed the air around the two travellers, frenzied by the storm's brittle, energized breath.
Icarium's drive had become obsessive, a barely restrained ferocity. He wanted judgement, he wanted the truth of his past revealed to him, and when that judgement came, no matter how harsh, he would stand before it and raise not a single hand in his own defence.
And Mappo could think of nothing to prevent it, short of somehow incapacitating his friend, of striking him into unconsciousness.
Perhaps it would come to that. But there were risks to such an attempt. Fail and Icarium's rage would burgeon into life, and all would be lost.
He watched as the Jhag reached the notch and clambered through, then out of sight. Mappo quickly followed. Reaching the summit, he paused, wiping grit from his hands. The old drainage channel had carved a channel through the next tiers of limestone, creating a narrow, twisting track flanked by steep walls. A short distance beyond, Mappo could see the edge of another drop-off, towards which Icarium was heading.
Thick shadows within the channel, insects swarming in the few shafts of sunlight spearing through a gnarled tree. Three strides from reaching Icarium's side, and the gloom seemed to explode around the Trell. He caught a momentary glimpse of something closing on Icarium from the pinnacle of stone to the Jhag's right, then figures swarmed him.
The Trell lashed out, felt his fist connect with flesh and bone to his left, the sound solid and crunching. A spatter of blood and phlegm.
A brawny arm snaked round from behind to close on his neck, twisting his head back, the glistening skin of that limb sliding as if oiled before the arm locked tight. Another figure plunged into view from the front, long-taloned hands snapping out, puncturing Mappo's belly. He bellowed in agony as the claws raked across in an eviscerating slash.
That failed, for the Trell's hide was thicker than the leather armour covering it. Even so, blood sprayed. The creature behind him tightened its stranglehold. He could feel something of its immense weight and size. Unable to draw a weapon, Mappo pivoted, then flung himself backward into a rock wall. The crunch of bone and skull behind him, a gasp from the beast that rose into a screech of pain.
The creature with its claws in Mappo's belly had been dragged closer by the Trell's backward lunge. He closed his hands round its squat, bony skull, flexed, then savagely twisted the head to one side. The neck snapped. Another scream, this time seeming to come from all sides.
Roaring, Mappo staggered forward, grasping at the forearm drawn across his neck. The beast's weight slammed into him, sent him stumbling.
He caught a glimpse of Icarium, collapsing beneath a swarm of dark, writhing creatures.
Too late he felt his leading foot pitch down over the crumbled edge of the cliff-side, down into… open air. The creature's weight pushed him further forward, then, as it saw the precipice they were both about to plunge over, the forearm loosened.
But Mappo held fast, twisting to drag the beast with him as he fell.
Another shriek, and he finally caught full sight of the thing.
Demonic, mouth opened wide, needle-like fangs fully locked in their hinges, each as long as Mappo's thumb, glistening black eyes, the pupils vertical and the hue of fresh blood.
T'rolbarahl.
How?
He saw its rage, its horror, as they both plummeted from the cliff.
Falling.
Falling…
Gods, this was
Book Two