@import url(user.css);
@import url(../user.css);
@import url(.../user.css);
|
|
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
How many times, dear traveller, will you walk the same path?
Kayessan
TO THE NORTH, THE DUST OF THE IMPERIAL ARMY OBSCURED THE
forest-mantled hills of Vathar. It was late afternoon, the hottest
part of the day, when the wind died and the rocks radiated like
flatstones on a hearth. Sergeant Strings remained motionless
beneath his ochre rain cloak, lying flat as he studied the lands to
the southwest. Sweat streamed down his face to prickle in his
iron-shot red beard.
After a long moment studying the mass of horse warriors that had
emerged out of the dusty odhan in their wake, Strings lifted a
gloved hand and gestured.
The others of his squad rose from their places of concealment
and edged back from the crest. The sergeant watched them until they
reached cover once more, then slid around and followed.
Endless skirmishes with raiders these last weeks, beginning just
outside Dojal, with more heated clashes with Kherahn Dhobri tribes
at Tathimon and Sanimon . . . but nothing like
the army now trailing them. Three thousand warriors, at the very
least, of a tribe they’d not seen before. Countless barbaric
standards rose above the host, tall spears topped with ragged
streamers, antlers, horns and skulls. The glitter of bronze scale
armour was visible beneath the black telabas and furs, as well
as—more prolific—a strange greyish armour that was too
supple to be anything but hide. The helms, from what Strings could
make out with the distance, looked to be elaborate, many of them
crow-winged, of leather and bronze.
Strings slid down to where his squad waited. They’d yet to
engage in hand-to-hand combat, their sum experience of fighting
little more than firing crossbows and occasionally holding a line.
So far . . . so good. The
sergeant faced Smiles. ‘All right, it’s
settled—climb on that miserable horse down below, lass, and
ride to the lieutenant. Looks like we’ve got a fight
coming.’
Sweat had tracked runnels through the dust sheathing her face.
She nodded, then scrambled off.
‘Bottle, go to Gesler’s position, and have him pass
word to Borduke. I want a meeting. Quick, before their scouts get
here.’
‘Aye, Sergeant.’
After a moment, Strings drew out his waterskin and passed it to
Corporal Tarr, then he tapped Cuttle on the shoulder and the two of
them made their way back to the ridge.
They settled down side by side to resume studying the army
below.
‘These ones could maul us,’ the sergeant muttered.
‘Then again, they’re riding so tight it makes me
wonder . . .’
Cuttle grunted, eyes thinned to slits. ‘Something’s
gnawing my knuckles here, Fid. They know we’re close, but
they ain’t arrayed for battle. They should’ve held back
until night, then hit all along our line. And where are their
scouts, anyway?’
‘Well, those outriders—’
‘Way too close. Local tribes here know
better—’
A sudden scattering of stones and Strings and Cuttle twisted
round—to see riders cresting the ridge on either side of them, and
others cantering into view on the back-slope, closing on his
squad.
‘Hood take us! Where did—’
Yipping warcries sounded, weapons waving in the air, yet the
horse warriors then drew rein, rising in their stirrups as they
surrounded the squad.
Frowning, Strings clambered to his feet. A glance back at the
army below showed a vanguard climbing the slope at a canter. The
sergeant met Cuttle’s eyes and shrugged.
The sapper grimaced in reply.
Escorted by the riders on the ridge, the two soldiers made their
way down to where Tarr and Koryk stood. Both had their crossbows
loaded, though no longer trained on the tribesmen wheeling their
mounts in a prancing circle around them. Further down the ridge
Strings saw Gesler and his squad appear, along with Bottle; and
their own company of horse warriors.
‘Cuttle,’ the sergeant muttered, ‘did you clash
with these anywhere north of the River Vathar?’
‘No. But I think I know who they are.’
None of these scouts wore bronze armour. The grey hide beneath
their desert-coloured cloaks and furs looked strangely reptilian.
Crow wings had been affixed to their forearms, like swept-back
fins. Their faces were pale by local standards, unusual in being
bearded and long-moustached. Tattoos of black tears ran down the
lengths of their weathered cheeks.
Apart from lances, fur-covered wooden scabbards were slung
across their backs, holding heavy-bladed tulwars. All had crow-feet
earrings dangling from under their helms.
The tribe’s vanguard reached the crest above them and drew
to a halt, as, on the opposite side, there appeared a company of
Wickans, Seti and Malazan officers.
Beru fend, the Adjunct herself’s with them. Also
Fist Gamet, Nil, Nether and Temul, as well as Captain Keneb and
Lieutenant Ranal.
The two mounted forces faced one another on either side of the
shallow gully, and Strings could see Temul visibly start, then lean
over to speak to the Adjunct. A moment later, Tavore, Gamet and
Temul rode forward.
From the tribe’s vanguard a single rider began the descent
on the back-slope. A chieftain, Strings surmised. The man was huge;
two tulwars were strapped to a harness crossing his chest, one of
them broken just above the hilt. The black tears tattooed down his
broad cheeks looked to have been gouged into the flesh. He rode
down fairly close to where Strings and Cuttle stood and paused
beside them.
He nodded towards the approaching group and asked in rough
Malazan, ‘This is the Plain Woman who leads you?’
Strings winced, then nodded. ‘Adjunct Tavore,
aye.’
‘We have met the Kherahn Dhobri,’ the chieftain
said, then smiled. ‘They will harass you no more,
Malazan.’
Tavore and her officers arrived, halting five paces away. The
Adjunct spoke. ‘I welcome you, Warchief of the Khundryl. I am
Adjunct Tavore Paran, commander of the Fourteenth Army of the
Malazan Empire.’
‘I am Gall, and we are the Burned Tears of the
Khundryl.’
‘The Burned Tears?’
The man made a gesture of grief. ‘Blackwing, leader of the
Wickans. I spoke with him. My warriors sought to challenge, to see
who were the greatest warriors of all. We fought hard, but we were
humbled. Blackwing is dead, his clan destroyed, and Korbolo
Dom’s Dogslayers dance on his name. That must be answered,
and so we have come. Three thousand—all that fought for
Blackwing the first time. We are changed, Adjunct. We are other
than we once were. We grieve the loss of ourselves, and so we shall
remain lost, for all time.’
‘Your words sadden me, Gall,’ Tavore replied, her
voice shaky.
Careful now, lass . . .
‘We would join you,’ the Khundryl warchief rasped,
‘for we have nowhere else to go. The walls of our yurts look
strange to our eyes. The faces of our wives, husbands,
children—all those we once loved and who once loved
us—strangers, now. Like Blackwing himself, we are as ghosts
in this world, in this land that was once our home.’
‘You would join us—to fight under my command,
Gall?’
‘We would.’
‘Seeking vengeance against Korbolo Dom,’
He shook his head. ‘That will come, yes. But we seek to
make amends.’
She frowned beneath her helm. ‘Amends? By Temul’s
account you fought bravely, and well. Without your intercession,
the Chain of Dogs would have fallen at Sanimon. The refugees would
have been slaughtered—’
‘Yet we then rode away—back to our lands, Adjunct.
We thought only to lick our wounds. While the Chain marched on. To
more battles. To its final battle.’ He was weeping in truth
now, and an eerie keening sound rose from the other horse warriors
present. ‘We should have been there. That is all.’
The Adjunct said nothing for a long moment.
Strings removed his helm and wiped the sweat from his brow. He
glanced back up the slope, and saw a solid line of Khundryl on the
ridge. Silent. Waiting.
Tavore cleared her throat. ‘Gall, Warchief of the Burned
Tears . . . the Fourteenth Army welcomes
you.’
The answering roar shook the ground underfoot. Strings turned
and met Cuttle’s eyes. Three thousand veterans of this
Hood-damned desert. Queen of Dreams, we have a chance. Finally, it
looks like we have a chance. He did not need to speak aloud to
know that Cuttle understood, for the man slowly nodded.
But Gall was not finished. Whether he realized the full measure
of his next gesture—no, Strings would conclude eventually, he
could not have—even so . . . The Warchief
gathered his reins and rode forward, past the Adjunct. He halted
his horse before Temul, then dismounted.
Three strides forward. Under the eyes of over three hundred
Wickans, and five hundred Seti, the burly Khundryl—his grey
eyes fixed on Temul—halted. Then he unslung his broken tulwar
and held it out to the Wickan youth.
Temul was pale as he reached down to accept it.
Gall stepped back and slowly lowered himself to one knee.
‘We are not Wickans,’ the warchief grated, ‘but
this I swear—we shall strive to be.’ He
lowered his head.
Temul sat unmoving, visibly struggling beneath a siege of
emotions, and Strings suddenly realized that the lad did not know
how to answer, did not know what to do.
The sergeant took a step, then swung his helm upward, as if to
put it back on. Temul caught the flash of movement, even as he
looked about to dismount, and he froze as he met Strings’s
eyes.
A slight shake of the head. Stay in that saddle, Temul!
The sergeant reached up and touched his own mouth. Talk. Answer
with words, lad!
The commander slowly settled back into his saddle, then
straightened. ‘Gall of the Burned Tears,’ he said,
barely a tremble to his voice, ‘Blackwing sees through the
eyes of every Wickan here. Sees, and answers. Rise. In
Blackwing’s name, I, Temul of the Crow Clan, accept
you . . . the Burned
Tears . . . of the Crow Clan, of the
Wickans.’ He then took the loop of leather to which the
broken tulwar was tied, and lowered it over his shoulder.
With the sound of a wave rolling up a league-long strand of
beach, weapons were unsheathed along the ridge, a salute voiced by
iron alone.
A shiver rippled through Strings.
‘Hood’s breath,’ Cuttle muttered under his
breath. ‘That is a lot more frightening than their warcries
were.’
Aye, as ominous as Hood’s smile. He looked back
to Temul and saw the Wickan watching him. The sergeant lowered the
helm onto his head once more, then grinned and nodded. Perfect,
lad. Couldn’t have done better myself.
And now, Temul wasn’t alone any more, surrounded by
sniping arthritic wolves who still wouldn’t accept his
command. Now, the lad had Gall and three thousand blooded warriors
to back his word. And that’s the last of that. Gall, if I
was a religious man, I’d burn a crow-wing in your name
tonight. Hood take me, I might do it anyway.
‘Gall of the Burned Tears,’ the Adjunct announced.
‘Please join us at our command quarters. We can discuss the
disposition of your forces over a meal—a modest meal,
alas—’
The Khundryl finally straightened. He faced the Adjunct.
‘Modest? No. We have brought our own food, and this night
there shall be a feast—not a single soldier shall go without
at least a mouthful of bhederin or boar!’ He swung about and
scanned his retinue until he spied the one he sought.
‘Imrahl! Drag your carcass back to the wagons and bring them
forward! And find the two hundred cooks and see if they’ve
sobered up yet! And if they haven’t, I will have their
heads!’
The warrior named Imrahl, an ancient, scrawny figure who seemed
to be swimming beneath archaic bronze armour, answered with a
broad, ghastly smile, then spun his horse round and kicked it into
a canter back up the slope.
Gall swung about and raised both hands skyward, the crow-wings
attached to the forearms seeming to snap open beneath them.
‘Let the Dogslayers cower!’ he roared. ‘The
Burned Tears have begun the hunt!’
Cuttle leaned close to Strings. ‘That’s one problem
solved—the Wickan lad’s finally on solid ground. One
wound sewn shut, only to see another pried open.’
‘Another?’ Oh. Yes, true enough. That Wickan
Fist’s ghost keeps rearing up, again and again. Poor
lass.
‘As if Coltaine’s legacy wasn’t already
dogging her heels . . . if you’ll excuse
the pun,’ the sapper went on. ‘Still, she’s
putting a brave face on it . . .’
No choice. Strings faced his squad. ‘Collect your
gear, soldiers. We’ve got pickets to
raise . . . before we eat.’ At their
groans he scowled. ‘And consider yourselves
lucky—missing those scouts don’t bode well for our
capabilities, now, does it?’
He watched them assemble their gear. Gesler and Borduke were
approaching with their own squads. Cuttle grunted at the
sergeant’s side. ‘In case it’s slipped your mind,
Fid,’ he said, low, ‘we didn’t see the
bastards, either.’
‘You’re right,’ Strings replied,
‘it’s slipped my mind completely. Huh, there it goes
again. Gone.’
Cuttle scratched the bristle on his heavy jaw. ‘Strange,
what were we talking about?’
‘Bhederin and boar, I think. Fresh meat.’
‘Right. My mouth’s watering at the
thought.’
Gamet paused outside the command tent. The revelry continued
unabated, as the Khundryl roved through the camp, roaring their
barbaric songs. Jugs of fermented milk had been broached and the
Fist was grimly certain that more than one bellyful of
half-charred, half-raw meat had returned to the earth prematurely
out beyond the fires, or would in the short time that remained
before dawn.
Next day’s march had been halved, by the Adjunct’s
command, although even five bells’ walking was likely to make
most of the soldiers regret this night’s excesses.
Or maybe not.
He watched a marine from his own legion stumble past, a Khundryl
woman riding him, legs wrapped around his waist, arms around his
neck. She was naked, the marine nearly so. Weaving, the pair
vanished into the gloom.
Gamet sighed, drawing his cloak tighter about himself, then
turned and approached the two Wickans standing guard outside the
Adjunct’s tent.
They were from the Crow, grey-haired and looking miserable.
Recognizing the Fist they stepped to either side of the entrance.
He passed between them, ducking to slip between the flaps.
All of the other officers had left, leaving only the Adjunct and
Gall, the latter sprawled on a massive, ancient-looking wooden
chair that had come on the Khundryl wagons. The warchief had
removed his helm, revealing a mass of curly hair, long and black
and shimmering with grease. The midnight hue was dye, Gamet
suspected, for the man had seen at least fifty summers. The tips of
his moustache rested on his chest and he looked half asleep, a jug
gripped by the clay handle in one huge hand. The Adjunct stood
nearby, eyes lowered onto a brazier, as if lost in thought.
Were I an artist, I would paint this scene. This precise
moment, and leave the viewer to wonder. He strode over to the
map table, where another jug of wine waited. ‘Our army is
drunk, Adjunct,’ he murmured as he poured a cup full.
‘Like us,’ Gall rumbled. ‘Your army is
lost.’
Gamet glanced over at Tavore, but there was no reaction for him
to gauge. He drew a breath, then faced the Khundryl. ‘We are
yet to fight a major battle, Warchief. Thus, we do not yet know
ourselves. That is all. We are not lost—’
‘Just not yet found,’ Gall finished, baring his
teeth. He took a long swallow from his jug.
‘Do you regret your decision to join us, then?’
Gamet asked.
‘Not at all, Fist. My shamans have read the sands. They
have learned much of your future. The Fourteenth Army shall know a
long life, but it shall be a restless life. You are doomed to
search, destined to ever
hunt . . . for what even you do not
know, nor, perhaps, shall you ever know. Like the sands themselves,
wandering for eternity.’
Gamet was scowling. ‘I do not wish to offend, Warchief,
but I hold little faith in divination. No mortal—no
god—can say we are doomed, or destined. The future
remains unknown, the one thing we cannot force a pattern
upon.’
The Khundryl grunted. ‘Patterns, the lifeblood of the
shamans. But not them alone, yes? The Deck of Dragons—are
they not used for divination?’
Gamet shrugged. ‘There are some who hold much store in
the Deck, but I am not one of them.’
‘Do you not see patterns in history, Fist? Are you blind
to the cycles we all suffer through? Look upon this desert, this
wasteland you cross. Yours is not the first empire that would claim
it. And what of the tribes? Before the Khundryl, before the Kherahn
Dhobri and the Tregyn, there were the Sanid, and the Oruth, and
before them there were others whose names have vanished. Look upon
the ruined cities, the old roads. The past is all patterns, and
those patterns remain beneath our feet even as the stars above
reveal their own patterns—for the stars we gaze upon each
night are naught but an illusion from the past.’ He raised
the jug again and studied it for a moment. ‘Thus, the past
lies beneath and above the present, Fist. This is the truth my
shamans embrace, the bones upon which the future clings like
muscle.’
The Adjunct slowly turned to study the warchief. ‘We shall
reach Vathar Crossing tomorrow, Gall. What will we find?’
The Khundryl’s eyes glittered. ‘That is for you to
decide, Tavore Paran. It is a place of death, and it shall speak
its words to you—words the rest of us will not
hear.’
‘Have you been there?’ she asked. He nodded, but
added nothing more.
Gamet drank down a mouthful of wine. There was a strangeness to
this night, to this moment here in the Adjunct’s tent, that
left his skin crawling. He felt out of place, like a simpleton
who’d just stumbled into the company of scholars. The revelry
in the camp beyond was dying down, and come the dawn, he knew,
there would be silence. Drunken oblivion was, each time, a small,
temporary death. Hood walked where the self once stood, and the
wake of the god’s passage sickened mortal flesh
afterwards.
He set his cup down on the map table. ‘If you’ll
forgive me,’ he muttered, ‘the air in here is
too . . . close.’
Neither replied as he walked back to the flap.
Outside, in the street beyond the two motionless Wickan guards,
Gamet paused and looked up. Ancient light, is it? If so, then
the patterns I see . . . may have died long
ago. No, that does not bear thinking about. It is one of those
truths that have no value, for it offers nothing but
dislocation.
And he needed no fuel for that cold fire. He was too old for
this war. Hood knows, I didn’t enjoy it much the first
time round. Vengeance belonged to the young, after all. The
time when emotions burned hottest, when life was sharp enough to
cut, fierce enough to sear the soul.
He was startled by the passing of a large cattle dog. Head low,
muscles rippling beneath a mottled hide literally seamed with
countless scars, the silent beast padded down the aisle between the
tent rows. A moment later and it disappeared into the gloom.
‘I’ve taken to following it,’ a voice said
behind him.
Gamet turned. ‘Captain Keneb. I am surprised to find you
still awake.’
The soldier shrugged. ‘That boar’s not sitting too
well in my gut, sir.’
‘More likely that fermented milk the Khundryl
brought—what is it called again?’
‘Urtathan. But no, I have experienced that brew before,
and so chose to avoid it. Come the morning, I suspect
three-quarters of the army will realize a similar
wisdom.’
‘And the remaining quarter?’
‘Dead.’ He smiled at Gamet’s expression.
‘Sorry, sir, I wasn’t entirely serious.’
The Fist gestured for the captain to accompany him, and they
began walking. ‘Why do you follow that dog, Keneb?’
‘Because I know its tale, sir. It survived the Chain of
Dogs. From Hissar to the Fall outside Aren. I watched it fall
almost at Coltaine’s feet. Impaled by spears. It should not
have survived that.’
‘Then how did it?’
‘Gesler.’
Gamet frowned. ‘The sergeant in our legion’s
marines?’
‘Aye, sir. He found it, as well as another dog. What
happened then I have no idea. But both beasts recovered from what
should have been mortal wounds.’
‘Perhaps a healer . . .’
Keneb nodded. ‘Perhaps, but none among Blistig’s
guard—I made enquiries. No, there’s a mystery yet to be
solved. Not just the dogs, but Gesler himself, and his corporal,
Stormy, and a third soldier—have you not noted their
strangely hued skin? They’re Falari, yet Falari are
pale-skinned, and a desert tan doesn’t look like that at all.
Curious, too, it was Gesler who delivered the
Silanda.’
‘Do you believe they have made a pact with a god, Captain?
Such cults are forbidden in the imperial army.’
‘I cannot answer that, sir. Nor have I evidence sufficient
to make such a charge against them. Thus far, I have kept
Gesler’s squad, and a few others, as the column’s
rearguard.’
The Fist grunted. ‘This news is disturbing, Captain. You
do not trust your own soldiers. And this is the first time
you’ve told me of any of this. Have you considered
confronting the sergeant directly?’
They had reached the edge of the camp. Before them stretched a
broken line of hills; to their right, the dark forest of
Vathar.
To Gamet’s questions, Keneb sighed and nodded.
‘They in turn do not trust me, Fist. There is a rumour in my
company . . . that I abandoned my last
soldiers, at the time of the uprising.’
And did you, Keneb? Gamet said nothing.
But it seemed that the captain heard the silent question none
the less. ‘I didn’t, although I will not deny that some
of the decisions I made back then could give cause to question my
loyalty to the empire.’
‘You had better explain that,’ Gamet said
quietly.
‘I had family with me. I sought to save them, and for a
time nothing else mattered. Sir, whole companies went over to the
rebels. You did not know who to trust. And as it turned out, my
commander—’
‘Say no more of that, Captain. I’ve changed my mind.
I don’t want to know. Your family? Did you manage to save
them?’
‘Aye, sir. With some timely help from an outlawed
Bridgeburner—’
‘A what? Who, in Hood’s name?’
‘Corporal Kalam, sir.’
‘He’s here? In Seven Cities?’
‘He was. On his way, I think, to the Empress. From what I
gathered, he had some issues he wanted to, uh, raise with her. In
person.’
‘Who else knows all this?’
‘No-one, sir. I’ve heard the tale, that the
Bridgeburners were wiped out. But I can tell you, Kalam was not
among them. He was here, sir. And as to where he is now, perhaps
the Empress alone knows.’
There was a smudge of motion in the grasses, about twenty paces
distant. That dog. Hood knows what it’s up to.
‘All right, Captain. Keep Gesler in the rearguard for now.
But at some point, before the battle, we’ll have to test
him—I need to know if he’s reliable.’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Your beast is wandering out there.’
‘I know. Every night. As if looking for something. I think
it might be Coltaine. Looking for Coltaine. And it breaks my heart,
sir.’
‘Well, if it’s true, Captain, that the dog’s
looking for Coltaine, I admit to being surprised.’
‘What do you mean, sir?’
‘Because the bastard’s here. You’d have to be
blind, dumb and deaf to miss him, Captain. Goodnight to you.’
He turned and strode off, feeling the need to spit, but he knew the
bitter taste in his mouth would not so easily leave him.
The fire was long dead. Wrapped in his cloak, Strings sat before
it, looking at but not seeing the layered bricks of ash that were
all that remained of the pieces of dung. Beside him lay the scrawny
Hengese lapdog that Truth said was named Roach. The bone the
creature gnawed on was bigger than it, and had that bone teeth and
appetite it would be the one doing the eating right now.
Contented company, then, to mock this miserable night. The
blanketed forms of his squad lay motionless on all sides.
They’d been too exhausted to get drunk, after raising the
pickets then sitting first watch, and full bellies had quickly
dragged them into sleep. Well enough, he mused, they’d be
among the few spared the ravages of hangover in a few bells’
time. Even Cuttle had yet to awaken, as was his custom—or
perhaps his eyes were open where he lay with his back to the
hearth.
It did not matter. The loneliness Strings suffered could not be
alleviated by company, not such as he might find here, in any case.
Nor were his thoughts the kind he would willingly share.
They’d been spitting dust almost since the march began.
Not the place for marines, unless a massive pursuit threatened the
rear of the column, which was not the case. No. Keneb was punishing
them, and Strings had no idea why. Even the lieutenant, who had
somehow managed to avoid actually being present to command the
squads, was uncertain as to the captain’s motivations.
Though not displeased, of course. Then again, how can Ranal
hope to acquire his stellar reputation with his soldiers coughing
the entire Fourteenth’s dust?
And do I even give a damn, any more?
The night air stank of bile, as if Poliel herself stalked the
camp. The sudden acquisition of three thousand veterans had done
much to lift the Fourteenth’s spirits—Strings hoped
there was no omen in the aftermath.
All right then, let’s consider the matter at hand.
This army has its chance, now. It doesn’t need bastards like
me. Why would I want to go back to Raraku anyway? I hated it the
first time. I’m not that young, mouthy fool—not what I
once was. Did I really think I could recapture something in that
holy desert? What, exactly? Lost years? That charging momentum that
belongs to the young? To soldiers like Smiles and Koryk and Bottle
and Tan. I joined for revenge, but it’s not filling my belly
like it used to—Hood knows, nothing does any more. Not
revenge. Not loyalty. Not even friendship. Damn you, Kalam, you
should’ve talked me out of it. Right there in Malaz City. You
should’ve called me a fool to my face.
Gesler’s cattle dog padded into view.
Roach growled, and the bigger beast paused, nose testing the
air, then settled down a few paces away. The lapdog returned to its
gnawing.
‘Come ahead, then, Gesler,’ Strings muttered.
The sergeant appeared, a jug in one hand. He sat down opposite,
studied the jug for a moment, then made a disgusted sound and
tossed it away. ‘Can’t get drunk any more,’ he
said. ‘Not me, not Stormy or Truth. We’re
cursed.’
‘I can think of worse curses,’ Strings muttered.
‘Well, so can I, but still. What’s really bad is I
can’t sleep. None of us can. We was at Vathar
Crossing—that’s where we drew the Silanda in
to wait for the Chain of Dogs. Where I got punched good and hard,
too. Damn, but that surprised me. Anyway, I’m not looking
forward to seeing it again. Not after what happened
there.’
‘So long as the bridge hasn’t been swept
away,’ Strings replied.
Gesler grunted.
Neither spoke for a time, then: ‘You’re thinking of
running, aren’t you, Fid?’
He scowled.
Gesler slowly nodded. ‘It’s bad when you lose
’em. Friends, I mean. Makes you wonder why you’re still
here, why the damned sack of blood and muscle and bones keeps on
going. So you run. Then what? Nothing. You’re not here, but
wherever you are, you’re still there.’
Strings grimaced. ‘I’m supposed to make sense of
that? Listen, it’s not just what happened to the
Bridgeburners. It’s about being a soldier. About doing this
all over again. I’ve realized that I didn’t even
like it much the first time round. There’s got to come a
point, Gesler, when it’s no longer the right place to be, or
the right thing to do.’
‘Maybe, but I ain’t seen it yet. It comes down to
what you’re good at. Nothing else, Fid. You don’t want
to be a soldier no more. Fine, but what are you going to do
instead?’
‘I was apprenticed as a mason, once—’
‘And apprentices are ten years old, Fiddler. They
ain’t crabby creak-bones like you. Look, there’s only
one thing for a soldier to do, and that’s soldiering. You
want it to end? Well, there’s a battle coming. Should give
you plenty of opportunity. Throw yourself on a sword and
you’re done.’ Gesler paused and jabbed a finger at
Strings. ‘But that’s not the problem, is it? It’s
because now you’ve got a squad, and you’re responsible
for ’em. That’s what you don’t like, and
that’s what’s got you thinking of running.’
Strings rose. ‘Go pet your dog, Gesler.’ He walked
off into the darkness.
The grass was wet underfoot as he made his way through the
pickets. Muted challenges sounded, to which he replied, and then he
was out beyond the camp. Overhead, the stars had begun to withdraw
as the sky lightened. Capemoths were winging in swirling clouds
towards the forested hills of Vathar, the occasional rhizan diving
through them, upon which they exploded outward, only to reform once
the danger was past.
On the ridge three hundred paces ahead of the sergeant stood a
half-dozen desert wolves. They’d done their howling for the
night, and now lingered out of curiosity, or perhaps simply
awaiting the army’s departure, so they could descend into the
basin and pick at the leavings.
Strings paused at a faint singing, low and mournful and jarring,
that seemed to emanate from a depression just this side of the
ridge. He’d heard it other nights, always beyond the
encampment, but had not been inclined to investigate. There was
nothing inviting to that thin, atonal music.
But now it called to him. With familiar voices. Heart suddenly
aching, he walked closer.
The depression was thick with yellowed grasses, but a circle had
been flattened in the centre. The two Wickan children, Nil and
Nether, were seated there, facing one another, with the space
between them occupied by a broad, bronze bowl.
Whatever filled it was drawing butterflies, a score at present,
but more were gathering.
Strings hesitated, then made to leave.
‘Come closer,’ Nil called out in his reedy voice.
‘Quickly, the sun rises!’
Frowning, the sergeant approached. As he reached the edge of the
depression, he halted in sudden alarm. Butterflies swarmed around
him, a pale yellow frenzy filling his eyes—brushing air
against his skin like a thousand breaths. He spun in place, but
could see nothing beyond the mass of fluttering wings.
‘Closer! He wants you here!’ Nether’s high,
piping voice. But Strings could not take another step. He was
enveloped, and within that yellow shroud, there was
a . . . presence.
And it spoke. ‘Bridgeburner. Raraku waits for you. Do
not turn back now.’
‘Who are you?’ Strings demanded. ‘Who
speaks?’
‘I am of this land, now. What I was before does
not matter. I am awakened. We are awakened. Go to join
your kin. In Raraku—where he will find you. Together, you
must slay the goddess. You must free Raraku of the stain
that lies upon it.’
‘My kin? Who will I find
there?’
‘The song wanders, Bridgeburner. It seeks a home. Do
not turn back.’
All at once the presence vanished. The butterflies rose skyward,
spinning and swirling into the sunlight. Higher, ever
higher . . .
Small hands clutched at him, and he looked down. Nether stared
up at him, her face filled with panic. Two paces behind her stood
Nil, his arms wrapped about himself, his eyes filling with
tears.
Nether was screaming. ‘Why you? We have called and called!
Why you!?’
Shaking his head, Strings pushed her away. ‘I—I
don’t know!’
‘What did he say? Tell us! He had a message for us, yes?
What did he say?’
‘For you? Nothing, lass—why, who in Hood’s
name do you think that was?’
‘Sormo E’nath!’
‘The warlock? But he—’ Strings staggered
another step back. ‘Stop that damned
singing!’
The Wickans stared.
And Strings realized that neither was singing—neither
could have been—for it continued, filling his head.
Nether asked, ‘What singing, soldier?’
He shook his head again, then turned and made his way back
towards camp. Sormo had no words for them. Nor did he. Nor did he
want to see their faces—their helpless desperation, their
yearning for a ghost that was gone—gone for ever. That
was not Sormo E’nath. That was something else—Hood
knows what. ‘We are awakened.’ What does that mean? And
who’s waiting for me in Raraku? My kin—I’ve none,
barring the Bridgeburners—gods below! Quick Ben? Kalam? One,
or both? He wanted to scream, if only to silence the song that
whispered through his head, the dreadful, painfully
incomplete music that gnawed at his sanity.
Raraku, it seemed, was not yet done with him. Strings silently
railed. Damn all of this!
To the north, through the smoky wreaths of the encampment, the
mantled hills of Vathar seemed to unfurl the sun’s golden
light. On the ridge behind him, the wolves began howling.
Gamet settled back in the saddle as his horse began the descent
towards the river. It had not been long enough for the land to
entirely swallow the victims of the slaughter that had occurred
here. Bleached bones gleamed in the sandy mud of the shoreline.
Fragments of cloth, pieces of leather and iron. And the ford itself
was barely recognizable. Remnants of a floating bridge were heaped
on it on the upstream side, and on this barrier more detritus had
piled. Sunken, waterlogged wagons, trees, grasses and reeds, now
anchored by silts, a hulking, bowed mass that had formed a kind of
bridge. To the Fist’s eye, it seemed the whole thing was
moments from breaking loose.
Scouts had crossed it on foot. Gamet could see a score of
mud-smeared Seti on the opposite side, making their way up the
steep slope.
The forests on both sides of the river were a mass of colour,
their branches festooned with strips of cloth, with braids and
painted human bones that twisted in the wind.
Mesh’arn tho’ledann. The Day of Pure Blood.
Upstream, on either bank for as far as he could see, long poles had
been thrust into the mud at angles so that they hung over the
swirling water. The carcasses of sheep and goats hung from them.
From some the blood still drained, whilst others were well along in
their rot, seething with flies, capemoths and carrion birds. Small
white flecks rained down from the sacrificed animals, to which fish
swarmed, and it was a moment before Gamet realized what those
flecks were—maggots, falling into the river.
Captain Keneb drew his horse alongside Gamet’s own as
they approached the bank. ‘That’s not mud binding that
flotsam, is it? Oh, a little silt and sand, but
mostly—’
‘Blood, aye,’ Gamet muttered.
They were trailing the Adjunct, who was flanked by Nil and
Nether. The three reached the water’s edge and halted their
mounts. Behind Gamet and Keneb, the front companies of the 10th
Legion were on the slope, within sight of the river and its ragged
bridge.
‘Those sacrifices, do you think they were done to welcome
us, Fist? I can’t imagine such slaughter to be
ongoing—the herds would be wiped out in no time.’
‘Some have been here a while,’ Gamet observed.
‘But you must be right, Captain.’
‘So we would cross a river of blood. If these damned
tribes consider that gesture an honourable one, then the Queen has
stolen their sanity. This notion of seeing the world metaphorically
has ever driven me to distraction. The Seven Cities native sees
everything differently. To them, the landscape is animate—not
just the old notion of spirits, but in some other, far more
complicated way.’
Gamet glanced at the man. ‘Is it worth making a study of
it, Captain?’
Keneb started, then half smiled, adding a strangely despondent
shrug. ‘That particular dialogue spoke of the rebellion and
only the rebellion—for months and months before it finally
happened. Had we bothered to read those signs, Fist, we could have
been better prepared.’
They had drawn up behind the Adjunct and the two Wickans. At
Keneb’s words, Tavore turned her horse round and faced the
captain. ‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘knowledge is not
enough.’
‘Your pardon, Adjunct,’ Keneb said.
Tavore fixed her flat gaze on Gamet. ‘Bring forward the
marines, Fist. We will require sappers and munitions. We shall
cross a ford, not a bridge of detritus held in place by
blood.’
‘Aye, Adjunct. Captain, if you will join
me . . .’
They pulled their horses round and made their way back up the
slope. Glancing over at Keneb, Gamet saw that the man was
grinning. ‘What amuses you, Captain?’
‘Munitions, sir. The sappers will weep.’
‘So long as they don’t destroy the ford itself, I
will be glad to give them comforting hugs.’
‘I wouldn’t let them hear a promise like that,
sir.’
‘No, I suppose you’re right.’
They reached the front ranks of the 10th Legion and Gamet waved
a messenger over. As the rider approached, Fist Tene Baralta joined
the woman and the two arrived together.
‘Sappers?’ the Red Blade asked.
Gamet nodded. ‘Aye.’
Tene Baralta nodded and said to the messenger, ‘Take word
to the marine lieutenants. The Adjunct requires some demolition.
Immediately.’
‘Aye, sir,’ she replied, wheeling her horse
round.
They watched her canter back along the line, then the Red Blade
faced Gamet. ‘They will see it as an insult. This bridge of
blood is intended as a blessing.’
‘She knows that, Tene Baralta,’ Gamet replied.
‘But the footing is far too treacherous. That should be
obvious, even to our hidden observers.’
The large man shrugged, armour clanking with the motion.
‘Perhaps a quiet word to Gall of the Khundryl, a rider sent
out to find those observers, to ensure that no misunderstanding
occurs.’
‘A good suggestion,’ Gamet replied.
‘I shall see to it, then.’
The Red Blade rode off.
‘Forgive me if I am too forward, Fist,’ Keneb
murmured, ‘but what just occurred strikes me as the very
thing that the Adjunct would dislike most.’
‘Do you believe she dislikes initiative among her
officers, Captain?’
‘I wouldn’t presume—’
‘You just did.’
‘Ah, well, I see your point. My apologies,
Fist.’
‘Never apologize when you’re right, Keneb. Wait here
for the squads.’ He set off down to where the Adjunct still
sat astride her horse at the shoreline.
Nil and Nether had dismounted and were now kneeling, heads
bowed, in the muddy water.
Gamet could see, upon arriving, Tavore’s tightly bridled
anger. Aye, they cling still to the chains, and it seems
letting go is the last thing they would
do . . . given the choice. Well, I was the one
who mentioned initiative. ‘I see the children are
playing in the mud, Adjunct.’
Her head snapped round and her eyes narrowed.
Gamet went on, ‘I advise we assign a minder for them,
lest they injure themselves in their exuberance. After all,
Adjunct, I doubt the Empress intended you to mother them,
did she?’
‘Well, no,’ she drawled after a moment. ‘They
were to be my mages.’
‘Aye, so I wonder, have you instructed them to commune
with the ghosts? Do they seek to appease the river
spirits?’
‘No, again, Fist. In truth, I have no idea what
they’re doing.’
‘I am of the opinion that you are proving far too
permissive a mother, Adjunct.’
‘Indeed. Then I give you leave to act in my stead,
Fist.’
There was no way Nil and Nether were uncognizant of the
conversation behind them, but neither altered their position. With
a loud sigh, Gamet dismounted and walked to the muddy
waterline.
Then reached down and closed a hand on their hide shirts, just
behind their necks, and yanked the two Wickans upright.
Loud squeals, then hissing fury as the Fist shook them both for
a moment, then turned them round until they faced the Adjunct. ‘This
is what a Wickan grandmother would have done. I know, somewhat
harsher than is the Malazan style of parenting. Then again, these
two children are not Malazan, are they?’ He set them
down.
‘Perhaps it’s too late, Fist,’ Tavore said,
‘but I would remind you that these two children are also
warlocks.’
‘I’ve seen no sign of it yet, Adjunct. But if they
want to curse me, then so be it.’
For the moment, however, neither seemed inclined to do so. Rage
had given way to something very much resembling a sulk.
Tavore cleared her throat. ‘Nil, Nether, I believe there
will be need for representatives of our army to seek out the local
tribes in this forest, to assure them we are aware of the meaning
behind their gesture. None the less, we must ensure safe passage
across this ford.’
‘Adjunct, Fist Tene Baralta has suggested something
similar, but using the Khundryl.’
‘Perhaps representatives from both, then.’ To the
Wickans: ‘Report to Fist Tene Baralta.’
Gamet watched the siblings exchange a glance, then Nil said to
the Adjunct, ‘As you wish.’
Nether cast a parting look of venom at Gamet as they headed
off.
‘Pray you won’t have to pay for that,’ Tavore said
when they were out of earshot.
Gamet shrugged.
‘And next time, have Tene Baralta bring his suggestions to
me personally.’
‘Aye, Adjunct.’
Cuttle and Strings scrambled back from the shoreline. Soaked and
sheathed in blood-crusted mud, they none the less could not keep
grins from their faces. A doubling of pleasure in that the
munitions had come from the Fourteenth’s stores, not their
own. Twelve crackers that would drive the explosions horizontally,
three cussers placed shallow in the detritus to loosen the
wreckage.
And a bare handful of heartbeats before it all went up.
The rest of the army had pulled back to the top of the slope on
this side; the Seti scouts on the opposite side were nowhere to be
seen. Leaving only the two sappers—
—running like madmen.
A thundering whump sent both men flying. Sand, mud,
water, followed by a rain of debris.
Hands over their heads, they lay motionless for a long moment,
with the only sound to reach them the rush of water sweeping over
the cleared ford. Then Strings looked across at Cuttle, to find him
looking back.
Maybe two cussers would have done.
They exchanged nods, then clambered to their feet.
The ford was indeed clear. The water beyond seethed with
flotsam, now making its way down to the Dojal Hading Sea.
Strings wiped mud from his face. ‘Think we made any holes,
Cuttle?’
‘Nothing that’ll drown anyone, I’d wager. Good
thing you didn’t run,’ Cuttle added in a murmur, as
riders made their way down the slope behind them.
Strings shot the man a glance. ‘What don’t
you hear?’
‘Not a question I can answer, is it, Fid?’
The first rider arrived—their fellow sapper, Maybe, from
the 6th squad. ‘Flat and clean,’ he said, ‘but
you left it too close—what’s the point of making a big
explosion when you’ve got your face in the dirt when it goes
off?’
‘Any other bright comments to make, Maybe?’ Cuttle
growled, brushing himself down—a gesture that clearly had no
chance of any kind of measurable success. ‘If not, then
kindly ride out there and check for holes.’
‘Slowly,’ Strings added. ‘Let your horse find
its own pace.’
Maybe’s brows rose. ‘Really?’ Then he nudged
his mount forward.
Strings stared after the soldier. ‘I hate satirical
bastards like him.’
‘The Wickans will skin him alive if he breaks that
horse’s legs.’
‘That has the sound of a feud in the making.’
Cuttle paused in his fruitless efforts to clean himself, then
frowned. ‘What?’
‘Never mind.’
Ranal and Keneb rode up. ‘Nicely done,’ the captain
said. ‘I think.’
‘Should be all right,’ Strings replied. ‘So
long as nobody starts firing arrows at us.’
‘Taken care of, Sergeant. Well, to your squad, the
privilege of first crossing.’
‘Aye, sir.’
There should have been pleasure, in a task well done, but
Strings felt nothing beyond the initial rush that had immediately
followed the detonation. The broken song whispered on in his mind,
a dirge lying beneath his every thought.
‘The way ahead seems clear,’ Cuttle muttered.
Aye. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.
The land rose steeply on the north side of the Vathar River,
with a treeless butte towering over the trail to the west. The
army’s crossing continued as the Adjunct and Gamet climbed
the goat trail towards the butte’s summit. The sun was low in
the sky—their second full day at the ford—and the river
was made molten by the lurid streams of light off to their left,
although this side of the rock prominence was in deep shadow.
The mud covering Gamet’s leather-clad legs was drying to
a stiff, crack-latticed skin that shed dust as he clambered in
Tavore’s wake. He was breathing hard, his undergarments
soaked with sweat.
They reached the summit, emerging once more into sunlight. A
brisk, hot wind swept the barren, flat rock. A ring of stones on a
lower shelf, on what passed for the lee side, marked where a hearth
or watch-fire had once been constructed, possibly at the time of
the Chain of Dogs.
The Adjunct wiped dust from her gloves, then strode to the north
edge. After a moment, Gamet followed.
The city of Ubaryd was visible, dun-coloured and sheathed in
smoke, to the northeast. Beyond it glittered the Dojal Hading Sea.
The city’s harbour was crowded with ships.
‘Admiral Nok,’ the Adjunct said.
‘He’s retaken Ubaryd, then.’
‘Where we will resupply, yes.’ Then she pointed
northward. ‘There, Gamet. Do you see it?’
He squinted, wondering what he was supposed to look at across
the vast wasteland that was the Ubaryd Odhan. Then the breath
hissed between his teeth.
A fiery wall of red on the horizon, as if a second sun was
setting.
‘The Whirlwind,’ Tavore said.
Suddenly, the wind was much colder, pushing hard against Gamet
where he stood.
‘Beyond it,’ the Adjunct continued, ‘waits our
enemy. Tell me, do you think Sha’ik will contest our
approach?’
‘She would be a fool not to,’ he replied.
‘Are you certain of that? Would she rather not face
unblooded recruits?’
‘It is a huge gamble, Adjunct. The march alone will have
hardened the Fourteenth. Were I her, I would prefer to face a
battle-weary, bruised enemy. An enemy burdened with wounded, with a
shortage of arrows, horses and whatnot. And by that time of final
meeting, I would also have learned something of you, Adjunct. Your
tactics. As it is, Sha’ik has no way to take your
measure.’
‘Yes. Curious, isn’t it? Either she is indifferent
to me, or she feels she has already taken my measure—which of
course is impossible. Even assuming she has spies in our army, thus
far I have done little more than ensure that we march in an
organized fashion.’
Spies? Gods below, I hadn’t even considered
that!
Neither spoke for a time, each lost in their own thoughts as
they stared northward.
The sun was vanishing on their left.
But the Whirlwind held its own fire.
|
|
zanotowane.pldoc.pisz.plpdf.pisz.plteen-mushing.xlx.pl