The Malazan Empire, page 113
As he caught up with Lull, the captain said, “You’re known, old man. They say you walk in the spirit world. That old horsewife wouldn’t offer food to just anybody—not me, that’s for certain.”
The spirit world. Yes, I walked there. Once. Never again. “See an old man in crusty rags…”
“And he’s gods-touched, aye. Don’t mock out loud—it might save your skin one day.”
Nil’s hearth was unique among the others in sight in that it held no cooking pot, nor was it framed in drying racks bedecked with curing strips of meat. The burning dung within the small ring of stones was almost smokeless, revealing a naked, blue-tinged flame. The young warlock sat to one side of the hearth, his hands deftly pleating strips of leather into something like a whip.
Four of Lull’s marines squatted nearby, each running through a last check of their weapons and armor. Their assault crossbows had been freshly blackened, then smeared in greasy dust to remove the gleam.
One glance told Duiker that these were hard soldiers, veterans, their movements economical, their preparations professional. Neither the man nor the three women were under thirty, and none spoke or looked up as their captain joined them.
Nil nodded to Duiker as the historian crouched down opposite him. “It promises to be a cold night,” the boy said.
“Have you found the location of this warleader?”
“Not precisely. A general area. He may possess some minor wards against detection—once we get closer they will not avail him.”
“How do you hunt down someone distinguished only by his or her competence, Nil?”
The young warlock shrugged. “He’s left…other signs. We shall find him, that is certain. And then it is up to them—” He jerked his head toward the marines. “I have come to a realization, Historian, over these past months on this plain.”
“And that is?”
“The Malazan professional soldier is the deadliest weapon I know. Had Coltaine three armies instead of only three-fifths of one, he would end this rebellion before year’s end. And with such finality that Seven Cities would never rise again. We could shatter Kamist Reloe now—if not for the refugees whom we are sworn to protect.”
Duiker nodded. There was truth enough in that.
The sounds of the camp were a muffled illusion of normality, an embrace from all sides that the historian found unsettling. He was losing the ability to relax, he bleakly realized. He picked up a small twig and tossed it toward the fire.
Nil’s hand snapped it out of the air. “Not this one,” he said.
Another young warlock arrived, his thin, bony arms ridged in hatch-marked scars from wrist to shoulder. He squatted down beside Nil and spat once into the fire.
There was no answering sizzle.
Nil straightened, tossing aside the cord of leather, and glanced over at Lull and his soldiers. They stood ready.
“Time?” Duiker asked.
“Yes.”
Nil and his fellow warlock led the group through the camp. Few of their clan kin looked their way, and it was a few minutes before Duiker realized that their seemingly casual indifference was deliberate, possibly some kind of culturally prescribed display of respect. Or something else entirely. To look is to ghost-touch, after all.
They reached the encampment’s north edge. Fog wafted on the plain beyond the wicker barriers. Duiker frowned. “They’ll know it isn’t natural,” he muttered.
Lull grunted. “We’ve a diversion planned, of course. Three squads of sappers are out there right now with sacks full of fun—”
He was interrupted by a detonation off to the northeast, followed by a pause in which faint screams wailed in the shrouded darkness. Then a rapid succession of explosions shattered the night air.
The fog swallowed the flashes, but Duiker recognized the distinctive crack of sharpers and thumping whoosh of flamers. More screams, then the swift thudding of horse hooves converging to the northeast.
“Now we let things settle,” Lull said.
Minutes passed, the distant screams fading. “Has Bult finally managed to track down that captain of the sappers?” the historian eventually asked.
“Ain’t seen his face at any of the jaw sessions, if that’s what you mean. But he’s around. Somewhere. Coltaine’s finally accepted that the man’s shy.”
“Shy?”
Lull shrugged. “A joke, Historian. Remember those?”
Nil finally turned to face them.
“That’s it,” the captain said. “No more talking.”
Half a dozen Wickan guards pulled up the spikes anchoring one of the wicker barriers, then quietly lowered it flat. A thick hide was unrolled over it to mask the inevitable creaking of the party’s passage.
The mist beyond was dissipating into patches. One such cloud drifted over, then settled around the group, keeping pace as they struck out onto the plain.
Duiker wished he’d asked more questions earlier. How far to the enemy camp’s pickets? What was the plan for getting through them undiscovered? What was the fallback should things go awry? He laid a hand on the grip of the short sword at his hip, and was alarmed at how strange it felt—it had been a long time since he’d last used a weapon. Being pulled from the front lines had been the Emperor’s reward all those years ago. That and the various alchemies that keep me tottering on well past my prime. Gods, even the scars from that last horror have faded away! “No one who’s grown up amidst scrolls and books can write of the world,” Kellanved had told him once, “which is why I’m appointing you Imperial Historian, soldier.”
“Emperor, I cannot read or write.”
“An unsullied mind. Good. Toc the Elder will be teaching you over the next six months—he’s another soldier with a brain. Six months, mind. No more than that.”
“Emperor, it seems to me that he would be better suited than I—”
“I’ve something else in store for him. Do as I say or I’ll have you spiked on the city wall.”
Kellanved’s sense of humor had been strange even at the best of times. Duiker recalled those learning sessions: he a soldier of thirty-odd years who’d been campaigning for over half that, seated alongside Toc’s own son, a runt of a boy who always seemed to be suffering from a cold—the sleeves of his shirt were crusty with dried snot. It had taken longer than six months, but by then it was Toc the Younger doing the teaching.
The Emperor loved lessons in humility. So long as they were never thrown back at him. What happened to Toc the Elder, I wonder? Vanishing after the assassinations—I’d always imagined it as Laseen’s doing…and Toc the Younger—he’d rejected a life amidst scrolls and books…now lost in the Genabackan campaign—
A gauntleted hand gripped the historian’s shoulder and squeezed hard. Duiker focused on Lull’s battered face, nodded. Sorry. Mind wandering still, it seems.
They had stopped. Ahead, vague through the mists, rose a spike-bristling ridge of packed earth. The glow of fires painted the fog orange beyond the earthwork perimeter.
Now what?
The two warlocks knelt in the grass five paces in front. Both had gone perfectly still.
They waited. Duiker heard muffled voices from the other side of the ridge, slowly passing from left to right, then fading as the Tithansi patrol continued on. Nil twisted around and gestured.
Crossbows cocked, the marines slipped forward. After a moment the historian followed.
A tunnel mouth had opened in the earth before the two warlocks. The soil steamed, the rocks and gravel popping with heat. It looked to have been clawed open by huge taloned hands—from below.
Duiker scowled. He hated tunnels. No, they terrified him. There was nothing rational in it—wrong again. Tunnels collapse. People get buried alive. All perfectly reasonable, possible, probable, inevitable.
Nil led the way, slithering down and out of sight. The other warlock quickly followed. Lull turned to the historian and gestured him forward.
Duiker shook his head.
The captain pointed at him, then pointed to the hole and mouthed Now.
Hissing a curse, the historian edged forward. As soon as he was within reach Lull’s hand snapped out, gathering a handful of dusty telaba, and dragged Duiker to the tunnel mouth.
It took all his will not to shriek as the captain unceremoniously stuffed him down into the tunnel. He scrambled, clawed wildly. He felt his kicking heel connect with something in the air behind him. Lull’s jaw, I bet. Serves you right, bastard! The rush of satisfaction helped. He scrabbled past the old flood silts and found himself cocooned in warm bedrock. Collapse was unlikely, he told himself, the thought almost a gibber. The tunnel continued to angle downward, the warm rock turning slippery, then wet. Nightmare visions of drowning replaced collapsing.
He hesitated until a sword point was pressed against the worn sole of his moccasin, then punched through to jab his flesh. Whimpering, Duiker pulled himself forward.
The tunnel levelled out. It was filling with water, the rock bleeding from fissures on all sides. The historian sloshed through a cool stream as he slithered along. He paused, took a tentative sip, tasted iron and grit. But drinkable.
The level stretch went on and on. The stream deepened with alarming swiftness. Soaked and increasingly weighed down by his clothing, Duiker struggled on, exhausted, his muscles failing him. The sound of coughing and spitting behind him was all that kept him moving. They’re drowning back there, and I’m next!
He reached the upward slope, clawed his way along through mud and sifting earth. A rough sphere of gray fog appeared ahead—he’d reached the mouth.
Hands gripped him and pulled him clear, rolling him to one side until he came to rest in a bed of sharp-bladed grasses. He lay quietly gasping, staring up at the mist’s low ceiling above him. He was vaguely aware of the marines clambering out of the tunnel and forming a defensive cordon, breaths hissing, their weapons dripping muddy water. Those crossbow cords will stretch, unless they’ve been soaked in oil and waxed. Of course they have—those soldiers aren’t idiots. Plan for any eventuality, even swimming beneath a dusty plain. I once saw a fellow soldier find use for a fishing kit in a desert. What makes a Malazan soldier so dangerous? They’re allowed to think.
Duiker sat up.
Lull was communicating with his marines with elaborate hand gestures. They responded in kind, then edged out into the mists. Nil and the other warlock began snaking forward through the grass, toward the glow of a hearthfire that showed dull red through the fog.
Voices surrounded them, the harsh Tithan tongue spoken in low murmurs that cavorted alarmingly until Duiker was certain a squad stood but a pace behind him, calmly discussing where in his back to drive their spears. Whatever games the fog played with sound, the historian suspected that Nil and his comrade had magically amplified the effect and they would soon be gambling their lives on that aural confusion.
Lull tapped Duiker’s shoulder, waved him forward to where the warlocks had vanished. The fog pocket was impenetrable—he could see no farther than the stretch of an arm. Scowling, the historian dropped to his belly, sliding his sword scabbard around to the back of his hip and then began to worm his way forward to where Nil waited.
The hearthfire was big, the flames lurid through the veil of mist. Six Tithansi warriors stood or sat within sight, all seemingly bundled in furs. Their breaths plumed.
Peering at the scene beside Nil, Duiker could now see a thin patina of frost covering the ground. Chill air wafted over them with a wayward turn of the faint night wind.
The historian nudged the warlock, nodded at the frost and raised his brows questioningly.
Nil’s response was the faintest of shrugs.
The warriors were waiting, red-painted hands stretched out toward the flames in an effort to stay warm. The scene was unchanged for another twenty breaths, then those seated or squatting all rose and with the others faced in one direction—to Duiker’s left.
Two figures emerged into the firelight. The man in the lead was built like a bear, the comparison strengthened by the fur of that animal riding his broad shoulders. A single-bladed throwing axe jutted from each hip. His leather shirt was unlaced from the breastbone up, revealing solid muscles and thick, matted hair. The crimson slashes of paint on his cheeks announced him as a warleader, each slash denoting a recent victory. The multitude of freshly painted bands made plain the Malazans’ ill fortune at his hands.
Behind this formidable creature was a Semk.
That’s one assumption obliterated. Evidently the Semk tribe’s avowed hatred of all who were not Semk had been set aside in obeisance to the Whirlwind goddess. Or, more accurately, to the destruction of Coltaine.
The Semk was a squatter, more pugnacious-looking version of the Tithan warleader, hairy enough to dispense with the need for a bear fur. His only clothing was a hide loincloth and a brace of belts cinched tight over his stomach. The man was covered in greasy ash, his shaggy black hair hanging in thick threads, his beard knotted with finger-bone fetishes. The contemptuous sneer twisting his face had a permanence about it.
The last detail that revealed itself as the Semk stepped closer to the fire was the gut-stitching closing his mouth. Hood’s breath, the Semk take their vows of silence seriously!
The air grew icy. Faint alarm whispered at the back of Duiker’s mind and he reached out to nudge Nil yet again.
Before he could make contact with the warlock, crossbows snapped. Two quarrels jutted from the Tithan warleader’s chest, while two other Tithan warriors grunted before pitching to the ground. A fifth quarrel sank deep in the Semk’s shoulder.
The earth beneath the hearth erupted, flinging coals and burning wood skyward. A multilimbed, tar-skinned beast clambered free, loosing a bone-shivering scream. It plunged in among the remaining Tithansi, claws ripping through armor and flesh.
The warleader fell to his knees, staring dumbly down at the leather-finned quarrels buried in his chest. Blood sprayed as he coughed, convulsed, then toppled face down on the dusty ground.
A mistake—the wrong—
The Semk had torn the quarrel from his shoulder as if it was a carpenter’s nail. The air around him swirled white. Dark eyes fixing on the earth spirit, he leaped to meet it.
Nil was motionless at the historian’s side. Duiker twisted to shake him, and found the young warlock unconscious.
The other Wickan youth was on his feet, reeling back under an invisible sorcerous onslaught. Strips of flesh and blood flew from the warlock—in moments there was only bone and cartilage where his face had been. The sight of the boy’s eyes bursting had Duiker spinning away.
Tithansi were converging from all sides. As he dragged Nil back, the historian saw Lull and one of his marines releasing quarrels at almost point-blank range into the Semk’s back. A lance flew out of the darkness and skidded from the marine’s chain-armored back. Both soldiers wheeled, flinging away their crossbows and unsheathing long-knives to meet the first warriors to arrive.
The earth spirit was shrieking now, three of its limbs torn off its body and lying twitching on the ground. The Semk was silent mayhem, ignoring the quarrels in his back, closing again and again to batter the earth spirit. Cold poured in waves from the Semk—a cold Duiker recognized: The Semk god—a piece of him survived, a piece of him commands one of his chosen warriors—
Detonations erupted to the south. Sharpers. Screams filled the night. Malazan sappers were blasting a hole through the Tithansi lines. And here I’d concluded this was a suicide mission.
Duiker continued dragging Nil southward, toward the explosions, praying that the sappers wouldn’t mistake him for an enemy.
Horses thundered nearby. Iron rang.
One of the marines was suddenly at his side. Blood sheathed one side of her face, but she flung away her sword and pulled the warlock from the historian’s hands, hoisting the lad effortlessly over one shoulder. “Pull out that damned sword and cover me!” she snarled, bolting forward.
Without a shield? Hood take us, you can’t use a short sword without a shield! But the weapon was in his hand as if it had leaped free of its scabbard and into his palm of its own will. The tin-pitted iron blade looked pitifully short as he backed away in the marine’s wake, the weapon held out before him.
His heels struck something soft and with a curse he stumbled and fell.
The marine glanced back. “On your feet, dammit! Someone’s after us!”
Duiker had tripped over a body, a Tithansi lancer who’d been dragged by his horse before the mangled mess of his left hand finally released the reins. A throwing star was buried deep in his neck. The historian blinked at that—a Claw’s weapon, that star—as he scrambled to his feet. More unseen back-up? Sounds of battle echoed through the mists, as if a full-scale engagement was underway.
Duiker resumed covering the marine as she continued on, Nil’s limp body hanging like a sack of turnips over one shoulder.
A moment later three Tithansi warriors plunged out of the fog, tulwars swinging.
Decades-old training saved the historian from their initial onslaught. He ducked low and closed with the warrior on his right, grunting as the man’s leather-wrapped forearm cracked down on his left shoulder, then gasping as the tulwar it held whipped down—the Tithansi bending his wrist—and chopped deep into Duiker’s left buttock. Even as the pain jolted through him, he’d driven his short sword up and under the warrior’s ribcage, piercing his heart.
Tearing the blade free, the historian jumped right. There was a falling body between him and the two remaining warriors, both of whom had the added disadvantage of being right-handed. The slashing tulwars missed Duiker by an arm’s length.
The nearest weapon had been swung with enough force to drive it into the ground. The historian stamped a boot down hard on the flat of the blade, springing the tulwar from the Tithan’s hand. Duiker followed up with a savage chop between the man’s shoulder and neck, snapping through the collarbone.
He launched himself behind the reeling warrior’s back to challenge the third Tithan, only to see the man face down on the ground, a silver-pommelled throwing knife jutting from between his shoulder blades. A Claw’s sticker—I’d recognize it anywhere!
