The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen, page 130
She gestured and the warleaders withdrew. “The cavalry are establishing a camp upriver, less than three hundred paces away. They are making no preparations to attack. They’ve begun felling trees.”
“Trees? Both banks are high cliffs up there.”
She nodded.
Unless they’re simply building a palisade, not a floating bridge, which would be pointless in any case—they can’t hope to span the gorge, can they?
Gesler spoke behind them. “We could take the dory upstream for a closer look.”
Nether turned, her eyes hard as they fixed on the corporal. “What is wrong with your ship?” she demanded in a febrile tone.
Gesler shrugged. “Got a little singed, but she’s still seaworthy.”
She said nothing, her gaze unwavering.
The corporal grimaced, reached under his burned jerkin and withdrew a bone whistle that hung by a cord around his neck. “The crew’s dead but that don’t slow ’em any.”
“Had their heads chopped off, too,” Stormy said, startling the historian with a bright grin. “Just can’t hold good sailors down, I always say.”
“Mostly Tiste Andii,” Gesler added, “only a handful of humans. And some others, in the cabin…Stormy, what did Heboric call ’em?”
“Tiste Edur, sir.”
Gesler nodded, his attention now on the historian. “Aye, us and Kulp plucked Heboric from the island, just like you wanted. Him and two others. The bad news is we lost them in a squall—”
“Overboard?” Duiker asked in a croak, his thoughts a maelstrom. “Dead?”
“Well,” said Stormy, “we can’t be sure of that. Don’t know if they hit water when they jumped over the side—we was on fire, you see and it might have been wet waves we was riding, then again it might not.”
A part of the historian wanted to throttle both men, cursing the soldiers’ glorious and excruciating love of understatement. The other part, the rocking shock of what he was hearing, dropped him with a jarring thud to the muddy, butterfly-carpeted ground.
“Historian, accompany these marines in the dory,” Nether said, “but be sure to keep well out from shore. Their mage is exhausted, so you need not worry about him. I must understand what is happening.”
Oh, we are agreed in that, lass.
Gesler reached down and gently lifted Duiker upright. “Come along now, sir, and Stormy will spin the tale while we’re about it. It’s not that we’re coy, you see, we’re just stupid.”
Stormy grunted. “Then when I’m done, you could tell us how Coltaine and all the rest managed to live this long. Now that’ll surely be a story worth hearing.”
“It’s the butterflies, you see,” Stormy grunted as he pulled on the oars. “A solid foot of ’em, moving slower than the current underneath. Without that, we’d be making no gain at all.”
“We’ve paddled worse,” Gesler added.
“So I gather,” Duiker said. They’d been sitting in the small rowboat for over an hour, during which time Stormy and Truth had managed to pull them a little over a hundred and fifty paces upriver through the thick sludge of drowned butterflies. The north bank had quickly risen to a steep cliff, festooned with creepers, vines covering its pitted face. They were approaching a sharp bend in the gorge created by a recent collapse on that side.
Stormy had spun his tale, allowing for his poor narrative skills, and it was his painfully obvious lack of imagination that lent it the greatest credence. Duiker was left with the bleak task of attempting to comprehend the significance of the events these soldiers had witnessed. That the warren of fire they had survived had changed the three men was obvious, and went beyond the strange hue of their skin. Stormy and Truth were tireless at the oars, and pulled with a strength to match twice their number. Duiker both longed to board the Silanda and dreaded it. Even without Nether’s mage-heightened sensitivity, the aura of horror emanating from that craft preyed on the historian’s senses.
“Will you look at that, sir,” Gesler said.
They had edged into the river’s awkward crook. The collapsed cliffside had narrowed the channel, creating a churning, white-frothed torrent through the gap. A dozen taut ropes spanned the banks at a height of over ten arm-spans. A dozen Ubari archers in harnesses were making their way across the gulf.
“Easy pickings,” Gesler said from the tiller, “and Stormy’s the man for the task. Can you hold us in place, Truth?”
“I can try,” the young man said.
“Wait,” Duiker said. “This is one hornet’s nest we’re better off not stirring up, Corporal. Our advance force is seriously out-numbered. Besides, look to the other side—at least a hundred soldiers have already gone over.” He fell silent, thinking.
“If they was chopping down trees, it wasn’t to build a bridge,” the corporal muttered, squinting at the north cliff edge, where figures appeared every now and then. “Someone in charge’s just come for a look at us, sir.”
Duiker’s gaze narrowed on the figure. “Likely the mage. Well, if we won’t bite, hopefully neither will he.”
“Makes a nice target, though,” Gesler mused.
The historian shook his head. “Let’s head back, Corporal.”
“Aye, sir. Ease up there, lads.”
The mass of Korbolo Dom’s forces had arrived, taking position to either side of the ford. The sparse forest was fast disappearing as every tree in sight was felled, the branches stripped and the trunks carried deeper into the encampment. A no-man’s zone of less than seventy paces separated the two forces. The trader track had been left open.
Duiker found Nether seated cross-legged beneath the awning, her eyes closed. The historian waited, suspecting that she was in sorcerous communication with Sormo. After a few minutes she sighed. “What news?” she asked, eyes still shut.
“They’ve strung lines across the gorge and are sending archers to the other side. What is happening, Nether? Why hasn’t Korbolo Dom attacked? He could crush us and not break into a sweat.”
“Coltaine is less than two hours away. It seems the enemy commander would wait.”
“He should have heeded the lesson of Kamist Reloe’s arrogance.”
“A new Fist and a renegade Fist—does it surprise you that Korbolo Dom would choose to make this contest personal?”
“No, but it certainly justifies Empress Laseen’s dismissal of Dom.”
“Fist Coltaine was chosen over him. Indeed, the Empress had made it clear that Korbolo would never advance further in the Imperial Command. The renegade feels he has something to prove. With Kamist Reloe, we faced battles of brute strength. But now, we shall see battles of wits.”
“If Coltaine comes to us, he will be stepping into the jaws of a dragon, and that’s hardly disguised.”
“He comes.”
“Then perhaps arrogance has cursed both commands.”
Nether opened her eyes. “Where is the corporal?”
Duiker shrugged. “Somewhere. Not far.”
“The Silanda shall take as many wounded soldiers as it can carry—those who will eventually mend, that is. To Aren. Coltaine inquires if you wish to accompany them, Historian.”
Not arrogance at all, then, but fatal acceptance. He knew he should have hesitated, given the suggestion sober thought, but heard his own voice reply, “No.”
She nodded. “He knew you would answer thus, and say it quickly as well.” Frowning, she searched Duiker’s face. “How does Coltaine know such things?”
Duiker was startled. “You are asking me? Hood’s breath, lass, the man’s a Wickan!”
“And no less a cipher to us, Historian. The clans do as he commands and say nothing. It is not shared certainty or mutual understanding that breeds our silence. It is awe.”
Duiker could say nothing to that. He found himself turning away, eyes caught and gathered into the sky’s sweeping blurs of pale yellow. They migrate. Creatures of instinct. A mindless plunge into fatal currents. A beautiful, horrifying dance to Hood, every step mapped out. Every step…
The Fist arrived in darkness, the warriors of the Crow slipping forward to establish a corridor down which the vanguard rode, followed by the wagons burdened with those wounded that had been selected for the Silanda.
Coltaine, his face gaunt and lined with exhaustion, strode down to where Duiker, Nether and Gesler waited near the awning. Behind the Fist came Bult, captains Lull and Sulmar, Corporal List and the warlocks Sormo and Nil.
Lull strode up to Gesler.
The marine corporal scowled. “You ain’t as pretty as I remembered, sir.”
“I know you by reputation, Gesler. Once a captain, then a sergeant, now a corporal. You’ve got your boots to the sky on the ladder—”
“And head in the horseshit, aye, sir.”
“Two left in your squad?”
“Well, one officially, sir. The lad’s sort of a recruit, though not properly inducted, like. So, just me and Stormy, sir.”
“Stormy? Not Cartheron Fist’s Adjutant Stormy—”
“Once upon a time.”
“Hood’s breath!” Lull swung to Coltaine. “Fist, we’ve got two of the Emperor’s Old Guard here…as Coastal Marines.”
“It was a quiet posting, sir, until the uprising, anyway.”
Lull loosed his helm strap, pulled the helm from his head and ran a hand through sparse, sweat-plastered hair. He faced Gesler again. “Call your lad forward, Corporal.”
Gesler beckoned and Truth stepped into view.
Lull scowled. “You’re now officially in the Marines, lad.”
Truth saluted, thumb pulled in and pinning the little finger.
Bult snorted. Captain Lull’s scowl deepened. “Where—oh, don’t bother.” He addressed Gesler again. “As for you and Stormy—”
“If you promote us, sir, I will punch you in what’s left of your face. And Stormy will likely kick you while you’re down. Sir.” Gesler then smiled.
Bult pushed past Lull and stood face to face with the corporal, their noses almost touching. “And, Corporal,” the commander hissed, “would you punch me as well?”
Gesler’s smile did not waver. “Yes, sir. And Hood take me, I’ll give the Fist’s crack-thong a yank too, if you ask sweetly.”
There was a moment of dead silence.
Coltaine burst out laughing. The shock of it brought Duiker and the others around to stare at the Wickan.
Muttering his disbelief, Bult stepped back from Gesler, met the historian’s eyes and simply shook his head.
Coltaine’s laughter set the dogs to wild howling, the animals suddenly close and swarming about like pallid ghosts.
Animated for the first time and still laughing, Coltaine spun to the corporal. “And what would Cartheron Crust have said to that, soldier?”
“He’d have punched me in the—”
Gesler got no further as Coltaine’s fist lashed out and caught the corporal flush on the nose. The marine’s head snapped back, his feet leaving the ground. He fell on his back with a heavy thud. Coltaine wheeled around, clutching his hand as if he’d just connected with a stone wall.
Sormo stepped forward and grasped the Fist’s wrist to examine the hand. “Spirits below, it’s shattered!”
All eyes swung to the supine corporal, who now sat up, blood gushing from his nose.
Both Nil and Nether hissed, lurching back from the man. Duiker grasped Nether’s shoulder and pulled her around. “What is it, lass? What’s wrong—”
Nil answered, his voice a whisper. “That blood—that man has almost ascended!”
Gesler did not hear the comment. His gaze was on Coltaine. “I guess I’ll take that promotion now, Fist,” he said through split lips.
“—almost ascended. Yet the Fist…” Both warlocks now stared at Coltaine, and for the first time Duiker could clearly see the awe in their expressions.
Coltaine cracked open Gesler’s face. Gesler, a man on the edge of Ascendancy…and into what? The historian thought back to Stormy and Truth manning the dory’s sweeps…their extraordinary strength, and the tale of the burning warren. Abyss below, all three of them…And…Coltaine?
There was such confusion among the group that none heard the slow approach of horses, until Corporal List grunted, “Commander Bult, we have visitors.”
They turned, with the exception of Coltaine and Sormo, to see half a dozen Crow horsewarriors surrounding an Ubari officer wearing silver inlaid scale armor. The stranger’s dark face was shrouded in beard and mustache, the curls dyed black. He was unarmed, and now held out both hands to the sides, palms forward.
“I bring greetings from Korbolo Dom, Humblest Servant of Sha’ik, Commander of the South Army of the Apocalypse, to Fist Coltaine and the officers of the Seventh Army.”
Bult stepped forward, but it was Coltaine, now standing straight, his broken hand behind his back, who spoke. “Our thanks for that. What does he want?”
A new handful of figures rushed into the gathering, and Duiker scowled as he recognized Nethpara and Pullyk Alar at their head.
“Korbolo Dom wishes only peace, Fist Coltaine, and as proof of his honor he spared your Wickan riders who came here to this crossing earlier today—when he could have destroyed them utterly. The Malazan Empire has been driven from six of the Seven Holy Cities. All lands north of here are now free. We would see an end to the slaughter, Fist. Aren’s independence can be negotiated, to the gain of Empress Laseen’s treasury.”
Coltaine said nothing.
The emissary hesitated, then continued. “As yet further proof of our peaceful intentions, the crossing of the refugees to the south bank will not be contested—after all, Korbolo Dom well knows that it is those elements that provide the greatest difficulty to you and your forces. Your soldiers can well defend themselves—this we all have seen, to your glory. Indeed, our own warriors sing to honor your prowess. You are truly an Army worthy of challenging our goddess.” He paused, twisting in his saddle to look at the gathered nobles. “But these worthy citizens, ah, this war is not theirs.” He faced Coltaine again. “Your journey across the wastelands beyond the forest shall be difficult enough—we shall not pursue to add to your tribulations, Fist. Go in peace. Send the refugees across the Vathar tomorrow, and you will see for yourselves—and without risk to your own soldiers—Korbolo Dom’s mercy.”
Pullyk Alar stepped forward. “The Council trusts in Korbolo Dom’s word on this,” he announced. “Give us leave to cross tomorrow, Fist.”
Duiker frowned. There has been communication.
The Fist ignored the nobleman. “Take words back to Korbolo Dom, Emissary. The offer is rejected. I am done speaking.”
“But Fist—”
Coltaine turned his back, his ragged feather cape glistening like bronze scales in the firelight.
The Crow horsewarriors closed around the emissary and forced the man’s mount around.
Pullyk Alar and Nethpara rushed toward the officers. “He must reconsider!”
“Out of our sight,” Bult growled, “or I shall have your hides for a new tent. Out!”
The pair of noblemen retreated.
Bult glared about until he found Gesler. “Ready your ship, Captain.”
“Aye, sir.”
Stormy muttered beside the historian, “None of this smells right, sir.”
Duiker slowly nodded.
Leoman led them unerringly across the clay plain, through impenetrable darkness, to another cache of supplies, this one stored beneath a lone slab of limestone. As he unwrapped the hardbread, dried meat and fruits, Felisin sat down on the cool ground and wrapped her arms around herself in an effort to stop shivering.
Heboric sat beside her. “Still no sign of the Toblakai. With Oponn’s luck bits of him are souring that Soletaken’s stomach.”
“He fights like no other,” Leoman said, sharing out the food. “And that is why Sha’ik chose him—”
“An obvious miscalculation,” the ex-priest said. “The woman’s dead.”
“Her third guardian would have prevented that, but Sha’ik relinquished its binding. I sought to change her mind, but failed. All foreseen, each of us trapped within our roles.”
“Convenient, that. Tell me, is the prophecy as clear on the rebellion’s end? Do we now face a triumphant age of Apocalypse unending? Granted, there’s an inherent contradiction, but never mind that.”
“Raraku and Dryjhna are one,” Leoman said. “As eternal as chaos and death. Your Malazan Empire is but a brief flare, already fading. We are born from darkness and to darkness we return. These are the truths you so fear, and in your fear discount.”
“I am no one’s marionette,” Felisin snapped.
Leoman’s only reply to that was a soft laugh.
“If this is what becoming Sha’ik demands, then you’d better go back to that withered corpse at the gate and wait for someone else to show up.”
“Becoming Sha’ik shall not shatter your delusions of independence,” Leoman said, “unless, of course, you will it.”
Listen to us. Too dark to see a thing. We are naught but three disembodied voices in futile counterpoint, here on this desert stage. Holy Raraku mocks our flesh, makes of us no more than sounds at war with a vast silence.
Soft footfalls approached.
“Come and eat,” Leoman called out.
Something slapped wetly to the ground close to Felisin. The stench of raw meat wafted over her.
“A bear with white fur,” the Toblakai rumbled. “For a moment, I dreamed I had returned to my home in Laederon. Nethaur, we call such beasts. But we fought on sand and rock, not snow and ice. I have brought its skin and its head and its claws, for the beast was twice as large as any I’d seen before.”
“Oh, I just can’t wait for daylight,” Heboric said.
“The next dawn is the last before the oasis,” the giant savage said to Leoman. “She must undertake the ritual.”
There was silence.
Heboric cleared his throat. “Felisin—”
“Four voices,” she whispered. “No bone, no flesh, just these feeble noises that claim their selves. Four points of view. The Toblakai is pure faith, yet he shall one day lose it all—”
