The Malazan Empire, page 142
Silence descended, the meaning behind that statement slowly taking shape. Locked in a war against an entire continent…stumbling onto a recognition of an even greater threat—the Pannion Domin…shall the Empire alone fight on behalf of a hostile land? Yet…how to fashion allies among enemies, how to unify against a greater threat with the minimum of fuss and mistrust? Outlaw your occupying army, so they’ve “no choice” but to step free of Laseen’s shadow. Dujek, ever loyal Dujek—even the ill-conceived plan of killing the last of the Old Guard—Tayschrenn’s foolishness and misguided idea—insufficient to turn him. So now he has allies—those who were once his enemies—perhaps even Caladan Brood and Anomander Rake themselves…Duiker turned to Coltaine and saw the same knowledge there in his drawn, stern visage.
The Wickan reached out and received the gift.
“The Empress must not lose you, Fist. Wear it, sir. Always. And when the time comes, break it—against your own chest. Even if it’s your last act, though I suggest you do not leave it until then. Such were its creator’s frantic instructions.” Karpolan grinned again. “And such a man, that creator! A dozen Ascendants would dearly love his head served up on a plate, his eyes pickled, his tongue skewered and roasted with peppers, his ears grilled—”
“Your point is made,” Duiker cut in.
Coltaine placed the chain around his neck and slipped the bottle beneath his buckskin shirt.
“A dire battle awaits you come dawn,” Karpolan said after a time. “I cannot stay, will not stay. Though mage of the highest order, though merchant of ruthless cunning, I admit to a streak of sentimentality, gentlemen. I will not stand witness to this tragedy. More, we have one more delivery to make before we begin our return journey, and its achievement shall demand all of my skills, indeed, may exhaust them.”
“I had never before heard of your Guild, Karpolan,” Duiker said, “but I would hear more of your adventures, some day.”
“Perhaps the opportunity will arise, Historian. For now, I hear my shareholders gathering, and I must see to reviving and quelling the horses—although, it must be said, they seem to have acquired a thirst for wild terror. No different from us, eh?” He rose.
“My thanks to you,” Coltaine growled, “and your shareholders.”
“Have you a word for Dujek Onearm, Fist?”
The Wickan’s response startled Duiker, slipping a rough blade of suspicion into him that would remain, nagging and fearful.
“No.”
Karpolan’s eyes widened momentarily, then he nodded. “We must be gone, alas. May your enemy pay dearly come the morrow, Fist.”
“They shall.”
Sudden bounty could not effect complete rejuvenation, but the army that rose with the dawn revealed a calm readiness that Duiker had not seen since Gelor Ridge.
The refugees remained tightly packed in a basin just north of the valley mouth. The Weasel and Foolish Dog clans guarded the position, situating themselves along a rise that faced the assembled forces of Korbolo Dom. More than thirty rebel soldiers stood ready to challenge each and every Wickan horsewarrior, and the inevitable outcome of that clash was so obvious, so brutally clear, that panic ripped through the massed refugees in waves, hopeless rippling surges this way and that, and wails of despair filled the dust-laden air above them.
Coltaine sought to drive through the tribesmen blocking the valley mouth, and do so quickly, and he thus concentrated his Crow Clan and most of the Seventh at the front. A fast, shattering breakthrough offered the only hope for the rear-guard clans, and indeed for the refugees themselves.
Duiker sat on his emaciated mare, positioned on a low rise slightly to the east of the main track where he could just make out the two Wickan clans to the north—Korbolo Dom’s army somewhere unseen beyond them.
The carriages of the Trygalle Trade Guild had departed, vanishing with the last minutes of darkness before the eastern horizon began its pale awakening.
Corporal List rode up, reining in beside the historian. “A fine morning, sir!” he said. “The season is turning—change rides the air—can you feel it?”
Duiker eyed the man. “One as young as you should not be so cheerful this day, Corporal.”
“Nor one as old as you so dour, sir.”
“Hood-damned upstart, is this what familiarity breeds?”
List grinned, which was answer enough.
Duiker’s eyes narrowed. “And what has your Jaghut ghost whispered to you, List?”
“Something he himself never possessed, Historian. Hope.”
“Hope? How, from where? Does Pormqual finally approach?”
“I don’t know about that, sir. You think it’s possible?”
“No, I do not.”
“Nor I, sir.”
“Then what in Fener’s hairy balls are you going on about, List?”
“Not sure, sir. I simply awoke feeling…” he shrugged, “feeling as if we’d just been blessed, god-touched, or something…”
“A fine enough way to meet our last dawn,” Duiker muttered, sighing.
The Tregyn and Bhilard tribes were readying themselves, but the sudden blaring of horns from the Seventh made it clear that Coltaine was not interested in the courtesy of awaiting them. The Crow lancers and mounted archers surged forward, up the gentle slope toward the eastern hill of the Bhilard.
“Historian!”
Something in the corporal’s tone brought Duiker around. List was paying no attention to the Crow’s advance—he faced the northwest, where another tribe’s riders had just appeared, spreading out as they rode closer in numbers of appalling vastness.
“The Khundryl,” Duiker said. “Said to be the most powerful tribe south of Vathar—as we can now acknowledge.”
Horse hooves thundered toward the rise and they turned to see Coltaine himself approach. The Fist’s expression was impassive, almost calm as he stared northwestward.
Clashes had begun at the rearguard position—the day’s first drawing of blood, most of it likely to be Wickan. Already the refugees had begun pushing southward, in the hope that will alone could see the valley prised open.
The Khundryl, in the tens of thousands, formed two distinct masses, one directly west of Sanimon’s mouth, the other farther to the north, on a flank of Korbolo Dom’s army. Between these two was a small knot of war chiefs, who now rode directly toward the rise where sat Duiker, List and Coltaine.
“Looks like personal combat is desired, Fist,” Duiker said. “We’d best ride back.”
“No.”
The historian’s head turned. Coltaine had uncouched his lance and was readying his black-feathered round shield on his left forearm.
“Damn you, Fist—this is madness!”
“Watch your tongue, Historian,” the Wickan said distractedly.
Duiker’s gaze fixed on the short stretch of silver chain visible around the man’s neck. “Whatever that gift is that you’re wearing, it’ll only work once. What you do now is what a war chief of the Wickans would, but not a Fist of the Empire.”
The man snapped around at that and the historian found the barbed point of the lance pricking his throat.
“And just when,” Coltaine rasped, “can I choose to die in the manner I desire? You think I will use this cursed bauble?” Freeing his shield hand, he reached up and tore the chain from his neck. “You wear it, Historian. All that we have done avails the world naught, unless the tale is told. Hood take Dujek Onearm! Hood take the Empress!” He flung the bottle at Duiker and it struck unerringly the palm of his right hand. Fingers closing around the object, he felt the serpentine slither of chain against calluses. The lance-point kissing his neck had not moved.
Their eyes locked.
“Excuse me, sirs,” List said. “It appears this is not an instance of desired combat. If you would both observe…”
Coltaine pulled the weapon away, swung around.
The Khundryl war chiefs waited in a row before them, not thirty paces away. They wore, beneath skins and furs and fetishes, a strange grayish armor that looked almost reptilian. Long mustaches, knotted beards and spiked braids—all black—disguised most of their features, though what remained visible was sun-darkened and angular.
One nudged his pony a step closer and spoke in broken Malazan. “Blackwing! How think you the odds this day?”
Coltaine twisted in his saddle, studied the dust clouds now both north and south, then settled back. “I would make no wager.”
“We have long awaited this day,” the war chief said. He stood in his stirrups and gestured to the south hills. “Tregyn and Bhilard both, this day.” He waved northward. “And Can’eld, and Semk, aye, even Tithansi—what’s left, that is. The great tribes of the south odhans, yet who among them all is the most powerful? The answer is with this day.”
“You’d better hurry,” Duiker said. We’re running out of soldiers for you to show your prowess on, you pompous bastard.
Coltaine seemed to have similar thoughts, though his temper was cooler. “The question belongs to you, nor do I care either way its answer.”
“Are such concerns beyond the Wickan clans, then? Are you not yourselves a tribe?”
Coltaine slowly settled the lance’s butt in its socket. “No, we are soldiers of the Malazan Empire.”
Hood’s breath, I got through to him.
The war chief nodded, unperturbed by that answer. “Then be watchful, Fist Coltaine, while you attend to this day.”
The riders wheeled about, parting to rejoin their clans.
“I believe,” Coltaine said, looking around, “you have selected a good vantage, Historian, so here shall I remain.”
“Fist?”
A faint smile touched his lean features. “For a short time.”
The Crow Clan and the Seventh gave it their all, but the forces holding the mouth of the valley—from their high ground to either side and farther down the valley’s throat—did not yield. The Chain of Dogs contracted between the hammer of Korbolo Dom and the anvil of the Tregyn and Bhilard. It was only a matter of time.
The actions of the Khundryl clans changed all that. For they had come, not to join in the slaughter of Malazans, but to give answer to the one question demanded of their pride and honor. The south mass struck the Tregyn position like a vengeful god’s scythe. The north was a spear thrusting deep into Korbolo Dom’s flank. A third, hitherto unseen force swept up from the valley itself, behind the Bhilard. Within minutes of the perfectly timed contacts, the Malazan forces found themselves unopposed, while the chaos of battle reigned on all sides.
Korbolo Dom’s army quickly recovered, reforming with as much precision as they could muster, and drove back the Khundryl after more than four hours of pitched battle. One aim had been achieved, however, and that was the shattering of the Semk, the Can’eld and whatever was left of the Tithansi. Half an answer, Coltaine had muttered at that point, in a tone of utter bewilderment.
The southern forces broke the Tregyn and Bhilard an hour later, and set off in pursuit of the fleeing remnants.
With dusk an hour away, a lone Khundryl war chief rode up to them at a slow canter, and as he neared they saw that it was the spokesman. He’d been in a scrap and was smeared in blood, at least half of it his own, yet he rode straight in his saddle.
He reined in ten paces from Coltaine.
The Fist spoke. “You have your answer, it seems.”
“We have it, Blackwing.”
“The Khundryl.”
Surprise flitted on the warrior’s battered face. “You honor us, but no. We strove to break the one named Korbolo Dom, but failed. The answer is not the Khundryl.”
“Then you do honor to Korbolo Dom?”
The war chief spat at that, growled his disbelief. “Spirits below! You cannot be such a fool! The answer this day…” The war chief yanked free his tulwar from its leather sheath, revealing a blade snapped ten inches above the hilt. He raised it over his head and bellowed, “The Wickans! The Wickans! The Wickans!”
Chapter Twenty
This path’s a dire thing,
the gate it leads to
is like a corpse
over which ten thousand
nightmares bicker
their fruitless claims.
THE PATH
TROUT SEN’AL’ BHOK’ARALA
Seagulls wheeled above them, the first they’d seen in a long while. The horizon ahead, on their course bearing of south by southeast, revealed an uneven smudge that grew steadily even as the day prepared for its swift demise.
Not a single cloud marred the sky and the wind was brisk and steady.
Salk Elan joined Kalam on the forecastle. Both of them were wrapped in cloaks against the rhythmic spray kicked up by Ragstopper’s headlong plunge into the troughs. To the sailors manning stations on the main deck and aft, the sight of them standing there at the bow like a pair of Great Ravens was black-wrought with omens.
Oblivious to all this, Kalam’s gaze held on the island that awaited them.
“By midnight,” Salk Elan said with a loud sigh. “Ancient birthplace of the Malazan Empire—”
The assassin snorted. “Ancient? How old do you think the Empire is? Hood’s breath!”
“All right, too romantic by far. I was but seeking a mood—”
“Why?” Kalam barked.
Elan shrugged. “No particular reason, except perhaps this brooding atmosphere of anticipation, nay, impatience, even.”
“What’s to brood about?”
“You tell me, friend.”
Kalam grimaced, said nothing.
“Malaz City,” Elan resumed. “What should I expect?”
“Imagine a pigsty by the sea and that’ll do. A rotten, festering bug-ridden swamp—”
“All right, all right! Sorry I asked!”
“The captain?”
“No change, alas.”
Why am I not surprised? Sorcery—gods, how I hate sorcery!
Salk Elan rested long-fingered hands on the rail, revealing once again his love of green-hued gems set in gaudy rings. “A fast ship could take us across to Unta in a day and a half…”
“And how would you know that?”
“I asked a sailor, Kalam, how else? That salt-crusted friend of yours pretending to be in charge, what’s his name again?”
“I don’t recall asking.”
“It’s a true, admirable talent, that.”
“What is?”
“Your ability to crush your own curiosity, Kalam. Highly practical in some ways, dreadfully risky in others. You’re a hard man to know, harder even to predict—”
“That’s right, Elan.”
“Yet you like me.”
“I do?”
“Aye, you do. And I’m glad, because it’s important to me—”
“Go find a sailor if you’re that way, Elan.”
The other man smiled. “That is not what I meant, but of course you’re well aware of that, you just can’t help flinging darts. What I’m saying is, I enjoy being liked by someone I admire—”
Kalam spun around. “What do you find so admirable, Salk Elan? In all your vague suppositions, have you discovered a belief that I’m susceptible to flattery? Why are you eager for a partnership?”
“Killing the Empress won’t be easy,” the man replied. “But just imagine succeeding! Achieving what all thought to be impossible! Oh yes, I want to be part of that, Kalam Mekhar! Right there alongside you, driving blades into the heart of the most powerful Empire in the world!”
“You’ve lost your mind,” Kalam said in a quiet voice, barely audible above the seas. “Kill the Empress? Am I to join you in this madness? Not a chance, Salk Elan.”
“Spare me the dissembling,” he sneered.
“What sorcery holds this ship?”
Salk Elan’s eyes widened involuntarily. Then he shook his’head. “Beyond my abilities, Kalam, and Hood knows I’ve tried. I’ve searched every inch of Pormqual’s loot, and nothing.”
“The ship herself?”
“Not that I could determine. Look, Kalam, we’re being tracked by someone in a warren—that’s my guess. Someone who wants to make certain of that cargo. A theory only, but it’s all I’ve got. Thus, friend, all my secrets unveiled.”
Kalam was silent a long moment, then he shook himself. “I have contacts in Malaz City—an unexpected converging well ahead of schedule, but there it is.”
“Contacts, excellent—we’ll need them. Where?”
“There’s a black heart in Malaz City, the blackest. The one thing every denizen avoids mention of, willfully ignores—and there, if all goes well, we will await our allies.”
“Let me guess: the infamous tavern called Smiley’s, once owned by the man who would one day become an Emperor—the sailors tell me the food is quite awful.”
Kalam stared at the man in wonder. Hood alone knows, either breathtakingly sardonic or…or what, by the Abyss? “No, a place called the Deadhouse. And not inside it, but at the gates, though by all means, Salk Elan, feel free to explore its yard.”
The man leaned both arms on the rail, squinting out at the dull lights of Malaz City. “Assuming a long wait for your friends, perhaps I shall, perhaps I shall at that.”
It was unlikely he noticed Kalam’s feral grin.
Iskaral Pust gripped the latch with both hands, his feet planted against the door, and, gibbering his terror, pulled frantically—to no avail. With a growl, Mappo stepped over Icarium where he lay at the foot of Tremorlor’s entrance, and prised the High Priest from the unyielding barrier.
Fiddler heard the Trell straining at the latch, but the sapper’s attention was fixed on the swarm of bloodflies. Tremorlor was resisting them, but the advance was inexorable. Blind stood at his side, head lifted, hackles raised. The four other Hounds had reappeared on the trail and were charging toward the yard’s vine-wreathed gate. The shadow cast down by the D’ivers swept over them like black water.
“It either opens at the touch,” Apsalar said in a startlingly calm voice, “or it does not open at all. Stand back, Mappo, let us all try.”
“Icarium stirs!” Crokus cried out.
