The Malazan Empire, page 154
“Seer?”
“The Apocalypse has but one commander, Korbolo Dom. Do as I say.”
And silence once again tells its tale.
“Of course, Seer,” the renegade Fist finally grated.
“Leoman.”
“Seer?”
“Encamp our own people. Have them bury the dead on the plain.”
Korbolo Dom cleared his throat. “And once we’ve regrouped—what do you propose to do then?”
Propose? “We shall meet Tavore. But the time and place shall be of my choosing, not hers.” She paused, then said, “We return to Raraku.”
She ignored the shouts of surprise and dismay, ignored the questions flung at her, even as they rose into demands. Raraku—the heart of my newfound power. I shall need that embrace…if I am to defeat this fear—this terror—of my sister. Oh, Goddess, guide me now…
The protests, eliciting no responses, slowly died away. A wind had picked up, moaned through the gate behind them.
Heboric’s voice rose above it. “Who is this? I can see nothing—can sense nothing. Who is this man?”
The corpulent, silk-clad priest finally spoke. “An old man, Unhanded One. A soldier, no more than that. One among ten thousand.”
“Do—do you…” Heboric slowly turned, his milky eyes glistening. “Do you hear a god’s laughter? Does anyone hear a god’s laughter?”
The Jhistal priest cocked his head. “Alas, I hear only the wind.”
Sha’ik frowned at Heboric. He looked suddenly so…small.
After a moment she wheeled her horse around. “It is time to leave. You have your orders.”
Heboric was the last, sitting helpless on his horse, staring up at a corpse that told him nothing. There was no end to the laughter in his head, the laughter that rode the wind sweeping through Aren Gate at his back.
What am I not meant to see? Is it you who have truly blinded me now, Fener? Or is it that stranger of jade who flows silent within me? Is this a cruel joke…or some kind of mercy?
See what has become of your wayward son, Fener, and know—most assuredly know—that I wish to come home.
I wish to come home.
Commander Blistig stood at the parapet, watching the Adjunct and her retinue ascend the broad limestone steps that led to the palace gate directly beneath him. She was not as old as he would have liked, but even at this distance he sensed something of the rumored hardness in her. An attractive younger woman walked at her side—Tavore’s aide and lover, it was said—but Blistig could not recall if he’d ever heard her name. On the Adjunct’s other flank strode the captain of her family’s own house guard, a man named Gimlet Gamet, or some such thing. He had the look of a veteran, and that was reassuring.
Captain Keneb arrived. “No luck, Commander.”
Blistig frowned, then sighed. The scorched ship’s crew had disappeared almost immediately after docking and offloading the wounded soldiers from Coltaine’s Seventh. The garrison commander had wanted them present for the Adjunct’s arrival—he suspected Tavore would desire to question them—and Hood knows, those irreverent bastards could do with a blistering…
“The Seventh’s survivors have been assembled for her inspection, sir,” Keneb said.
“Including the Wickans?”
“Aye, and both warlocks among them.”
Blistig shivered despite the sultry heat. They were a frightening pair. So cold, so silent. Two children who are not.
And Squint was still missing—the commander well knew that it was unlikely he would ever see that man again. Heroism and murder in a single gesture would be a hard thing for any person to live with. He only hoped that they wouldn’t find the old bowman floating face down in the harbor.
Keneb cleared his throat. “Those survivors, sir…”
“I know, Keneb, I know.” They’re broken. Queen’s mercy, so broken. Mended flesh can do only so much. Mind you, I’ve got my own troubles with the garrison—I’ve never seen a company so…brittle.
“We should make our way below, sir—she’s almost at the gate.”
Blistig sighed. “Aye, let’s go meet this Adjunct Tavore.”
Mappo gently laid Icarium down in the soft sand of the sinkhole. He’d rigged a tarp over his unconscious friend, sufficient for shade, but there was little he could do about the stench of putrefaction that hung heavy in the motionless air. It was not the best of smells for the Jhag to awaken to…
The ruined village was behind them now, the black gate’s shadow unable to reach to where Mappo had laid out the camp beside the road and its ghastly sentinels. The Azath warren had spat them out ten leagues to the north, days ago now. The Trell had carried Icarium in his arms all that way, seeking a place free of death—he’d hoped to have found it by now. Instead, the horror had worsened.
Mappo straightened at the sound of wagon wheels clattering on the road. He squinted against the glare. A lone ox pulled a flatbed cart up Aren Way. A man sat hunched on the buck-board seat, and there was motion behind him—two more men crouched down on the bed, bent to some unseen task.
Their progress was slow, as the driver stopped the cart at every tree, the man spending a minute or so staring up at the bodies nailed to it, before moving on to the next one.
Picking up his sack, Mappo made his way toward them.
On seeing him, the driver drew the cart to a halt and set the brake. He casually reached over the back of the seat and lifted into view a massive flint sword, which he settled sideways across his thighs.
“If you mean trouble, Trell,” the driver growled, “back away now or you’ll regret it.”
The other two men straightened up at this, both armed with crossbows.
Mappo set down his sack and held out both hands. All three men were strangely hued, and the Trell sensed a latent power in them that made him uneasy. “The very opposite of trouble, I assure you. For days now I’ve walked among the dead—you’re the first living people I’ve seen in that time. Seeing you has been a relief, for I had feared I was lost in one of Hood’s nightmares…”
The driver scratched his red-bearded jaw. “I’d say you are at that.” He set his sword down, twisted around. “Reckon it’s all right, Corporal—besides, maybe he has some bandages we can barter from him or something.”
The older of the two men on the flatbed swung down to the ground and approached Mappo.
The Trell said, “You have injured soldiers? I’ve some skill in healing.”
The corporal’s smile was taut, pained. “I doubt you’d want to waste your skills. We ain’t got hurt people in the wagon—we got a pair of dogs.”
“Dogs?”
“Aye. We found them at the Fall. Seems Hood didn’t want ’em…not right away, anyway. Personally, I can’t figure out why they’re still alive—they’re so full of holes and chopped up…” He shook his head.
The driver had climbed down as well, and was making his way up to the end of the road, studying each and every corpse before moving on.
Mappo gestured the driver’s way. “You’re looking for someone.”
The corporal nodded. “We are, but the bodies are pretty far gone, it’s kind of hard to tell for sure. Still, Stormy says he’ll know him when he sees him, if he’s here.”
Mappo’s gaze flicked from the corporal, traveled down Aren Way. “How far does this go?”
“The whole way, Trell. Ten thousand soldiers, give or take.”
“And you’ve…”
“We’ve checked them all.” The corporal’s eyes narrowed. “Well, Stormy’s up to the last few, anyway. You know, even if we wasn’t looking for someone particular…well, at the very least…” He shrugged.
Mappo looked away, his own face tightening. “Your friend mentioned something called the Fall. What is that?”
“The place where Coltaine and the Seventh went down. The dogs were the only survivors. Coltaine guided thirty thousand refugees from Hissar to Aren. It was impossible, but that’s what he did. He saved those ungrateful bastards and his reward was to get butchered not five hundred paces from the city’s gate. No one helped him, Trell.” The corporal’s eyes searched Mappo’s. “Can you imagine that?”
“I am afraid I know nothing of the events you describe.”
“So I guessed. Hood knows where you’ve been hiding lately.”
Mappo nodded. After a moment he sighed. “I’ll take a look at your dogs, if you like.”
“All right, but we don’t hold out much hope. Thing is, the lad’s gone and taken to ’em, if you know what I mean.”
The Trell walked to the cart and clambered aboard.
He found the lad hunched down over a mass of red, torn flesh and bone, feebly waving flies from the flesh.
“Hood’s mercy,” Mappo whispered, studying what had once been a cattle-dog. “Where’s the other one?”
The youth pulled back a piece of cloth, revealing a lapdog of some kind. All four legs had been deliberately broken. Pus crusted the breaks and the creature shook with fever.
“That little one,” the youth said. “It was left lying on this one.” His tone was filled with pain and bewilderment.
“Neither one will make it, lad,” Mappo said. “That big one should have died long ago—it may well be dead now—”
“No. No, he’s alive. I can feel his heart, but it’s slowing. It’s slowing, and we can’t do nothing. Gesler says we should help it along, that slowing, we should end its pain, but maybe…maybe…”
Mappo watched the lad fuss over the hapless creatures, his long-fingered, almost delicate hands daubing the wounds with a blood-soaked piece of cloth. After a moment, the Trell straightened, slowly turning to stare down the long road. He heard a shout behind him, close to the gate, then heard the corporal named Gesler running to join Stormy.
Ah, Icarium. Soon you will awaken, and still I shall grieve, and so lead you to wonder…My grief begins with you, friend, for your loss of memories—memories not of horror, but of gifts given so freely…Too many dead…how to answer this? How would you answer this, Icarium?
He stared for a long time down Aren Way. Behind him the lad crouched over the cattle-dog’s body, while the crunch of boots approached slowly from up the road. The cart pitched as Stormy clambered up to take his seat. Gesler swung himself into the flat-bed, expressionless.
The youth looked up. “You find him, Gesler? Did Stormy find him?”
“No. Thought for a minute…but no. He ain’t here, lad. Time to head back to Aren.”
“Queen’s blessing,” the youth said. “Then there’s always a chance.”
“Aye, who can say, Truth, who can say.”
The lad, Truth, returned his attention to the cattle-dog.
Mappo slowly turned, met the corporal’s eyes and saw the lie writ plain. The Trell nodded.
“Thanks for taking a look at the dogs, anyway,” Gesler said. “I know, they’re finished. I guess we wanted…well, we would have liked…” His voice fell away, then he shrugged. “Want a ride back to Aren?”
Mappo shook his head and climbed down to stand at the roadside. “Thank you for the offer, Corporal. My kind aren’t welcome in Aren, so I’ll pass.”
“As you like.”
He watched them turn the cart around.
How would you answer this…
They were thirty paces down the road when the Trell shouted. They halted, Gesler and Truth straightening to watch as Mappo jogged forward, rummaging in his pack as he did so.
Iskaral Pust padded down the rock-strewn, dusty path. He paused to scratch vigorously beneath his tattered robes, first one place, then another, then another. A moment later he shrieked and began tearing at his clothes.
Spiders. Hundreds of them, spinning away, falling to the ground, scattering into cracks and crevices as the High Priest thrashed about.
“I knew it!” Iskaral screamed. “I knew it! Show yourself! I dare you!”
The spiders reappeared, racing over the sun-baked ground.
Gasping, the High Priest staggered back, watching as the D’ivers sembled into human form. He found himself facing a wiry, black-haired woman. Though she was an inch shorter than him, her frame and features bore a startling resemblance to his own. Iskaral Pust scowled.
“You thought you had me fooled? You thought I didn’t know you were lurking about!”
The woman sneered. “I did have you fooled! Oh, how you hunted! Thick-skulled idiot! Just like every Dal Honese man I’ve ever met! A thick-skulled idiot!”
“Only a Dal Honese woman would say that—”
“Aye, and who would know better!”
“What is your name, D’ivers?”
“Mogora, and I’ve been with you for months. Months! I saw you lay the false trail—I saw you painting those hand and paw marks on the rocks! I saw you move that stone to the forest’s edge! My kin may be idiots, but I am not!”
“You’ll never get to the real gate!” Iskaral Pust shrieked. “Never!”
“I—don’t—want—to!”
His eyes narrowed on her sharp-featured face. He began circling her. “Indeed,” he crooned, “and why is that?”
Twisting to keep him in front of her, she crossed her arms and regarded him down the length of her nose. “I escaped Dal Hon to be rid of idiots. Why would I become Ascendant just to rule over other idiots?”
“You are a true Dal Honese hag, aren’t you? Spiteful, condescending, a sneering bitch in every way!”
“And you are a Dal Honese oaf—conniving, untrustworthy, shifty—”
“Those are all words for the same thing!”
“And I’ve plenty more!”
“Let’s hear them, then.”
They began down the trail, Mogora resuming her litany. “Lying, deceitful, thieving, shifty—”
“You said that one already!”
“So what? Shifty, slimy, slippery…”
The enormous undead dragon rose silently from its perch on the mesa’s summit, wings spreading to glow with the sun’s light, even as the membrane dimmed the color that reached through. Black, flat eyes glanced down at the two figures scrambling toward the cliff face.
The attention was momentary. Then an ancient warren opened before the soaring creature, swallowed it whole, then vanished.
Iskaral Pust and Mogora stared at the spot in the sky for a moment longer. A half-grin twitched on the High Priest’s features. “Ah, you weren’t fooled, were you? You came here to guard the true gate. Ever mindful of your duties, you T’lan Imass. You Bonecasters with your secrets that drive me mad!”
“You were born mad,” Mogora muttered.
Ignoring her, he continued addressing the now vanished dragon. “Well, the crisis is past, isn’t it? Could you have held? Against all those children of yours? Not without Iskaral Pust, oh no! Not without me!”
Mogora barked a contemptuous laugh.
He threw her a glare, then scampered ahead.
Stopping beneath the lone, gaping window high in the cliff tower, he screamed, “I’m home! I’m home!” The words echoed forlornly, then faded.
The High Priest of Shadow began dancing in place, too agitated to remain still, and he kept dancing as a minute passed, then another. Mogora watched him, one eyebrow raised.
Finally a small, brown head emerged from the window and peered down.
The bared fangs might have been a smile, but Iskaral Pust could not be sure of that. He could never be sure of that.
“Oh, look,” Mogora murmured, “one of your fawning worshippers.”
“Aren’t you funny.”
“What I am is hungry. Who’s going to prepare meals now that Servant’s gone?”
“You are, of course.”
She flew into a spitting rage. Iskaral Pust watched her antics with a small smile on his face. Ah, glad to see I’ve not lost my charm…
The enormous, ornate wagon stood in a cloud of dust well away from the road, the horses slow to lose their terror, stamping, tossing their heads.
Two knee-high creatures scampered from the wagon and padded on bandy legs toward the road, their long arms held out to the sides. Outwardly, they resembled bhok’arala, their small, wizened faces corkscrewing as they squinted in the harsh sunlight.
Yet they were speaking Daru.
“Are you sure?” the shorter of the pair said.
The other snarled in frustration. “I’m the one who’s linked, right? Not you, Irp, not you. Baruk would never be such a fool as to task you with anything—except grunt work.”
“You got that right, Rudd. Grunt work. I’m good at that, ain’t I? Grunt work. Grunt, grunt, grunt—you sure about this? Really sure?”
They made their way up the bank and approached the last tree lining the road. Both creatures squatted down before it, staring up in silence at the withered corpse nailed to the bole.
“I don’t see nothing,” Irp muttered. “I think you’re wrong. I think you’ve lost it, Rudd, and you won’t admit it. I think—”
“I’m one word away from killing you, Irp, I swear it.”
“Fine. I die good, you know. Grunt, gasp, grunt, sigh…grunt.”
Rudd ambled to the tree’s base, the few stiff hairs of his hackles the only sign of his simmering temper. He clambered upward, pulled himself onto the chest of the corpse and rummaged with one hand beneath the rotted shirt. He plucked loose a tattered, soiled piece of cloth. Unfolding it, he frowned.
Irp’s voice rose from below. “What is it?”
“A name’s written on here.”
“Whose?”
Rudd shrugged. “ ‘Sa’yless Lorthal.’ ”
“That’s a woman’s name. He’s not a woman, is he?”
“Of course not!” Rudd snapped. A moment later he tucked the cloth back under the shirt. “Mortals are strange,” he muttered, as he began searching beneath the shirt again. He quickly found what he sought, and drew forth a small bottle of smoky glass.
“Well?” Irp demanded.
“It broke all right,” Rudd said with satisfaction. “I can see the cracks.” He leaned forward and bit through the thong, then, clutching the bottle in one hand, scrambled back down. Crouched at the base, he held the bottle to the sun and squinted through it.
