The Malazan Empire, page 180
‘Mortal souls are savage things,’ she explained, spitting to punctuate her words. ‘Many must be held down to keep them from ill-wandering. Thus, the oaks are brought down from the north. The shouldermen carve magic into their trunks. The one to be buried is pinned beneath the tree. Spirits are drawn as well, as guardians, and other traps are placed along the edges of the dark circle. Even so, sometimes the souls escape – imprisoned by one of the traps, yet able to travel the land. Those who return to the clans where they once lived are quickly destroyed, so they have learned to stay away – here, in these lowlands. Sometimes, such a sticksnare retains a loyalty to its mortal kin, and will send dreams to our shouldermen, to tell us of danger.’
‘A sticksnare, you called it. What does that mean?’
‘You may well see for yourself,’ she replied with a shrug.
‘Was it one of these sticksnares that sent the dreams of demons?’
‘Yes, and other spirits besides. That so many sought to reach us…’
Added veracity to the threat, aye, I understand. He scanned the empty land before them, wondering what was out there.
Stonny rode fifty paces ahead. At the moment, Gruntle could not see her, as the trail leaned round a boulder-studded hill and vanished from sight thirty paces on. She had a frustrating knack for ignoring his orders – he’d wanted her to remain in sight at all times. The two Barghast brothers ranged to the sides, flanking the carriage from a distance that varied with the demands of the ground they covered. Cafal had taken the inland side and was jogging up the same hill’s rocky slope. Netok walked along the sandy bank of the river, surrounded by a cloud of midges that seemed to grow larger and thicker with every stride. Given the alarmingly thick and rancid greases with which the Barghast covered their bodies, Gruntle suspected those insects were suffering from frustration – drawn close by a warm body but unwilling or unable to alight.
That grease had been something of a challenge the night just past, Gruntle reflected, but he’d managed none the less, sporting a formidable collection of bruises, scratches and bites as proof. Hetan had been … energetic—
A shout from Cafal. At the same moment Stonny reappeared. The slow canter at which she approached eased the captain’s nerves somewhat, though it was clear that both she and the Barghast on the hill had spotted something ahead. He glanced over to see Cafal now crouched low, his attention fixed on something further up the trail, but he had not drawn his weapons.
Stonny reined in, her expression closed. ‘Bauchelain’s carriage ahead. It’s been … damaged. There’s been a fight of some kind. Messy.’
‘See anyone still standing?’
‘No, just the oxen, looking placid enough. No bodies either.’
Hetan faced her brother on the hill and caught his eye. She made a half-dozen hand gestures, and, drawing forth a lance, Cafal padded forward, dropping down from view.
‘All right,’ Gruntle sighed. ‘Weapons out – let’s go for a look.’
‘Want me to keep back?’ Harllo asked from the driver’s bench.
‘No.’
Rounding the hill, they saw that the trail opened out again, the land flattening on both sides. Forty paces on was Bauchelain and Korbal Broach’s massive carriage, on its side, the rear spoke torn entirely off and lying shattered nearby. The four oxen stood a few paces away, grazing on the prairie grasses. Swathes of burned ground stretched out from the carriage, the air reeking of sorcery. A low mound just beyond had been blasted open, the inverted tree it had contained torn up and shattered as if it had been struck by lightning. Smoke still drifted from the gaping pit where the burial chamber had once been. Cafal was even now cautiously approaching it, his left hand scribing warding gestures in the air, the lance poised for a cast in his right.
Netok jogged up from the river bank, a two-handed axe in his grip. He halted at his sister’s side. ‘Something is loose,’ he growled, his small eyes darting.
‘And still close,’ Hetan nodded. ‘Flank your brother.’
He padded off.
Gruntle strode up to her. ‘That barrow … you’re saying a spirit or ghost’s broken free.’
‘Aye.’
Drawing a hook-bladed sword, the Barghast woman walked slowly towards the carriage. The captain followed.
Stonny trotted her horse back to take a defensive position beside Keruli’s contrivance.
A savage hole had been torn into the carriage’s side, revealing on its jagged edges what looked to be sword-cuts, though larger than any blade Gruntle had ever seen. He clambered up to peer inside the compartment, half dreading what he might discover.
It was empty – no bodies. The leather-padded walls had been shredded, the ornate furnishings scattered. Two huge trunks, once bolted to the floorboards, had been ripped loose. Their lids were open, contents spilled out. ‘Hood take us,’ the captain whispered, his mouth suddenly dry. One of the trunks contained flat slabs of slate – now shattered – on which arcane symbols had been meticulously etched, but it was the other trunk whose contents had Gruntle close to gagging. A mass of blood-slick … organs. Livers, lungs, hearts, all joined together to form a shape all the more horrifying for its familiarity. When alive – as he sensed it must have been until recently – it had been human-shaped, though no more than knee-high when perched on its boneless, pod-like appendages. Eyeless and, as far as Gruntle could see in the compartment’s gloom, devoid of anything resembling a brain, the now-dead creature still leaked thin, watery blood.
Necromancy, but not the demonic kind. These are the arts of those who delve into mortality, into resurrection and undeath. Those organs … they came from living people. People murdered by a madman. Damn you, Buke, why did you have to get involved with those bastards?
‘Are they within?’ Hetan asked from below.
He leaned back, shook his head. ‘Just wreckage.’
Harllo called out from the driver’s bench. ‘Look uptrail Gruntle! Party coming.’
Four figures, two leather-cloaked and in black, one short and bandy-legged, the last one tall, thin. No losses, then. Still, something nasty hit them. Hard. ‘That’s them,’ he muttered.
Hetan squinted up at him. ‘You know these men?’
‘Aye, only one well, though. The guard – that grey-haired, tall one.’
‘I don’t like them,’ the woman growled, her sword twitching as she adjusted her grip.
‘Keep your distance,’ Gruntle advised. ‘Tell your brothers. You don’t want to back-brush their hides – those cloaked two. Bauchelain – with the pointed beard – and Korbal Broach – the … the other one.’
Cafal and Netok rejoined their sister. The older brother was scowling. ‘It was taken yesterday,’ he said. ‘The wards were unravelled. Slow. Before the hill was broken open.’
Gruntle, still perched on top of the carriage, narrowed his gaze on the approaching men. Buke and the servant, Emancipor Reese, both looked exhausted, deeply shaken, whilst the sorcerors might well have simply been out on a stroll for all the discomfort in their composure. Yet they were armed. All-metal crossbows, stained black, were cradled on their vambraced forearms, quarrels set and locked. Squat black quivers at their hips showed but a few quarrels remaining in each.
Climbing down from the carriage, Gruntle strode to meet them.
‘Well met, Captain,’ Bauchelain said with a faint smile. ‘Fortunate for you that we made better time since the river. Since Saltoan our peregrination has been anything but peaceful.’
‘So I’ve gathered, sir.’ Gruntle’s eyes strayed to Buke. His friend looked ten years older than when he’d last seen him. He would not meet the captain’s eyes.
‘I see your entourage has grown since we last met,’ Bauchelain observed. ‘Barghast, yes? Extraordinary, isn’t it, that such people can be found on other continents as well, calling themselves by the same name and practising, it seems, virtually identical customs. What vast history lies buried and now lost in their ignorance, I wonder?’
‘Generally,’ Gruntle said quietly, ‘that particular usage of the word “buried” is figurative. Yet you have taken it literally.’
The black-clad man shrugged. ‘Plagued by curiosity, alas. We could not pass by the opportunity. We never can, in fact. As it turned out, the spirit we gathered into our embrace – though once a shaman of some power – could tell us nothing other than what we had already surmised. The Barghast are an ancient people indeed, and were once far more numerous. Accomplished seafarers as well.’ His flat, grey eyes fixed on Hetan. A thin brow slowly lifted. ‘Not a question of a fall from some civilized height into savagery, however. Simply an eternal … stagnation. The belief system, with all its ancestor worship, is anathema to progress, or so I have concluded given the evidence.’
Hetan offered the sorcerer a silent snarl.
Cafal spoke, his voice ragged with fury. ‘What have you done with our soul-kin?’
‘Very little, warrior. He had already eluded the inner bindings, yet had fallen prey to one of your shamanistic traps – a tied bundle of sticks, twine and cloth. Was it compassion that offered them the semblance of bodies with those traps? Misguided, if so—’
‘Flesh,’ Korbal Broach said in a reedy, thin voice, ‘would far better suit them.’
Bauchelain smiled. ‘My companion is skilled in such … assemblages, a discipline of lesser interest to me.’
‘What happened here?’ Gruntle asked.
‘That is plain,’ Hetan snapped. ‘They broke into a dark circle. Then a demon attacked them – a demon such as the one my brothers and I hunt. And these … men … fled and somehow eluded it.’
‘Not quite, my dear,’ Bauchelain said. ‘Firstly, the creature that attacked us was not a demon – you can take my word on such matters, for demons are entities I happen to know very well indeed. We were most viciously set upon, however, as you surmise. Whilst we were preoccupied with this barrow. Had not Buke alerted us, we might well have sustained even further damage to our accoutrements, not to mention our less capable companions.’
‘So,’ Gruntle cut in, ‘if not a demon, then what was it?’
‘Ah, a question not easily answered, Captain. Undead, most certainly. Commanded by a distant master, and formidable in the extreme. Korbal and I were perforce required to unleash the full host of our servants to fend the apparition off, nor did the subsequent pursuit yield us any profit. Indeed, the loss of a good many of those servants was incurred, upon the appearance of two more of the undead hunters. And while the trio have been driven off, the relief is but temporary. They will attack again, and if they have gathered in greater numbers, we might well – all of us – be sorely tested.’
‘If I may,’ Gruntle said, ‘I would like to speak in private with my master, and with Hetan, here.’
Bauchelain tilted his head. ‘By all means. Come, Korbal and companions, let us survey the full damage to our hapless carriage.’
Taking Hetan’s arm, Gruntle led her to where Harllo and Stonny waited beside Keruli’s carriage. Cafal and Netok followed.
‘They have enslaved our soul-kin,’ Hetan hissed, her eyes like fanned coals. ‘I will kill them – kill them all!’
‘And die before you close a single step,’ Gruntle snapped. ‘These are sorcerors, Hetan. Worse, they’re necromancers. Korbal practises the art of the undead. Bauchelain’s is demonic summoning. The two sides of the skull-faced coin. Hood-cursed and foul … and deadly. Do you understand me? Don’t even think of trying them.’
Keruli’s voice emerged from the carriage, ‘Even more poignantly, my friends, very soon, I fear, we will have need of those terrible men and their formidable powers.’
Gruntle turned with a scowl. The door’s window shutter had been opened to a thin slit. ‘What are these undead hunters, master? Do you know?’
There was a long pause before Keruli responded. ‘I have … suspicions. In any case, they are spinning threads of power across this land, like a web, from which they can sense any tremor. We cannot pass undetected—’
‘Then let us turn round,’ Stonny snapped. ‘Now, before it’s too late.’
‘But it already is,’ Keruli replied. ‘These undead servants continue to cross the river from the southlands, all in service to the Pannion Seer. They range ever closer to Saltoan. Indeed, I believe there are now more of them behind us than between here and Capustan.’
Hood-damned convenient, Master Keruli.
‘We must,’ the man within the carriage continued, ‘fashion a temporary alliance with these necromancers – until we reach Capustan.’
‘Well,’ Gruntle said, ‘they certainly view it as an obvious course to take.’
‘They are practical men, for all their other … faults.’
‘The Barghast will not travel with them,’ Hetan snarled.
‘I don’t think we have any choice,’ Gruntle sighed. ‘And that includes you and your brothers, Hetan. What’s the point of finding these undead hunters only to have them tear you to pieces?’
‘You think we come unprepared for such battle? We stood long in the bone circle, Captain, whilst every shaman of the gathered clans danced the weft of power. Long in the bone circle.’
‘Three days and three nights,’ Cafal growled.
No wonder she damn near ripped my chest open last night.
Keruli spoke. ‘It may-prove insufficient, should your efforts draw the full attention of the Pannion Seer. Captain, how many days of travel before we reach Capustan?’
You know as well as I. ‘Four, master.’
‘Surely, Hetan, you and your brothers can achieve a certain stoicism for such a brief length of time? We well understand your outrage. The desecration of your sacred ancestors is an insult not easily accommodated. But, do not your own kind bow to a certain pragmatism in this regard as well? The inscribed wards, the sticksnares? Consider this an extension of such necessity…’
Hetan spat, turned away. ‘It is as you say,’ she conceded after a moment. ‘Necessary. Very well.’
Gruntle returned to Bauchelain and the others. The two sorcerers were crouched down with the shattered axle between them. The stench of melted iron wafted up.
‘Our repairs, Captain,’ Bauchelain murmured, ‘will not take long.’
‘Good. You said there’s three of these creatures out there – how far away?’
‘Our small shaman friend keeps pace with the hunters. Less than a league, and I assure you, they can – if they so will it – cover that distance in a matter of a few hundred heartbeats. We will have little warning, but enough to muster a defence, I believe.’
‘Why are you travelling to Capustan?’
The sorceror glanced up, an eyebrow lifting. ‘No particular reason. By nature, we wander. Upon arriving on the west coast of this continent, we set our sights eastward. Capustan is as far as we can travel east, yes?’
‘Close enough, I suppose. The land juts further east to the south, beyond Elingarth, but the kingdoms and city states down there are little more than pirate and bandit holdings. Besides, you’d have to pass through the Pannion Domin to get there.’
‘And I gather that would be trying.’
‘You’d never make it.’
Bauchelain smiled, bent once more to concentrate on the axle.
Looking up, Gruntle finally caught Buke’s eye. A slight head movement drew the man – reluctantly – off to one side.
‘You’re in trouble, friend,’ the captain said in a low voice.
Buke scowled, said nothing – but the truth was evident in his eyes.
‘When we reach Capustan, take the closing coin and don’t look back. I know, Buke, you were right in your suspicions – I saw what was within the carriage. I saw. They’ll do worse than kill you if you try anything. Do you understand? Worse.’
The man grinned wryly, squinted out to the east. ‘You think we’ll make it that far, do you, Gruntle? Well, surprise – we won’t live to see the next dawn.’ He fixed wild eyes on the captain. ‘You wouldn’t believe what my masters unleashed – such a nightmare menagerie of servants, guardians, spirit-slayers – and their own powers! Hood take us! Yet all of it barely managed to drive one of those beasts off, and when the other two arrived, we were the ones retreating. That menagerie is nothing but smouldering pieces scattered for leagues across the plain. Gruntle, I saw demons cut to shreds. Aye, these two look unshaken, but believe me, that’s of no account. None at all.’ He lowered his voice still further. ‘They are insane, friend. Thoroughly, ice-blooded, lizard-eyed insane. And poor Mancy’s been with them for three years now and counting – the stories he’s told me…’ The man shuddered.
‘Mancy? Oh, Emancipor Reese. Where’s the cat, by the way?’
Buke barked a laugh. ‘Ran off – just like all our horses and we had an even dozen of them after those stupid bandits attacked us. Ran off, once I’d done prying its claws from Mancy’s back, which was where it jumped when all the warrens broke loose.’
* * *
Repairs completed and carriage righted, the journey resumed. A league or two of daylight remained. Stonny once again rode to point, Cafal and Netok taking their places ranging on the flanks. Emancipor guided the carriage, the two sorcerors having retired within.
Buke and Gruntle walked a few paces ahead of Keruli’s carriage, saying little for a long while, until the captain sighed heavily and glanced at his friend. ‘For what it’s worth, there’s people who don’t want to see you dead, Buke. They see you wasting away inside, and they care enough so that it pains them—’
‘Guilt’s a good weapon, Gruntle, or at least it has been for a long time. Doesn’t cut any more, though. If you choose to care, then you better swallow the pain. I don’t give a damn, myself.’
