The Malazan Empire, page 184
‘Shield Anvil.’
He looked down at her, surprised that she would speak, wondering at the hardness of her voice. ‘Recruit?’
She was looking round, eyes thinning as she studied the legions of undead warriors who stood in ragged ranks, unmoving, on all sides. ‘There are thousands.’
Spectral figures, risen to stand above the plain’s tawny grasses, row on row. As if the earth herself had thrust them clear of her flesh. ‘Aye. I’d judge well over ten thousand. T’lan Imass. Tales of these warriors had reached us’ – tales I found hard to countenance – ‘but this represents our first encounter, and a timely one at that.’
‘Do we return to Capustan now?’
Itkovian shook his head. ‘Not all of us. Not immediately. There are more of these K’Chain Che’Malle on this plain. Pran Chole – the unarmed one, some kind of high priest or shaman – has suggested a joint exercise, and I have approved. I will lead eight of the troop west.’
‘Bait.’
He raised a brow. ‘Correct. The T’lan Imass travel unseen, and will therefore surround us at all times. Were they to remain visible in this hunt, the K’Chain Che’Malle would probably avoid them, at least until they have gathered in such numbers as to challenge the entire army. Better they were cut down in twos and threes. Recruit, I am attaching an escort of one soldier to you for an immediate return to Capustan. A report must needs be made to the Mortal Sword. Accompanying the two of you, unseen, will be a select squad of T’lan Imass. Emissaries. I have been assured that no K’Chain Che’Malle are present between here and the city.’
She slowly rose. ‘Sir, a single rider would do as well. You return me to Capustan to spare me … from what? From seeing K’Chain Che’Malle cut to pieces by these T’lan Imass? Shield Anvil, there is no mercy or compassion in your decision.’
‘It seems,’ Itkovian said, staring out upon the vast army arrayed around them, ‘you are not lost to us, after all. The Boar of Summer despises blind obedience. You will ride with us, sir.’
‘Thank you, Shield Anvil.’
‘Recruit, I trust you have not deluded yourself into believing that witnessing the destruction of more K’Chain Che’Malle will silence the cries within you. Soldiers are issued armour for their flesh and bones, but they must fashion their own for their souls. Piece by piece.’
She looked down at the blood spattered across her uniform. ‘It has begun.’
Itkovian was silent for a moment, studying the recruit at his side. ‘The Capan are a foolish people, to deny freedom to their women. The truth of that is before me.’
She shrugged. ‘I am not unique.’
‘Attend to your horse, soldier. And direct Sidlis to join me.’
‘Sir.’
He watched her walk towards the waiting horses and the surviving soldiers of the wings, all of whom had gathered around their mounts to check girth straps, fittings and equipment. She joined their ranks, spoke with Sidlis, who nodded and approached the Shield Anvil.
Pran Chole strode up at the same time. ‘Itkovian, our choices have been made. Kron’s emissaries have been assembled and await your messenger.’
‘Understood.’
Sidlis arrived. ‘Capustan, Shield Anvil?’ she asked.
‘With an unseen escort. Report directly to the Mortal Sword and the Destriant. In private. The T’lan Imass emissaries are to speak with the Grey Swords and none other, for the moment at least.’
‘Sir.’
‘Mortals,’ Pran Chole addressed them tonelessly, ‘Kron has commanded that I inform you of certain details. These K’Chain Che’Malle are what was once known as K’ell Hunters. Chosen children of a matriarch, bred to battle. However, they are undead, and that which controls them hides well its identity – somewhere to the south, we believe. The K’ell Hunters were freed from tombs situated in the Place of the Rent, called Morn. We do not know if present maps of this land mass know the place by these ancient names—’
‘Morn,’ Itkovian nodded. ‘South of the Lamatath Plain, on the west coast and directly north of the island wherein dwell the Seguleh. Our company is from Elingarth, which borders the Lamatath Plain to the east. While we know of no-one who has visited Morn, the name has been copied from the oldest maps and so remains. The general understanding is that nothing is there. Nothing at all.’
The Bonecaster shrugged. ‘The barrows are much worn down, I would imagine. It has been a long time since we last visited the Rent. The K’ell Hunters may well be under the command of their matriarch, for we believe she has finally worked her way free from her own imprisonment. This, then, is the enemy you face.’
Frowning, the Shield Anvil shook his head and said, ‘The threat from the south comes from an empire called the Pannion Domin, ruled by the Seer – a mortal man. The reports of these K’Chain Che’Malle are recent developments, whilst the expansion of the Pannion Domin has been under way for some years now.’ He drew breath to say more, then fell silent, realizing that over ten thousand withered, undead faces were now turned towards him. His mouth dried to parchment, his heart suddenly pounding.
‘Itkovian,’ Pran Chole rasped, ‘this word “Pannion”. Has it a particular meaning among the natives?’
He shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.
‘Pannion,’ the Bonecaster said. ‘A Jaghut word. A Jaghut name.’
* * *
As the afternoon waned, Toc the Younger sat by the fire, his lone eye studying the huge, sleeping wolf at his side. Baaljagg – what had Tool called her? An ay – had a face longer and narrower than the timber wolves the scout recalled seeing in Blackdog Forest, hundreds of leagues to the north. At the shoulder, the creature beside him had two, maybe three hands on those formidable northern wolves. Sloping brow, small ears, with canines to challenge those of a lion or a plains bear. Broadly muscled, the animal nevertheless had a build suggesting both speed and endurance. A swift kill or a league-devouring pursuit, Baaljagg looked capable of both.
The wolf opened one eye to look upon him.
‘You’re supposed to be extinct,’ Toc murmured. ‘Vanished from the world for a hundred thousand years. What are you doing here?’
The ay was the scout’s only company, for the moment. Lady Envy had elected to make a detour through her warren, northwestward a hundred and twenty leagues to the city of Callows, to replenish her supplies. Supplies of what? Bath oil ? He was unconvinced of the justification, but even his suspicious nature yielded him no clue as to her real reasons. She had taken the dog, Garath, with her, as well as Mok. Safe enough to leave Senu and Thurule, I suppose. Tool dropped them both, after all. Still, what was important enough to make Envy break her own rule of a minimum of three servants?
Tool had vanished into a dusty swirl a half-bell earlier, off on another hunt. The remaining two Seguleh weren’t in a generous mood, not deigning to engage the unranked Malazan in conversation. They stood off to one side. Watching the sunset? Relaxing at attention?
He wondered what was happening far to the north. Dujek had chosen to march on the Pannion Domin. A new war, against an unknown foe. Onearm’s Host was Toc’s family, or at least what passed for family for a child born to an army. The only world he knew, after all. A family pursued by jackals of attrition. What kind of war were they heading into? Vast, sweeping battles, or the crawling pace of contested forests, jagged ranges and sieges? He fought back another surge of impatience, a tide that had been building within him day after day on this endless plain, building and threatening to escape the barriers he’d raised in his mind.
Damn you, Hairlock, for sending me so far away. All right, so that warren was chaotic – so was the puppet that used it on me. But why did it spit me out at Morn? And where did all those months go, anyway? He had begun to mistrust his belief in happenstance, and the crumbling of that belief left him feeling on shaky ground. To Morn and its wounded warren … to Morn, where a renegade T’lan Imass lay in the black dust, waiting – not for me, he said, but for Lady Envy. Not any old renegade T’lan Imass, either. One I’ve met before. The only one I’ve met before. And then there’s Lady Envy herself, and her damned Seguleh servants and four-legged companions.
Anyway. Now we’re travelling together. North, to where each of us wants to be. What luck. What happy coincidence!
Toc disliked the notion of being used, of being manipulated. He’d seen what that had cost his friend, Captain Paran. Paran was tougher than me – I saw that from the start. He’d take the hits, blink, then just keep going. He’d some kind of hidden armour, something inside him that kept him sane.
Not me, alas. Things get tough, and I’m liable to curl up and start whimpering.
He glanced over at the two Seguleh. It seemed they were as loth to talk to each other as they were to anyone else. Strong, silent types. I hate those. I didn’t before. I do, now.
So … here I am, in the middle of nowhere, and the only truly sane creature in my company is an extinct wolf. His gaze returned once more to Baaljagg. ‘And where’s your family, beastie?’ he asked softly, meeting the ay’s soft, brown gaze.
The answer came, a sudden explosion of swirling colours directly behind the socket of his lost eye – colours that settled into an image. Kin assailing three musk oxen, hunters and hunted mired deep in mud, trapped, doomed to die. The point of view was low, from just beyond the sinkhole, circling, ever circling. Whimpering filled Toc’s mind. Desperate love unanswered. Panic, filling the cold air.
A pup’s confusion.
Fleeing. Wandering mudflats and sandbanks, across a dying sea.
Hunger.
Then, standing before her, a figure. Cowled, swathed in roughly woven black wool, a hand – wrapped in leather straps, down to the very fingers – reaching out. Warmth. Welcome. A palpable compassion, a single touch to the creature’s lowered forehead. The touch, Toc realized, of an Elder God. And a voice: You are the last, now. The very last, and there will be need for you. In time …
Thus, I promise that I shall bring to you … a lost spirit. Torn from its flesh A suitable one, of course. For that reason, my search may be a long one. Patience, little one … and in the meantime, this gift …
The pup closed her eyes, sank into instant sleep – and found herself no longer alone. Loping across vast tundras, in the company of her own kind. An eternity of loving dreams, secured with joy, a gift made bitter only by waking hours, waking years, centuries, millennia spent … alone.
Baaljagg, unchallenged among the dreamworld’s ay, ruling mother of countless children in a timeless land No lack of quarry, no lean times. Upright figures on distant horizons, seen but rarely, and never approached. Cousins to come across every now and then. Forest-dwelling agkor, white bendal, yellow-haired ay’tog of the far south – names that had sunk their meaning into Baaljagg’s immortal mind … eternal whisperings from those ay that had joined the T’lan Imass, there, then, at the time of the Gathering. A whole other kind of immortality …
Wakeful, solitary Baaljagg’s eyes had seen more of the world than could be fathomed. Finally, however the gift had come, the torn soul delivered to her own, where they merged, eventually became one. And in this, yet another layer of loss and pain. The beast now sought … something. Something like … redress …
What do you ask of me, wolf? No, not of me – you ask not of me, do you? You ask of my companion, the undead warrior. Onos T’oolan. It was him you awaited, whilst you shared company with Lady Envy. And Garath? Ah another mystery … for another time …
Toc blinked, his head jerking back as the link snapped. Baaljagg slept at his side. Dazed, trembling, he looked around in the gloom.
A dozen paces away, Tool stood facing him, a brace of hares dangling from one shoulder.
Oh Beru fend. See? Soft inside. Far too soft for this world and its layered histories, its endless tragedies. ‘What?’ Toc asked, his voice rasping. ‘What is it this wolf wants of you, T’lan Imass?’
The warrior cocked his head. ‘An end to her loneliness, mortal.’
‘Have you – have you given answer?’
Tool turned away, dropping the hares to the ground. His voice when he spoke shocked the scout with its raw mournfulness. ‘I can do nothing for her.’
The cold, lifeless tone was gone, and for the first time Toc saw something of what hid behind that deathly, desiccated visage. ‘I’ve never heard you speak in pain before, Tool. I didn’t think—’
‘You heard wrong,’ the T’lan Imass said, his tone once again devoid of inflection. ‘Have you completed the fletching for your arrows, Toc the Younger?’
‘Aye, like you showed me. They’re done, twelve of the ugliest-looking arrows I’ve ever had the pleasure of owning. Thank you, Tool. It’s outrageous, but I am proud to own them.’
Tool shrugged. ‘They will serve you well.’
‘I hope you’re right.’ He rose with a grunt. ‘I’ll do the meal, then.’
‘That is Senu’s task.’
Toc squinted at the T’lan Imass. ‘Not you, as well? They’re Seguleh, Tool, not servants. While Lady Envy isn’t here, I will treat them as travelling companions, and be honoured by their company.’ He glanced over to find the two warriors staring at him. ‘Even if they won’t talk to me.’
He took the hares from the T’lan Imass, crouched down beside the hearth. ‘Tell me, Tool,’ he said as he began skinning the first of the creatures, ‘when you’re out there hunting … any sign of other travellers? Are we completely alone on this Lamatath Plain?’
‘I have seen no evidence of traders or other humans, Toc the Younger. Bhederin herds, antelope, wolves, coyotes, fox, hares and the occasional plains bear. Birds of prey and birds that scavenge. Various snakes, lizards—’
‘A veritable menagerie,’ Toc muttered. ‘Then how is it that every time I scan the horizons, I see nothing? Nothing. No beasts, no birds, even.’
‘The plain is vast,’ Tool replied. ‘Also, there are the effects of the Tellann warren which surrounds me – though that is much weakened at the moment. Someone has drawn on my life-force, almost to exhaustion. Ask me no questions regarding this. My Tellann powers none the less discourage mortal beasts. Creatures are given to avoidance when able. We are, however, being trailed by a pack of ay’tog – yellow-haired wolves. But they yet remain shy. Curiosity may overcome that eventually.’
Toc’s gaze returned to Baaljagg. ‘Ancient memories.’
‘Memories of ice.’ The T’lan Imass’s cavern eyes were fixed on the Malazan. ‘By this and your earlier words, I conclude that something has occurred – a binding of souls – between you and the ay. How?’
‘I’m not aware of any binding of souls,’ Toc answered, still staring at the sleeping wolf. ‘I was granted … visions. We shared remembrances, I think. How? I don’t know. There were emotions within it, Tool, enough to make one despair.’ After a moment he returned to cleaning the scrawny creature beneath his hands.
‘Every gift is edged.’
Toc grimaced as he gutted the animal. ‘Edged. I suppose so. I’m beginning to suspect the truth of the legends – lose an eye to receive the gift of true vision.’
‘How did you lose your eye, Toc the Younger?’
‘A sizzling chunk from Moon’s Spawn – that deathly rain when the Enfilade was in full swing.’
‘Stone.’
Toc nodded. ‘Stone.’ Then he stopped, looked up.
‘Obelisk,’ Tool said. ‘In the ancient Deck of Holds, it was known as Menhir. Touched by stone, mortal – Chen’re aral lich’fayle – there, on your brow. I give you a new name. Aral Fayle.’
‘I don’t recall asking for a new name, Tool.’
‘Names are not for the asking, mortal. Names are earned.’
‘Huh, sounds like the Bridgeburners.’
‘An ancient tradition, Aral Fayle.’
Hood’s breath. ‘Fine!’ he snapped. ‘Only I can’t see that I’ve earned anything—’
‘You were sent into a Warren of Chaos, mortal. You survived – in itself an unlikely event – and travelled the slow vortex towards the Rent. Then, when Morn’s portal should have taken you, it instead cast you out. Stone has taken one of your eyes. And the ay here has chosen you in the sharing of her soul. Baaljagg has seen in you a rare worthiness, Aral Fayle—’
‘I still don’t want any new names! Hood’s breath!’ He was sweating beneath his worn, dust-caked armour. He searched desperately for a way to change the subject, to shift the conversation away from himself. ‘What’s yours mean, anyway? Onos T’oolan – what’s that from?’
‘Onos is “clanless man”. T’ is “broken”. Ool is “veined” while lan is “flint” and in combination T’oolan is “flawed flint”.’
Toc stared at the T’lan Imass for a long moment. ‘Flawed flint.’
‘There are layers of meaning.’
‘I’d guessed.’
‘From a single core are struck blades, each finding its own use. If veins or knots of crystal lie hidden within the heart of the core, the shaping of the blades cannot be predicted. Each blow to the core breaks off useless pieces – hinge-fractured, step-fractured. Useless. Thus it was with the family in which I was born. Struck wrong, each and all.’
‘Tool, I see no flaws in you.’
‘In pure flint all the sands are aligned. All face in the same direction. There is unity of purpose. The hand that shapes such flint can be confident. I was of Tarad’s clan. Tarad’s reliance in me was misplaced. Tarad’s clan no longer exists. At the Gathering, Logros was chosen to command the clans native to the First Empire. He had the expectation that my sister, a Bonecaster, would be counted among his servants. She defied the ritual, and so the Logros T’lan Imass were weakened. The First Empire fell. My two brothers, T’ber Tendara and Han’ith Iath, led hunters to the north and never returned. They too failed. I was chosen First Sword, yet I have abandoned Logros T’lan Imass. I travel alone, Aral Fayle, and thus am committing the greatest crime known among my people.’
