The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen, page 282
A savage, gleeful roar erupted from the villagers.
The guard approached Karsa. ‘Delighted to hear that you will co-operate. Doing so buys you your life. Master Silgar will add you to his herd of slaves once you’ve told us all you know. I don’t think you will be joining the Sunyd out on the lake, however. No hauling of nets for you, Karsa Orlong, I’m afraid.’ He turned as a heavily armoured soldier appeared. ‘Ah, here is the Malazan captain. Ill luck, Karsa Orlong, that you should have timed your attack to coincide with the arrival of a Malazan company on its way to Bettrys. Now then, assuming the captain has no objections, shall we begin the questioning?’
The twin trenches of the slave-pits lay beneath the floor of a large warehouse near the lake, accessed through a trapdoor and a mould-smeared staircase. One side held, for the moment, only a half-dozen lowlanders chained to the tree trunk running the length of the trench, but more shackles awaited the return of the Sunyd net-haulers. The other trench was home to the sick and dying. Emaciated lowlander shapes huddled in their own filth, some moaning, others silent and motionless.
After he had done describing the Uryd and their lands, Karsa was dragged to the warehouse and chained in the second trench. Its sides were sloped, packed with damp clay. The centre log ran along the narrow, flat bottom, half-submerged in blood-streaked sewage. Karsa was taken to the far end, out of the reach of any of the other slaves, and shackles were fixed to both wrists and both ankles—whereas, he saw, among everyone else a single shackle sufficed.
They left him alone then.
Flies swarmed him, alighting on his chilled skin. He lay on his side against one of the sloping sides. The wound within which the arrow-head remained was threatening to close, and this he could not allow. He shut his eyes and began to concentrate until he could feel each muscle, cut and torn and seeping, holding fast around the iron point. Then he began working them, the slightest of contractions to test the position of the arrow-head—fighting the pulses of pain that radiated out with each flex. After a few moments, he ceased, let his body relax, taking deep breaths until he was recovered from his efforts. The flanged iron blade lay almost flat against his shoulder blade. Its tip had scoured a groove along the bone. There were barbs as well, bent and twisted.
To leave such an object within his flesh would make his left arm useless. He needed to drive it out.
He began to concentrate once more. Ravaged muscles and tissue, a path inward of chopped and sliced flesh.
A layer of sweat sheathed him as he continued to focus his mind, preparing, his breaths slowing, steadying.
He contracted his muscles. A ragged scream forced its way out. Another welter of blood, amidst relentless pain. The muscles spasmed in a rippling wave. Something struck the clay slope and slid down into the sewage.
Gasping, trembling, Karsa lay motionless for a long while. The blood streaming down from his back slowed, then ceased.
‘Lead me, Warleader!’
Bairoth Gild had made those words a curse, in a manner and from a place of thought that Karsa did not understand. And then, Bairoth Gild had died senselessly. Nothing the lowlanders could do threatened the Uryd, for the Uryd were not as the Sunyd. Bairoth had surrendered his chance for vengeance, a gesture so baffling to Karsa that he was left stunned.
A brutal, knowing glare in Bairoth’s eyes, fixed solely on Karsa, even as the sword flashed towards his neck. He would tell the lowlanders nothing, yet it was a defiance without meaning—but no, there was meaning…for Bairoth chose to abandon me.
A sudden shiver took him. Urugal, have my brothers betrayed me? Delum Thord’s flight, Bairoth Gild’s death—am I to know abandonment again and again? What of the Uryd awaiting my return? Will they not follow when I proclaim war against the lowlanders?
Perhaps not at first. No, he realized, there would be arguments, and opinions, and, seated around the camp hearths, the elders would poke smouldering sticks into the fire and shake their heads.
Until word came that the lowlander armies were coming.
And then they will have no choice. Would we flee into the laps of the Phalyd? No. There will be no choice but to fight, and I, Karsa Orlong, will be looked upon then, to lead the Uryd.
The thought calmed him.
He slowly rolled over, blinking in the gloom, flies scattering all around his face.
It took a few moments of groping in the sludge to find the arrow-head and its stubby, splintered fragment of shaft. He then crouched down beside the centre log to examine the fittings holding the chains.
There were two sets of chains, one for his arms and one for his legs, each fixed to a long iron rod that had been driven through the trunk, the opposite end flattened out. The links were large and solid, forged with Teblor strength in mind. But the wood on the underside had begun to rot.
Using the arrow-head, he began gouging and digging into the sewage-softened wood around the flange.
Bairoth had betrayed him, betrayed the Uryd. There had been nothing of courage in his last act of defiance. Indeed, the very opposite. They had discovered enemies to the Teblor. Hunters, who collected Teblor trophies. These were truths that the warriors of all the tribes needed to hear, and delivering those truths was now Karsa’s sole task.
He was not Sunyd, as the lowlanders were about to discover.
The rot had been drawn up the hole. Karsa dug out the soaked, pulpy mass as far as the arrow-head could reach. He then moved on to the second fitting. The iron bar holding his leg chains would be tested first.
There was no way to tell if it was day or night outside. Heavy boots occasionally crossed the plank floor above him, too random to indicate a set passage of time. Karsa worked unceasingly, listening to the coughs and moans of the lowlanders chained further down the trunk. He could not imagine what those sad children had done, to warrant such punishment from their kin. Banishment was the harshest sentence the Teblor inflicted on those among the tribe whose actions had, with deliberate intent, endangered the survival of the village, actions that ranged from carelessness to kin-murder. Banishment led, usually, to death, but that came of starvation of the spirit within the one punished. Torture was not a Teblor way, nor was prolonged imprisonment.
Of course, he reconsidered, it may be that these lowlanders were sick because their spirits were dying. Among the legends, there were fragments whispering that the Teblor had once owned slaves—the word, the concept, was known to him. Possession of another’s life, to do with as one wished. A slave’s spirit could do naught but starve.
Karsa had no intention of starving. Urugal’s shadow protected his spirit.
He tucked the arrow-head into his belt. Setting his back against the slope, he planted his feet against the log, one to either side of the fitting, then slowly extended his legs. The chain tautened. On the underside of the trunk, the flange was pulled into the wood with a steady splintering, grinding sound.
The shackles dug into his hide-wrapped ankles.
He began to push harder. There was a solid crunch, then the flange would go no further. Karsa slowly relaxed. A kick sent the bar thumping free on the other end. He rested for a few moments, then resumed the process once more.
After a dozen tries he had managed to pull the bar up the span of three fingers from where it had been at the beginning. The flange’s edges were bent now, battered by their assault on the wood. His leggings had been cut through and blood gleamed on the shackles.
He leaned his head back on the damp clay of the slope, his legs trembling.
More boots thumped overhead, then the trapdoor was lifted. The glow of lantern light descended the steps, and within it Karsa saw the nameless guard.
‘Uryd,’ he called out. ‘Do you still breathe?’
‘Come closer,’ Karsa challenged in a low voice, ‘and I will show you the extent of my recovery.’
The lowlander laughed. ‘Master Silgar saw true, it seems. It will take some effort to break your spirit, I suspect.’ The guard remained standing halfway down the steps. ‘Your Sunyd kin will be returning in a day or two.’
‘I have no kin who accept the life of slavery.’
‘That’s odd, since you clearly have, else you would have contrived to kill yourself by now.’
‘You think I am a slave because I am in chains? Come closer, then, child.’
‘“Child,” yes. Your strange affectation persists, even while we children have you at our mercy. Well, never mind. The chains are but the beginning, Karsa Orlong. You will indeed be broken, and had you been captured by the bounty hunters high on the plateau, by the time they’d delivered you to this town you’d have had nothing left of Teblor pride, much less defiance. The Sunyd will worship you, Karsa Orlong, for killing an entire camp of bounty hunters.’
‘What is your name?’ Karsa asked.
‘Why?’
The Uryd warrior smiled in the gloom. ‘For all your words, you still fear me.’
‘Hardly.’
But Karsa heard the strain in the guard’s tone and his smile broadened. ‘Then tell me your name.’
‘Damisk. My name is Damisk. I was once a tracker in the Greydog army during the Malazan conquest.’
‘Conquest. You lost, then. Which of our spirits has broken, Damisk Greydog? When I attacked your party on the ridge, you fled. Left the ones who had hired you to their fates. You fled, as would a coward, a broken man. And this is why you are here, now. For I am chained and you are beyond my reach. You come, not to tell me things, but because you cannot help yourself. You seek the pleasure of gloating, yet you devour yourself inside, and so feel no true satisfaction. Yet we both know, you will come again. And again.’
‘I shall advise,’ Damisk said, his voice ragged, ‘my master to give you to the surviving bounty hunters, to do with you as they will. And I will watch—’
‘Of course you will, Damisk Greydog.’
The man backed up the stairs, the lantern’s light swinging wildly.
Karsa laughed.
A moment later the trapdoor slammed down once more, and there was darkness.
The Teblor warrior fell silent, then planted his feet on the log yet again.
A weak voice from the far end of the trench stopped him. ‘Giant.’
The tongue was Sunyd, the voice a child’s. ‘I have no words for you, lowlander,’ Karsa growled.
‘I do not ask for words. I can feel you working on this Hood-damned tree. Will you succeed at whatever it is you are doing?’
‘I am doing nothing.’
‘All right, then. Must be my imagination. We’re dying here, the rest of us. In a most terrible, undignified manner.’
‘You must have done great wrong—’
The answering laugh was a rasping cough. ‘Oh indeed, giant. Indeed. We’re the ones who would not accept Malazan rule, so we held on to our weapons and hid in the hills and forests. Raiding, ambushing, making nuisances of ourselves. It was great fun. Until the bastards caught us.’
‘Careless.’
‘Three of you and a handful of your damned dogs, raiding an entire town? And you call me careless? Well, I suppose we both were, since we’re here.’
Karsa grimaced at the truth of that. ‘What is it you want, lowlander?’
‘Your strength, giant. There are four of us over here who are still alive, though I alone am still conscious…and very nearly sane. Sane enough, that is, to comprehend the fullest ignobility of my fate.’
‘You talk too much.’
‘For not much longer, I assure you. Can you lift this log, giant? Or spin it over a few times?’
Karsa was silent for a long moment. ‘What would that achieve?’
‘It would shorten the chains.’
‘I have no wish to shorten the chains.’
‘Temporarily.’
‘Why?’
‘Spin the damned thing, giant. So our chains wrap around it again and again. So, with one last turn, you drag us poor fools at this end under. So we drown.’
‘You would have me kill you?’
‘I applaud your swift comprehension, giant. More souls to crowd your shadow, Teblor—that’s how your kind see it, yes? Kill me, and I will walk with honour in your shadow.’
‘I am not interested in mercy, lowlander.’
‘How about trophies?’
‘I cannot reach you to take trophies.’
‘How well can you see in this gloom? I’ve heard that Teblor—’
‘I can see. Well enough to know that your right hand is closed in a fist. What lies within it?’
‘A tooth. Just fallen out. The third one since I’ve been chained down here.’
‘Throw it to me.’
‘I will try. I am afraid I’m somewhat…worse for wear. Are you ready?’
‘Throw.’
The man’s arm wavered as he lifted it.
The tooth flew high and wide, but Karsa’s arm shot out, chain snapping behind it, and he snatched the tooth from the air. He brought it down for a closer look, then grunted. ‘It’s rotted.’
‘Probably why it fell out. Well? Consider this, too. You will succeed in getting water right through the shaft, which should soften things up even more. Not that you’ve been up to anything down there.’
Karsa slowly nodded. ‘I like you, lowlander.’
‘Good. Now drown me.’
‘I will.’
Karsa slipped down to stand knee-deep in the foul muck, the fresh wounds around his ankles stinging at the contact.
‘I saw them bring you down, giant,’ the man said. ‘None of the Sunyd are as big as you.’
‘The Sunyd are the smallest among the Teblor.’
‘Must be some lowlander blood from way back, I’d imagine.’
‘They have fallen far indeed.’ Karsa lowered both arms, chains dragging, until his hands rested beneath the log.
‘My thanks to you, Teblor.’
Karsa lifted, twisted the log, then set it down once more, gasping. ‘This will not be quick, lowlander, and for that I am sorry.’
‘I understand. Take your time. Biltar slid right under in any case, and Alrute looks about to the next time. You’re doing well.’
He lifted the log once more, rolled it another half-twist. Splashes and gurgling sounds came from the other end.
Then a gasp. ‘Almost there, Teblor. I’m the last. One more—I’ll roll myself under it, so it pins me down.’
‘Then you are crushed, not drowned.’
‘In this muck? No worries there, Teblor. I’ll feel the weight, true, but it won’t cause me much pain.’
‘You lie.’
‘So what? It’s not the means, it’s the end that matters.’
‘All things matter,’ Karsa said, preparing once more. ‘I shall twist it all the way round this time, lowlander. It will be easier now that my own chains are shorter. Are you ready?’
‘A moment, please,’ the man sputtered.
Karsa lifted the log, grunting with the immense weight pulling down on his arms.
‘I’ve had a change of heart—’
‘I haven’t.’ Karsa spun the log. Then dropped it.
Wild thrashing from the other end, chains sawing the air, then frantic coughing.
Surprised, Karsa looked up. A brown-smeared figure flailed about, sputtering, kicking.
Karsa slowly sat back, waiting for the man to recover. For a while, there was naught but heavy gasping from the other end of the log. ‘You managed to roll back over, then under and out. I am impressed, lowlander. It seems you are not a coward after all. I did not believe there were such as you among the children.’
‘Sheer courage,’ the man rasped. ‘That’s me.’
‘Whose tooth was it?’
‘Alrute’s. Now, no more spinning, if you please.’
‘I am sorry, lowlander, but I must now spin it the opposite way, until the log is as it was before I started.’
‘I curse your grim logic, Teblor.’
‘What is your name?’
‘Torvald Nom, though to my Malazan enemies, I’m known as Knuckles.’
‘And how came you to learn the Sunyd tongue?’
‘It’s the old trader language, actually. Before there were bounty hunters, there were Nathii traders. A mutually profitable trade between them and the Sunyd. The truth is, your language is close kin to Nathii.’
‘The soldiers spoke gibberish.’
‘Naturally; they’re soldiers.’ He paused. ‘All right, that sort of humour’s lost on you. So be it. Likely, those soldiers were Malazan.’
‘I have decided that the Malazans are my enemy.’
‘Something we share, then, Teblor.’
‘We share naught but this tree trunk, lowlander.’
‘If you prefer. Though I feel obliged to correct you on one thing. Hateworthy as the Malazans are, the Nathii these days are no better. You’ve no allies among the lowlanders, Teblor, be sure of that.’
‘Are you a Nathii?’
‘No. I’m Daru. From a city far to the south. The House of Nom is vast and certain families among it are almost wealthy. We’ve a Nom in the Council, in fact, in Darujhistan. Never met him. Alas, my own family’s holdings are more, uh, modest. Hence my extended travels and nefarious professions—’
‘You talk too much, Torvald Nom. I am ready to turn this log once more.’
‘Damn, I was hoping you’d forgotten about that.’
The iron bar’s end was more than halfway through the trunk, the flange a blunt, shapeless piece of metal. Karsa could not keep the aching and trembling from his legs, even as the rest periods between efforts grew ever longer. The larger wounds in his chest and back, created by the splinter of wood, had reopened, leaking steadily to mix with the sweat soaking his clothes. The skin and flesh of his ankles were shredded.
Torvald had succumbed to his own exhaustion, shortly after the log had been returned to its original position, groaning in his sleep whilst Karsa laboured on.
For the moment, as the Uryd warrior rested against the clay slope, the only sounds were his own ragged gasps, underscored by softer, shallow breaths from the far end of the trunk.
