The Malazan Empire, page 283
Karsa began pulling on the bar once more.
He was interrupted by voices overhead, then heavy thumping, as of a dozen or more barefooted arrivals, the sound joined now by chains slithering across the warehouse floor.
Karsa settled back against the opposite trench slope.
The trapdoor opened. A child in the lead, lantern in hand, and then Sunyd—naked but for rough-woven short skirts—making a slow descent, their left ankles shackled with a chain linking them all together. The lowlander with the lantern walked down the walkway between the two trenches. The Sunyd, eleven in all, six men and five women, followed.
Their heads were lowered; none would meet Karsa’s steady, cold regard.
At a gesture from the child, who had halted four long paces from Karsa’s position, the Sunyd turned and slid down the slope of their trench. Three more lowlanders had appeared, and followed them down to apply the fixed shackles to the Teblor’s other ankles. There was no resistance from the Sunyd.
Moments later, the lowlanders were back on the walkway, then heading up the steps. The trapdoor squealed on its hinges, closing with a reverberating thump that sent dust drifting down through the gloom.
‘It is true, then. An Uryd.’ The voice was a whisper.
Karsa sneered. ‘Was that the voice of a Teblor? No, it could not have been. Teblor do not become slaves. Teblor would rather die than kneel before a lowlander.’
‘An Uryd…in chains. Like the rest of us—’
‘Like the Sunyd? Who let these foul children come close and fix shackles to their legs? No. I am a prisoner, but no bindings shall hold me for long. The Sunyd must be reminded what it is to be a Teblor.’
A new voice spoke from among the Sunyd, a woman’s. ‘We saw the dead, lined up on the ground before the hunters’ camp. We saw wagons, filled with dead Malazans. Townsfolk were wailing. Yet, it is said there were but three of you—’
‘Two, not three. Our companion, Delum Thord, was wounded in the head, his mind had fallen away. He ran with the dogs. Had his mind been whole, his blood-sword in his hands—’
There was sudden murmuring from the Sunyd, the word bloodsword spoken in tones of awe.
Karsa scowled. ‘What is this madness? Have the Sunyd lost all the old ways of the Teblor?’
The woman sighed. ‘Lost? Yes, long ago. Our own children slipping away in the night to wander south into the lowlands, eager for the cursed lowlander coins—the bits of metal around which life itself seems to revolve. Sorely used, were our children—some even returned to our valleys, as scouts for the hunters. The secret groves of bloodwood were burned down, our horses slain. To be betrayed by our own children, Uryd, this is what broke the Sunyd.’
‘Your children should have been hunted down,’ Karsa said. ‘The hearts of your warriors were too soft. Blood-kin is cut when betrayal is done. Those children ceased being Sunyd. I will kill them for you.’
‘You would have trouble finding them, Uryd. They are scattered, many fallen, many now sold into servitude to repay their debts. And some have travelled great distances, to the great cities of Nathilog and Genabaris. Our tribe is no more.’
The first Sunyd who had spoken added, ‘Besides, Uryd, you are in chains. Now the property of Master Silgar, from whom no slave has ever escaped. You will be killing no-one, ever again. And like us, you will be made to kneel. Your words are empty.’
Karsa straddled the log once more. He grasped hold of the chains this time, wrapping them about his wrists as many times as he could.
Then he threw himself back. Muscles bunching, legs pushing down on the log, back straightening. Grinding, splintering, a sudden loud crack.
Karsa was thrown backward onto the clay slope, chains snapping around him. Blinking the sweat from his eyes, he stared down at the log.
The trunk had split, down its entire length.
There was a low hiss from the other end, the rustle of freed chains. ‘Hood take me, Karsa Orlong,’ Torvald whispered, ‘you don’t take insults well, do you?’
Though no longer attached to the log, Karsa’s wrists and ankles were still chained to the iron bars. The warrior unravelled the chains from his battered, bleeding forearms, then collected one of the bars. Laying the ankle chain against the log, he drove the bar’s unflanged end into a single link, then began twisting it with both hands.
‘What has happened?’ a Sunyd asked. ‘What was that sound?’
‘The Uryd’s spine has snapped,’ the first speaker replied in a drawl.
Torvald’s laugh was a cold chuckle. ‘The Lord’s push for you, Ganal, I’m afraid.’
‘What do you mean, Nom?’
The link popped, sending a piece whipping across the trench to thud against the earthen wall.
Karsa dragged the chain from his ankle shackles. Then he set to splitting the one holding his wrists.
Another popping sound. He freed his arms.
‘What is happening?’
A third crack, as he snapped the chain from the iron bar he had been using—which was the undamaged one, its flange intact, sharp-edged and jagged. Karsa clambered from the trench.
‘Where is this Ganal?’ he growled.
All but one of the Sunyd lying in the opposite trench shrank back at his words.
‘I am Ganal,’ said the lone warrior who had not moved. ‘Not a broken spine after all. Well then, warrior, kill me for my sceptical words.’
‘I shall.’ Karsa strode down the walkway, lifting the iron bar.
‘If you do that,’ Torvald said hastily, ‘the others will likely raise a cry.’
Karsa hesitated.
Ganal smiled up at him. ‘If you spare me, there will be no alarm sounded, Uryd. It is night, still a bell or more before dawn. You will make good your escape—’
‘And by your silence, you will all be punished,’ Karsa said.
‘No. We were all sleeping.’
The woman spoke. ‘Bring the Uryd, in all your numbers. When you have slain everyone in this town, then you can settle judgement upon us Sunyd, as will be your right.’
Karsa hesitated, then he nodded. ‘Ganal, I give you more of your miserable life. But I shall come once more, and I shall remember you.’
‘I have no doubt, Uryd,’ Ganal replied. ‘Not any more.’
‘Karsa,’ Torvald said. ‘I may be a lowlander and all—’
‘I shall free you, child,’ the Uryd replied, turning from the Sunyd trench. ‘You have shown courage.’ He slid down to the man’s side. ‘You are too thin to walk,’ he observed. ‘Unable to run. Do you still wish for me to release you?’
‘Thin? I haven’t lost more than half a stone, Karsa Orlong. I can run.’
‘You sounded poorly earlier on—’
‘Sympathy.’
‘You sought sympathy from an Uryd?’
The man’s bony shoulders lifted in a sheepish shrug. ‘It was worth a try.’
Karsa pried the chain apart.
Torvald pulled his arms free. ‘Beru’s blessing on you, lad.’
‘Keep your lowlander gods to yourself.’
‘Of course. Apologies. Anything you say.’
Torvald scrambled up the slope. On the walkway, he paused. ‘What of the trapdoor, Karsa Orlong?’
‘What of it?’ the warrior growled, climbing up and moving past the lowlander.
Torvald bowed as Karsa went past, a scrawny arm sweeping out in a graceful gesture. ‘Lead me, by all means.’
Karsa halted on the first step and glanced back at the child. ‘I am warleader,’ he rumbled. ‘You would have me lead you, lowlander?’
Ganal said from the other trench, ‘Careful how you answer, Daru. There are no empty words among the Teblor.’
‘Well, uh, it was naught but an invitation. To precede me up the steps—’
Karsa resumed his climb.
Directly beneath the trapdoor, he examined its edges. He recalled that there was an iron latch that was lowered when locked, making it flush with the surrounding boards. Karsa jammed the chain-fixing end of the iron bar into the join beneath the latch. He drove it in as far as he could, then began levering, settling his full weight in gradual increments.
A splintering snap, the trapdoor jumping up slightly. Karsa set his shoulders against it and lifted.
The hinges creaked.
The warrior froze, waited, then resumed, slower this time.
As his head cleared the hatchway, he could see faint lantern-glow from the far end of the warehouse, and saw, seated around a small round table, three lowlanders. They were not soldiers—Karsa had seen them earlier in the company of the slavemaster, Silgar. There was the muted clatter of bones on the tabletop.
That they had not heard the trapdoor’s hinges was, to Karsa’s mind, remarkable. Then his ears caught a new sound—a chorus of creaks and groans, and, outside, the howl of a wind. A storm had come in from the lake, and rain had begun spraying against the north wall of the warehouse.
‘Urugal,’ Karsa said under his breath, ‘I thank you. And now, witness…’
One hand holding the trapdoor over him, the warrior slowly slid onto the floor. He moved far enough to permit Torvald’s equally silent arrival, then he slowly lowered the hatch until it settled. A gesture told Torvald to remain where he was, understanding indicated by the man’s fervent nod. Karsa carefully shifted the bar from his left hand to his right, then made his way forward.
Only one of the three guards might have seen him, from the corner of his eye, but his attention was intent on the bones skidding over the tabletop before him. The other two had their backs to the room.
Karsa remained low on the floor until he was less than three paces away, then he silently rose into a crouch.
He launched himself forward, the bar whipping horizontally, connecting with first one unhelmed head, then on to the second. The third guard stared openmouthed. Karsa’s swing finished with his left hand grasping the red-smeared end of the bar, which he then drove crossways into the lowlander’s throat. The man was thrown back over his chair, striking the warehouse doors and falling in a heap.
Karsa set the bar down on the tabletop, then crouched down beside one of the victims and began removing his sword-belt.
Torvald approached. ‘Hood’s own nightmare,’ he muttered, ‘that’s what you are, Uryd.’
‘Take yourself a weapon,’ Karsa directed, moving on to the next corpse.
‘I will. Now, which way shall we run, Karsa? They’ll be expecting northwest, back the way you came. They’ll ride hard for the foot of the pass. I have friends—’
‘I have no intention of running,’ the warleader growled, looping both sword-belts over a shoulder, the scabbarded longswords looking minuscule where they rested against his back. He collected the flanged bar once more. He turned to find Torvald staring at him. ‘Run to your friends, lowlander. I will, this night, deliver sufficient diversion to make good your escape. Tonight, Bairoth Gild and Delum Thord shall be avenged.’
‘Don’t expect me to avenge your death, Karsa. It’s madness—you’ve already done the impossible. I’d advise you to thank the Lady’s pull and get away while you can. In case you’ve forgotten, this town’s full of soldiers.’
‘Be on your way, child.’
Torvald hesitated, then he threw up his hands. ‘So be it. For my life, Karsa Orlong, I thank you. The family of Nom will speak your name in its prayers.’
‘I will wait fifty heartbeats.’
Without another word Torvald headed to the warehouse’s sliding doors. The main bar had not been lowered into its slots; a smaller latch loosely held the door to the frame. He flipped it back, pushed the door to one side, sufficient only to pop his head out for a quick look. Then he shoved it open slightly more, and slipped outside.
Karsa listened to his footfalls, the splash of bare feet in mud, hurrying away to the left. He decided he would not wait fifty heartbeats. Even with the storm holding fast the darkness, dawn was not far away.
The Teblor slid the door back further and stepped outside. A track narrower than the main street, the wooden buildings opposite indistinct behind a slanting curtain of hard rain. To the right and twenty paces distant, light showed from a single murky window on the upper floor of a house standing next to a side street.
He wanted his bloodsword, but had no idea where it might be. Failing that, any Teblor weapon would suffice. And he knew where he might find some.
Karsa slid the door shut behind him. He swung right and, skirting the edge of the street, made his way towards the lakefront.
The wind whipped rain against his face, loosening the crusted blood and dirt. The shredded leathers of his shirt flapped heavily as he jogged towards the clearing, where waited the camp of the bounty hunters.
There had been survivors. A careless oversight on Karsa’s part; one he would now correct. And, in the huts of those cold-eyed children, there would be Teblor trophies. Weapons. Armour.
The huts and shacks of the fallen had already been stripped, the doors hanging open, rubbish strewn about. Karsa’s gaze settled on a nearby reed-walled shack clearly still occupied. He padded towards it.
Ignoring the small door, the warrior threw his shoulder against a wall. The reed panel fell inward, Karsa plunging through. There was a grunt from a cot to his left, a vague shape bolting into a sitting position. Iron bar swung down. Blood and bits of bone sprayed the walls. The figure sank back down.
The small, lone room of the shack was cluttered with Sunyd objects, most of them useless: charms, belts and trinkets. He did find, however, a pair of Sunyd hunting knives, sheathed in beaded buckskin over wood. A low altar caught Karsa’s attention. Some lowlander god, signified by a small clay statue—a boar, standing on its hind legs.
The Teblor knocked it to the earthen floor, then shattered it with a single stomp of his heel.
Returning outside, he approached the next inhabited shack.
The wind howled off the lake, white-maned waves crashing up the pebbled beach. The sky overhead was still black with clouds, the rain unceasing.
There were seven shacks in all, and in the sixth one—after killing the two men entwined together in the cot beneath the skin of a grey bear—he found an old Sunyd bloodsword, and an almost complete set of armour that, although of a style Karsa had never seen before, was clearly Teblor in origin, given its size and the sigils burned into the wooden plates. It was only when he began strapping it on that he realized that the grey, weathered wood was bloodwood—bleached by centuries of neglect.
In the seventh hut he found a small jar of blood-oil, and took the time to remove the armour and rub the pungent salve into its starved wood. He used the last of it to ease the sword’s own thirst.
He then kissed the gleaming blade, tasting the bitter oil.
The effect was instantaneous. His heart began pounding, fire ripping through his muscles, lust and rage filling his mind.
He found himself back outside, staring at the town before him through a red haze. The air was foul with the stench of lowlanders. He moved forward, though he could no longer feel his legs, his gaze fixing on the bronze-banded door of a large, timbered house.
Then it was flying inward, and Karsa was entering the low-ceilinged hallway beyond the threshold. Someone was shouting upstairs.
He found himself on the landing, face to face with a broad-shouldered, bald child. Behind him cowered a woman with grey-streaked hair, and behind her—now fleeing—a half-dozen servants.
The bald child had just taken down from the wall a longsword still in its jewel-studded scabbard. His eyes glittered with terror, his expression of disbelief remaining frozen on his features even as his head leapt from his shoulders.
And then Karsa found himself in the last room upstairs, ducking to keep his head beneath the ceiling as he stepped over the last of the servants, the house silent behind him. Before him, hiding behind a poster bed, a young female lowlander.
The Teblor dropped his sword. A moment later he held her before him, her feet kicking at his knees. He cupped the back of her head in his right hand, pushed her face against his armour’s oil-smeared breastplate.
She struggled, then her head snapped back, eyes suddenly wild.
Karsa laughed, throwing her down on the bed.
Animal sounds came from her mouth, her long-fingered hands snatching up at him as he moved over her.
The female clawed at him, her back arching in desperate need.
She was unconscious before he was done, and when he drew away there was blood between them. She would live, he knew. Blood-oil was impatient with broken flesh.
He was outside in the rain once more, sword in his hands. The clouds were lightening to the east.
Karsa moved on to the next house.
Awareness drifted away then, for a time, and when it returned he found himself in an attic with a window at the far end through which streamed bright sunlight. He was on his hands and knees, sheathed in blood, and to one side lay a child’s body, fat and in slashed robes, eyes staring sightlessly.
Waves of shivering racked him, his breath harsh gasps that echoed dully in the close, dusty attic. He heard shouts from somewhere outside and crawled over to the round, thick-glassed window at the far end.
Below was the main street, and he realized that he was near the west gate. Glass-distorted figures on restless horses were gathering—Malazan soldiers. As he watched, and to his astonishment, they suddenly set forth for the gate. The thundering of horse hoofs quickly diminished as the party rode westward.
The warrior slowly sat back. There was no sound from directly beneath him, and he knew that no-one remained alive in the house. He knew, also, that he had passed through at least a dozen such houses, sometimes through the front door, but more often through recessed side and rear doors. And that those places were now as silent as the one in which he now found himself.
