The Malazan Empire, page 311
The azalan possessed no feet as such—each appendage ended in a wide, flat, short-fingered hand. The homeland of these demons was a forest, and these creatures commonly lived in the tangled canopy high overhead, venturing down to the gloomy forest floor only when summoned.
Summoned…only to then be imprisoned in diamonds. If it was me, I’d be pretty annoyed by now.
The demon suddenly smiled.
Kalam glanced away, considering how to frame his request. Get Captain Irriz. Alive, but kept quiet. Join me at the rope. There would need to be some explaining to do, and with a beast possessing no language—
The azalan turned suddenly, nostrils twitching. The broad, squat head dipped down on its long, thickly muscled neck. Down to the tent’s back wall at the base.
Where urine from the latrine pit had soaked through.
A soft cluck, then the demon wheeled about and lifted a hind limb. Two penises dropped into view from a fold of flesh.
Twin streams reached down to the sodden carpet.
Kalam reeled back at the stench, back, out through the flap and outside into the chill night air, where he remained, on hands and knees, gagging.
A moment later the demon emerged. Lifted its head to test the air, then surged into the shadows—and was gone.
In the direction of the captain’s tent.
Kalam managed a lungful of cleansing air, slowly brought his shuddering under control. ‘All right, pup,’ he softly gasped, ‘guess you read my mind.’ After a moment he rose into a crouch, reached back with breath held into the tent to retrieve his pack, then staggered towards the cliff-face.
A glance back showed steam or smoke rising out from his tent’s entrance, a whispering crackle slowly growing louder from within it.
Gods, who needs a vial of Tralb?
He padded swiftly to where the rope still dangled beneath the balcony.
A sputtering burst of flames erupted from where his tent had been.
Hardly an event to go unnoticed. Hissing a curse, Kalam sprinted for the rope.
Shouts rose from the camp. Then screams, then shrieks, each one ending in a strange mangled squeal.
The assassin skidded to a halt at the cliff-face, closed both hands on the rope, and began climbing. He was halfway up to the balcony when the limestone wall shook suddenly, puffing out dust. Pebbles rained down. And a hulking shape was now beside him, clinging to the raw, runnelled rock. Tucked under one arm was Irriz, unconscious and in his bedclothes. The azalan seemed to flow up the wall, hands gripping the rippled ribbons of shadow as if they were iron rungs. In moments the demon reached the balcony and swung itself over the lip and out of sight.
And the stone ledge groaned.
Cracks snaked down.
Kalam stared upward to see the entire balcony sagging, pulling away from the wall.
His moccasins slipped wildly as he tried to scrabble his way to one side. Then he saw long, unhuman hands close on the lip of the stone ledge. The sagging ceased.
H-how in Hood’s name—
The assassin resumed climbing. Moments later he reached the balcony and pulled himself over the edge.
The azalan was fully stretched over it. Two hands gripped the ledge. Three others held shadows on the cliffside above the small doorway. Shadows were unravelling from the demon like layers of skin, vaguely human shapes stretching out to hold the balcony to the wall—and being torn apart by the immense strain. As Kalam scrambled onto its surface, a grinding, crunching sound came from where the balcony joined the wall, and it dropped a hand’s width along the seam.
The assassin launched himself towards the recessed doorway, where he saw a face in the gloom, twisted with terror—the squad mage.
‘Back off!’ Kalam hissed. ‘It’s a friend!’
The mage reached out and clasped Kalam’s forearm.
The balcony dropped away beneath the assassin even as he was dragged into the corridor.
Both men tumbled back, over Irriz’s prone body.
Everything shook as a tremendous thump sounded from below. The echoes were slow to fade.
The azalan swung in from under the lintel stone. Grinning.
A short distance down the corridor crouched a squad of soldiers. Sinn had an arm wrapped round one of them—her half-brother, Kalam assumed as he slowly regained his feet.
One of the soldiers the assassin had met earlier moved forward, edging past the assassin and—with more difficulty—the azalan, back out to the edge. After a moment he called back. ‘All quiet down there, Sergeant. The camp’s a mess, though. Can’t see anyone about…’
The other soldier from before frowned. ‘No-one, Bell?’
‘No. Like they all ran away.’
Kalam offered nothing, though he had his suspicions. There was something about all those shadows in the demon’s possession…
The squad mage had disentangled himself from Irriz and now said to the assassin, ‘That’s a damned frightening friend you have there. And it ain’t imperial. Shadow Realm?’
‘A temporary ally,’ Kalam replied with a shrug.
‘How temporary?’
The assassin faced the sergeant. ‘Irriz has been delivered—what do you plan on doing with him?’
‘Haven’t decided yet. The lass here says you’re named Ulfas. Would that be right? A Genabackan Barghast name? Wasn’t there a war chief by that name? Killed at Blackdog.’
‘I wasn’t about to tell Irriz my real name, Sergeant. I’m a Bridgeburner. Kalam Mekhar, rank of corporal.’
There was silence.
Then the mage sighed. ‘Wasn’t you outlawed?’
‘A feint, one of the Empress’s schemes. Dujek needed a free hand for a time.’
‘All right,’ the sergeant said. ‘It don’t matter if you’re telling the truth or not. We’ve heard of you. I’m Sergeant Cord. The company mage here is Ebron. That’s Bell, and Corporal Shard.’
The corporal was Sinn’s half-brother, and the young man’s face was blank, no doubt numbed by the shock of Sinn’s sudden appearance.
‘Where’s Captain Kindly?’
Cord winced. ‘The rest of the company—what’s left, is down below. We lost the captain and the lieutenant a few days ago.’
‘Lost? How?’
‘They, uh, they fell down a well shaft. Drowned. Or so Ebron found out, once he climbed down and examined the situation more closely. It’s fast-running, an underground river. They were swept away, the poor bastards.’
‘And how do two people fall down a well shaft, Sergeant?’
The man bared his gold teeth. ‘Exploring, I imagine. Now, Corporal, it seems I outrank you. In fact, I’m the only sergeant left. Now, if you aren’t outlawed, then you’re still a soldier of the empire. And as a soldier of the empire…’
‘You have me there,’ Kalam muttered.
‘For now, you’ll be attached to my old squad. You’ve got seniority over Corporal Shard, so you’ll be in charge.’
‘Very well, and what’s the squad’s complement?’
‘Shard, Bell and Limp. You’ve met Bell. Limp’s down below. He broke his leg in a rock-slide, but he’s mending fast. There’s fifty-one soldiers in all. Second Company, Ashok Regiment.’
‘It seems your besiegers are gone,’ Kalam observed. ‘The world hasn’t been entirely still while you’ve been shut up in here, Sergeant. I think I should tell you what I know. There are alternatives to waiting here—no matter how cosy it might be—until we all die of old age…or drowning accidents.’
‘Aye, Corporal. You’ll make your report. And if I want to ask for advice on what to do next, you’ll be first in line. Now, enough with the opinions. Time to go below—and I suggest you find a leash for that damned demon. And tell it to stop smiling.’
‘You’ll have to tell it yourself, Sergeant,’ Kalam drawled.
Ebron snapped, ‘The Malazan Empire don’t need allies from the Shadow Realm—get rid of it!’
The assassin glanced over at the mage. ‘As I said earlier, changes have come, Mage. Sergeant Cord, you’re entirely welcome to try throwing a collar round this azalan’s neck. But I should tell you first—even though you’re not asking for my advice—that even though those weird gourds, pans and knobby sticks strapped on to the beast’s belts don’t look like weapons, this azalan has just taken the lives of over five hundred rebel warriors. And how long did that take? Maybe fifty heartbeats. Does it do what I ask? Now that’s a question worth pondering, don’t you think?’
Cord studied Kalam for a long moment. ‘Are you threatening me?’
‘Having worked alone for some time, Sergeant,’ the assassin replied in a low voice, ‘my skin’s grown thin. I’ll take your squad. I’ll even follow your orders, unless they happen to be idiotic. If you have a problem with all this, take it up with my own sergeant next time you see him. That’d be Whiskeyjack. Apart from the Empress herself, he’s the only man I answer to. You want to make use of me? Fine. My services are available to you…for a time.’
‘He’s on some secret mission,’ Ebron muttered. ‘For the Empress, is my guess. He’s probably back in the Claw—that’s where he started, after all, isn’t it?’
Cord looked thoughtful, then he shrugged and turned away. ‘This is making my head ache. Let’s get below.’
Kalam watched the sergeant push between the clump of soldiers crowding the corridor. Something tells me I’m not going to enjoy this much.
Sinn danced a step.
A blurred sword of dark iron rose along the horizon, a massive, bruised blade that flickered as it swelled ever larger. The wind had fallen off, and it seemed that the island in the path of the sword’s tip grew no closer. Cutter moved up to the lone mast and began storm-rigging the luffing sail. ‘I’m going to man the sweeps for a while,’ he said. ‘Will you take the tiller?’
With a shrug Apsalar moved to the stern.
The storm still lay behind the island of Drift Avalii, over which hung a seemingly permanent, immovable bank of heavy clouds. Apart from a steeply rising shoreline, there seemed to be no high ground; the forest of cedars, firs and redwoods looked impenetrable, their boles ever cloaked in gloom.
Cutter stared at the island for a moment longer, then gauged the pace of the approaching storm. He settled onto the bench behind the mast and collected the sweeps. ‘We might make it,’ he said, as he dropped the oar blades into the murky water and pulled.
‘The island will shatter it,’ Apsalar replied.
He narrowed his eyes on her. It was the first time in days that she had ventured a statement without considerable prodding on his part. ‘Well, I may have crossed a damned ocean, but I still understand nothing of the sea. Why should an island without a single mountain break that storm?’
‘A normal island wouldn’t,’ she answered.
‘Ah, I see.’ He fell silent. Her knowledge came from Cotillion’s memories, appearing to add yet another layer to Apsalar’s miseries. The god was with them once more, a haunting presence between them. Cutter had told her of the spectral visitation, of Cotillion’s words. Her distress—and barely constrained fury—seemed to originate from the god’s recruitment of Cutter himself.
His choosing of his new name had displeased her from the very first, and that he had now become, in effect, a minion of the patron god of assassins appeared to wound her deeply. He had been naïve, it now seemed in retrospect, to have believed that such a development would bring them closer.
Apsalar was not happy with her own path—a realization that had rocked the Daru. She drew no pleasure or satisfaction from her own cold, brutal efficiency as a killer. Cutter had once imagined that competency was a reward in itself, that skill bred its own justification, creating its own hunger and from that hunger a certain pleasure. A person was drawn to his or her own proficiency—back in Darujhistan, after all, his thieving habits had not been the product of necessity. He’d suffered no starvation on the city’s streets, no depredation by its crueller realities. He had stolen purely for pleasure, and because he had been good at it. A future as a master thief had seemed a worthy goal, notoriety indistinguishable from respect.
But now, Apsalar was trying to tell him that competence was not justification. That necessity demanded its own path and there was no virtue to be found at its heart.
He’d found himself at subtle war with her, the weapons those of silence and veiled expressions.
He grunted at the sweeps. The seas were growing choppy. ‘Well, I hope you’re right,’ he said. ‘We could do with the shelter…though from what the Rope said, there will be trouble among the denizens of Drift Avalii.’
‘Tiste Andii,’ Apsalar said. ‘Anomander Rake’s own. He settled them there, to guard the Throne.’
‘Do you recall Dancer—or Cotillion—speaking with them?’
Her dark eyes flicked to his for a moment, then she looked away. ‘It was a short conversation. These Tiste Andii have known isolation for far too long. Their master left them there, and has never returned.’
‘Never?’
‘There are…complications. The shore ahead offers no welcome—see for yourself.’
He drew the oars back in and twisted round on the seat.
The shoreline was a dull grey sandstone, wave-worn into undulating layers and shelves. ‘Well, we can draw up easily enough, but I see what you mean. No place to pull the runner up, and tethering it risks battering by the waves. Any suggestions?’
The storm—or the island—was drawing breath, tugging the sail. They were quickly closing on the rocky coast.
The sky’s rumbles were nearer now, and Cutter could see the wavering treetops evincing the arrival of a high and fierce wind, stretching the clouds above the island into long, twisting tendrils.
‘I have no suggestions,’ Apsalar finally replied. ‘There is another concern—currents.’
And he could see now. The island did indeed drift, unmoored to the sea bottom. Spinning vortices roiled around the sandstone. Water was pulled under, flung back out, seething all along the shoreline. ‘Beru fend us,’ Cutter muttered, ‘this won’t be easy.’ He scrambled to the bow.
Apsalar swung the runner onto a course parallel to the shore. ‘Look for a shelf low to the water,’ she called. ‘We might be able to drag the boat onto it.’
Cutter said nothing to that. It would take four or more strong men to manage such a task…but at least we’d get onto shore in one piece. The currents tugged at the hull, throwing the craft side to side. A glance back showed Apsalar struggling to steady the tiller.
The dull grey sandstone revealed, in its countless shelves and modulations, a history of constantly shifting sea levels. Cutter had no idea how an island could float. If sorcery was responsible, then its power was vast, and yet, it seemed, far from perfect.
‘There!’ he shouted suddenly, pointing ahead where the coast’s undulations dropped to a flat stretch barely a hand’s width above the roiling water.
‘Get ready,’ Apsalar instructed, half rising from her seat.
Clambering up alongside the prow, a coil of rope in his left hand, Cutter prepared to leap onto the shelf. As they drew closer, he could see that the stone ledge was thin, deeply undercut.
They swiftly closed. Cutter jumped.
He landed square-footed, knees flexing into a crouch.
There was a sharp crack, then the stone was falling away beneath his moccasined feet. Cold water swept around his ankles. Unbalanced, the Daru pitched backward with a yelp. Behind him, the boat rushed inward on the wave that tumbled into the sinking shelf’s wake. Cutter plunged into deep water, even as the encrusted hull rolled over him.
The currents yanked him downward into icy darkness. His left heel thumped against the island’s rock, the impact softened by a thick skin of seaweed.
Down, a terrifyingly fast plummet into the deep.
Then the rock wall was gone, and he was pulled by the currents under the island.
A roar filled his head, the sound of rushing water. His last lungful of air was dwindling to nothing in his chest. Something hard hammered into his side—a piece of the runner’s hull, wreckage being dragged by the currents—their boat had overturned. Either Apsalar was somewhere in the swirling water with him, or she had managed to leap onto solid sandstone. He hoped it was the latter, that they would not both drown—for drowning was all that was left to him.
Sorry, Cotillion. I hope you did not expect too much of me—
He struck stone once more, was rolled along it, then the current tugged him upward and suddenly spat him loose.
He flailed with his limbs, clawing the motionless water, his pulse pounding in his head. Disorientated, panic ripping through him like wildfire, he reached out one last time.
His right hand plunged into cold air.
A moment later his head broke the surface.
Icy, bitter air poured into his lungs, as sweet as honey. There was no light, and the sounds of his gasping returned no echoes, seeming to vanish in some unknown immensity.
Cutter called out to Apsalar, but there was no reply.
He was swiftly growing numb. Choosing a random direction, he set out.
And quickly struck a stone wall, thick with wet, slimy growth. He reached up, found only sheerness. He swam along it, his limbs weakening, a deadly lassitude stealing into him. He struggled on, feeling his will seep away.
Then his outstretched hand slapped down onto the flat surface of a ledge. Cutter threw both arms onto the stone. His legs, numbed by the cold, pulled at him. Moaning, he sought to drag himself out of the water, but his strength was failing. Fingers gouging tracks through the slime, he slowly sank backward.
A pair of hands closed, one on each shoulder, to gather the sodden fabric in a grip hard as iron. He felt himself lifted clear from the water, then dropped onto the ledge.
Weeping, Cutter lay unmoving. Shivers racked him.
Eventually, a faint crackling sound reached through, seeming to come from all sides. The air grew warmer, a dull glow slowly rising.
