The Malazan Empire, page 321
The marine named Gentur uncocked his crossbow then slipped back into the cave. A few moments later more soldiers emerged, sixteen in all when counting those who had originally come out.
Cutter walked up to the captain. ‘There is one of power among you,’ he murmured, casting a glance at the burned woman—who was leaning over and spitting out murky blood. ‘Is she a sorceress?’
The captain followed his gaze and frowned. ‘She is, but she is dying. The power you—’
The air reverberated to a distant concussion and Cutter wheeled. ‘They’ve attacked again! With magic this time—follow me!’ Without a backward look, the Daru set off down the trail. He heard a faint curse behind him, then the captain began shouting orders.
The path led directly to the courtyard, and from the thundering detonations pounding again and again, Cutter judged the troop would have no difficulty in finding the place of battle—he would not wait for them. Apsalar was there, and Darist, and a handful of untrained Tiste Andii youths—they would have little defence against sorcery.
But Cutter believed he did.
He sprinted on through the gloom, his right hand closed about his aching left arm, seeking to hold it in place, though each jostling stride lanced pain into his chest.
The nearest wall of the courtyard came into view. Colours were playing wildly in the air, thrashing the trees to all sides, deep reds and magenta and blues, a swirling chaos. The waves of concussions were increasing in frequency, pounding within the courtyard.
There were no Edur outside the archway—an ominous sign.
Cutter raced for the opening. Movement to his right caught his attention, and he saw another company of Edur, coming up from a coast trail but still sixty paces distant. The Malazans will have to deal with those…Queen of Dreams help them. The gate was before him, and he caught first sight of what was happening in the courtyard.
Four Edur stood in a line in the centre, their backs to him. A dozen or more Edur warriors waited on each flank, scimitars held ready. Waves of magic rolled out from the four, pulsing, growing ever stronger—and each one flowed over the flagstones in a tumbling storm of colours, to hammer into Darist.
Who stood alone, at his feet a dead or unconscious Apsalar. Behind him, the scattered bodies of Anomander Rake’s grandchildren. Somehow, Darist still held his sword upright—though he was a shredded mass of blood, bones visible through the wreckage of his chest. He stood before the crashing waves, yet would not take a single step back, even as they tore him apart. The sword Grief was white hot, the metal singing a terrible, keening note that grew louder and more piercing with every moment that passed.
‘Blind,’ Cutter hissed as he closed, ‘I need you now!’
Shadows blossomed around him, then four heavy paws thumped onto the flagstones, and the Hound’s looming presence was suddenly at his side.
One of the Edur spun round. Unhuman eyes widened on seeing Blind, then the sorcerer snapped out something in a harsh, commanding tone.
Blind’s forward rush halted in a skid of claws.
And the Hound cowered.
‘Beru fend!’ Cutter swore, scrabbling to draw a knife—
The courtyard was suddenly filled with shadows, a strange crackling sound ripping through the air—
And a fifth figure was among the four Edur sorcerers now, grey-clad, gloved, face hidden in a rough hood. In its hands, a rope, that seemed to writhe with a life of its own. Cutter saw it snap out to strike a sorcerer in one eye, and when the rope whipped back out, a stream of blood and minced brains followed. The sorcerer’s magic winked out and the Edur toppled.
The rope was too fast to follow, as its wielder moved among the three remaining mages, but in its twisting wake a head tumbled from shoulders, intestines spilled out from a gaping rip, and whatever felled the last sorcerer happened in a blur that left no obvious result, except that the Edur was dead before he hit the ground.
There were shouts from the Edur warriors, and they converged from both sides.
It was then that the screams began. The rope lashed out from Cotillion’s right hand; a long-knife was in his left, seeming to do little but lick and touch everyone it came close to—but the result was devastating. The air was a mist of suspended blood around the patron god of assassins, and before Cutter drew his fourth breath since the battle began, it was over, and around Cotillion there was naught but corpses.
A final snap of the rope whipped blood across a wall, then the god threw back his hood and wheeled to face Blind. He opened his mouth to say something, then shut it once more. An angry gesture, and shadows swept out to engulf the trembling Hound. When they dissipated a moment later Blind was gone.
There was the sound of fighting beyond the courtyard and Cutter turned. ‘The Malazans need help!’ he shouted to Cotillion.
‘No they don’t,’ the god growled.
Both spun at a loud clatter, to see Darist lying motionless beside Apsalar, the sword lying nearby, its heat igniting the leaves it lay on.
Cotillion’s face fell, as if with a sudden, deep sorrow. ‘When he’s done out there,’ he said to Cutter, ‘guide him to this sword. Tell him its names.’
‘He?’
A moment later, with a final survey of the mayhem surrounding him, Cotillion vanished.
Cutter rushed over to Apsalar. He knelt down beside her.
Her clothes were crisped, smoke rising in tendrils in the now still air. Fire had swept through her hair, but only momentarily, it seemed, for she had plenty left; nor was her face burned, although a long red welt, already blistering, was visible in a diagonal slash down her neck. Faint jerks of her limbs—the after-effects of the sorcerous attack—showed him she still lived.
He tried to wake her, failed. A moment later he looked up, listened. The sounds of fighting had ceased and now a single set of boots slowly approached, crunching on scorched ground.
Cutter slowly rose and faced the archway.
Traveller stepped into view. A sword broken three-quarters of the way up the blade was in one gauntleted hand. Though spattered with blood, he seemed unwounded. He paused to study the scene in the courtyard.
Somehow, Cutter knew without asking that he was the last left alive. Yet he moved none the less to look out through the archway. The Malazans were all down, motionless. Surrounding them in a ring were the corpses of half a hundred or more Tiste Edur. Quarrel-studded others lay on the trail approaching the clearing.
I called those Malazans to their deaths. That captain—with the beautiful eyes… He returned to where Traveller walked among the fallen Tiste Andii. And the question he asked came from a constricted throat. ‘Did you speak true, Traveller?’
The man glanced over.
‘This battle,’ Cutter elaborated. ‘Was it truly a Malazan battle?’
Traveller’s answering shrug chilled the Daru. ‘Some of these are still alive,’ he said, gesturing at the Tiste Andii.
‘And there are wounded in the cave,’ Cutter pointed out.
He watched as the man walked over to where lay Apsalar and Darist. ‘She is a friend,’ Cutter said.
Traveller grunted, then he flung his broken sword aside and stepped over Darist. He reached down for the sword.
‘Careful—’
But the man closed his gauntleted hand on the grip and lifted the weapon.
Cutter sighed, closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them and said, ‘It is named Vengeance…or Grief. You can choose which best suits you.’
Traveller turned, met Cutter’s eyes. ‘Do you not wish it for yourself?’
The Daru shook his head. ‘It demands its wielder possess a singular will. I am not for that sword, nor, I think, will I ever be.’
Traveller studied the blade in his hand. ‘Vengeance,’ he murmured, then nodded and crouched down to retrieve the scabbard from Darist’s body. ‘This old man, who was he?’
Cutter shrugged. ‘A guardian. He was named Andarist. And now he’s gone, and so the Throne is without a protector—’
Traveller straightened. ‘I will abide here a time. As you said, there are wounded to tend to…and corpses to bury.’
‘I’ll help—’
‘No need. The god who strode through this place has visited the Edur ships—there are small craft aboard, and supplies. Take your woman and leave this island. If more Edur chance upon this location, your presence will only impede me.’
‘How long will you plan on staying here, in Andarist’s role?’
‘Long enough to do him honour.’
A groan came from Apsalar, drawing Cutter to her. She began thrashing, as if fevered.
‘Carry her from this place,’ Traveller said. ‘The sorcery’s effects linger.’
He looked up, met those eyes—and saw sorrow there, the first emotion yet to be revealed from the man. ‘I would help you bury—’
‘I need no help. It will not be the first time I have buried companions. Go. Take her.’
He lifted her in his arms. Her thrashing stilled and she sighed as if sinking into deep, peaceful sleep. Then he stood studying Traveller for a moment.
The man turned away. ‘Thank your god, mortal,’ he growled, his back still to Cutter, ‘for the sword…’
An elongated mass of the stone floor had fallen away, down to the black rushing water of the subterranean river. Athwart the gaping hole lay a bundle of spears, around which was tied a rope that reached down into the water, snaking about as the current tugged at it. The air of the rough-hewn chamber was chill and damp.
Kalam crouched at the edge and studied the swirling water below for a long moment.
‘The well,’ Sergeant Cord said from where he stood beside the assassin.
Kalam grunted, then asked, ‘What in Hood’s name inspired the captain and lieutenant to climb down there?’
‘If you look long enough, with the torches gone from this room, you’ll see a glow. There’s something lying on the bottom, maybe twice a man’s height in depth.’
‘Something?’
‘Looks like a man…all in armour. Lying spread-eagled.’
‘So take the torches out. I want to see this.’
‘Did you say something, Corporal? Your demon friend has disappeared, remember—vanished.’
Kalam sighed. ‘Demons will do that, and in this case you should be thankful for that. Right now, Sergeant, I am of the opinion that you’ve all been cooped up in this mountain for far too long. I’m thinking maybe you’ve lost your minds. And I have also reconsidered your words about my position in your company, and I’ve reached a decision and it’s this.’ He turned his head and fixed his gaze on Cord’s eyes. ‘I’m not in your company, Cord. I’m a Bridgeburner. You’re Ashok Regiment. And if that’s not enough for you, I am resurrecting my old status…as a Claw, a Leader of a Hand. And as such, I’m only outranked in the field by Clawmaster Topper, the Adjunct, and the Empress herself. Now, take the damned torches out of here!’
Cord suddenly smiled. ‘You want to take command of this company? Fine, you can have it. Though we want to deal with Irriz ourselves.’ He reached up to collect the first of the sputtering torches on the wall behind him.
The sudden alteration of attitude from Cord startled Kalam, then filled him with suspicion. Until I sleep, that is. Gods below, I was far better off on my own. Where did that damned demon go, anyway? ‘And when you’ve done that, Sergeant, head back up to the others and begin preparations—we’re leaving this place.’
‘What about the captain and the lieutenant?’
‘What about them? They were swept away and they either drowned or were sprung loose in some watering hole. Either way, they’re not with us now, and I doubt they’re coming back—’
‘You don’t know that—’
‘They’ve been gone too long, Cord. If they didn’t drown they would have had to reach the surface somewhere close. You can hold your breath only so long. Now, enough with this discussion—get going.’
‘Aye…sir.’
A torch in each hand, Cord headed up the stairs.
Darkness swiftly engulfed the chamber.
Kalam waited for his eyes to adjust, listening to the sergeant’s bootsteps growing ever fainter.
And there, finally, far below, the glowing figure, indistinct, rippling beneath the rushing water.
The assassin retrieved the rope and coiled it to one side. About twenty arm-lengths had been played out, but the bundle of spears held a lot more. Then he pried a large chunk of stone from the ragged edge and tied the sodden, icy-cold end of the rope to it.
With Oponn’s luck, the rock was sufficiently heavy to sink more or less straight down. He checked the knots once more, then pushed it from the ledge.
It plummeted, dragging the coiled rope down with it. The spears clacked tight, and Kalam peered down. The stone was suspended the full length of the rope—a distance that Kalam, and, no doubt, the captain and the lieutenant, had judged sufficient to make contact with the figure. But it hadn’t, though it looked close. Meaning he’s a big bastard. All right…let’s see how big. He grasped the spears and began lifting and rolling the bundle, playing out ever greater lengths.
A pause to study the stone’s progress, then more playing out of rope.
It finally reached the figure—given the sudden bowing of the line as the current took the slack. Kalam looked down once more. ‘Hood’s breath!’ The rock lay on the figure’s chest…and the distance made that stone look small.
The armoured figure was enormous, three times a man’s height at least. The captain and the lieutenant had been deceived by the scale. Probably fatally so.
He squinted down at it, wondering at the strange glow, then grasped the rope to retrieve the stone—
And, far below, a massive hand flashed up and closed on it—and pulled.
Kalam shouted as he was pulled down into the torrent.
As he plunged into the icy water, he reached up in an attempt to grasp the bundle of spears.
There was a fierce tug, and the spears snapped with an explosive splintering sound directly overhead.
The assassin still held on to the rope, even as the current swept him along. He felt himself being pulled down.
The cold was numbing. His ears popped.
Then he was drawn close by a pair of massive chain-clad fists—close, and face to face with the broad grille of the creature’s helm. In the swirling darkness beneath that grille, the glimmer of a rotted, bestial visage, most of the flesh in current-fluttering strips. Teeth devoid of lips—
And the creature spoke in Kalam’s mind. ‘The other two eluded me…but you I will have. I am so hungry—’
Hungry? Kalam answered. Try this.
He drove both long-knives into the creature’s chest.
A thundering bellow, and the fists shot upward, pushing Kalam away—harder and faster than he had thought possible. Both weapons yanked—almost breaking the grip of his hands, but he held on. The current had no time to grasp him as he was thrown upward, shooting back through the hole in an exploding geyser of water. The ledge caught one of his feet and tore the boot off. He struck the chamber’s low stone ceiling, driving the last of his breath from his lungs, then dropped.
He landed half on the pit’s ledge, and was nearly swept back into the river, but he managed to splay himself, clawing to regain the floor, moving clear of the hole. Then he lay motionless, numbed, his boot lying beside him, until he was able to draw in a ragged lungful of bitter cold air.
He heard feet on the stairs, then Cord burst into the chamber and skidded to a halt directly above Kalam. The sergeant’s sword was in one hand, a torch flaring in the other. He stared down at the assassin. ‘What was that noise? What happened? Where are the damned spears—’
Kalam rolled onto his side, looked down over the ledge.
The frothing torrent was impenetrable—opaqued red with blood. ‘Stop,’ the assassin gasped.
‘Stop what? Look at that water! Stop what?’
‘Stop…drawing…from this well…’
It was a long time before the shivers left his body, to be replaced with countless aches from his collision with the chamber’s ceiling. Cord had left then returned with others from his company, as well as Sinn, carrying blankets and more torches.
There was some difficulty in prying the long-knives from Kalam’s hands. The separation revealed that the grips had somehow scorched the assassin’s palms and fingerpads.
‘Cold,’ Ebron muttered, ‘that’s what did that. Burned by cold. What did you say that thing looked like?’
Kalam, huddled in blankets, looked up. ‘Like something that should have been dead a long time ago, Mage. Tell me, how much do you know of B’ridys—this fortress?’
‘Probably less than you,’ Ebron replied. ‘I was born in Karakarang. It was a monastery, wasn’t it?’
‘Aye. One of the oldest cults, long extinct.’ A squad healer crouched beside him and began applying a numbing salve to the assassin’s hands. Kalam leaned his head against the wall and sighed. ‘Have you heard of the Nameless Ones?’
Ebron snorted. ‘I said Karakarang, didn’t I? The Tanno cult claims a direct descent from the cult of the Nameless Ones. The Spiritwalkers say their powers, of song and the like, arose from the original patterns that the Nameless Ones fashioned in their rituals—those patterns supposedly crisscross this entire subcontinent, and their power remains to this day. Are you saying this monastery belonged to the Nameless Ones? Yes, of course you are. But they weren’t demons, were they—’
‘No, but they were in the habit of chaining them. The one in the pool is probably displeased with its last encounter, but not as displeased as you might think.’
Ebron frowned, then paled. ‘The blood—if anyone drinks water tainted with that…’
Kalam nodded. ‘The demon takes that person’s soul…and makes the exchange. Freedom.’
‘Not just people, either!’ Ebron hissed. ‘Animals, birds—insects! Anything!’
‘No, I think it will have to be big—bigger than a bird or insect. And when it does escape—’
‘It’ll come looking for you,’ the mage whispered. He suddenly wheeled to Cord. ‘We have to get out of here. Now! Better still—’
