The Malazan Empire, page 330
Karsa could not imagine the natural forces that could have created such a landscape. The mesas below were born of erosion, as if floods had run the length of the valley, or perhaps fierce winds roared down the channels—less dramatic and demanding much greater lengths of time. Or the entire valley could have once stood level with the surrounding hills, only to suffer some subterranean slump. The decayed outcroppings suggested some kind of leaching process afflicting the region.
He made his way down the steep slope.
And quickly discovered that it was honeycombed with caves and pits. Mines, if the scree of calcreted rubble fanning out from them was any indication. But not tin or copper. Flint. Vast veins of the glassy brown material lay exposed like raw wounds in the hillside.
Karsa’s eyes narrowed on the mesas ahead. The bands in the sandstone were all sharply tilted, and not all at the same angle. Their caps displayed nothing of the flat plateau formation that one would expect; instead, they were jagged and broken. The valley floor itself—for as far as he could see amidst the squat mesas—seemed to be sharp-edged gravel. Shatter flakes from the mining.
In this single valley, an entire army could have fashioned its weapons of stone…
And the flint in this place was far from exhausted.
Bairoth Gild’s voice filled his head. ‘Karsa Orlong, you circle the truths as a lone wolf circles a bull elk.’
Karsa grunted, his only reply. He could see, on the cliff on the other side, more caves, these ones carved into the sheer wall. Reaching the shadowed valley floor, he set out for them. The gravel underfoot was thick, shifting treacherously, the sharp edges slicing into the hide soles of his moccasins. The air smelled of limestone dust.
He approached a large cave mouth situated a third of the way up the cliff. A broad slope of scree led up to within reach of it, though it shifted ominously under the Teblor as he scrambled upward. He finally managed to clamber onto the uneven floor.
With the cliff wall facing northeast, and the sun already riding the horizon, there was no ambient light in the cave. The Teblor set down his pack and drew out a small lantern.
The walls were calcined limestone, blackened by generation upon generation of woodsmoke, the ceiling high and roughly domed. Ten paces further in, the passage swiftly diminished as ceiling, walls and floor converged. Crouching, Karsa slipped through the choke point.
Beyond was a vast cavern. Dimly seen on the wall opposite was a monolithic projection of solid, pure flint, reaching almost up to the ceiling. Deeply recessed niches had been bored into the flanking walls. A fissure above the centre of the hewn chamber bled grey light from the dusk outside. Directly beneath it was a heap of sand, and growing from that mound was a knotted, twisted tree—a guldindha, no higher than the Teblor’s knee, its leaves a deeper hue of green than was usual.
That daylight could reach down two-thirds of this cliff was itself a miracle…but this tree…
Karsa walked over to one of the niches and extended the lantern into it. Another cavern lay beyond. And it was filled with flint weapons. Some were broken but most were whole. Swords, double-bladed axes with bone shafts, hundreds upon hundreds covering the floor. The next niche contained the same, as did the one after that. Twenty-two side-chambers in all. The weapons of the dead. The weapons of the failed. In every cave on this cliff, he knew, he would find the same.
But none of the others were important to him. He set the lantern down near the pillar of flint, then straightened. ‘Urugal the Woven. Beroke Soft Voice, Kahlb the Silent Hunter, Thenik the Shattered, ’Siballe the Unfound, Halad the Giant, Imroth the Cruel. Faces in the Rock, gods of the Teblor. I, Karsa Orlong of the Uryd Tribe of the Teblor, have delivered you to this place. You were broken. Severed. Weaponless. I have done as you commanded me to do. I have brought you to this place.’
Urugal’s broken rasp replied, ‘You have found that which was taken from us, Karsa Orlong. You have freed your gods.’
The Teblor watched the ghost of Urugal slowly take shape before him. A squat, heavy-boned warrior, shorter than a lowlander but much broader. The bones of his limbs were split—where Karsa could see between the taut straps of leather and hide that bound them, that held him together. More straps crossed his chest.
‘Karsa Orlong, you have found our weapons.’
The warrior shrugged. ‘If indeed they are among the thousands in the chambers beyond.’
‘They are. They did not fail us.’
‘But the Ritual did.’
Urugal cocked his head. His six kin were taking shape around him. ‘You understand, then.’
‘I do.’
‘Our physical forms approach, Karsa Orlong. They have journeyed far, bereft of spirit, held only by our wills—’
‘And the one you now serve,’ the Teblor growled.
‘Yes. The one we now serve. We have guided you in turn, Warleader. And now shall come your reward, for what you have given us.’
’Siballe the Unfound now spoke. ‘We have gathered an army, Karsa Orlong. All the children sacrificed before the Faces in the Rock. They are alive, Warleader. They have been prepared. For you. An army. Your people are assailed. The lowlanders must be driven back, their armies annihilated. You shall sweep down with your legions, down into their lands, and reap destruction upon the lowlanders.’
‘I shall.’
‘The Seven Gods of the Teblor,’ Urugal said, ‘must now become Eight.’
The one named Halad—the largest of the seven by far, hulking, bestial—stepped forward. ‘You must now fashion a sword, Karsa Orlong. Of stone. The mines outside await you—we shall guide you in the knowledge—’
‘There is no need,’ Karsa said. ‘I have learned the many hearts of stone. The knowledge is mine, and so too shall the sword be mine. Those you fashion are well enough for your own kind. But I am Teblor. I am Thelomen Toblakai.’ With that he swung about and walked towards the monolithic pillar of flint.
‘That spar will defeat you,’ Halad said behind him. ‘To draw a long enough blade for a sword, you must strike from above. Examine this vein carefully, and you will see that, pure as it is, the flow of the stone is unforgiving. None of our kind has ever managed to draw forth a flake longer than our own height. The spar before you can no longer be worked; thus its abandonment. Strike and it shall shatter. And that failure shall stain your next efforts, and so weaken the sorcery of the making.’
Karsa stood before the brown, almost black, flint pillar.
‘You must fashion a fire at its base,’ Halad said. ‘Left to burn without cessation for a number of days and nights. There is little wood in the valley below, but in the Jhag Odhan beyond, the bhederin herds have travelled in their multitudes. Fire, Karsa Orlong, then cold water—’
‘No. All control is lost with that method, T’lan Imass. Your kind are not unique in knowing the truths of stone. This task is mine and mine alone. Now, enough words.’
‘The name you have given us,’ Urugal rasped, ‘how did you come by such knowledge?’
Karsa turned, face twisting into a sneer. ‘Foolish Teblor. Or so you believed. So you would have us. Fallen Thelomen Toblakai, but he who has fallen can rise once again, Urugal. Thus, you were once T’lan Imass. But now, you are the Unbound.’ The sneer became a snarl. ‘From wandering to hold. From hold to house.’
The warrior climbed the spar of flint. Perched on its top, he drew out his Malazan short-sword. A moment’s examination of the stone’s surface, then he leaned over to study the almost vertical sweep of flawless flint reaching down to the cave’s floor. Reversing the sword, Karsa began scraping the top of the pillar, a hand’s width in from the sharp edge. He could see the tracks of old blows—the T’lan Imass had tried, despite Halad’s words, but had failed.
Karsa continued roughing the surface where he would strike. In his mind, he spoke. Bairoth Gild. Delum Thord. Hear me, when none other can. One day, I shall break my chains, I shall free the souls that now hound me. You would not be among them, or so you said. Nor would I wish Hood’s embrace upon you. I have considered your desires in this. And have fashioned an alternative…
‘Warleader, Delum Thord and I understand your intent. Your genius never fails to astonish me, Karsa Orlong. Only with our consent will you succeed. And so you give us words and lo, we find our path forced. Hood’s embrace…or what you seek.’
Karsa shook his head. Not just me, Bairoth Gild. But you yourself. Do you deny it?
‘No, Warleader. We do not. Thus, we accept what you offer.’
Karsa knew that he alone could see the ghosts of his friends at this moment, as they seemed to dissolve, reduced to pure will, that then flowed down into the flint. Flowed, to find a shape, a form of cohesion…
Awaiting…He swept dust and grit from the roughened surface, then closed both hands about the short-sword’s stubby grip. He lifted the weapon high, fixing his gaze upon the battered striking platform, then drove the pommel down.
A strange snapping sound—
Then Karsa was leaping forward, short-sword flung aside, down through the air, spinning as he dropped. His knees flexed to absorb the impact, even as he raised his hands to intersect the toppling spear of flint.
A spear almost as tall as the Teblor himself.
It fell away from the pillar, a flattened shard, and settled into his hands. A warm lick on his palms, and suddenly blood was running down his forearms. Karsa quickly backed up, lowering the blade to the floor. When he drew his hands away he saw that they had been cut down to the bone. Clever Bairoth, to drink my blood to seal the bargain.
‘You…surpass us,’ Halad whispered.
Karsa went to his pack and drew out a bundle of field dressings and a sewing kit. There would be no infection, of course, and he would heal swiftly. Still, he would need to close the cuts before he could hope to begin work on the huge blade’s edges, and hack out a grip of sorts.
‘We shall invest the weapon,’ Urugal announced behind him. ‘So that it cannot be broken.’
Karsa nodded.
‘We shall make you the Eighth God of the Teblor.’
‘No,’ he replied as he began working on his left hand. ‘I am not as you, Urugal. I am not Unbound. You yourself closed the chains about me. By your own hands, you saw to it that the souls of those I have slain will pursue me eternally. You have shaped my haunting, Urugal. Beneath such a curse, I can never be unbound.’
‘There is place for you none the less,’ Urugal said, ‘in the House of Chains.’
‘Aye. Knight of Chains, champion of the Crippled God.’
‘You have learned much, Karsa Orlong.’
He stared down at his bloodied hands. ‘I have, T’lan Imass. As you shall witness.’
Chapter Fifteen
How many times, dear traveller, will you walk the same path?
KAYESSAN
To the north, the dust of the imperial army obscured the forest-mantled hills of Vathar. It was late afternoon, the hottest part of the day, when the wind died and the rocks radiated like flatstones on a hearth. Sergeant Strings remained motionless beneath his ochre rain cloak, lying flat as he studied the lands to the southwest. Sweat streamed down his face to prickle in his iron-shot red beard.
After a long moment studying the mass of horse warriors that had emerged out of the dusty odhan in their wake. Strings lifted a gloved hand and gestured.
The others of his squad rose from their places of concealment and edged back from the crest. The sergeant watched them until they reached cover once more, then slid around and followed.
Endless skirmishes with raiders these last weeks, beginning just outside Dojal, with more heated clashes with Kherahn Dhobri tribes at Tathimon and Sanimon…but nothing like the army now trailing them. Three thousand warriors, at the very least, of a tribe they’d not seen before. Countless barbaric standards rose above the host, tall spears topped with ragged streamers, antlers, horns and skulls. The glitter of bronze scale armour was visible beneath the black telabas and furs, as well as—more prolific—a strange greyish armour that was too supple to be anything but hide. The helms, from what Strings could make out with the distance, looked to be elaborate, many of them crow-winged, of leather and bronze.
Strings slid down to where his squad waited. They’d yet to engage in hand-to-hand combat, their sum experience of fighting little more than firing crossbows and occasionally holding a line. So far…so good. The sergeant faced Smiles. ‘All right, it’s settled—climb on that miserable horse down below, lass, and ride to the lieutenant. Looks like we’ve got a fight coming.’
Sweat had tracked runnels through the dust sheathing her face. She nodded, then scrambled off.
‘Bottle go to Gesler’s position, and have him pass word to Borduke. I want a meeting. Quick, before their scouts get here.’
‘Aye, Sergeant.’
After a moment, Strings drew out his waterskin and passed it to Corporal Tarr, then he tapped Cuttle on the shoulder and the two of them made their way back to the ridge.
They settled down side by side to resume studying the army below.
‘These ones could maul us,’ the sergeant muttered. ‘Then again, they’re riding so tight it makes me wonder…’
Cuttle grunted, eyes thinned to slits. ‘Something’s gnawing my knuckles here, Fid. They know we’re close, but they ain’t arrayed for battle. They should’ve held back until night, then hit all along our line. And where are their scouts, anyway?’
‘Well, those outriders—’
‘Way too close. Local tribes here know better—’
A sudden scattering of stones and Strings and Cuttle twisted round—to see riders cresting the ridge on either side of them, and others cantering into view on the back-slope, closing on his squad.
‘Hood take us! Where did—’
Yipping warcries sounded, weapons waving in the air, yet the horse warriors then drew rein, rising in their stirrups as they surrounded the squad.
Frowning, Strings clambered to his feet. A glance back at the army below showed a vanguard climbing the slope at a canter. The sergeant met Cuttle’s eyes and shrugged.
The sapper grimaced in reply.
Escorted by the riders on the ridge, the two soldiers made their way down to where Tarr and Koryk stood. Both had their crossbows loaded, though no longer trained on the tribesmen wheeling their mounts in a prancing circle around them. Further down the ridge Strings saw Geslet and his squad appear, along with Bottle; and their own company of horse warriors.
‘Cuttle,’ the sergeant muttered, ‘did you clash with these anywhere north of the River Vathar?’
‘No. But I think I know who they are.’
None of these scouts wore bronze armour. The grey hide beneath their desert-coloured cloaks and furs looked strangely reptilian. Crow wings had been affixed to their forearms, like swept-back fins. Their faces were pale by local standards, unusual in being bearded and long-moustached. Tattoos of black tears ran down the lengths of their weathered cheeks.
Apart from lances, fur-covered wooden scabbards were slung across their backs, holding heavy-bladed tulwars. All had crow-feet earrings dangling from under their helms.
The tribe’s vanguard reached the crest above them and drew to a halt, as, on the opposite side, there appeared a company of Wickans, Seti and Malazan officers.
Beru fend, the Adjunct herself’s with them. Also Fist Gamet, Nil, Nether and Temul, as well as Captain Keneb and Lieutenant Ranal.
The two mounted forces faced one another on either side of the shallow gully, and Strings could see Temul visibly start, then lean over to speak to the Adjunct. A moment later, Tavore, Gamet and Temul rode forward.
From the tribe’s vanguard a single rider began the descent on the back-slope. A chieftain, Strings surmised. The man was huge; two tulwars were strapped to a harness crossing his chest, one of them broken just above the hilt. The black tears tattooed down his broad cheeks looked to have been gouged into the flesh. He rode down fairly close to where Strings and Cuttle stood and paused beside them.
He nodded towards the approaching group and asked in rough Malazan, ‘This is the Plain Woman who leads you?’
Strings winced, then nodded. ‘Adjunct Tavore, aye.’
‘We have met the Kherahn Dhobri,’ the chieftain said, then smiled. ‘They will harass you no more, Malazan.’
Tavore and her officers arrived, halting five paces away. The Adjunct spoke. ‘I welcome you, Warchief of the Khundryl. I am Adjunct Tavore Paran, commander of the Fourteenth Army of the Malazan Empire.’
‘I am Gall, and we are the Burned Tears of the Khundryl.’
‘The Burned Tears?’
The man made a gesture of grief. ‘Blackwing, leader of the Wickans. I spoke with him. My warriors sought to challenge, to see who were the greatest warriors of all. We fought hard, but we were humbled. Blackwing is dead, his clan destroyed, and Korbolo Dom’s Dogslayers dance on his name. That must be answered, and so we have come. Three thousand—all that fought for Blackwing the first time. We are changed, Adjunct. We are other than we once were. We grieve the loss of ourselves, and so we shall remain lost, for all time.’
‘Your words sadden me, Gall,’ Tavore replied, her voice shaky.
Careful now, lass…
‘We would join you,’ the Khundryl warchief rasped, ‘for we have nowhere else to go. The walls of our yurts look strange to our eyes. The faces of our wives, husbands, children—all those we once loved and who once loved us—strangers, now. Like Blackwing himself, we are as ghosts in this world, in this land that was once our home.’
‘You would join us—to fight under my command, Gall?’
‘We would.’
‘Seeking vengeance against Korbolo Dom.’
He shook his head. ‘That will come, yes. But we seek to make amends.’
