The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen, page 332
The fire was long dead. Wrapped in his cloak, Strings sat before it, looking at but not seeing the layered bricks of ash that were all that remained of the pieces of dung. Beside him lay the scrawny Hengese lapdog that Truth said was named Roach. The bone the creature gnawed on was bigger than it, and had that bone teeth and appetite it would be the one doing the eating right now.
Contented company, then, to mock this miserable night. The blanketed forms of his squad lay motionless on all sides. They’d been too exhausted to get drunk, after raising the pickets then sitting first watch, and full bellies had quickly dragged them into sleep. Well enough, he mused, they’d be among the few spared the ravages of hangover in a few bells’ time. Even Cuttle had yet to awaken, as was his custom—or perhaps his eyes were open where he lay with his back to the hearth.
It did not matter. The loneliness Strings suffered could not be alleviated by company, not such as he might find here, in any case. Nor were his thoughts the kind he would willingly share.
They’d been spitting dust almost since the march began. Not the place for marines, unless a massive pursuit threatened the rear of the column, which was not the case. No, Keneb was punishing them, and Strings had no idea why. Even the lieutenant, who had somehow managed to avoid actually being present to command the squads, was uncertain as to the captain’s motivations. Though not displeased, of course. Then again, how can Ranal hope to acquire his stellar reputation with his soldiers coughing the entire Fourteenth’s dust?
And do I even give a damn, any more?
The night air stank of bile, as if Poliel herself stalked the camp. The sudden acquisition of three thousand veterans had done much to lift the Fourteenth’s spirits—Strings hoped there was no omen in the aftermath.
All right then, let’s consider the matter at hand. This army has its chance, now. It doesn’t need bastards like me. Why would I want to go back to Raraku anyway? I hated it the first time. I’m not that young, mouthy fool—not what I once was. Did I really think I could recapture something in that holy desert? What, exactly? Lost years? That charging momentum that belongs to the young? To soldiers like Smiles and Koryk and Bottle and Tarr. I joined for revenge, but it’s not filling my belly like it used to—Hood knows, nothing does any more. Not revenge. Not loyalty. Not even friendship. Damn you, Kalam, you should’ve talked me out of it. Right there in Malaz City. You should’ve called me a fool to my face.
Gesler’s cattle dog padded into view.
Roach growled, and the bigger beast paused, nose testing the air, then settled down a few paces away. The lapdog returned to its gnawing.
‘Come ahead, then, Gesler,’ Strings muttered.
The sergeant appeared, a jug in one hand. He sat down opposite, studied the jug for a moment, then made a disgusted sound and tossed it away. ‘Can’t get drunk any more,’ he said. ‘Not me, not Stormy or Truth. We’re cursed.’
‘I can think of worse curses,’ Strings muttered.
‘Well, so can I, but still. What’s really bad is I can’t sleep. None of us can. We was at Vathar Crossing—that’s where we drew the Silanda in to wait for the Chain of Dogs. Where I got punched good and hard, too. Damn, but that surprised me. Anyway, I’m not looking forward to seeing it again. Not after what happened there.’
‘So long as the bridge hasn’t been swept away,’ Strings replied.
Gesler grunted.
Neither spoke for a time, then: ‘You’re thinking of running, aren’t you, Fid?’
He scowled.
Gesler slowly nodded. ‘It’s bad when you lose ’em. Friends, I mean. Makes you wonder why you’re still here, why the damned sack of blood and muscle and bones keeps on going. So you run. Then what? Nothing. You’re not here, but wherever you are, you’re still there.’
Strings grimaced. ‘I’m supposed to make sense of that? Listen, it’s not just what happened to the Bridgeburners. It’s about being a soldier. About doing this all over again. I’ve realized that I didn’t even like it much the first time round. There’s got to come a point, Gesler, when it’s no longer the right place to be, or the right thing to do.’
‘Maybe, but I ain’t seen it yet. It comes down to what you’re good at. Nothing else, Fid. You don’t want to be a soldier no more. Fine, but what are you going to do instead?’
‘I was apprenticed as a mason, once—’
‘And apprentices are ten years old, Fiddler. They ain’t crabby creakbones like you. Look, there’s only one thing for a soldier to do, and that’s soldiering. You want it to end? Well, there’s a battle coming. Should give you plenty of opportunity. Throw yourself on a sword and you’re done.’ Gesler paused and jabbed a finger at Strings. ‘But that’s not the problem, is it? It’s because now you’ve got a squad, and you’re responsible for ’em. That’s what you don’t like, and that’s what’s got you thinking of running.’
Strings rose. ‘Go pet your dog, Gesler.’ He walked off into the darkness.
The grass was wet underfoot as he made his way through the pickets. Muted challenges sounded, to which he replied, and then he was out beyond the camp. Overhead, the stars had begun to withdraw as the sky lightened. Capemoths were winging in swirling clouds towards the forested hills of Vathar, the occasional rhizan diving through them, upon which they exploded outward, only to reform once the danger was past.
On the ridge three hundred paces ahead of the sergeant stood a half-dozen desert wolves. They’d done their howling for the night, and now lingered out of curiosity, or perhaps simply awaiting the army’s departure, so they could descend into the basin and pick at the leavings.
Strings paused at a faint singing, low and mournful and jarring, that seemed to emanate from a depression just this side of the ridge. He’d heard it other nights, always beyond the encampment, but had not been inclined to investigate. There was nothing inviting to that thin, atonal music.
But now it called to him. With familiar voices. Heart suddenly aching, he walked closer.
The depression was thick with yellowed grasses, but a circle had been flattened in the centre. The two Wickan children, Nil and Nether, were seated there, facing one another, with the space between them occupied by a broad, bronze bowl.
Whatever filled it was drawing butterflies, a score at present, but more were gathering.
Strings hesitated, then made to leave.
‘Come closer,’ Nil called out in his reedy voice. ‘Quickly, the sun rises!’
Frowning, the sergeant approached. As he reached the edge of the depression, he halted in sudden alarm. Butterflies swarmed around him, a pale yellow frenzy filling his eyes—brushing air against his skin like a thousand breaths. He spun in place, but could see nothing beyond the mass of fluttering wings.
‘Closer! He wants you here!’ Nether’s high, piping voice.
But Strings could not take another step. He was enveloped, and within that yellow shroud, there was a…presence.
And it spoke. ‘Bridgeburner. Raraku waits for you. Do not turn back now.’
‘Who are you?’ Strings demanded. ‘Who speaks?’
‘I am of this land, now. What I was before does not matter. I am awakened. We are awakened. Go to join your kin. In Raraku—where he will find you. Together, you must slay the goddess. You must free Raraku of the stain that lies upon it.’
‘My kin? Who will I find there?’
‘The song wanders, Bridgeburner. It seeks a home. Do not turn back.’
All at once the presence vanished. The butterflies rose skyward, spinning and swirling into the sunlight. Higher, ever higher…
Small hands clutched at him, and he looked down. Nether stared up at him, her face filled with panic. Two paces behind her stood Nil, his arms wrapped about himself, his eyes filling with tears.
Nether was screaming. ‘Why you? We have called and called! Why you!?’
Shaking his head, Strings pushed her away. ‘I—I don’t know!’
‘What did he say? Tell us! He had a message for us, yes? What did he say?’
‘For you? Nothing, lass—why, who in Hood’s name do you think that was?’
‘Sormo E’nath!’
‘The warlock? But he—’ Strings staggered another step back. ‘Stop that damned singing!’
The Wickans stared.
And Strings realized that neither was singing—neither could have been—for it continued, filling his head.
Nether asked, ‘What singing, soldier?’
He shook his head again, then turned and made his way back towards camp. Sormo had no words for them. Nor did he. Nor did he want to see their faces—their helpless desperation, their yearning for a ghost that was gone—gone for ever. That was not Sormo E’nath. That was something else—Hood knows what. ‘We are awakened.’ What does that mean? And who’s waiting for me in Raraku? My kin—I’ve none, barring the Bridgeburners—gods below! Quick Ben? Kalam? One, or both? He wanted to scream, if only to silence the song that whispered through his head, the dreadful, painfully incomplete music that gnawed at his sanity.
Raraku, it seemed, was not yet done with him. Strings silently railed. Damn all of this!
To the north, through the smoky wreaths of the encampment, the mantled hills of Vathar seemed to unfurl the sun’s golden light. On the ridge behind him, the wolves began howling.
Gamet settled back in the saddle as his horse began the descent towards the river. It had not been long enough for the land to entirely swallow the victims of the slaughter that had occurred here. Bleached bones gleamed in the sandy mud of the shoreline. Fragments of cloth, pieces of leather and iron. And the ford itself was barely recognizable. Remnants of a floating bridge were heaped on it on the upstream side, and on this barrier more detritus had piled. Sunken, waterlogged wagons, trees, grasses and reeds, now anchored by silts, a hulking, bowed mass that had formed a kind of bridge. To the Fist’s eye, it seemed the whole thing was moments from breaking loose.
Scouts had crossed it on foot. Gamet could see a score of mud-smeared Seti on the opposite side, making their way up the steep slope.
The forests on both sides of the river were a mass of colour, their branches festooned with strips of cloth, with braids and painted human bones that twisted in the wind.
Mesh’arn tho’ledann. The Day of Pure Blood. Upstream, on either bank for as far as he could see, long poles had been thrust into the mud at angles so that they hung over the swirling water. The carcasses of sheep and goats hung from them. From some the blood still drained, whilst others were well along in their rot, seething with flies, capemoths and carrion birds. Small white flecks rained down from the sacrificed animals, to which fish swarmed, and it was a moment before Gamet realized what those flecks were—maggots, falling into the river.
Captain Keneb drew his horse alongside Gamet’s own as they approached the bank. ‘That’s not mud binding that flotsam, is it? Oh, a little silt and sand, but mostly—’
‘Blood, aye,’ Gamet muttered.
They were trailing the Adjunct, who was flanked by Nil and Nether. The three reached the water’s edge and halted their mounts. Behind Gamet and Keneb, the front companies of the 10th Legion were on the slope, within sight of the river and its ragged bridge.
‘Those sacrifices, do you think they were done to welcome us, Fist? I can’t imagine such slaughter to be ongoing—the herds would be wiped out in no time.’
‘Some have been here a while,’ Gamet observed. ‘But you must be right, Captain.’
‘So we would cross a river of blood. If these damned tribes consider that gesture an honourable one, then the Queen has stolen their sanity. This notion of seeing the world metaphorically has ever driven me to distraction. The Seven Cities native sees everything differently. To them, the landscape is animate—not just the old notion of spirits, but in some other, far more complicated way.’
Gamet glanced at the man. ‘Is it worth making a study of it, Captain?’
Keneb started, then half smiled, adding a strangely despondent shrug. ‘That particular dialogue spoke of the rebellion and only the rebellion—for months and months before it finally happened. Had we bothered to read those signs, Fist, we could have been better prepared.’
They had drawn up behind the Adjunct and the two Wickans. At Keneb’s words, Tavore turned her horse round and faced the captain. ‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘knowledge is not enough.’
‘Your pardon, Adjunct,’ Keneb said.
Tavore fixed her flat gaze on Gamet. ‘Bring forward the marines, Fist. We will require sappers and munitions. We shall cross a ford, not a bridge of detritus held in place by blood.’
‘Aye, Adjunct. Captain, if you will join me…’
They pulled their horses round and made their way back up the slope. Glancing over at Keneb, Gamet saw that the man was grinning. ‘What amuses you, Captain?’
‘Munitions, sir. The sappers will weep.’
‘So long as they don’t destroy the ford itself, I will be glad to give them comforting hugs.’
‘I wouldn’t let them hear a promise like that, sir.’
‘No, I suppose you’re right.’
They reached the front ranks of the 10th Legion and Gamet waved a messenger over. As the rider approached, Fist Tene Baralta joined the woman and the two arrived together.
‘Sappers?’ the Red Blade asked.
Gamet nodded. ‘Aye.’
Tene Baralta nodded and said to the messenger, ‘Take word to the marine lieutenants. The Adjunct requires some demolition. Immediately.’
‘Aye, sir,’ she replied, wheeling her horse round.
They watched her canter back along the line, then the Red Blade faced Gamet. ‘They will see it as an insult. This bridge of blood is intended as a blessing.’
‘She knows that, Tene Baralta,’ Gamet replied. ‘But the footing is far too treacherous. That should be obvious, even to our hidden observers.’
The large man shrugged, armour clanking with the motion. ‘Perhaps a quiet word to Gall of the Khundryl, a rider sent out to find those observers, to ensure that no misunderstanding occurs.’
‘A good suggestion,’ Gamet replied.
‘I shall see to it, then.’
The Red Blade rode off.
‘Forgive me if I am too forward, Fist,’ Keneb murmured, ‘but what just occurred strikes me as the very thing that the Adjunct would dislike most.’
‘Do you believe she dislikes initiative among her officers, Captain?’
‘I wouldn’t presume—’
‘You just did.’
‘Ah, well, I see your point. My apologies, Fist.’
‘Never apologize when you’re right, Keneb. Wait here for the squads.’ He set off down to where the Adjunct still sat astride her horse at the shoreline.
Nil and Nether had dismounted and were now kneeling, heads bowed, in the muddy water.
Gamet could see, upon arriving, Tavore’s tightly bridled anger. Aye, they cling still to the chains, and it seems letting go is the last thing they would do…given the choice. Well, I was the one who mentioned initiative. ‘I see the children are playing in the mud, Adjunct.’
Her head snapped round and her eyes narrowed.
Gamet went on, ‘I advise we assign a minder for them, lest they injure themselves in their exuberance. After all, Adjunct, I doubt the Empress intended you to mother them, did she?’
‘Well, no,’ she drawled after a moment. ‘They were to be my mages.’
‘Aye, so I wonder, have you instructed them to commune with the ghosts? Do they seek to appease the river spirits?’
‘No, again, Fist. In truth, I have no idea what they’re doing.’
‘I am of the opinion that you are proving far too permissive a mother, Adjunct.’
‘Indeed. Then I give you leave to act in my stead, Fist.’
There was no way Nil and Nether were uncognizant of the conversation behind them, but neither altered their position. With a loud sigh, Gamet dismounted and walked to the muddy waterline.
Then reached down and closed a hand on their hide shirts, just behind their necks, and yanked the two Wickans upright.
Loud squeals, then hissing fury as the Fist shook them both for a moment, then turned them round until they faced the Adjunct. ‘This is what a Wickan grandmother would have done. I know, somewhat harsher than is the Malazan style of parenting. Then again, these two children are not Malazan, are they?’ He set them down.
‘Perhaps it’s too late, Fist,’ Tavore said, ‘but I would remind you that these two children are also warlocks.’
‘I’ve seen no sign of it yet, Adjunct. But if they want to curse me, then so be it.’
For the moment, however, neither seemed inclined to do so. Rage had given way to something very much resembling a sulk.
Tavore cleared her throat. ‘Nil, Nether, I believe there will be need for representatives of our army to seek out the local tribes in this forest, to assure them we are aware of the meaning behind their gesture. None the less, we must ensure safe passage across this ford.’
‘Adjunct, Fist Tene Baralta has suggested something similar, but using the Khundryl.’
‘Perhaps representatives from both, then.’ To the Wickans: ‘Report to Fist Tene Baralta.’
Gamet watched the siblings exchange a glance, then Nil said to the Adjunct, ‘As you wish.’
Nether cast a parting look of venom at Gamet as they headed off.
‘Pray you won’t have to pay for that,’ Tavore said when they were out of earshot.
Gamet shrugged.
‘And next time, have Tene Baralta bring his suggestions to me personally.’
‘Aye, Adjunct.’
Cuttle and Strings scrambled back from the shoreline. Soaked and sheathed in blood-crusted mud, they none the less could not keep grins from their faces. A doubling of pleasure in that the munitions had come from the Fourteenth’s stores, not their own. Twelve crackers that would drive the explosions horizontally, three cussers placed shallow in the detritus to loosen the wreckage.
And a bare handful of heartbeats before it all went up.
