The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen, page 387
With a final glance back at the immobile scene of past murder and recent desecration, Udinaas staggered slowly towards the doorway.
The silver enveloped him, and sounds rushed in from all sides. Battle. Screams, the ringing hammering of weapons. But he could see nothing. Heat rolled over him from the left, carrying with it a cacophony of inhuman shrieks.
Contact with the ground beneath vanished, and the sounds dropped, swiftly dwindled to far below. Winds howled, and Udinaas realized he was flying, held aloft on leathery wings. Others of his kind sailed the tortured currents—he could see them now, emerging from the cloud. Grey-scaled bodies the size of oxen, muscle-bunched necks, taloned hands and feet. Long, sloping heads, the jaws revealing rows of dagger-like teeth and the pale gums that held them. Eyes the colour of clay, the pupils vertical slits.
Locqui Wyval. That is our name. Spawn of Starvald Demelain, the squalid children whom none would claim as their own. We are as flies spreading across a rotting feast, one realm after another. D’isthal Wyvalla, Enkar’al, Trol, we are a plague of demons in a thousand pantheons.
Savage exultation. There were things other than love upon which to thrive.
A tide of air pushed—drove him and his kind to one side. Bestial screams from his kin as something loomed into view.
Eleint! Soletaken but oh so much draconic blood. Tiam’s own.
Bone-white scales, the red of wounds smeared like misty paint, monstrously huge, the dragon the Wyval had chosen to follow loomed alongside them.
And Udinaas knew its name.
Silchas Ruin. Tiste Andii, who fed in the wake of his brother—fed on Tiam’s blood, and drank deep. Deeper than Anomander Rake by far. Darkness and chaos. He would have accepted the burden of godhood…had he been given the chance.
Udinaas knew now what he was about to witness. The sembling on the hilltop far below. The betrayal. Shadow’s murder of honour in the breaking of vows. A knife in the back and the screams of the Wyval here in the roiling skies above the battlefield. The shadow wraith had not lied. The legacy of the deed remained in the Edur’s brutal enslavement of Tiste Andii spirits. Faith was proved a lie, and in ignorance was found weakness. The righteousness of the Edur stood on shifting sands.
Silchas Ruin. The weapons of those days possessed terrifying power, but his had been shattered. By a K’Chain Che’Malle matron’s death-cry.
The silver light flickered. A physical wrenching, and he found himself lying on his sleeping pallet in the Sengar longhouse.
The skin had been torn from his palms, his knees. His clothes were sodden with melted frost.
A voice murmured from the shadows, ‘I sought to follow, but could not. You travelled far.’
Wither. Udinaas rolled onto his side. ‘Your place of slaughter,’ he whispered. ‘I was there. What do you want of me?’
‘What does anyone want, slave? Escape. From the past, from their past. I will lead you onto the path. The blood of the Wyval shall protect you—’
‘Against the Edur?’
‘Leave the threat of the Edur to me. Now, ready yourself. You have tasks before you this night.’
A sleep that had left him exhausted and battered. Grimacing, he climbed to his feet.
With two of her chosen slaves, Mayen walked across the threshold then paused two strides into the main chamber. She was willow thin, the shade of her skin darker than most. Green eyes framed by long, umber hair in which glittered beads of onyx. A traditional tunic of silver seal-skin and a wide belt of pearlescent shells. Bracelets and anklets of whale ivory.
Trull Sengar could see in her eyes a supreme awareness of her own beauty, and there was darkness within that heavy-lidded regard, as if she was not averse to wielding that beauty, to achieving dominance, and with it a potentially unpleasant freedom in which to indulge her desires.
There were all kinds of pleasure, and hungers which spoke naught of virtues, only depravity. Once again, however, Trull was struck by self-doubt as he watched his mother stride to stand before Mayen to voice the household’s welcome. Perhaps he once more saw through shadows of his own casting.
Leaning until his back was to the wall, he glanced over at Fear. Uncertain pride. There was also unease in his brother’s expression, but it could have been born of anything—the journey they would undertake on the morrow, the very future of his people. Just beyond him, Rhulad, whose eyes devoured Mayen as if her mere presence answered his cruellest appetites.
Mayen herself held Uruth in her gaze.
She absorbs. These tumbling waves of attention, drawn in and fed upon. Dusk shield me, am I mad, to find such thoughts spilling from the dark places in my own soul?
The formal greeting was complete. Uruth stepped to one side and Mayen glided forward, towards the Blackwood table on which the first course had already been arrayed. She would take her place at the nearest end, with Tomad opposite her at the table’s head. On her left, Fear, on her right, Uruth. Binadas beside Uruth and Trull beside Fear. Rhulad was to Binadas’s right.
‘Mayen,’ Tomad said once she had seated herself, ‘welcome to the hearth of the Sengar. It grieves me that this night also marks, for the next while, the last in which all my sons are present. They undertake a journey for the Warlock King, and I pray for their safe return.’
‘I am led to believe the ice-fields pose no great risks for warriors of the Edur,’ Mayen replied. ‘Yet I see gravity and concern in your eyes, Tomad Sengar.’
‘An aged father’s fretting,’ Tomad said with a faint smile. ‘Nothing more.’
Rhulad spoke, ‘The Arapay rarely venture onto the icefields, for fear of hauntings. More, ice can blind, and the cold can steal life like the bleeding of an unseen wound. It is said there are beasts as well—’
Fear cut in, ‘My brother seeks resounding glory in the unknown, Mayen, so that you may look upon us all with awe and wonder.’
‘I am afraid he has left me with naught but dread,’ she said. ‘And now I must worry for your fates.’
‘We are equal to all that might assail us,’ Rhulad said quickly.
Barring the babbling tongue of an unblooded fool.
Wine goblets were refilled, and a few moments passed, then Uruth spoke. ‘When one does not know what one seeks, caution is the surest armour.’ She faced Binadas. ‘Among us, you alone have ventured beyond the eastern borders of Arapay land. What dangers do the ice-fields pose?’
Binadas frowned. ‘Old sorcery, Mother. But it seems inclined to slumber.’ He paused, thinking. ‘A tribe of hunters who live on the ice—I have seen naught but tracks. The Arapay say they hunt at night.’
‘Hunt what?’ Trull asked.
His brother shrugged.
‘There will be six of us,’ Rhulad said. ‘Theradas and Midik Buhn, and all can speak to Theradas’s skills. Although unblooded,’ he added, ‘Midik is nearly my equal with the sword. Hannan Mosag chose well in choosing the warrior sons of Tomad Sengar.’
This last statement hung strange in the air, as if rife with possible meanings, each one tumbling in a different direction. Such was the poison of suspicion. The women had their beliefs, Trull well knew, and now probably looked upon the six warriors in question, wondering at Hannan Mosag’s motivations, his reasons for choosing these particular men. And Fear, as well, would hold to his own thoughts, knowing what he knew—as we Sengar all know, now.
Trull sensed the uncertainty and began wondering for himself. Fear, after all, was Weapons Master for all the tribes, and indeed had been tasked with reshaping the Edur military structure. From Weapons Master to War Master, then. It seemed capricious to so risk Fear Sengar. And Binadas was considered by most to be among the united tribes’ more formidable sorcerors. Together, Fear and Binadas had been crucial during the campaigns of conquest, whilst Theradas Buhn was unequalled in leading raids from the sea. The only expendable members of this expedition are myself, Rhulad and Midik. Was the issue, therefore, one of trust?
What precisely was this gift they were to recover?
‘There have been untoward events of late,’ Mayen said, with a glance at Uruth.
Trull caught his father’s scowl, but Mayen must have seen acquiescence in Uruth’s expression, for she continued, ‘Spirits walked the darkness the night of the vigil. Unwelcome of aspect, intruders upon our holy sites—the wraiths fled at their approach.’
‘This is the first I have heard of such things,’ Tomad said.
Uruth reached for her wine cup and held it out to be refilled by a slave. ‘They are known none the less, husband. Hannan Mosag and his K’risnan have stirred deep shadows. The tide of change rises—and soon, I fear, it will sweep us away.’
‘But it is we who are rising on that tide,’ Tomad said, his face darkening. ‘It is one thing to question defeat, but now you question victory, wife.’
‘I speak only of the Great Meeting to come. Did not our own sons tell of the summoning from the depths that stole the souls of the Letherii seal-hunters? When those ships sail into the harbour at Trate, how think you the Letherii will react? We have begun the dance of war.’
‘If that were so,’ Tomad retorted, ‘then there would be little point to treat with them.’
‘Except,’ Trull cut in, recalling his father’s own words when he first returned from the Calach beds, ‘to take their measure.’
‘It was taken long ago,’ Fear said. ‘The Letherii will seek to do to us as they have done to the Nerek and the Tarthenal. Most among them see no error or moral flaw in their past deeds. Those who do are unable or unwilling to question the methods, only the execution, and so they are doomed to repeat the horrors, and see the result—no matter its nature—as yet one more test of firmly held principles. And even should the blood run in a river around them, they will obsess on the details. One cannot challenge the fundamental beliefs of such people, for they will not hear you.’
‘Then there will be war,’ Trull whispered.
‘There is always war, brother,’ Fear replied. ‘Faiths, words and swords: history resounds with their interminable clash.’
‘That, and the breaking of bones,’ Rhulad said, with the smile of a man with a secret.
Foolish conceit, for Tomad could not miss it and he leaned forward. ‘Rhulad Sengar, you speak like a blind elder with a sack full of wraiths. I am tempted to drag you across this table and choke the gloat from your face.’
Trull felt sweat prickle beneath his clothes. He saw the blood leave his brother’s face. Oh, Father, you deliver a wound deeper than you could ever have imagined. He glanced over at Mayen and was startled to see something avid in her eyes, a malice, a barely constrained delight.
‘I am not so young, Father,’ Rhulad said in a rasp, ‘nor you so old, to let such words pass—’
Tomad’s fist thumped the tabletop, sending cups and plates clattering. ‘Then speak like a man, Rhulad! Tell us all this dread knowledge that coils your every strut and has for the past week! Or do you seek to part tender thighs with your womanish ways? Do you imagine you are the first young warrior who seeks to walk in step with women? Sympathy, son, is a poor path to lust—’
Rhulad was on his feet, his face twisting with rage. ‘And which bitch would you have me bed, Father? To whom am I promised? And in whose name? You have leashed me here in this village and then you mock when I strain.’ He glared at the others, fixing at last on Trull. ‘When the war begins, Hannan Mosag will announce a sacrifice. He must. A throat will be opened to spill down the bow of the lead ship. He will choose me, won’t he?’
‘Rhulad,’ Trull said, ‘I have heard no such thing—’
‘He will! I am to bed three daughters! Sheltatha Lore, Sukul Ankhadu and Menandore!’
A plate skittered out from the hands of a slave and cracked onto the tabletop, spilling the shellfish it held. As the slave reached forward to contain the accident, Uruth’s hands snapped out and grasped the Letherii by the wrists. A savage twist to reveal the palms.
The skin had been torn from them, raw, red, glittering wet and cracked.
‘What is this, Udinaas?’ Uruth demanded. She rose and yanked him close.
‘I fell—’ the Letherii gasped.
‘To weep your wounds onto our food? Have you lost your mind?’
‘Mistress!’ another slave ventured, edging forward. ‘I saw him come in earlier—he bore no such wounds then, I swear it!’
‘He is the one who fought the Wyval!’ another cried, backing away in sudden terror.
‘Udinaas is possessed!’ the other slave shrieked.
‘Quiet!’ Uruth set a hand against Udinaas’s forehead and pushed back hard. He grunted in pain.
Sorcery swirled out to surround the slave. He spasmed, then went limp, collapsing at Uruth’s feet.
‘There is nothing within him,’ she said, withdrawing a trembling hand.
Mayen spoke. ‘Feather Witch, attend to Uruth’s slave.’
The young Letherii woman darted forward. Another slave appeared to help her drag the unconscious man away.
‘I saw no insult in the slave’s actions,’ Mayen continued. ‘The wounds were indeed raw, but he held cloth against them.’ She reached out and lifted the plate to reveal the bleached linen that Udinaas had used to cover his hands.
Uruth grunted and slowly sat. ‘None the less, he should have informed me. And for that oversight he must be punished.’
‘You just raped his mind,’ Mayen replied. ‘Is that not sufficient?’
Silence.
Daughters take us, the coming year should prove interesting. One year, as demanded by tradition, and then Fear and Mayen would take up residence in a house of their own.
Uruth simply glared at the younger woman, then, to Trull’s surprise, she nodded. ‘Very well, Mayen. You are guest this night, and so I will abide by your wishes.’
Through all of this Rhulad had remained standing, but now he slowly sat once more.
Tomad said, ‘Rhulad, I know of no plans to resurrect the ancient blood sacrifice to announce a war. Hannan Mosag is not careless with the lives of his warriors, even those as yet unblooded. I cannot fathom how you came to believe such a fate awaited you. Perhaps,’ he added, ‘this journey you are about to undertake will provide you with the opportunity to become a blooded warrior, and so stand with pride alongside your brothers. So I shall pray.’
It was a clear overture, this wish for glory, and Rhulad displayed uncharacteristic wisdom in accepting it with a simple nod.
Neither Feather Witch nor Udinaas returned, but the remaining slaves proved sufficient in serving the rest of the meal.
And for all this, Trull still could not claim any understanding of Mayen, Fear’s betrothed.
A stinging slap and he opened his eyes.
To see Feather Witch’s face hovering above his own, a face filled with rage. ‘You damned fool!’ she hissed.
Blinking, Udinaas looked around. They were huddled in his sleeping niche. Beyond the cloth hanging, the low sounds of eating and soft conversation.
Udinaas smiled.
Feather Witch scowled. ‘She—’
‘I know,’ he cut in. ‘And she found nothing.’
He watched her beautiful eyes widen. ‘It is true, then?’
‘It must be.’
‘You are lying, Udinaas. The Wyval hid. Somehow, somewhere, it hid itself from Uruth.’
‘Why are you so certain of that, Feather Witch?’
She sat back suddenly. ‘It doesn’t matter—’
‘You have had dreams, haven’t you?’
She started, then looked away. ‘You are a Debtor’s son. You are nothing to me.’
‘And you are everything to me, Feather Witch.’
‘Don’t be an idiot, Udinaas! I might as well wed a hold rat! Now, be quiet, I need to think.’
He slowly sat up, drawing their faces close once again. ‘There is no need,’ he said. ‘I trust you, and so I will explain. She looked deep indeed, but the Wyval was gone. It would have been different, had Uruth sought out my shadow.’
She blinked in sudden comprehension, then: ‘That cannot be,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘You are Letherii. The wraiths serve only the Edur—’
‘The wraiths bend a knee because they must. They are as much slaves to the Edur as we are, Feather Witch. I have found an ally…’
‘To what end, Udinaas?’
He smiled again, and this time it was a much darker smile. ‘Something I well understand. The repaying of debts, Feather Witch. In full.’
Book Two
Prows of the Day
We are seized in the age
of our youth
dragged over this road’s stones
spent and burdened
by your desires.
And unshod hoofs clatter beneath bones
to remind us of every
fateful charge
upon the hills you have sown
with frozen seeds
in this dead earth.
Swallowing ground
and grinding bit
we climb into the sky so alone
in our fretted ways
a heaving of limbs
and the iron stars burst from your heels
baffling urgency
warning us of your savage bite.
DESTRIERS (SONS TO FATHER)
FISHER KEL TATH
Chapter Six
The Errant bends fate,
As unseen armour
Lifting to blunt the blade
On a field sudden
With battle, and the crowd
Jostles blind their eyes gouged out
By the strait of these affairs
Where dark fools dance on tiles
And chance rides a spear
With red bronze
To spit worlds like skulls
One upon the other
Until the seas pour down
To thicken metal-clad hands
So this then is the Errant
Who guides every fate
Unerring
Upon the breast of men.
THE CASTING OF TILES
CEDA ANKARAN QAN (1059 BURN’S SLEEP)
