The Malazan Empire, page 461
Apsalar straightened. ‘I am not the ghost here—’
‘Dissembler! No wonder you prefer her to me!’
She could see the other shade now, a twin to the first one, hovering over its own corpse, or at least the body it claimed as its own. ‘How did you two come to be here?’ she asked.
The second shade pointed at the first. ‘She’s a thief!’
‘So are you!’ the first one retorted.
‘I was only following you, Telorast! “Oh, let’s break into Shadowkeep! There’s no-one there, after all! We could make off with uncounted riches!” Why did I believe you? I was a fool—’
‘Well,’ cut in the other, ‘that’s something we can agree on, at least.’
‘There is no purpose,’ Apsalar said, ‘to the two of you remaining here. Your corpses are rotting away, but those shackles will never release them.’
‘You serve the new master of Shadow!’ The second shade seemed most agitated with its own accusation. ‘That miserable, slimy, wretched—’
‘Quiet!’ hissed the first shade, Telorast. ‘He’ll come back to taunt us some more! I, for one, have no desire ever to see him again. Nor those damned Hounds.’ The ghost edged closer to Apsalar. ‘Most kind servant of the wondrous new master, to answer your question, we would indeed love to leave this place. Alas, where would we go?’ It gestured with one filmy, bony hand. ‘Beyond the city, there are terrible creatures. Deceitful, hungry, numerous! Now,’ it added in a purr, ‘had we an escort…’
‘Oh yes,’ cried the second shade, ‘an escort, to one of the gates – a modest, momentary responsibility, yet we would be most thankful.’
Apsalar studied the two creatures. ‘Who imprisoned you? And speak the truth, else you’ll receive no help from me.’
Telorast bowed deeply, then seemed to settle even lower, and it was a moment before Apsalar realized it was grovelling. ‘Truth to tell. We would not lie as to this. No clearer recollection and no purer integrity in relating said recollection will you hear in any realm. ’Twas a demon lord—’
‘With seven heads!’ the other interjected, bobbing up and down in some ill-contained excitement.
Telorast cringed. ‘Seven heads? Were there seven? There might well have been. Why not? Yes, seven heads!’
‘And which head,’ Apsalar asked, ‘claimed to be the lord?’
‘The sixth!’
‘The second!’
The two shades regarded each other balefully, then Telorast raised a skeletal finger. ‘Precisely! Sixth from the right, second from the left!’
‘Oh, very good,’ crooned the other.
Apsalar faced the shade. ‘Your companion’s name is Telorast – what is yours?’
It flinched, bobbed, then began its own grovelling, raising minute clouds of dust. ‘Prince – King Cruel, the Slayer of All Foes. The Feared. The Worshipped.’ It hesitated, then, ‘Princess Demure? Beloved of a thousand heroes, bulging, stern-faced men one and all!’ A twitch, low muttering, a brief clawing at its own face. ‘A warlord, no, a twenty-two-headed dragon, with nine wings and eleven thousand fangs. Given the chance…’
Apsalar crossed her arms. ‘Your name.’
‘Curdle.’
‘Curdle.’
‘I do not last long.’
‘Which is what brought us to this sorry demise in the first place,’ Telorast said. ‘You were supposed to watch the path – I specifically told you to watch the path—’
‘I did watch it!’
‘But failed to see the Hound Baran—’
‘I saw Baran, but I was watching the path.’
‘All right,’ Apsalar said, sighing, ‘why should I provide you two with an escort? Give me a reason, please. Any reason at all.’
‘We are loyal companions,’ Telorast said. ‘We will stand by you no matter what horrible end you come to.’
‘We’ll guard your torn-up body for eternity,’ Curdle added, ‘or at least until someone else comes along—’
‘Unless it’s Edgewalker.’
‘Well, that goes without saying, Telorast,’ Curdle said. ‘We don’t like him.’
‘Or the Hounds.’
‘Of course—’
‘Or Shadowthrone, or Cotillion, or an Aptorian, or one of those—’
‘All right!’ Curdle shrieked.
‘I will escort you,’ Apsalar said, ‘to a gate. Whereupon you may leave this realm, since that seems to be your desire. In all probability, you will then find yourselves walking through Hood’s Gate, which would be a mercy to everyone, except perhaps Hood himself.’
‘She doesn’t like us,’ Curdle moaned.
‘Don’t say it out loud,’ Telorast snapped, ‘or she’ll actually realize it. Right now she’s not sure, and that’s good for us, Curdle.’
‘Not sure? Are you deaf? She just insulted us!’
‘That doesn’t mean she doesn’t like us. Not necessarily. Irritated with us, maybe, but then, we irritate everyone. Or, rather, you irritate everyone, Curdle. Because you’re so unreliable.’
‘I’m not always unreliable, Telorast.’
‘Come along,’ Apsalar said, walking towards the far portal. ‘I have things to do this night.’
‘But what about these bodies?’ Curdle demanded.
‘They stay here, obviously.’ She turned and faced the two shades. ‘Either follow me, or don’t. It’s up to you.’
‘But we liked those bodies—’
‘It’s all right, Curdle,’ Telorast said in a soothing tone. ‘We’ll find others.’
Apsalar shot Telorast a glance, bemused by the comment, then she set off, striding into the narrow passageway.
The two ghosts scurried and flitted after her.
The basin’s level floor was a crazed latticework of cracks, the clay silts of the old lake dried by decades of sun and heat. Wind and sands had polished the surface so that it gleamed in the moonlight, like tiles of silver. A deep-sunk well, encircled by a low wall of bricks, marked the centre of the lake-bed.
Outriders from Leoman’s column had already reached the well, dismounting to inspect it, while the main body of the horse-warriors filed down onto the basin. The storm was past, and stars glistened overhead. Exhausted horses and exhausted rebels made a slow procession over the broken, webbed ground. Capemoths flitted over the heads of the riders, weaving and spinning to escape the hunting rhizan lizards that wheeled in their midst like miniature dragons. An incessant war overhead, punctuated by the crunch of carapaced armour and the thin, metallic death-cries of the capemoths.
Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas leaned forward on his saddle, the hinged horn squealing, and spat to his left. Defiance, a curse to these clamouring echoes of battle. And to get the taste of grit from his mouth. He glanced over at Leoman, who rode in silence. They had been leaving a trail of dead horses, and almost everyone was on their second or third mount. A dozen warriors had surrendered to the pace this past day, older men who had dreamed of a last battle against the hated Malazans, beneath the blessed gaze of Sha’ik, only to see that opportunity torn away by treachery. There were more than a few broken spirits in this tattered regiment, Corabb knew. It was easy to understand how one could lose hope during this pathetic journey.
If not for Leoman of the Flails, Corabb himself might have given up long ago, slipping off into the blowing sands to seek his own destiny, discarding the trappings of a rebel soldier, and settling down in some remote city with memories of despair haunting his shadow until the Hoarder of Souls came to claim him. If not for Leoman of the Flails.
The riders reached the well, spreading out to create a circle encampment around its life-giving water. Corabb drew rein a moment after Leoman had done so, and both dismounted, boots crunching on a carpet of bones and scales from long-dead fish.
‘Corabb,’ Leoman said, ‘walk with me.’
They set off in a northerly direction until they were fifty paces past the outlying pickets, standing alone on the cracked pan. Corabb noted a depression nearby in which sat half-buried lumps of clay. Drawing his dagger, he walked over and crouched down to retrieve one of the lumps. Breaking it open to reveal the toad curled up within it, he dug the creature out and returned to his commander’s side. ‘An unexpected treat,’ he said, pulling off a withered leg and tearing at the tough but sweet flesh.
Leoman stared at him in the moonlight. ‘You will have strange dreams, Corabb, eating those.’
‘Spirit dreams, yes. They do not frighten me, Commander. Except for all the feathers.’
Making no comment on that, Leoman unstrapped his helm and pulled it off. He stared up at the stars, then said, ‘What do my soldiers want of me? Am I to lead us to an impossible victory?’
‘You are destined to carry the Book,’ Corabb said around a mouthful of meat.
‘And the goddess is dead.’
‘Dryjhna is more than that goddess, Commander. The Apocalyptic is as much a time as it is anything else.’
Leoman glanced over. ‘You do manage to surprise me still, Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas, after all these years.’
Pleased by this compliment, or what he took for a compliment, Corabb smiled, then spat out a bone and said, ‘I have had time to think, Commander. While we rode. I have thought long and those thoughts have walked strange paths. We are the Apocalypse. This last army of the rebellion. And I believe we are destined to show the world the truth of that.’
‘Why do you believe that?’
‘Because you lead us, Leoman of the Flails, and you are not one to slink away like some creeping meer-rat. We journey towards something – I know, many here see this as a flight, but I do not. Not all the time, anyway.’
‘A meer-rat,’ Leoman mused. ‘That is the name for those lizard-eating rats in the Jen’rahb, in Ehrlitan.’
Corabb nodded. ‘The long-bodied ones, with the scaly heads, yes.’
‘A meer-rat,’ Leoman said again, oddly thoughtful. ‘Almost impossible to hunt down. They can slip through cracks a snake would have trouble with. Hinged skulls…’
‘Bones like green twigs, yes,’ Corabb said, sucking at the skull of the toad, then flinging it away. Watching as it sprouted wings and flew off into the night. He glanced over at his commander’s feather-clad features. ‘They make terrible pets. When startled, they dive for the first hole in sight, no matter how small. A woman died with a meer-rat halfway up her nose, or so I heard. When they get stuck, they start chewing. Feathers everywhere.’
‘I take it no-one keeps them as pets any more,’ Leoman said, studying the stars once again. ‘We ride towards our Apocalypse, do we? Yes, well.’
‘We could leave the horses,’ Corabb said. ‘And just fly away. It’d be much quicker.’
‘That would be unkind, wouldn’t it?’
‘True. Honourable beasts, horses. You shall lead us, Winged One, and we shall prevail.’
‘An impossible victory.’
‘Many impossible victories, Commander.’
‘One would suffice.’
‘Very well,’ Corabb said. ‘One, then.’
‘I don’t want this, Corabb. I don’t want any of this. I’m of a mind to disperse this army.’
‘That will not work, Commander. We are returning to our birthplace. It is the season for that. To build nests on the rooftops.’
‘I think,’ Leoman said, ‘it is time you went to sleep.’
‘Yes, you are right. I will sleep now.’
‘Go on. I will remain here for a time.’
‘You are Leoman of the Feathers, and it shall be as you say.’ Corabb saluted, then strode back towards the encampment and its host of oversized vultures. It was not so bad a thing, he mused. Vultures survived because other things did not, after all.
Now alone, Leoman continued studying the night sky. Would that Toblakai rode with him now. The giant warrior was blind to uncertainty. Alas, also somewhat lacking in subtlety. The bludgeon of Karsa Orlong’s reasoning would permit no disguising of unpleasant truths.
A meer-rat. He would have to think on that.
‘You can’t come in here with those!’
The giant warrior looked back at the trailing heads, then he lifted Samar Dev clear of the horse, set her down, and slipped off the beast himself. He brushed dust from his furs, walked over to the gate guard. Picked him up and threw him into a nearby cart.
Someone screamed – quickly cut short as the warrior swung round.
Twenty paces up the street, as dusk gathered the second guard was in full flight, heading, Samar suspected, for the blockhouse to round up twenty or so of his fellows. She sighed. ‘This hasn’t started well, Karsa Orlong.’
The first guard, lying amidst the shattered cart, was not moving.
Karsa eyed Samar Dev, then said, ‘Everything is fine, woman. I am hungry. Find me an inn, one with a stable.’
‘We shall have to move quickly, and I for one am unable to do that.’
‘You are proving a liability,’ Karsa Orlong said.
Alarm bells began ringing a few streets away. ‘Put me back on your horse,’ Samar said, ‘and I will give you directions, for all the good that will do.’
He approached her.
‘Careful, please – this leg can’t stand much more jostling.’
He made a disgusted expression. ‘You are soft, like all children.’ Yet he was less haphazard when he lifted her back onto the horse.
‘Down this side track,’ she said. ‘Away from the bells. There’s an inn on Trosfalhadan Street, it’s not far.’ Glancing to her right, she saw a squad of guards appear further down the main street. ‘Quickly, warrior, if you don’t want to spend this night in a gaol cell.’
Citizens had gathered to watch them. Two had walked over to the dead or unconscious guard, crouching to examine the unfortunate man. Another stood nearby, complaining about his shattered cart and pointing at Karsa – although only when the huge warrior wasn’t looking.
They made their way down the avenue running parallel to the ancient wall. Samar scowled at the various bystanders who had elected to follow them. ‘I am Samar Dev,’ she said loudly. ‘Will you risk a curse from me? Any of you?’ People shrank back, then quickly turned away.
Karsa glanced back at her. ‘You are a witch?’
‘You have no idea.’
‘And had I left you on the trail, you would have cursed me?’
‘Most certainly.’
He grunted, said nothing for the next ten paces, then turned once again. ‘Why did you not call upon spirits to heal yourself?’
‘I had nothing with which to bargain,’ she replied. ‘The spirits one finds in the wastelands are hungry things, Karsa Orlong. Covetous and not to be trusted.’
‘You cannot be much of a witch, then, if you need to bargain. Why not just bind them and demand that they heal your leg?’
‘One who binds risks getting bound in return. I will not walk that path.’
He made no reply to that.
‘Here is Trosfalhadan Street. Up one avenue, there, see that big building with the walled compound beside it? Inn of the Wood, it’s called. Hurry, before the guards reach this corner.’
‘They will find us nonetheless,’ Karsa said. ‘You have failed in your task.’
‘I wasn’t the one who threw that guard into a cart!’
‘He spoke rudely. You should have warned him.’
They reached the double gates at the compound.
From the corner behind them came shouts. Samar twisted round on the horse and watched the guards rush towards them. Karsa strode past her, drawing free the huge flint sword. ‘Wait!’ she cried. ‘Let me speak with them first, warrior, else you find yourself fighting a whole city’s worth of guards.’
He paused. ‘They are deserving of mercy?’
She studied him a moment, then nodded. ‘If not them, then their families.’
‘You are under arrest!’ The shout came from the rapidly closing guards.
Karsa’s tattooed face darkened.
Samar edged down from the horse and hobbled to place herself between the giant and the guards, all of whom had drawn scimitars and were fanning out on the street. Beyond, a crowd of onlookers was gathering. She held up her hands. ‘There has been a misunderstanding.’
‘Samar Dev,’ one man said in a growl. ‘Best you step aside – this is no affair of yours—’
‘But it is, Captain Inashan. This warrior has saved my life. My wagon broke down out in the wastes, and I broke my leg – look at me. I was dying. And so I called upon a spirit of the wild-lands.’
The captain’s eyes widened as he regarded Karsa Orlong. ‘This is a spirit?’
‘Most assuredly,’ Samar replied. ‘One who is of course ignorant of our customs. That gate guard acted in what this spirit perceived as a hostile manner. Does he still live?’
The captain nodded. ‘Knocked senseless, that is all.’ The man then pointed towards the severed heads. ‘What are those?’
‘Trophies,’ she answered. ‘Demons. They had escaped their own realm and were approaching Ugarat. Had not this spirit killed them, they would have descended upon us with great slaughter. And with not a single worthy mage left in Ugarat, we would have fared poorly indeed.’
Captain Inashan narrowed his gaze on Karsa. ‘Can you understand my words?’
‘They have been simple enough thus far,’ the warrior replied.
The captain scowled. ‘Does she speak the truth?’
‘More than she realizes, yet even so, there are untruths in her tale. I am not a spirit. I am Toblakai, once bodyguard to Sha’ik. Yet this woman bargained with me as she would a spirit. More, she knew nothing of where I came from or who I was, and so she might well have imagined I was a spirit of the wild-lands.’
Voices rose among both guards and citizens at the name Sha’ik, and Samar saw a dawning recognition in the captain’s expression. ‘Toblakai, companion to Leoman of the Flails. Tales of you have reached us.’ He pointed with his scimitar at the fur riding Karsa’s shoulders. ‘Slayer of a Soletaken, a white bear. Executioner of Sha’ik’s betrayers in Raraku. It is said you slew demons the night before Sha’ik was killed,’ he added, eyes on the rotted, flailed heads. ‘And, when she had been slain by the Adjunct, you rode out to face the Malazan army – and they would not fight you.’
