The Malazan Empire, page 514
‘The most bitter irony is this: your father sought no release. He had elected, of his own will, to become a Guardian of an Azath House, and it may be he remains so to this day.
‘In consequence of the devastation you wrought, Icarium, a cult, devoted since time began to the Azath, deemed it necessary to create guardians of their own. Chosen warriors who would accompany you, no matter where you went – for your rage and the destruction of the warren had torn from you all memory of your past – and so now you were doomed, for all time, it seemed, to seek out the truth of all that you have done. And to stumble into rage again and yet again, wreaking annihilation.
‘This cult, that of the Nameless Ones, thus contrived to bind to you a companion. Such as I. Yes, my friend, there have been others, long before I was born, and each has been imbued with sorcery, slowing the rigours of ageing, proof against all manner of disease and poison for as long as the companion’s service held true. Our task is to guide you in your fury, to assert a moral focus, and above all, to be your friend, and this latter task has proved, again and again, the simplest and indeed, most seductive of them all, for it is easy to find within ourselves a deep and abiding love for you. For your earnestness, your loyalty, and for the unsullied honour within you.
‘I will grant you, Icarium, your sense of justice is a harsh one. Yet, ultimately, profound in its nobility. And now, awaiting you, there is an enemy. An enemy only you, my friend, are powerful enough to oppose. And so we now journey, and all who seek to oppose us, for whatever reason, must be swept aside. For the greater good.’ He allowed himself to smile again, only this time he filled it with a hint of vast yet courageously contained anguish. ‘You must now wonder, are the Nameless Ones worthy of such responsibility? Can their moral integrity and sense of honour match yours? The answer lies in necessity, and above that, in the example you set. You guide the Nameless Ones, my friend, with your every deed. If they fail in their calling, it will be because you have failed in yours.’
Pleased that he had recalled with perfection the words given him, Taralack Veed studied the great warrior who stood before him, firelit, his face hidden behind his hands. Like a child for whom blindness imposed obliteration.
Icarium was weeping, he realized.
Good. Even he. Even he will feed upon his own anguish and make of it an addictive nectar, a sweet opiate of self-recrimination and pain.
And so all doubt, all distrust, shall vanish.
For from those things, no sweet bliss can be wrung.
From overhead, a spatter of cold rain, and the deep rumble of thunder. The storm would soon be upon them. ‘I am rested enough,’ Taralack said, rising. ‘A long march awaits us—’
‘There is no need,’ Icarium said behind his hands.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The sea. It is filled with ships.’
The lone rider came down from the hills shortly after the ambush. Barathol Mekhar, his huge, scarred and pitted forearms spattered with blood, rose from his long, silent study of the dead demon. He was wearing his armour and helm, and he now drew out his axe.
Months had passed since the T’lan Imass had appeared – he’d thought them long gone, gone even before old Kulat wandered off in his newfound madness. He had not realized – none of them had – that the terrible, undead creatures had never left.
The party of travellers had been slaughtered, the ambush so swiftly executed that Barathol had not even known of its occurrence – until it was far too late. Jhelim and Filiad had suddenly burst into the smithy, screaming of murder just beyond the hamlet. He had collected his weapon and run with them to the western road, only to find the enemy already departed, their task done, and upon the old road, dying horses and motionless bodies sprawled about as if they had dropped from the sky.
Sending Filiad to find the old woman Nulliss – who possessed modest skill as a healer – Barathol had returned to his smithy, ignoring Jhelim who trailed behind him like a lost pup. He had donned his armour, taking his time. The T’lan Imass, he suspected, would have been thorough. They would have had leisure to ensure that they had made no mistakes. Nulliss would find that nothing could be done for the poor victims.
Upon returning to the west road, however, he was astonished to see the ancient Semk woman shouting orders at Filiad from where she knelt at the side of one figure. It seemed to Barathol’s eyes as he hurried forward, that she had thrust her hands into the man’s body, her scrawny arms making motions as if she was kneading bread dough. Even as she did this, her gaze was on a woman lying nearby, who had begun moaning, legs kicking furrows in the dirt. From her, blood had spilled out everywhere.
Nulliss saw him and called him over.
Barathol saw that the man she knelt beside had been eviscerated. Nulliss was pushing the intestines back inside. ‘For Hood’s sake, woman,’ the blacksmith said in a growl, ‘leave him be. He’s done. You’ve filled his cavity with dirt—’
‘Boiling water is on the way,’ she snapped. ‘I mean to wash it out.’ She nodded towards the thrashing woman. ‘That one is stabbed in the shoulder, and now she’s in labour.’
‘Labour? Gods below. Listen, Nulliss, boiling water won’t do, unless you mean to cook his liver for supper tonight—’
‘Go back to your damned anvil, you brainless ape! It was a clean cut – I’ve seen what boars can do with their tusks and that was a whole lot worse.’
‘Might’ve started clean—’
‘I said I mean to clean it! But we can’t carry him back with his guts trailing behind us, can we?’
Nonplussed, Barathol looked round. He wanted to kill something. A simple enough desire, but he already knew it would be thwarted and this soured his mood. He walked over to the third body. An old man, tattooed and handless – the T’lan Imass had chopped him to pieces. So. He was their target. The others were simply in the way. Which is why they cared nothing whether they lived or died. Whereas this poor bastard couldn’t be more dead than he was.
After a moment, Barathol made his way towards the last victim in sight. From the hamlet, more people were on the way, two of them carrying blankets and rags. Storuk, Fenar, Hayrith, Stuk, all looking somehow small, diminished and pale with fear. Nulliss began screaming orders once more.
Before him was sprawled a demon of some kind. Both limbs on one side had been sliced away. Not much blood, he noted, but something strange appeared to have afflicted the creature upon its death. It looked…deflated, as if the flesh beneath the skin had begun to dissolve, melt away into nothing. Its odd eyes had already dried and cracked.
‘Blacksmith! Help me lift this one!’
Barathol walked back.
‘On the blanket. Storuk, you and your brother on that end, one corner each. Fenar, you’re with me on the other end—’
Hayrith, almost as old as Nulliss herself, held in her arms the rags. ‘What about me?’ she asked.
‘Go sit by the woman. Stuff a cloth into the wound – we’ll sear it later, unless the birth gives her trouble—’
‘With the blood loss,’ Hayrith said, eyes narrowing, ‘she probably won’t survive it.’
‘Maybe. For now, just sit with her. Hold her damned hand and talk, and—’
‘Yes, yes, witch, you ain’t the only one round here who knows about all that.’
‘Good. So get going.’
‘You’ve just been waiting for this, haven’t ya?’
‘Be quiet, you udderless cow.’
‘Queen Nulliss, High Priestess of Bitchiness!’
‘Blacksmith,’ Nulliss growled, ‘hit her with that axe, will you?’
Hissing, Hayrith scurried off.
‘Help me,’ Nulliss said to him, ‘we’ve got to lift him now.’
It seemed a pointless task, but he did as she asked, and was surprised to hear her pronounce that the young man still lived after they’d set him on the blanket.
As Nulliss and the others carried him away, Barathol strode back to the dismembered corpse of the old, tattooed man. And crouched at his side. It would be an unpleasant task, but it was possible that Barathol could learn something of him from his possessions. He rolled the body over, then halted, staring down into those lifeless eyes. A cat’s eyes. He looked with renewed interest at the pattern of tattoos, then slowly sat back.
And only then noticed all the dead flies. Covering the ground on all sides, more flies than he had ever seen before. Barathol straightened, walked back to the dead demon.
Staring down thoughtfully, until distant motion and the sound of horse hoofs snared his attention. Behind him, villagers had returned to retrieve the pregnant woman.
And now he watched as the rider rode directly towards him.
On a lathered horse the colour of sun-bleached bone. Wearing dust-sheathed armour lacquered white. The man’s face pale beneath the rim of his helm, drawn with grief. Reining in, he slipped down from the saddle and, ignoring Barathol, staggered over to the demon, where he fell to his knees.
‘Who – who did this?’ he asked.
‘T’lan Imass. Five of them. A broken lot, even as T’lan Imass go. An ambush.’ Barathol pointed towards the body of the tattooed man. ‘They were after him, I think. A priest, from a cult devoted to the First Hero Treach.’
‘Treach is now a god.’
To that, Barathol simply grunted. He looked back at the ramshackle hovels of the hamlet he had come to think of as home. ‘There were two others. Both still alive, although one will not last much longer. The other is pregnant and even now gives birth—’
The man stared up at him. ‘Two? No, there should have been three. A girl…’
Barathol frowned. ‘I’d thought the priest was their target – they were thorough with him – but now I see that they struck him down because he posed the greatest threat. They must have come for the girl – for she is not here.’
The man rose. He matched Barathol in height, if not breadth. ‘Perhaps she fled…into the hills.’
‘It’s possible. Although,’ he added, pointing at a dead horse nearby, ‘I’d wondered at that extra mount, saddled like the others. Cut down on the trail.’
‘Ah, yes. I see.’
‘Who are you?’ Barathol asked. ‘And what was this missing girl to you?’
Shock was still writ deep into the lines of his face, and he blinked at the questions, then nodded. ‘I am named L’oric. The child was…was for the Queen of Dreams. I was coming to collect her – and my familiar.’ He looked down once more at the demon, and anguish tugged at his features yet again.
‘Fortune has abandoned you, then,’ Barathol said. A thought occurred to him. ‘L’oric, have you any skill in healing?’
‘What?’
‘You are one of Sha’ik’s High Mages, after all—’
L’oric looked away, as if stung. ‘Sha’ik is dead. The rebellion is crushed.’
Barathol shrugged.
‘Yes,’ L’oric said, ‘I can call upon Denul, if required.’
‘Is the life of that girl all that concerns you?’ He gestured down at the demon. ‘You can do nothing for your familiar – what of their companions? The young man will die – if he has not already done so. Will you stand here, dwelling only on what you have lost?’
A flash of anger. ‘I advise caution,’ L’oric said in a low voice. ‘You were once a soldier – that much is obvious – yet here you have hidden yourself away like a coward, whilst the rest of Seven Cities rose up, dreaming of freedom. I will not be chastised by one such as you.’
Barathol’s dark eyes studied L’oric a moment longer, then he turned away and began walking towards the buildings. ‘Someone will come,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘to dress the dead for burial.’
Nulliss had chosen the old hostelry to deposit her charges. A cot was dragged out from one of the rooms for the woman, whilst the eviscerated youth was laid out on the communal dining table. A cookpot filled with water steamed above the hearth, and Filiad was using a prod to retrieve soaked strips of cloth and carry them over to where the Semk woman worked.
She had drawn out the intestines once more but seemed to be ignoring that pulsing mass for the moment, both of her hands deep in the cavity of his gut. ‘Flies!’ she hissed as Barathol entered. ‘This damned hole is filled with dead flies!’
‘You will not save him,’ Barathol said, walking to the bar counter and setting down his axe on the battered, dusty surface, the weapon making a heavy clunking sound on the wood. He began removing his gauntlets, glancing over at Hayrith. ‘Has she given birth?’ he asked.
‘Aye. A girl.’ Hayrith was washing her hands in a basin, but she nodded towards a small bundled shape lying on the woman’s chest. ‘Already suckling. I’d thought things were gone bad, blacksmith. Bad. The baby came out blue. Only the cord weren’t knotted and weren’t round its neck.’
‘So why was it blue?’
‘Was? Still is. Napan father, I’d say.’
‘And the mother’s fate?’
‘She’ll live. I didn’t need Nulliss. I know how to clean and sear a wound. Why, I followed the Falah’d of Hissar’s Holy Army, seen plenty a battlefields in my day. Cleaned plenty a wounds, too.’ She flung water from her hands, then dried them on her grubby tunic. ‘She’ll have fever, of course, but if she survives that, she’ll be fine.’
‘Hayrith!’ called out Nulliss. ‘Get over here and rinse out these rags! Then toss ’em back in the boiling water – gods below, I’m losing him – his heart, it’s fading.’
The door swung open. Heads turned to stare at L’oric, who slowly stepped inside.
‘Who in Hood’s name is that?’ Hayrith asked.
Barathol unstrapped his helm as he said, ‘High Mage L’oric, a refugee from the Apocalypse.’
Hayrith cackled. ‘Well, ain’t he found the right place! Welcome, L’oric! Grab yourself a tankard a dust an’ a plate of ashes an’ join us! Fenar, stop staring and go find Chaur an’ Urdan – there’s horse meat out there needs butchering – we don’t want none a them wolves in the hills comin’ down an’ gettin’ it first.’
Barathol watched as L’oric strode over to where Nulliss knelt above the youth on the table. She was pushing in rags then pulling them out again – there was far too much blood – no wonder the heart was fading.
‘Move aside,’ L’oric said to her. ‘I do not command High Denul, but at the very least I can clean and seal the wound, and expunge the risk of infection.’
‘He’s lost too much blood,’ Nulliss hissed.
‘Perhaps,’ L’oric conceded, ‘but let us at least give his heart a chance to recover.’
Nulliss backed away. ‘As you like,’ she snapped. ‘I can do no more for him.’
Barathol went behind the bar, crouched opposite a panel of wood, which he rapped hard. It fell away, revealing three dusty jugs. Retrieving one, he straightened, setting it down on the counter. Finding a tankard, he wiped it clean, then, tugging free the stopper, poured the tankard full.
Eyes were on him – all barring those of L’oric himself, who stood beside the youth, hands settling on the chest. Hayrith asked, in a tone of reverence. ‘Where did that come from, blacksmith?’
‘Old Kulat’s stash,’ Barathol replied. ‘Don’t expect he’ll be coming back for it.’
‘What’s that I smell?’
‘Falari rum.’
‘Blessed gods above and below!’
Suddenly the locals present in the room were one and all crowding the bar. Snarling, Nulliss pushed Filiad back. ‘Not you – too young—’
‘Too young? Woman, I’ve seen twenty-six years!’
‘You heard me! Twenty-six years? Ain’t enough to ’preciate Falari rum, you scrawny whelp.’
Barathol sighed. ‘Don’t be greedy, Nulliss. Besides, there’s two more jugs on the shelf below.’ Collecting his tankard, he moved away from them, Filiad and Jhelim both fighting as they scrabbled round the counter.
A livid scar was all that remained of the sword slash across the youth’s belly, apart from splashes of drying blood. L’oric still stood beside him, hands motionless on the chest.
After a moment, he opened his eyes, stepping back. ‘It’s a strong heart…we’ll see. Where’s the other one?’
‘Over there. Shoulder wound. It’s been seared, but I can guarantee sepsis will set in and probably end up killing her, unless you do something.
L’oric nodded. ‘She is named Scillara. The young man I do not know.’ He frowned. ‘Heboric Ghost Hands—’ he rubbed at his face – ‘I would not have thought…’ He glanced over at Barathol. ‘When Treach chose him to be his Destriant, well, there was so much…power. T’lan Imass? Five broken T’lan Imass?’
Barathol shrugged. ‘I myself did not see the ambush. The Imass first showed up months past, then it seemed that they’d left. After all, there was nothing here that they wanted. Not even me.’
‘Servants of the Crippled God,’ L’oric said. ‘The Unbound, of High House of Chains.’ He headed towards the woman he’d named Scillara. ‘The gods are indeed at war…’
Barathol stared after him. He downed half the rum in the tankard, then joined the High Mage once more. ‘The gods, you say.’
‘Fever already whispers within her – this will not do.’ He closed his eyes and began muttering something under his breath. After a moment, he stepped back, met Barathol’s eyes. ‘This is what comes. The blood of mortals spilled. Innocent lives…destroyed. Even here, in this rotted hole of a village, you cannot hide from the torment – it will find you, it will find us all.’
