The Malazan Empire, page 519
Everyone looked at him.
Gesler scanned the soldiers where they sat or sprawled alongside the track. What the fire hadn’t burned the sun now had. Soldiers on the march wore their clothes like skin, and for those whose skin wasn’t dark, the burnished bronze of hands, faces and necks contrasted sharply with pallid arms, legs and torsos. But what had once been pale was now bright red. Among all those light-skinned soldiers who’d survived Y’Ghatan, Gesler himself was the only exception. The golden hue of his skin seemed unaffected by this scorching desert sun.
‘Gods, these people need clothes,’ he said.
Beside him, Stormy grunted. About the extent of his communication lately, ever since he’d heard of Truth’s death.
‘They’ll start blistering soon,’ Gesler went on, ‘and Deadsmell and Lutes can only do so much. We got to catch up with the Fourteenth.’ He turned his head, squinted towards the front of the column. Then he rose. ‘Ain’t nobody thinking straight, not even the captain.’
Gesler made his way up the track. He approached the gathering of old Bridgeburners. ‘We been missing the obvious,’ he said.
‘Nothing new in that,’ Fiddler said, looking miserable.
Gesler nodded towards Apsalar. ‘She’s got to ride ahead and halt the army. She’s got to get ’em to bring us horses, and clothes and armour and weapons. And water and food. We won’t even catch up otherwise.’
Apsalar slowly straightened, brushing dust from her leggings. ‘I can do that,’ she said in a quiet voice.
Kalam rose and faced Captain Faradan Sort, who stood nearby. ‘The sergeant’s right. We missed the obvious.’
‘Except that there is no guarantee that anyone will believe her,’ the captain replied after a moment. ‘Perhaps, if one of us borrowed her horse.’
Apsalar frowned, then shrugged. ‘As you like.’
‘Who’s our best rider?’ Kalam asked.
‘Masan Gilani,’ Fiddler said. ‘Sure, she’s heavy infantry, but still…’
Faradan Sort squinted down the road. ‘Which squad?’
‘Urb’s, the Thirteenth.’ Fiddler pointed. ‘The one who’s standing, the tall one, the Dal Honese.’
Masan Gilani’s elongated, almond-shaped eyes narrowed as she watched the old soldiers approaching.
‘You’re in trouble,’ Scant said. ‘You did something, Gilani, and now they want your blood.’
It certainly looked that way, so Masan made no reply to Scant’s words. She thought back over all of the things she had done of late. Plenty to consider, but none came to mind that anyone might find out about, not after all this time. ‘Hey, Scant,’ she said.
The soldier looked up. ‘What?’
‘You know that big hook-blade I keep with my gear?’
Scant’s eyes brightened. ‘Yes?’
‘You can’t have it,’ she said. ‘Saltlick can have it.’
‘Thanks, Masan,’ Saltlick said.
‘I always knew,’ Hanno said, ‘you had designs on Salty. I could tell, you know.’
‘No I don’t, I just don’t like Scant, that’s all.’
‘Why don’t you like me?’
‘I just don’t, that’s all.’
They fell silent as the veterans arrived. Sergeant Gesler, his eyes on Masan, said, ‘We need you, soldier.’
‘That’s nice.’ She noted the way his eyes travelled her mostly naked frame, lingering on her bared breasts with their large, dark nipples, before, with a rapid blinking, he met her eyes once more.
‘We want you to take Apsalar’s horse and catch up with the Fourteenth.’ This was from Sergeant Strings or Fiddler or whatever his name was these days. It seemed Gesler had forgotten how to talk.
‘That’s it?’
‘Aye.’
‘All right. It’s a nice horse.’
‘We need you to convince the Adjunct we’re actually alive,’ Fiddler went on. ‘Then get her to send us mounts and supplies.’
‘All right.’
The woman presumably named Apsalar led her horse forward and handed Masan Gilani the reins.
She swung up into the saddle, then said, ‘Anybody got a spare knife or something?’
Apsalar produced one from beneath her cloak and passed it up to her.
Masan Gilani’s fine brows rose. ‘A Kethra. That will do. I’ll give it back to you when we meet up again.’
Apsalar nodded.
The Dal Honese set off.
‘Shouldn’t take long,’ Gesler said, watching as the woman, riding clear of the column, urged her horse into a canter.
‘We’ll rest for a while longer here,’ Faradan Sort said, ‘then resume our march.’
‘We could just wait,’ Fiddler said.
The captain shook her head, but offered no explanation.
The sun settled on the horizon, bleeding red out to the sides like blood beneath flayed skin. The sky overhead was raucous with sound and motion as thousands of birds winged southward. They were high up, mere black specks, flying without formation, yet their cries reached down in a chorus of terror.
To the north, beyond the range of broken, lifeless hills and steppe-land ribboned by seasonal run-off, the plain descended to form a white-crusted salt marsh, beyond which lay the sea. The marsh had once been a modest plateau, subsiding over millennia as underground streams and springs gnawed through the limestone. The caves, once high and vast, were now crushed flat or partially collapsed, and those cramped remnants were flooded or packed with silts, sealing in darkness the walls and vaulted ceilings crowded with paintings, and side chambers still home to the fossilized bones of Imass.
Surmounting this plateau there had been a walled settlement, small and modest, a chaotic array of attached residences that would have housed perhaps twenty families at the height of its occupation. The defensive walls were solid, with no gates, and for the dwellers within, ingress and egress came via the rooftops and single-pole ladders.
Yadeth Garath, the first human city, was now little more than salt-rotted rubble swallowed in silts, buried deep and unseen beneath the marsh. No history beyond the countless derivations from its ancient name remained, and of the lives and deaths and tales of all who had once lived there, not even bones survived.
Dejim Nebrahl recalled the fisher folk who had dwelt upon its ruins, living in their squalid huts on stilts, plying the waters in their round, hide boats, and walking the raised wooden platforms that crossed the natural canals wending through the swamp. They were not descendants of Yadeth Garath. They knew nothing of what swirled beneath the black silts, and this itself was an undeniable truth, that memory withered and died in the end. There was no single tree of life, no matter how unique and primary this Yadeth Garath – no, there was a forest, and time and again, a tree, its bole rotted through, toppled to swiftly vanish in the airless muck.
Dejim Nebrahl recalled those fisher folk, the way their blood tasted of fish and molluscs, dull and turgid and clouded with stupidity. If man and woman cannot – will not – remember, then they deserved all that was delivered upon them. Death, destruction and devastation. This was no god’s judgement – it was the world’s, nature’s own. Exacted in that conspiracy of indifference that so terrified and baffled humankind.
Lands subside. Waters rush in. The rains come, then never come. Forests die, rise again, then die once more. Men and women huddle with their broods in dark rooms in all their belated begging, and their eyes fill with dumb failure, and now they are crumbled specks of grey and white in black silt, motionless as the memory of stars in a long-dead night sky.
Exacting nature’s judgement, such was Dejim Nebrahl’s purpose. For the forgetful, their very shadows stalk them. For the forgetful, death ever arrives unexpectedly.
The T’rolbarahl had returned to the site of Yadeth Garath, as if drawn by some desperate instinct. Dejim Nebrahl was starving. Since his clash with the mage near the caravan, his wanderings had taken him through lands foul with rotted death. Nothing but bloated, blackened corpses, redolent with disease. Such things could not feed him.
The intelligence within the D’ivers had succumbed to visceral urgency, a terrible geas that drove him onward on the path of old memories, of places where he had once fed, the blood hot and fresh pouring down his throats.
Kanarbar Belid, now nothing but dust. Vithan Taur, the great city in the cliff-face – now even the cliff was gone. A swath of potsherds reduced to gravel was all that remained of Minikenar, once a thriving city on the banks of a river now extinct. The string of villages north of Minikenar revealed no signs that they had ever existed. Dejim Nebrahl had begun to doubt his own memories.
Driven on, across the gnawed hills and into the fetid marsh, seeking yet another village of fisher folk. But he had been too thorough the last time, all those centuries past, and none had come to take the place of the slaughtered. Perhaps some dark recollection held true, casting a haunted pall upon the swamp. Perhaps the bubbling gases still loosed ancient screams and shrieks and the boatmen from the isles, passing close, made warding gestures before swinging the tiller hard about.
Fevered, weakening, Dejim Nebrahl wandered the rotted landscape.
Until a faint scent reached the D’ivers.
Beast, and human. Vibrant, alive, and close.
The T’rolbarahl, five shadow-thewed creatures of nightmare, lifted heads and looked south, eyes narrowing. There, just beyond the hills, on the crumbling track that had once been a level road leading to Minikenar. The D’ivers set off, as dusk settled on the land.
Masan Gilani slowed her horse’s canter when the shadows thickened with the promise of night. The track was treacherous with loose cobbles and narrow gullies formed by run-off. It had been years since she’d last ridden wearing so little – nothing more than a wrap about her hips – and her thoughts travelled far back to her life on the Dal Honese plains. She’d carried less weight back then. Tall, lithe, smooth-skinned and bright with innocence. The heaviness of her full breasts and the swell of her belly and hips came much later, after the two children she’d left behind to be raised by her mother and her aunts and uncles. It was the right of all adults, man or woman, to take the path of wandering; before the empire conquered the Dal Honese, such a choice had been rare enough, and for the children, raised by kin on all sides, their health tended by shamans, midwives and shoulder-witches, the abandonment of a parent was rarely felt.
The Malazan Empire had changed all that, of course. While many adults among the tribes stayed put, even in Masan Gilani’s time, more and more men and women had set out to explore the world, and at younger ages. Fewer children were born; mixed-bloods were more common, once warriors returned home with new husbands or wives, and new ways suffused the lives of the Dal Honese. For that was one thing that had not changed over time – we ever return home. When our wandering is done.
She missed those rich grasslands and their young, fresh winds. The heaving clouds of the coming rains, the thunder in the earth as wild herds passed in their annual migrations. And her riding, always on the strong, barely tamed crossbred horses of the Dal Honese, the faint streaks of their zebra heritage as subtle on their hides as the play of sunlight on reeds. Beasts as likely to buck as gallop, hungry to bite with pure evil in their red-rimmed eyes. Oh, how she loved those horses.
Apsalar’s mount was a far finer breed, of course. Long-limbed and graceful, and Masan Gilani could not resist admiring the play of sleek muscles beneath her and the intelligence in its dark, liquid eyes.
The horse shied suddenly in the growing gloom, head lifting. Startled, Masan Gilani reached for the kethra knife she had slipped into a fold in the saddle.
Shadows took shape on all sides, lunged. The horse reared, screaming as blood sprayed.
Masan Gilani rolled backward in a tight somersault, clearing the rump of the staggering beast and landing lightly in a half-crouch. Slashing the heavy knife to her right as a midnight-limbed creature rushed her. She felt the blade cut deep, scoring across two out-thrust forelimbs. A bestial cry of pain, then the thing reared back, dropping to all fours – and stumbling on those crippled forelimbs.
Reversing grip, she leapt to close on the apparition, and drove the knife down into the back of its scaled, feline neck. The beast collapsed, sagging against her shins.
A heavy sound to her left, as the horse fell onto its side, four more of the demons tearing into it. Legs kicked spasmodically, then swung upward as the horse was rolled onto its back, exposing its belly. Terrible snarling sounds accompanied the savage evisceration.
Leaping over the dead demon, Masan Gilani ran into the darkness.
A demon pursued her.
It was too fast. Footfalls sounded close behind her, then ceased.
She threw herself down into a hard, bruising roll, saw the blur of the demon’s long body pass over her. Masan Gilani slashed out with the knife, cutting through a tendon on the creature’s right back leg.
It shrieked, careening in mid-air, the cut-through leg folding beneath its haunches as it landed and its hips twisting round with the momentum.
Masan Gilani flung the knife. The weighted blade struck its shoulder, point and edge slicing through muscle to caroom off the scapula and spin into the night.
Regaining her feet, the Dal Honese plunged after it, launching herself over the spitting beast.
Talons raked down her left thigh, pitching her round, off-balance. She landed awkwardly against a slope of stones, the impact numbing her left shoulder. Sliding downward, back towards the demon, Masan dug her feet into the slope’s side, then scrambled up the incline, flinging out handfuls of sand and gravel into her wake.
A sharp edge sliced along the back of her left hand, down to the bone – she’d found the kethra, lying on the slope. Grasping the grip with suddenly slick fingers, Masan Gilani continued her desperate clamber upward.
Another leap from behind brought the demon close, but it slid back down, spitting and hissing as the bank sagged in a clatter of stones and dust.
Reaching the crest, Masan pulled herself onto her feet, then ran, half-blind in the darkness. She heard the demon make another attempt, followed by another shower of sliding stones and rubble. Ahead she could make out a gully of some sort, high-walled and narrow. Two strides from it, she threw herself to the ground in response to a deafening howl that tore through the night.
Another howl answered it, reverberating among the crags, a sound like a thousand souls plunging into the Abyss. Gelid terror froze Masan Gilani’s limbs, drained from her all strength, all will. She lay in the grit, her gasps puffing tiny clouds of dust before her face, her eyes wide and seeing nothing but the scatter of rocks marking the gully’s fan.
From somewhere beyond the slope, down where her horse had died, came the sound of hissing, rising from three, perhaps four throats. Something in those eerie, almost-human voices whispered terror and panic.
A third howl filled the dark, coming from somewhere to the south, close enough to rattle her sanity. She found her forearms reaching out, her right hand clawing furrows in the scree, the kethra knife still gripped tight as she could manage with her blood-smeared left hand.
Not wolves. Gods below, the throats that loosed those howls—
A sudden heavy gusting sound, to her right, too close. She twisted her head round, the motion involuntary, and cold seeped down through her paralysed body as if sinking roots into the hard ground. A wolf but not a wolf, padding down a steep slope to land silent on the same broad ledge Masan Gilani was lying on – a wolf, but huge, as big as a Dal Honese horse, deep grey or black – there was no way to be certain. It paused, stood motionless for a moment in full profile, its attention clearly fixed on something ahead, down on the road.
Then the massive beast’s head swung round, and Masan Gilani found herself staring into lambent, amber eyes, like twin pits into madness.
Her heart stopped in her chest. She could not draw breath, could not pull her gaze from that creature’s deathly regard.
Then, a slow – so very slow – closing of those eyes, down to the thinnest slits – and the head swung back.
The beast padded towards the crest. Stared down for a time, then slipped down over the edge. And vanished from sight.
Sudden air flooded her lungs, thick with dust. She coughed – impossible not to – twisting round into a ball, hacking and gagging, spitting out gobs of gritty phlegm. Helpless, giving herself – giving everything – away. Still coughing, Masan Gilani waited for the beast to return, to pick her up in its huge jaws, to shake her once, hard, hard enough to snap her neck, her spine, to crunch down on her ribcage, crushing everything inside.
She slowly regained control of her breathing, still lying on sweat-soaked ground, shivers rippling through her.
From somewhere far overhead, in that dark sky, she heard birds, crying out. A thousand voices, ten thousand. She did not know that birds flew at night. Celestial voices, winging south as fast as unseen wings could take them.
Closer by…no sound at all.
Masan Gilani rolled onto her back, stared unseeing upward, feeling blood streaming down her slashed thigh. Wait till Saltlick and the rest hear about this one…
Dejim Nebrahl raced through the darkness, three beasts in full flight, a fourth limping in their wake, already far behind. Too weak, made mindless with hunger, all cunning lost, and now yet one more D’ivers kin was dead. Killed effortlessly by a mere human, who then crippled another with a lazy flick of that knife.
The T’rolbarahl needed to feed. The horse’s blood had barely begun to slake a depthless thirst, yet with it came a whisper of strength, a return to sanity.
Dejim Nebrahl was being hunted. An outrage, that such a thing could be. The stench of the creatures rode the wind, seeming to gust in from all sides except directly ahead. Fierce, ancient life and deadly desire, bitter to the T’rolbarahl’s senses. What manner of beasts were these?
The fourth kin, lagging half a league behind now, could feel the nearness of the pursuers, loping unseen, seemingly content to keep pace, almost uninterested in closing, in finishing off this wounded D’ivers. They had announced themselves with their howls, but since then, naught but silence, and the palpable nearness of their presence.
