The Malazan Empire, page 571
He looked up as Ahlrada Ahn strode past them again, heading for the front of the column. ‘Soon,’ the warrior reminded them.
The journey resumed.
Captain Varat Taun, second to Atri-Preda Yan Tovis, Twilight, waved his Letherii archers forward. He spat in an effort to get the taste of mud from his mouth, but it was hopeless. The sorcery of the Holds had been let loose here, in coruscating waves of annihilation – the air stank of it, and in the wind he could hear the echoes of ten thousand soldiers dying, and the mud on his tongue was that of pulverized flesh, gritty with fragments of bone.
Yet perhaps there was a kind of gift in all of this, a measure providing perspective. For, grim as the Letherii Empire under the rule of the Tiste Edur had become, well, there were still green hills, farms, and blue sky overhead. Children were born to mothers and joyous tears flowed easy down warm, soft cheeks, the eyes brimming with love…ah, my darling wife, these memories of you are all that hold me together, all that keep me sane. You and our precious daughter. I will see you again. I promise that. Perhaps soon.
Ahlrada Ahn was, once more, at the head of the column. Poor man. His facial features gave him away quickly enough, to a soldier hailing from Bluerose, such as Varat Taun. An imposter – what were the reasons for such deception? Survival, maybe. That and nothing more. Yet he had heard from Letherii slaves serving the Tiste Edur there was an ancient enmity between the Edur and the Tiste Andii, and if the Edur knew of the hidden enclaves in Bluerose, of their hated dark-skinned kin, well…
And so Ahlrada Ahn was among them here. A spy. Varat Taun wished him success. The Onyx Order had been benign rulers, after all – of course, under the present circumstances, the past was an invitation to romantic idealism.
Even considering that, it could not have been worse than now.
Another pointless battle awaited them. More Letherii dead. He so wanted Twilight’s respect, and this command could prove a true testing ground. Could Varat command well? Could he show that fine balance between ferocity and caution? Ah, but I have apprenticed myself to the best commander of the Letherii armies since Preda Unnutal Hebaz, have I not?
That thought alone seemed to redouble the pressure he felt.
The trench they had been trudging along debouched onto a muddy plain, the surface chewed by horse hoofs and cart wheels and the craters of sorcerous detonations. Here, the reek of rotting flesh hung like a mist. Gravestones were visible here and there, pitched askew or broken, and there was splintered wood – black with sodden decay – and thin white bones amidst the dead still clothed in flesh.
Perhaps half a league away ran a ridge, possibly a raised road, and figures were visible there, in a ragged line, marching towards the distant battle, pikes on their backs.
‘Quickly!’ Sathbaro Rangar hissed, hobbling forward. ‘Stay low, gather round – no, there! Crouch, you fools! We must leave!’
Steth and Aystar, brother and sister, who had shared memories of pain, hands and feet nailed to wood, ravens at their faces tearing at their eyes – terrible nightmares, the conjurings of creative imaginations, said their mother, Minala – crept forward through the gloom of the fissure, the rocky floor beneath them slick, sharp-edged, treacherous.
Neither had yet fought, although both voiced their zeal, for they were still too young, or so Mother had decided. But Steth was ten years of age, and Aystar his sister was nine; and they wore the armour of the Company of Shadow, weapons at their belts, and they had trained with the others, as hard and diligently as any of them. And somewhere ahead stood their favourite sentinel, guarding the passage. They were sneaking up on him, their favourite game of all.
Crouching, they drew closer to where he usually stood.
And then a grating voice spoke from their left. ‘You two breathe too loud.’
Aystar squealed in frustration, jumping up. ‘It’s Steth! I don’t breathe at all! I’m just like you!’ She advanced on the hulking T’lan Imass who stood with his back to the crevasse wall. Then she flung herself at him, arms wrapping about his midsection.
Onrack’s dark, empty gaze settled upon her. Then the withered hand not holding the sword reached up and gingerly patted her on the head. ‘You are breathing now,’ the warrior said.
‘And you smell like dust and worse.’
Steth moved two paces past Onrack’s position and perched himself atop a boulder, squinting into the gloom beyond. ‘I saw a rat today,’ he said. ‘Shot two arrows at it. One came close. Really close.’
‘Climb down from there,’ the T’lan Imass said, prying Aystar’s arms from his waist. ‘You present a target in silhouette.’
‘Nobody’s coming any more, Onrack,’ the boy said, twisting round as the undead warrior approached. ‘They’ve given up – we were too nasty for them. Mother was talking about leaving—’
The arrow took him full on the side of the head, in the temple, punching through bone and spinning the boy round, legs sliding out onto a side of the boulder, then, with a limp roll, Steth fell to the ground.
Aystar began screaming, a piercing cry that rang up and down the fissure, as Onrack shoved her behind him and said, ‘Run. Back, stay along a wall. Run.’
More arrows hissed down the length of the crevasse, two of them thudding into Onrack with puffs of dust. He pulled them loose and dropped them to the floor, striding forward and taking his sword into both hands.
Minala’s face looked old, drawn with days and nights of fear and worry, the relentless pressure of waiting, of looking upon her adopted children, rank on rank, and seeing naught but soldiers, who had learned to kill, who had learned to watch their comrades die.
All to defend a vacant throne.
Trull Sengar could comprehend the mocking absurdity of this stand. A ghost had claimed the First Throne, a thing of shadows so faded from this world even the undead T’lan Imass looked bloated with excess beside it. A ghost, a god, a gauze-thin web-tracing of desire, possessiveness and nefarious designs – this is what had claimed the seat of power, over all the T’lan Imass, and would now see it held, blocked against intruders.
There were broken T’lan Imass out there, somewhere, who sought to usurp the First Throne, to take its power and gift it to the Crippled God – to the force that now chained all of the Tiste Edur. The Crippled God, who had given Rhulad a sword riven with a terrible curse. Yet, for that fallen creature, an army of Edur was not enough. An army of Letherii was not enough. No, it wanted the T’lan Imass.
And we would stop him, this Crippled God. This pathetic little army of ours.
Onrack had promised anger, with the battle that would, inevitably, come at last. But Trull knew that anger would not be enough, nor what he himself felt: desperation. Nor Minala’s harsh terror, nor, he now believed, the stolid insensibility of Monok Ochem and Ibra Gholan – that too, was doomed to fail. What a menagerie we are.
He pulled his gaze from Minala, glanced over to where stood Monok Ochem, motionless before the arched entranceway leading into the throne room. The bonecaster had not moved in at least three cycles of sleeping and waking. The silver-tipped fur on his shoulders shimmered vaguely in the lantern light. Then, as Trull studied the figure, he saw the head cock slightly.
Well—
A child’s shrieking, echoing from up the passage, brought Trull Sengar to his feet. His spear leaned against a wall – snatching it in one hand he rushed towards the cries.
Aystar suddenly appeared, arms outflung, her face a blur of white – ‘Steth’s dead! He’s been killed! He’s dead—’
And then Minala was in the child’s path, wrapping her in a fierce hug then twisting round. ‘Panek! Gather the soldiers!’
The second line of defence, halfway between Onrack’s position and the main encampment, was held by Ibra Gholan, and this T’lan Imass turned as Trull Sengar approached.
‘Onrack battles,’ Ibra Gholan said. ‘To slow their advance. There are many Tiste Edur this time. And humans. A shaman is among them, an Edur, wielding chaotic power. This time, Trull Sengar, they mean to take the First Throne.’
He could hear sounds of fighting now. Onrack, alone against a mass of Trull’s own kin. And a damned warlock. ‘Get Monok Ochem up here, then! If that warlock decides to unleash a wave of sorcery, we’re finished.’
‘Perhaps you are—’
‘You don’t understand, you sack of bones! Chaotic sorcery! We need to kill that bastard!’ And Trull moved forward, leaving Ibra Gholan behind.
Ahlrada Ahn watched three of his warriors fall to the T’lan Imass’s huge stone sword – the undead bastard had yet to take a step back from the narrow choke-point in the passage. Ahlrada Ahn turned to Sathbaro Rangar. ‘We need to drive that thing back! It won’t tire – it can hold that position for ever!’
Taralack Veed pushed into view. ‘Send Icarium against it!’
‘The Jhag is empty,’ the warlock said dismissively. ‘Withdraw your warriors, Ahlrada Ahn. And get those Letherii to cease with their arrows – I do not want an errant shaft in the back.’ Sathbaro Rangar then moved forward.
And Ahlrada Ahn saw a figure coming up behind the T’lan Imass, a figure wielding a spear – tall, hidden in shadows, yet…a familiar silhouette, the fluid movement – he saw an arrow hiss past the undead’s shoulder, then saw that spear shaft flick it aside.
No. This cannot be. I am mistaken. ‘Sathbaro!’
The T’lan Imass suddenly yielded its position, stepping back into darkness, and then it and the other figure moved away, up the passage—
Sathbaro Rangar hobbled closer to the choke-point, power building round him, a silver-etched rising wave, flickering argent. The damp stone of the fissure’s walls began snapping, a strange percussive sound as water burst into steam. A large sheet of rock near the narrowed portal suddenly exfoliated, crashing down to shatter on the floor.
The sorcery lifted higher, fuller, spreading out to the sides, then over Sathbaro’s head, a standing wave of power that crackled and hissed like a thousand serpents.
Ahlrada Ahn moved forward. ‘Sathbaro! Wait!’
But the warlock ignored him, and with a roar the seething wave of magic plunged into the choke-point, blistering a path up the channel—
—where it suddenly shattered.
The concussion pushed Ahlrada Ahn back three steps, a wave of heat striking him like a fist.
Sathbaro Rangar screamed.
As something huge appeared in the choke-point, humped shoulders pushing through the aperture. Gaunt with undeath, its skin a mottled map of grey and black, silver-tipped fur on the neck and reaching along the shoulders like hackles, the creature emerged from the choke-point and rushed on its knuckles and hand-like hind feet – straight for Sathbaro Rangar.
Ahlrada Ahn shouted out a warning—
—too late, for the beast reached out and closed enormous hands on the warlock, lifted him into the air, tore off one arm, then the other, blood gouting as the apparition then twisted the shrieking Sathbaro round and bit into the back of the Edur’s neck, huge canines sinking deep. As the jaws clenched, the undead demon’s head snapped back – and ripped half the neck away – Sathbaro’s spine racing out like an anchor-chain, whipping bloody in the air—
The beast then flung the corpse aside, and advanced on Ahlrada Ahn.
Icarium stood over the corpse of a child, stared down at the fluids leaking from the broken skull, at the glazed eyes and half-open mouth. The Jhag stood as if rooted, trembling.
Taralack Veed was before him. ‘Now, Slayer. Now is the time!’
‘No need,’ Icarium muttered. ‘No need for this.’
‘Listen to me—’
‘Be silent. I will not kill children. I will have none of this—’
A detonation of sorcery ahead, the concussion rolling back, rocking them both. Shouts, then screams. And a bestial snarl. Shrieks, cries of horror from the Letherii and Edur, then the sound of fear.
‘Icarium! A demon is upon us! A demon! No child, no children – do you see? You must act – now! Show them! Show the Edur what is within you!’
Taralack was dragging at his arm. Frowning, Icarium allowed himself to be pulled forward, through a mass of cowering Edur. No, I do not want this – yet he could feel the pounding of his hearts, rising like war drums with songs of fire –
The stench of spilled blood and waste, and both warriors arrived to witness the savage death of Sathbaro Rangar.
And the Soletaken then surged into a charge – and Ahlrada Ahn – the brave warrior, seeking to protect his soldiers – stepped into the creature’s path.
Icarium found his single-edged sword in his right hand – he did not recall unsheathing it – and he was moving forward, every motion seeming improbably slow, disjointed, as he reached out, grasping the Tiste Edur and throwing him back as if he weighed little more than a cloth hanging; and then the Jhag advanced to meet the undead ape.
He saw it suddenly recoil.
Another step forward, as a strange humming filled Icarium’s skull, and the beast backed further away, into the choke-point, then beyond, where it whirled round and fled up the passage.
Icarium staggered, gasped, threw one hand up against one edge of the narrowed portal – felt its brittle surface beneath his palm. The eerie song in his mind faded—
And then Edur were plunging past him, rushing through the breach. And once more, ahead, the sounds of battle. Hard iron clashing, all scent of sorcery gone—
Beyond the choke-point, Ahlrada Ahn saw before him a widening of the fissure, and there, in a ragged line at least three deep, stood soldiers of some kind, weapons wavering, pale smudged faces beneath helms – Sisters take me, they are so young! What is this? Children face us!
And then he saw the two T’lan Imass, and between them a tall, grey-skinned figure – no. No, it cannot be – we left him, we—
A savage war-cry from Kholb Harat, echoed almost immediately by Saur Bathrada. ‘Trull Sengar! The traitor is before us!’
‘You are mine!’
Despite Saur’s bold claim, both he and Kholb lunged together, closing on Trull Sengar.
Then the remaining Edur were spreading out, rushing the line of armoured children, and the two forces collided in a cacophony of ringing weapons and shields. Screams of pain and rage rebounded off the battered stone walls.
And Ahlrada Ahn stood, frozen in place, watching, disbelieving.
Trull Sengar fought a frantic defence with his spear, as weapons slashed and thrust at him from both Saur and Kholb. They were forcing him back – and Ahlrada Ahn could see, could understand – Trull was seeking to protect these children – the ones behind him—
Edur screams – the two T’lan Imass were pushing forward in counter-attack, one to either side, and it seemed nothing could stop them.
Yet still he stood, and then, with a brutal, hoarse cry, he sprang forward.
Trull Sengar knew these two warriors. He could see the hatred in their eyes, felt their fury in the weight of their blows as they sought to batter through his guard – he could not hold them much longer. And when he fell, he knew the pitifully young soldiers behind would come face to face with these Edur killers.
Where was Apt? Why was Minala holding the demon back – what more could assail them?
Someone else was shouting his name now, from among the packed Edur. A name voiced, not in rage, but in anguish – but Trull had no time to look, no time even to wonder – Kholb had laid a blade along his left wrist, opening the flesh wide, and blood was streaming along the underneath of that forearm, seeping into the hand’s grip on the shaft.
Not much longer. They’ve improved, the both of them—
He then saw a Merude cutlass slash inward from behind Kholb, taking the warrior solidly in the neck, through – and Kholb Harat’s head rolled on its side, tumbled down. The body wavered a moment, then crumpled.
A snarling curse from Saur Bathrada, who spun round, stabbing low, his sword digging deep into the newcomer’s right thigh—
And Trull lunged, sinking the point of his spear into Saur’s forehead, just beneath the rim of the helmet. And saw, with horror, both of the warrior’s eyes leap from their sockets as if on strings as the head pitched back.
Trull dragged his weapon free as an Edur staggered into him, gasping, ‘Trull! Trull Sengar!’
‘Ahlrada?’
The warrior twisted round, raising both cutlasses. ‘I fight at your side, Trull! Amends – please, I beg you!’
Amends? ‘I don’t understand – but I do not doubt. Welcome—’
A sound was building in Trull’s head, seeming to assail him from every direction. He saw a child clamp hands to ears off to his left, then another one—
‘Trull Sengar! It is the Jhag! Sisters take us, he is coming!’
Who? What?
What is that sound?
Onrack the Broken saw the Jhag, felt the power growing in the figure that staggered forward as if drunk, and the T’lan Imass moved into his path. Is this their leader? Jaghut blood, yes. Oh, how the old bitterness and fury rises again—
The Jhag suddenly straightened, raising his sword, and the high-pitched moaning burgeoned with physical force, pummelling Onrack back a step, and the T’lan Imass saw, at last, the Jhag’s eyes.
Flat, lifeless, then seeming to light, all at once, with a dreadful rage.
The tall, olive-hued warrior surged at him, weapon flashing with blinding speed.
Onrack caught that blade on his sword, slashed high in riposte, intending to take off the Jhag’s head – and, impossibly, that sword was there to meet his own, with a force that rocked the T’lan Imass. A hand punched outward, caught the undead warrior on the chest, lifting him clear from the rock floor—
A heavy crash against a wall, ribs splintering. Sliding down, Onrack landed on his feet, crouching to gather himself, then he launched himself forward once more—
The Jhag was moving past, straight for Minala’s front line of young soldiers, the keening sound now deafening—
