The Malazan Empire, page 66
The demon reeled beneath the blows, desperately parrying every attack, no longer counterattacking. The light bleeding from the axe flickered, dimmed, flared fitfully as darkness closed in around the blade. Shrieking, the demon launched itself at Rake. As it descended over the Tiste Andii, Crokus saw a streak of black burst from the demon’s back, slicing through the cloak. The ax flew from the creature’s hands, its fire dying as it clattered on the ground.
Squealing in horror, the demon clawed at the sword impaling it. Black smoke spread in swift tendrils from the weapon, engulfing the demon. The smoke twisted, became chains, drawing taut. The Galayn screamed in earnest.
Rake regained his feet and pushed the sword through the demon’s chest until the hilt jammed against bone. The demon sank to its knees, its black eyes locking with Rake’s own.
The swimming stars settled, the flagstones beneath the thief became solid once again, though warped and twisted. Crokus swallowed bile, his eyes fixed on the demon. It seemed to collapse in on itself, the chains of black smoke ever tightening, pulling the creature into the sword. It toppled backward and Rake drove the weapon’s point into the cobbled street, pinning the demon. Then the Tiste Andii leaned heavily on the hilt, and Crokus now noticed the blood-soaked cloth surrounding Rake’s shoulder, where the demon’s hand had struck. Wearily, the Tiste Andii swung his gaze to the thief.
“Move quickly,” he rasped. “The alchemist is in danger. I cannot protect him now. Hurry, Coin Bearer.”
Crokus whirled and ran.
The death of Travale, third in the Cabal, still echoed in their thoughts. The witch Derudan had inscribed an ash circle on the floor in the center of the chamber. With Baruk’s help, she placed the two plush chairs within it, and now sat, smoking steadily, her dark eyes following the alchemist as he paced.
Baruk found himself reluctant to enter the protective circle. While they would be safe there, surrounded by High Tennes sorcery, they would not be able to counterattack, should Vorcan arrive. More, some things could penetrate the defenses of magic. Otataral, that strange rustlike ore from the Tanno Hills of Seven Cities, immediately came to mind. It was unlikely that Vorcan would possess such material, given that she was a High Mage, yet still Baruk felt reluctant to place himself in a position where he could not use his Warren against the assassin.
“Those of the Cabal,” Derudan said slowly, “who are now dead, yes? Stubborn, convinced of their own invincibility. No doubt they paced restless steps, awaiting the assassin’s imminent arrival.”
Baruk paused to reply, but was interrupted by a loud, inhuman scream from outside. This was followed immediately by a concussion that rattled the walls. The alchemist made a move toward the door.
“Wait!” Derudan called from the circle. “Appease not this curiosity, Baruk, for Vorcan will surely take advantage, yes?”
“A ward was shattered,” Baruk said. “My defenses are breached.”
“More the reason for caution,” Derudan admonished. “Friend, I plead with you, join me here.”
“Very well,” Baruk sighed, moving toward her. A gust of air brushed the left side of his face. Derudan cried out a warning even as the alchemist turned.
Vorcan, her gloved hands glowing red, surged toward Baruk. He raised his arms, knowing full well that he would be too late. At that moment, however, another figure appeared, emerging from darkness to intercept the Master Assassin with a flurry of blows. Vorcan reeled back, then lashed out with a hand, catching her attacker a glancing blow.
An agonized shriek rang through the chamber. Baruk stared, only now realizing that his protector was a Tiste Andii woman. He stepped aside lithely as she flew past him to strike the floor then the wall, where she lay unmoving. The alchemist pulled his gaze back to Vorcan, seeing that one of her hands no longer glowed.
He gestured, and virulent sorcery erupted from his arm, arcing yellow lightning. Vorcan hissed a counter-spell and the lightning was swallowed by a red haze before her that dimmed quickly, then disappeared. She advanced.
Vaguely, Baruk heard the witch Derudan shouting at him. Yet it was the Mistress of the Assassins’ death-filled eyes that held him. The ease with which she’d dispelled his power made it clear that she was his master in sorcery. All he could do now, he understood with clarity, was await his death.
But Baruk heard a grunt behind him, then Vorcan gasped. The hilt of a dagger protruded from the assassin’s chest. Frowning, she reached for it, then pulled it out and tossed it aside.
“All . . .” the alchemist heard the Tiste Andii woman gasp from the floor behind him “. . . all I can do. My apologies, Lord.”
Derudan appeared behind Vorcan. As she raised her hands and began an incantation, Vorcan whirled and something sped from her hand. The witch grunted, then crumpled.
Anguish flooded Baruk. With a wordless roar he launched himself at Vorcan. She laughed and ducked to one side, throwing out her glowing hand. The alchemist twisted, off-balance, narrowly avoiding the killing touch, then staggered past. He heard her laughter again, as she moved in behind him.
A dozen feet in front of Baruk was the door. The alchemist’s eyes widened to find it open. A youth crouched there, holding blockish objects in each hand.
Expecting at any moment to feel Vorcan’s touch, Baruk threw himself forward. He saw the boy straighten at the same time and thrust forward first his right arm, then his left. As the alchemist fell toward the floor, two bricks flew over him. He heard them strike the woman behind him, one making a crunching sound, the other crackling. A flash of red accompanied the crackle.
As he struck the floor, the breath was hammered from Baruk’s lungs. Agonized seconds passed as he struggled to draw air into his tortured chest. He rolled onto his back. Vorcan, he saw, lay motionless almost against his feet. The boy’s face came into view, streaked with sweat, brow furrowed with concern.
“Alchemist Baruk?” he asked.
The man nodded.
The boy sighed, then grinned. “You’re alive. Good. Rallick sent me to warn you.”
Baruk sat up. “The witch,” he said hoarsely. He pointed. “Tend to her, please.”
He felt his strength returning as he watched the boy crouch beside Derudan.
“She’s breathing,” Crokus announced. “There’s some kind of knife in her, looks like it’s covered in sap.” He reached down to touch it.
“No!” Baruk shouted.
Crokus jumped back in alarm.
“Poison,” the alchemist said, climbing to his feet. “Help me to her, quickly.” A moment later he knelt beside Derudan. A quick glance at the saplike substance coating the blade confirmed his suspicion. “White paralt,” he said.
“That’s a spider, isn’t it?”
Baruk laid a hand on Derudan. “Your knowledge surprises me, boy,” he said. “Fortunately, she’s in the home of the one man who possesses its antidote.” He muttered something and a vial appeared in his hand.
“Rallick said there was no antidote to white paralt.”
“It’s not something I’m likely to announce.” Baruk unstoppered the vial and poured the contents down the witch’s throat, triggering a coughing fit. As Derudan’s breathing became even, Baruk leaned back and eyed Crokus. “You seem well acquainted with Rallick. What’s your name?”
“Crokus. Mammot was my uncle, sir. I saw him die.”
Derudan’s eyelids flickered, then opened. She smiled lazily. “What I see pleases me,” she said weakly. “Yes?”
Baruk returned the smile. “Yes, my friend. But I make no claim for defeating Vorcan. That falls to Crokus, nephew of Mammot.”
Derudan’s gaze swung to the youth. “Ah, the one I came near to treading on earlier this evening.” The amusement left her expression. “I am sorry for Mammot, child.”
“So am I,” he replied.
Baruk rose and turned. He hissed a vehement curse. Vorcan’s body was gone. “She’s fled.” He hurried over to the Tiste Andii woman; he bent down and examined her. She was dead. “I will soon know your name,” he whispered, “and I will remember it.”
“I have to go!” Crokus announced.
Baruk wondered at the sudden panic in the boy’s face.
“I mean,” Crokus continued, “if everything’s over here, that is.”
“I believe it is,” the alchemist answered. “I thank you, Crokus, for your skill at throwing bricks.”
The boy went to the door. He paused, then tossed a coin into the air. He caught it, and grinned tightly. “Just lucky, I suppose.” Then he was gone.
Captain Paran crouched beside Coll’s bed. “Still asleep,” he said, rising and facing Whiskeyjack. “Go ahead.”
Kalam and the two saboteurs had arrived minutes earlier. So far, the sergeant mused, no losses, though the captain’s armor had taken a beating and the look in his face when he’d entered the room with Lorn’s body in his arms warned Whiskeyjack away from probing Paran’s state of mind too deeply. The Adjunct’s body now occupied a second bed, motionless and pale, a strange ironic smile curving her bloodless lips.
The sergeant studied everyone in the small room, the faces he knew so well all watching him, waiting. His gaze held on Sorry, or Apsalar as she now called herself. Whatever Mallet had done to her, she was a changed woman from the one he’d known. Less, and somehow more as well. Even Mallet was unsure of what he’d done. Certain memories, skills, had been freed, and with them a brutal knowledge. The pain was there in the woman’s eyes, a pain layered in years of horror—yet it seemed that she had it under control, that she’d found a way, a strength, to live with what she’d been. Her only words upon meeting him had been: “I wish to return home, Sergeant.”
He had no objection, though he wondered how she planned to cross two continents and the ocean between them. Whiskeyjack reached for the wrapped forearm bones lying on the table. “Yes, sir,” he said, in answer to Paran’s command.
The hot sweaty air in the room thickened with tension. Whiskeyjack hesitated. There’d been a battle in Darujhistan’s streets, and Quick Ben had confirmed the Galayn lord’s death. In fact, the black wizard seemed still in shock. The sergeant sighed under his breath and massaged his newly healed leg, then drove the forearm’s blade into the tabletop.
Contact was immediate. High Fist Dujek’s gravelly voice filled the room. “About time, Whiskeyjack! Don’t bother telling me about the Galayn lord—Tayschrenn’s in a coma or something. Everyone in Headquarters heard his scream. So Anomander Rake took out the beast. What else?”
Whiskeyjack glanced at Paran, who nodded deferentially. “Adjunct Lorn’s gambit failed,” the sergeant said. “She’s dead. We have her body with us. The intersections remain mined—we’re not detonating them, High Fist, since they’re likely to open the gas caverns beneath the city and turn us all into ash. So.” He drew a deep breath, feeling a twinge from his leg—Mallet had done what he could, and that’d been a lot, but some damage remained, and it made him feel fragile. “So,” he repeated softly, “we’re pulling out, High Fist.”
Dujek was silent, then he grunted. “Problems, Whiskeyjack. One, we’re about to lose Pale. As I suspected, Caladan Brood left the Crimson Guard to handle things up north, and marched down here with his Tiste Andii. He’s also got Rhivi with him, and Jorrick’s Barghast, who’ve just finished chewing up Gold Moranth. Two, it gets worse.” The High Fist swallowed audibly. “Seven Cities is maybe a week away from open rebellion. The Empress knows it. Some Claw from Genabaris arrived half an hour ago, looking for Tayschrenn. My people got to him first. Whiskeyjack, he was carrying a handwritten message from the Empress to Tayschrenn. I’ve just been outlawed by the Empire. It’s official, and Tayschrenn was to have effected my arrest and execution. We’re on our own, friend.”
The room was silent. Whiskeyjack closed his eyes briefly. “Understood, High Fist. So, when do you march?”
“Seems the Black Moranth are with us—don’t ask why. Anyway, I have a parley at dawn tomorrow with Caladan Brood and Kallor. That will decide matters, I suspect. Either he lets us walk, or he kills us taking Pale. Everything’s riding on what he knows about the Pannion Seer.”
Whiskeyjack said, “We’re rendezvousing with some Black Moranth in a couple of days, High Fist. Makes me wonder how much they’d guessed when that arrangement was made. Anyway, they’ll take us to you, wherever you are.”
“No,” Dujek replied. “We may be under siege here. The Black will drop you off on the Catlin Plain. Their orders are clear on this, but you’re welcome to try overruling them.”
The sergeant grimaced. Not likely. “Catlin Plain it is. Just means it’ll take us longer to get to you, sir.”
The glow surrounding the bones flickered briefly and they heard an echoing thump. Fiddler chuckled. Dujek had just pounded a fist on the table at his end of the conversation.
Whiskeyjack shot the saboteur a ferocious look.
“Captain Paran?” Dujek bellowed.
“Here, High Fist,” Paran replied, stepping forward.
“What I’m about to say is to Whiskeyjack, but I want you to hear it, Captain.”
“I’m listening.”
“Sergeant, if you want to be in my army, you’d better get used to the new order. First, I’m placing the Bridgeburners under Captain Paran’s command. Second, you’re not a sergeant anymore, Whiskeyjack. You are my second-in-command, and that means responsibilities. I don’t want you anywhere near Pale. And you know I’m right, dammit. Captain Paran?”
“Yes?”
“Whiskeyjack’s squad has earned the right to walk. Understood? If any of them elect to rejoin the Bridgeburners, fine. But I don’t want any recriminations if they decide otherwise. I trust that’s clear.”
“Yes, High Fist.”
“And with Whiskeyjack between commissions,” Dujek continued inexorably, “he’s just coming along for the ride, if you follow me, Captain.”
Paran grinned. “I do.”
“Now, the Black Moranth will know the story by the time they pick you up, so go with them.”
“Yes, High Fist.”
Dujek growled, “Questions, Whiskeyjack?”
“No,” the grizzled veteran answered glumly.
“All right. Hopefully, we’ll talk later.”
The bones’ glow died.
Captain Paran rounded on the soldiers. He studied each face. They were to have been my command. I could not have done better anywhere. “Very well,” he said gruffly. “Who is ready to be outlawed and counted among Dujek’s rebels?”
Trotts was the first to rise, his teeth bared. He was followed by Quick Ben, Hedge, and Mallet.
There was a shocked silence, then Kalam nodded at Fiddler and cleared his throat. “We’re with you, only we’re not going with you. Me and Fiddler, that is.”
“Can you explain that?” Paran asked quietly.
Apsalar spoke up, surprising everyone. “They’ll find that hard to do, Captain. And, I admit, I’m not sure what they’re up to, but they’re coming with me. Back to the Empire. Home.”
With an uneasy shrug, Fiddler rose and faced Whiskeyjack. “We feel we owe it to her, sir,” he said. He looked to the captain. “And we’re settled on it, sir. But we’re coming back, if we can.”
Bemused, Whiskeyjack pushed himself painfully to his feet. As he turned to face Paran, he froze. Behind the captain, Coll sat upright on the bed. “Um,” Whiskeyjack said, gesturing.
Tension burgeoned in the room once again as everyone swung to Coll. Paran stepped forward in genuine relief.
“Coll! I’m—” He stopped abruptly, then said tonelessly, “You’ve been awake for some time, I see.”
Coll’s eyes flicked to the bones stuck in the tabletop, then returned to Paran. “Heard it all,” he said. “So tell me, Paran, do you soldiers need any help getting out of Darujhistan?”
Rallick stood in the darkness beneath the trees at the edge of the glade. It seemed that his magic-deadening powers had proved insufficient after all. He’d been driven from his seat by what had felt like a giant hand—a god’s hand, sure and powerful and unyielding. He’d watched in astonishment as a maze of roots clambered swiftly across the clearing, headed toward the terrace. He’d heard a shriek, then the roots returned, wrapped around a man-shaped . . . apparition, which the roots pulled unceremoniously into the earth.
Rallick had been filled suddenly with near-euphoria. He knew with unaccountable certainty, that what grew here was right, and just.
It was new, young. Even now, as he continued watching it, he saw trembles of shaping ripple beneath its angular, geometric surfaces. What had been no more than a tree stump less than an hour ago was now a house. A massive door lay half buried in shadows beneath an arching branch. Vines barred shuttered windows. A balcony hung above and to the left of the door, festooned with leaves and creepers. It led into a kind of tower, turreted above the second story and shingled to a gnarled peak. Another tower marked the house’s front right flank, this one stockier and windowless, its roof flat with jagged merlons lining the edge. He suspected that this roof was a platform, with access through a trapdoor of some kind.
The glade around the structure had changed, too, becoming mounded here and there as if the house’s yard was a burial ground. Young, scraggly trees ringed each oblong mound, each growing as if an invisible wind twisted them away from the humped, grassy earth. The roots had dragged the apparition into one such mound.
It felt right, and just. These two words echoed in the assassin’s head, with an appeal that wrapped calm around his heart. He almost imagined he felt an affinity with this child-house—as if it knew of him and accepted him.
He knew the house to be empty. Another sourceless certainty.
Rallick continued watching, as the lines of the house grew firm, sharply defined. A musty smell pervaded the area, as of freshly turned earth. The assassin felt at peace.
