The Malazan Empire, page 681
There was a way, she was convinced – there had to be a way – of negotiating through the confrontation fast approaching. Was this not her sole talent, the singular skill she would permit herself to acknowledge?
Three strides ahead of her, Udinaas and Kettle walked, her tiny hand nestled in his much larger, much more battered one. The sight – which had preceded her virtually since their arrival in this grim place – was yet another source of anguish and unease. Was he alone capable of setting aside all his nightmares, to comfort this lone, lost child?
Long ago, at the very beginning of this journey, Kettle had held herself close to Silchas Ruin. For he had been the one who had spoken to her through the dying Azath. And he had made vows to protect her and the burgeoning life that had come to her. And so she had looked upon her benefactor with all the adoration one might expect of a foundling in such a circumstance.
This was no longer true. Oh, Seren Pedac saw enough small gestures to underscore that old allegiance, the threads linking these two so-different beings – their shared place of birth, the precious mutual recognition that was solitude, estrangement from all others. But Silchas Ruin had…revealed more of himself. Had revealed, in his cold disregard, a brutality that could take one’s breath away. Oh, and how different is that from Kettle’s tales of murdering people in Letheras? Of draining their blood, feeding their corpses into the hungry, needy grounds of the Azath?
Still, Kettle expressed none of those desires any more. In returning to life, she had abandoned her old ways, had become, with each passing day, more and more simply a young girl. An orphan.
Witness, again and again, to her adopted family’s endless quarrelling and bickering. To the undeniable threats, the promises of murder. Yes, this is what we have offered her.
And Silchas Ruin is hardly above all of that, is he?
But what of Udinaas? Revealing no great talent, no terrible power. Revealing, in truth, naught but a profound vulnerability.
Ah, and this is what draws her to him. What he gifts back to her in that clasping of hands, the soft smile that reaches even his sad eyes.
Udinaas, Seren Pedac realized with a shock, was the only truly likeable member of their party.
She could in no way include herself as one with even the potential for genuine feelings of warmth from any of the others, not since her rape of Udinaas’s mind. But even before then, she had revealed her paucity of skills in the area of camaraderie. Ever brooding, prone to despondency – these were the legacies of all she had done – and not done – in her life.
Kicking through dust, with Clip and Silchas Ruin well ahead of the others, with the massive humps of dead dragons on all sides, they drew yet closer to that towering gate. Fear Sengar, who had been walking two strides behind her on her left, now came alongside. His hand was on the grip of his sword.
‘Do not be a fool,’ she hissed at him.
His face was set in stern lines, lips tight.
Ahead, Clip and Silchas reached the gate and there they halted. Both seemed to be looking down at a vague, smallish form on the ground.
Udinaas slowed as the child whose hand he was holding began pulling back. Seren Pedac saw him look down and say something in a very low tone.
If Kettle replied it was in a whisper.
The ex-slave nodded then, and a moment later they carried on, Kettle keeping pace without any seeming reluctance.
What had made her shrink away?
What had he said to so easily draw her onward once more?
They came closer, and Seren Pedac heard a low sigh from Fear Sengar. ‘They look upon a body,’ he said.
Oh, Errant protect us.
‘Acquitor,’ continued the Tiste Edur, so low that only she could hear.
‘Yes?’
‘I must know…how you will choose.’
‘I don’t intend to,’ she snapped in sudden irritation. ‘Do we come all this way together only to kill each other now?’
He grunted in wry amusement. ‘Are we that evenly matched?’
‘Then, if it is truly hopeless, why attempt anything at all?’
‘Have I come this far only to step away, then? Acquitor, I must do what I must. Will you stand with me?’
They had halted, well back from the others, all of whom were now gathered around that corpse. Seren Pedac unstrapped her helm and pulled it off, then clawed at her greasy hair.
‘Acquitor,’ Fear persisted, ‘you have shown power – you are no longer the weakest among us. What you choose may prove the difference between our living and dying.’
‘Fear, what is it you seek with the soul of Scabandari?’
‘Redemption,’ he answered immediately. ‘For the Tiste Edur.’
‘And how do you imagine Scabandari’s broken, tattered soul will grant you such redemption?’
‘I will awaken it, Acquitor – and together we will purge Kurald Emurlahn. We will drive out the poison that afflicts us. And we will, perhaps, shatter my brother’s cursed sword.’
Too vague, you damned fool. Even if you awaken Scabandari, might he not in turn be enslaved by that poison, and its promise of power? And what of his own desires, hungers – what of the vengeance he himself will seek? ‘Fear,’ she said in sudden, near-crippling weariness, ‘your dream is hopeless.’
And saw him flinch back, saw the terrible retreat in his eyes.
She offered him a faint smile. ‘Yes, let this break your vow, Fear Sengar. I am not worth protecting, especially in the name of a dead brother. I trust you see that now.’
‘Yes,’ he whispered.
And in that word was such anguish that Seren Pedac almost cried out. Then railed at herself. It is what I wanted! Damn it! What I wanted. Needed. It is what must be!
Oh, blessed Errant, how you have hurt him, Seren Pedac. Even this one. No different from all the others.
And she knew, then, that there would be no negotiation. No way through what was to come.
So be it. Do not count on me, Fear Sengar. I do not even know my power, nor my control of it. So, do not count on me.
But I shall do, for you, what I can.
A promise, yet one she would not voice out loud, for it was too late for that. She could see as much in his now cold eyes, his now hardened face.
Better that he expect nothing, yes. So that, should I fail…But she could not finish that thought, not with every word to follow so brightly painted in her mind – with cowardice.
Fear Sengar set out, leaving her behind. She saw, as she followed, that he no longer held on to his sword. Indeed, he suddenly seemed looser, more relaxed, than she had ever seen him before.
She did not, at that moment, understand the significance of such a transformation. In a warrior. In a warrior who knew how to kill.
Perhaps he had always known where this journey would end. Perhaps that seemingly accidental visit the first time had been anything but, and Udinaas had been shown where his every decision in the interval would take him, as inevitable as the tide. And now, at last, here he had washed up, detritus in the silt-laden water.
Will I soon be dining on ranag calf? I think not.
The body of the female Imass was a piteous thing. Desiccated, limbs drawn up as tendons contracted. The wild masses of her hair had grown like roots from a dead tree, the nails of her stubby fingers like flattened talons the hue of tortoiseshell. The smudged garnets that were her eyes had sunk deep within their sockets, yet still seemed to stare balefully at the sky.
Yes, the Bonecaster. The witch who gave her soul to staunch the wound. So noble, this failed, useless sacrifice. No, woman, for you I will not weep. You should have found another way. You should have stayed alive, among your tribe, guiding them out from their dark cave of blissful ignorance.
‘The world beyond dies,’ said Clip, sounding very nearly pleased by the prospect. Rings sang out on the ends of the chain. One silver, one gold, spinning in blurs.
Silchas Ruin eyed his fellow Tiste Andii. ‘Clip, you remain blind to…necessity.’
A faint, derisive smile. ‘Hardly, O White Crow. Hardly.’
The albino warrior then turned to fix his uncanny red-rimmed eyes upon Udinaas. ‘Is she still with us?’
Kettle’s hand tightened in the ex-slave’s, and it was all he could do to squeeze back in reassurance. ‘She gauged our location moments ago,’ Udinaas replied, earning a hiss from Clip. ‘But now, no.’
Silchas Ruin faced the gate. ‘She prepares for us, then. On the other side.’
Udinaas shrugged. ‘I imagine so.’
Seren Pedac stirred and asked, ‘Does that mean she holds the Finnest? Silchas? Udinaas?’
But Silchas Ruin shook his head. ‘No. That would not have been tolerated. Not by her sisters. Not by the powerful ascendants who saw it fashioned in the first place—’
‘Then why aren’t they here?’ Seren demanded. ‘What makes you think they’ll accept your possessing it, Silchas Ruin, when they will not stand for Menandore’s owning it – we are speaking of Menandore, aren’t we?’
Udinaas snorted. ‘Left no stone unturned in my brain, did you, Acquitor?’
Silchas did not reply to her questions.
The ex-slave glanced over at Fear Sengar, and saw a warrior about to go into battle. Yes, we are that close, aren’t we? Oh, Fear Sengar, I do not hate you. In fact, I probably even like you. I may mock the honour you possess. I may scorn this path you’ve chosen.
As I scorned this Bonecaster’s, and yes, Edur, for entirely the same reasons.
Because I cannot follow.
Udinaas gently disengaged his hand from Kettle’s, then lifted free the Imass spear strapped to his back. He walked over to Seren Pedac. Set the weapon into her hands, ignoring her raised brows, the confusion sliding into her gaze.
Yes, Acquitor, if you will seek to aid Fear Sengar – and I believe you will – then your need is greater than mine.
After all, I intend to run.
Silchas Ruin drew his two swords, thrust them both point-first into the ground. And then began tightening the various buckles and straps on his armour.
Yes, no point in rushing in unprepared, is there? You will need to move quickly, Silchas Ruin, won’t you? Very quickly indeed.
He found his mouth was dry.
Dry as this pathetic corpse at his feet.
Seren Pedac gripped his arm. ‘Udinaas,’ she whispered.
He shook his arm free. ‘Do what you must, Acquitor.’ Our great quest, our years of one foot in front of the other, it all draws now to a close.
So hail the blood. Salute the inevitability.
And who, when all is done, will wade out of this crimson tide?
Rud Elalle, my son, how I fear for you.
Three specks in the sky above the hills to the south. The one named Hedge now half turned and squinted at Ulshun Pral, then said, ‘Best withdraw to the cave. Stay close to Onrack the Broken. And Trull Sengar.’
Ulshun Pral smiled.
The man scowled. ‘Quick, this oaf doesn’t understand Malazan.’ He then pointed back towards the rocks. ‘Go there! Onrack and Trull. Go!’
The taller man snorted. ‘Enough, Hedge. That oaf understands you just fine.’
‘Oh, so why ain’t he listening to me?’
‘How should I know?’
Ulshun waited a moment longer, fixing into his memory the faces of these two men, so that death would not take all of them. He hoped they were doing the same with him, although of course they might well not understand the gift, nor even that they had given it.
Imass knew many truths that were lost to those who were, in every sense, their children. This, alas, did not make Imass superior, for most of those truths were unpleasant ones, and these children could not defend themselves against them, and so would be fatally weakened by their recognition.
For example, Ulshun Pral reminded himself, he had been waiting for this time, understanding all that was coming to this moment, all the truths bound within what would happen. Unlike his people, he had not been a ghost memory. He had not lived countless millennia in a haze of self-delusion. Oh, his life had spanned that time, but it had been just that: a life. Drawn out to near immortality, not through any soul-destroying ritual, but because of this realm. This deathless realm.
That was deathless no longer.
He set out, then, leaving these two brave children, and made his way towards the cave.
It might begin here, beneath this empty sky. But it would end, Ulshun Pral knew, before the Gates of Starvald Demelain.
Where a Bentract Bonecaster had failed. Not because the wound proved too virulent, or too vast. But because the Bonecaster had been nothing more than a ghost to begin with. A faded, pallid soul, a thing with barely enough power to hold on to itself.
Ulshun Pral was twenty paces from the entrance to the cave when Onrack the Broken emerged, and in Ulshun’s heart there burgeoned such a welling of pride that tears filled his eyes.
‘So I take it,’ Hedge said, locking the foot of his crossbow, ‘that what we were both thinking means neither of us is much surprised.’
‘She gave in too easily.’
Hedge nodded. ‘That she did. But I’m still wondering, Quick, why didn’t she grab that damned Finnest a long time ago? Squirrel it away some place where Silchas Ruin would never find it? Answer me that!’
The wizard grunted as he moved out to the crest of the slope. ‘She probably thought she’d done just as you said, Hedge.’
Hedge blinked, then frowned. ‘Huh. Hadn’t thought of that.’
‘That’s because you’re thick, sapper. Now, if this goes the way I want it to, you won’t be needed at all. Keep that in mind, Hedge. I’m begging you.’
‘Oh, just get on with it.’
‘Fine then. I will.’
And Ben Adaephon Delat straightened, then slowly raised his arms.
His scrawny arms. Hedge laughed.
The wizard glared back at him over a shoulder. ‘Will you stop that?’
‘Sorry! Had no idea you were so touchy.’
Quick Ben cursed, then turned and walked back to Hedge.
And punched him in the nose.
Stunned, eyes filling with tears, the sapper staggered back. Brought a hand to his face to stem the sudden gushing of blood. ‘You broke my damned nose!’
‘So I did,’ the wizard answered, shaking one hand. ‘And look, Hedge, you’re bleeding.’
‘Is it any surprise? Ow—’
‘Hedge. You are bleeding.’
I’m – oh, gods.
‘Get it now?’
And Quick turned and walked back, resumed his stance at the crest.
Hedge stared down at his bloody hand. ‘Shit!’
Their conversation stopped then.
Since the three dragons were now no longer tiny specks.
Menandore’s hatred of her sisters in no way diminished her respect for their power, and against Silchas Ruin that power would be needed. She knew that the three of them, together, could destroy that bastard. Utterly. True, one or two of them might fall. But not Menandore. She had plans to ensure that she would survive.
Before her now, minuscule on the edge of that rise, a lone mortal – the other one was crouching as if in terror, well behind his braver but equally stupid companion – a lone mortal, raising his hands.
Oh, mage, to think that will be enough.
Against us!
Power burgeoned within her and to either side she felt the same – sudden pressure, sudden promise.
Angling downward now, three man-heights from the basin’s tawny grasses, huge shadows drawing closer, yet closer. Sleeting towards that slope.
She unhinged her jaws.
Hedge wiped blood from his face, blinked to clear his vision as he swore at his own throbbing head, and then lifted the crossbow. Just in case. Sweet candy for the middle one, aye.
The trio of dragons, wings wide, glided low above the ground, at a height that would bring them more or less level with the crest of this ancient atoll. They were, Hedge realized, awfully big.
In perfect unison, all three dragons opened their mouths.
And Quick Ben, standing there like a frail willow before a tsunami, unleashed his magic.
The very earth of the slope lifted up, heaved up to hammer the dragons like enormous fists into their chests. Necks whipped. Heads snapped back. Sorcery exploded from those jaws, waves lashing skyward – flung uselessly into the air, where the three sorceries clashed, writhing in a frenzy of mutual destruction.
Where the slope had been there were now clouds of dark, dusty earth, pieces of sod still spinning upward, long roots trailing like hair, and the hill lurched as the three dragons, engulfed by tons of earth, crashed into the ground forty paces from where stood Quick Ben.
And down, into that chaotic storm of soil and dragon, the wizard marched.
Waves erupted from him, rolling amidst the crackle of lightning, sweeping down in charging crests. Striking the floundering beasts with a succession of impacts that shook the entire hill. Black fire gouted, rocks sizzled as they were launched into the air, where they simply shattered into dust.
Wave after wave unleashed from the wizard’s hands.
Hedge, staggering drunkenly to the edge, saw a dragon, hammered full on, flung onto its back, then pushed, skidding, kicking, like a flesh and blood avalanche, down onto the basin, gouging deep grooves across the flat as it was driven back, and back.
Another, with skin seeming afire, sought to lift itself into the air.
Another wave rose above it, slapped the beast back down with a bone-snapping crunch.
The third creature, half buried beneath steaming soil, suddenly turned then and launched itself straight for the dragon beside it. Jaws opening, magic ripping forth to lance into the side of its once-ally. Flesh exploded, blood spraying in a black cloud.
An ear-piercing shriek, the struck one’s head whipping – even as enormous jaws closed on its throat.
