The Malazan Empire, page 684
South.
To a city called Letheras.
And this time, in truth, there was blood on his mind.
Chapter Twenty-Four
If these were our last days
If all whose eyes can look inward
Now passed from ken
Who would remain to grieve?
As we hang our heads
Beset by the failure of ambition
Eyes see and are indifferent
Eyes witness and they are uncaring.
The stone regard of the statues
Guarding the perfected square
Is carved as warm
As history’s soft surrender,
And the dancing creatures
In and out of our gaping mouths
Alone hear the wind moaning
Its hollow, hallowed voice.
So in these our last days
The end of what we see is inside
Where it all began and begins never again
A moment’s reprieve, then darkness falls.
The Unwitnessed Dance
Fisher kel Tath
Beak’s barrow began with a few bones tossed into the ash and charred, splintered skeleton that was all that remained of the young mage. Before long, other objects joined the heap. Buckles, clasps, fetishes, coins, broken weapons. By the time Fist Keneb was ready to give the command to march, the mound was nearly the height of a man. When Captain Faradan Sort asked Bottle for a blessing, the squad mage had shaken his head, explaining that the entire killing field that had been enclosed by Bottle’s sorcery was now magically dead. Probably permanently. At this news the captain had turned away, although Keneb thought he heard her say: ‘Not a candle left to light, then.’
As the marines set out for the city of Letheras, they could hear the rumble of detonations from the south, where the Adjunct had landed with the rest of the Bonehunters and was now engaging the Letherii armies. That thunder, Keneb knew, did not belong to sorcery.
He should be leading his troops to that battle, to hammer the Letherii rearguard, and then link up with Tavore and the main force. But Keneb agreed with the captain and with Fiddler and Gesler. He and his damned marines had earned this, had earned the right to be the first to assail this empire’s capital city.
‘Might be another army waiting on the walls,’ Sergeant Thom Tissy had said, making his face twist in his singular expression of disapproval, like a man who’d just swallowed a nacht turd.
‘It’s possible there is,’ the Fist had conceded. And that particular conversation went no further.
Up onto the imperial road with its well-set cobbles and breadth sufficient to accommodate a column ten soldiers wide. Marching amidst discarded accoutrements and the rubbish left by the Letherii legions as the day drew to a close and the shadows lengthened.
Dusk was not far off and the last sleep had been some time past, yet his soldiers, Keneb saw, carried themselves – and their gear – as if fresh from a week’s rest.
A few hundred paces along, the column ran into the first refugees.
Smudged, frightened faces. Sacks and baskets of meagre provisions, wide-eyed babies peering from bundles. Burdened mules and two-wheeled carts creaking and groaning beneath possessions. No command was given, yet the Letherii shuffled to the roadsides, pulling whatever gear they had with them, as the column continued on. Eyes downcast, children held tight. Saying nothing at all.
Faradan Sort moved alongside Keneb. ‘This is odd,’ she said.
The Fist nodded. ‘They have the look of people fleeing something that’s already happened. Find one, Captain, and get some answers.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Studying the refugees he passed, Keneb wondered what was behind the glances a few of them furtively cast on these marching soldiers, these white-haired foreigners in their gleaming armour. Do they see saviours? Not a chance. Yet, where is the hostility? They are more frightened of what they’ve just left behind in Letheras than they are of us. What in Hood’s name is happening there?
And where are the Tiste Edur?
The crowds got thicker, more reluctant to move aside. Fiddler adjusted the pack on his shoulder and settled a hand on the grip of his shortsword. The column’s pace had slowed, and the sergeant could feel the growing impatience among his troops.
They could see the end – Hood’s breath – it was behind that white wall to the northeast, now a league or less distant. The imperial road stretching down towards them from a main gate was, in the red glare of sunset, a seething serpent. Pouring out by the thousands.
And why?
Riots, apparently. An economy in ruins, people facing starvation.
‘Never knew we could cause such trouble, eh Fid?’
‘Can’t be us, Cuttle. Not just us, I mean. Haven’t you noticed? There are no Tiste Edur in this crowd. Now, either they’ve retreated behind their estate walls, or to the palace keep or whatever it is where the Emperor lives, or they were the first to run.’
‘Like those behind us, then. Heading back to their homelands in the north.’
‘Maybe.’
‘So, if this damned empire is already finished, why are we bothering with the capital?’
Fiddler shrugged. ‘Bottle might have hidden one of his rats in the Adjunct’s hair – why not ask him?’
‘Adjunct ain’t got enough hair for that,’ Cuttle muttered, though he did glance back at the squad mage. Bottle did not deign to reply. ‘See anybody on those walls, Fid? My eyes are bad in bad light.’
‘If there are, they’re not holding torches,’ Fiddler replied.
There had been so little time to think. About anything, beyond just staying alive. Ever since the damned coast. But now, as he walked on this road, Fiddler found his thoughts wandering dusty paths. They had set out on this invasion in the name of vengeance. And, maybe, to eradicate a tyrannical Emperor who viewed anyone not his subject as meat for the butcher’s cleaver. All very well, as far as it goes. Besides, that hardly makes this Emperor unique.
So why is this our battle? And where in Hood’s name do we go from here? He so wanted to believe the Adjunct knew what she was doing. And that, whatever came and however it ended, there would be some meaning to what they did.
‘We must be our own witness.’ To what, dammit?
‘Soldiers on the wall,’ Koryk called out. ‘Not many, but they see us clear enough.’
Fiddler sighed. First to arrive, and maybe that’s as far as we’ll get. An army of eight hundred camped outside one gate. They must be pissing in their boots. He drew another deep breath, then shook himself. ‘Fair enough. We finally got an appreciative audience.’
Smiles didn’t much like the look of these refugees. The pathetic faces, the shuffling gaits, they reminded her too much of…home. Oh, there’d been nothing in the way of hopeless flight back then, so it wasn’t that, exactly. Just the dumb animal look in these eyes. The uncomprehending children dragged along by one hand, or clinging to mother’s ratty tunic.
The Bonehunters marched to Letheras – why weren’t these fools screaming and wailing in terror? They’re like slaves, pushed into freedom like sheep into the wilds, and all they expect ahead is more slavery. That, or dying in the tangles of empty forests. They’ve been beaten down. All their lives.
That’s what’s so familiar. Isn’t it?
She turned her head and spat onto the road. Hood take all empires. Hood take all the prod and pull. If I get to you, dear Emperor of Lether – if I get to you first, I’m going to slice you into slivers. Slow, with lots of pain. For every one of these wretched citizens on this stinking road.
Now, the sooner all these fools get out of our way, the sooner I can torture their Emperor.
‘We head for the palace,’ Koryk said to Tarr. ‘And let nothing get in our way.’
‘You’re smoke-dreaming, Koryk,’ the corporal replied. ‘We’d have to cut through a few thousand stubborn Letherii to do that. And maybe even more Edur. And if that’s not enough, what about that wall there? Plan on jumping it? We haven’t got enough munitions to—’
‘Rubbish—’
‘I mean, there’s no way Keneb’s going to allow the sappers to use up all their stuff, not when all we have to do is wait for the Adjunct, then do a siege all proper.’
Koryk snorted. ‘Proper like Y’Ghatan? Oh, I can’t wait.’
‘There’s no Leoman of the Flails in Letheras,’ Tarr said, tugging at his chin strap. ‘Just some Edur on the throne. Probably drunk. Insane. Drooling and singing lullabies. So, why bother with the palace? Won’t be anything of interest there. I say we loot some estates, Koryk.’
‘Malazan soldiers don’t loot.’
‘But we’re not any more, are we? I mean, soldiers of the Malazan Empire.’
Koryk sneered at his corporal. ‘So that means you just sink back down to some frothing barbarian, Tarr? Why am I not surprised? I never believed all those civilized airs you’re always putting on.’
‘What airs?’
‘Well, all right, maybe it’s just how everybody sees you. But now I’m seeing you different. A damned thug, Tarr, just waiting to get nasty on us.’
‘I was just thinking out loud,’ Tarr said. ‘It’s not like Fid’s gonna let us do whatever we want, is it?’
‘I’m not gonna let you do whatever you want, Tarr.’
‘Just making conversation, Koryk. That’s all it was.’
Koryk grunted.
‘You being insolent with your corporal, Koryk?’
‘I’m thinking of pushing all your armour – and your shield – right up your bung hole, Corporal. Is that insolent?’
‘Once I’m used to telling the difference, I’ll let you know.’
‘Listen, Corabb,’ Bottle said, ‘you can stop looking out for me now, all right?’
The round-shouldered warrior at his side shook his head. ‘Sergeant Fiddler says—’
‘Never mind that. We’re in column. Hundreds of marines on all sides, right? And I’m almost rested up, ready to make trouble in case we get ambushed or whatever. I’m safe here, Corabb. Besides, you keep hitting me with that scabbard – my leg’s all bruised.’
‘Better a bruise than a chopped-off head,’ Corabb said.
‘Well, that’s a fact.’
Corabb nodded, as if the issue was now closed.
Bottle rubbed at his face. The memory of Beak’s sacrifice haunted him. He’d not known the mage very well. Just a face with a gawking expression or a wide smile, a pleasant enough man not much older than Bottle himself. For some – for the rarest few – the paths to power were smooth, uncluttered, and yet the danger was always there. Too easy to draw too much, to let it just pour through you.
Until you’re nothing but ashes.
Yet Beak had won their lives. The problem was, Bottle wondered if it had been worth it. That maybe the lives of eight hundred marines weren’t worth the life of a natural High Mage. Whatever was coming, at the very end of this journey, was going to be trouble. The Adjunct had Sinn and that was it. Another natural talent – but I think she’s mad.
Adjunct, your High Mage is insane. Will that be a problem?
He snorted.
Corabb took that sound as an invitation to talk. ‘See the fear in these people, Bottle? The Bonehunters turn their hearts to ice. When we reach the gate, it will swing wide open for us. The Letherii soldiers will throw down their arms. The people shall deliver to us the Emperor’s head on a copper plate, and roses will be flung into our path—’
‘For Hood’s sake, Corabb, enough. You keep looking for glory in war. But there is no glory. And heroes, like Beak back there, they end up dead. Earning what? A barrow of rubbish, that’s what.’
But Corabb was shaking his head. ‘When I die—’
‘It won’t be in battle,’ Bottle finished.
‘You wound me with your words.’
‘You’ve got the Lady in your shadow, Corabb. You’ll keep scraping through. You’ll break weapons or they’ll fly from your hand. Your horse will flip end over end and land right side up, with you still in the saddle. In fact, I’d wager all my back pay that you’ll be the last one of us standing at the very end.’
‘You believe there will be a fight in this city?’
‘Of course there will, you idiot. In fact, I’d be surprised if we even get inside the walls, until the Adjunct arrives. But then, aye, we’re in for a messy street-by-street battle, and the only thing certain about that is a lot of us are going to get killed.’
Corabb spat on his hands, rubbed them together.
Bottle stared. The fool was actually smiling.
‘You need fear nothing,’ Corabb assured him, ‘for I will guard you.’
‘Wonderful.’
Hellian scowled. Damned crowded road, was it always like this? Must be a busy city, and everybody going on about things like there wasn’t a column of foreign invaders pushing through them. She was still feeling the heat of shame – she’d fallen asleep back on that killing field. Supposed to be ready to fight and if not fight, then die horribly in a conflagration of piss-reeking magic, and what does she do?
Fall asleep. And dream of white light, and fires that don’t burn, and because everybody had known she was dreaming they’d all decided to pull out their hidden supplies of aeb root paste and bleach their hair, and then polish all their gear. Well. Ha ha. Damned near the most elaborate joke ever pulled on her. But she wasn’t going to let on about any of it. Pretend, aye, that nothing looked any different, and when her soldiers went over to where that one marine had died – the only casualty in the entire battle and there must have been some kind of battle since the evil Letherii army had run away – well, she’d done the same. Left on the mound an empty flask and if that wasn’t honouring the idiot then what was?
But it was getting dark, and all these moon faces peering at them from the roadsides was getting eerie. She’d seen one baby, in an old woman’s scrawny arms, stick out its tongue at her, and it had taken all her self-control to keep from pulling her sword and lopping off the tyke’s little round head or maybe just twisting its ears or even tickling it to death, and so it was a good thing that nobody else could listen in on her thoughts because then they’d know she’d been rattled bad by that joke and her falling asleep when she should have been sergeant.
My polished sword at that. Which I can use to cut off all my white hair if I want to. Oh yes, they did it all to me and mine, too.
Someone stumbled on the back of her heel and she half turned. ‘Get back, Corpor—’ But it wasn’t Touchbreath. It was that sultry dark-eyed lad, the one she’d already had fantasies about and maybe they weren’t fantasies at all, the way he licked his lips when their eyes met. Scupperskull. No, Skulldeath. ‘You in my squad now?’ she asked.
A broad delicious smile answered her.
‘The fool’s besotted,’ her corporal said from behind Skulldeath. ‘Might as well adopt him, Sergeant,’ he added in a different voice. ‘Or marry him. Or both.’
‘You ain’t gonna confuse me, Corporal, talking back and forth like that. Just so you know.’
All at once the crowds thinned on the road, and there, directly ahead, the road was clear, rising to the huge double gates of the city. The gates were barred. ‘Oh,’ Hellian said, ‘that’s just terrific. We gotta pay a toll now.’
The commander of the Letherii forces died with a quarrel in his heart, one of the last to fall at the final rally point four hundred paces in from the river. Shattered, the remaining soldiers flung away their weapons and fled the battle. The enemy had few mounted troops, so the pursuit was a dragged-out affair, chaotic and mad as the day’s light ebbed, and the slaughter pulled foreign soldiers well inland as they hunted down their exhausted, panic-stricken foes.
Twice, Sirryn Kanar had barely eluded the ruthless squads of the enemy, and when he heard the unfamiliar horns moan through the dusk, he knew the recall had been sounded. Stumbling, all his armour discarded, he scrabbled through brush and found himself among the levelled ruins of one of the shanty-towns outside the city wall. All these preparations for a siege, and now it was coming. He needed to get back inside, he needed to get to the palace.
Disbelief and shock raced on the currents of his pounding heart. He was smeared in sweat and the blood of fallen comrades, and uncontrollable shivers rattled through him as if he was plagued with a fever. He had never before felt such terror. The thought of his life ending, of some cowardly bastard driving a blade into his precious body. The thought of all his dreams and ambitions gushing away in a red torrent to soak the ground. These had pushed him from the front lines, had sent him running as fast as his legs could carry him. There was no honour in dying alongside one’s comrades – he’d not known any of them anyway. Strangers, and strangers could die in droves for all he cared. No, only one life mattered: his own.
And, Errant be praised, Sirryn had lived. Escaping that dark slaughter.
The Chancellor would have an answer to all of this. The Emperor – his Tiste Edur – Hannan Mosag – they would all give answer to these foreign curs. And in a year, maybe less, the world would be right once more, Sirryn ranking high in the Chancellor’s staff, and higher still in the Patriotists. Richer than he’d ever been before. A score of soft-eyed whores within his reach. He could grow fat if he liked.
Reaching the wall, he made his way along its length. There were sunken posterns, tunnels that invited breaching yet were designed to flood with the pull of a single lever. He knew the thick wooden doors would be manned on the inside. Working his way along the foot of the massive wall, Sirryn continued his search.
He finally found one, the recessed door angled like a coal trap, thick grasses snarled on all sides. Muttering his thanks to the Errant, Sirryn slipped down into the depression, and leaned against the wood for a long moment, his eyes shut, his breathing slowing.
Then he drew out his one remaining weapon, a dagger, and began tapping the pommel against the wood.
