The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen, page 764
‘Hood never commands.’
‘That’s what I thought, but—’
‘Yet now he has.’
Quell’s eyes widened. ‘He has?’
‘How wide is the sky? How deep is the ocean? I think about these things, all the time.’
Gruntle noted the Master gaping, like a beached fish, and so he asked, ‘What was your name when you were alive, sir?’
‘My name? I don’t recall. Being alive, I mean. But I must have been, once. My name is Cartographer.’
‘That sounds more like a profession.’
The corpse scratched his forehead, flakes of skin fluttering down. ‘It does. An extraordinary coincidence. What were my parents thinking?’
‘Perhaps you are but confused. Perhaps you were a cartographer, trained in the making of maps and such.’
‘Then it was wise that they named me so, wasn’t it? Clever parents.’
‘What did Hood command of you, Cartographer?’
‘Well, he said “Come” and nothing more. It wasn’t a command to create confusion, or arguments regarding interpretation. A simple command. Even dogs understand it, I believe. Dogs and sharks. I have found seventeen species of shellfish on this beach. Proof that the world is round.’
Another nut thudded in the sand.
‘We are perturbing this island with our presence,’ said the cartographer. ‘The trees are so angry they’re trying to kill us. Of course, I am already dead.’ He climbed to his feet, bits falling away here and there, and brushed sand and skin from his hands. ‘Can we go now?’
‘Yes,’ said Master Quell, though his eyes were still a little wild. ‘We’re going back to Hood’s realm and we’re happy to take you with us.’
‘Oh, no, I’m not going back there. It’s not time.’
‘Yes it is and yes you are,’ said Master Quell.
‘No it isn’t and no I’m not. Hood issued a second command, one just to me. He said “Go” and so I did. It’s not time. Until it is, I’m staying with you.’
‘Everyone who rides the carriage,’ Quell said in a growl, ‘has to work for the privilege.’
‘Yes, and I have begun.’ And he gestured down at the coconut pyramids. ‘You have netting bundled to the sides of the carriage, presumably to hold people on board. If we are to cross water, then we should place these nuts within said netting. As flotation devices, in case someone is washed overboard.’ He made a heaving motion with his emaciated arms. ‘With a line attached for retrieval.’
‘That might work,’ said Gruntle.
‘Gods below,’ Master Quell muttered. ‘Fine, I’m not arguing with a dead man. Gruntle, draw your weapons. We’re going now.’
‘My weapons?’
‘Just in case. And now, no more damned talking back!’
Quell fashioned a portal into Hood’s warren that was but a thin, elongated slice, like a parting of curtains, from which cool lifeless breath gusted out, sweeping the sand into the air. Eyes stinging, Gruntle glanced back just before following the mage into the rent. And saw Amby and Jula wave.
They emerged on the summit of a hill, one of a long spine of hills, each one so similar to the next that they might be enormous barrows – although why there would be barrows in the realm of death Gruntle could not imagine.
In the valley before them the broad basin was a solid river of grey figures, tens of thousands on the march. Ragged pennons hung from standards as if impervious to the moaning wind. Weapons glinted in muted flashes.
‘Gods below,’ muttered Quell. ‘He’s assembling the entire host.’
‘Looks that way,’ agreed Gruntle, feeling like an idiot with his cutlasses in his hands. He slid them back into the under-slung scabbards. ‘Do we make our way down?’
‘I’d rather not.’
‘Good. Seen enough? Can we go now, Master Quell?’
‘Look, a rider approaches.’
The horse was clearly as dead as the man who rode it, gaunt and withered, mottled where hair had worn off. Both wore armour, boiled leather tarnished and cracked, flapping on frayed leather thongs as they climbed the slope. A ragged cape lifted like a tattered wing behind the warrior. As they drew closer, Gruntle swore under his breath. ‘He’s wearing a mask – he’s a damned Seguleh!’ And he reached for his weapons—
‘Gods’ breath, Gruntle, don’t do that!’
It was a struggle to lower his arms. Gruntle’s blood felt hot as fire in his veins – the beast within him wanted to awaken, to show hackles lifted and fangs bared. The beast wanted to challenge this…thing. Trembling, he made no move as the rider drove his horse over the crest a dozen paces to their right, sawing the reins and wheeling the beast round to face them.
‘Now this is living!’ the Seguleh roared, tilting his head back to loose a manic laugh. Then he leaned forward on the saddle and cocked his head, long filthy hair swinging like ropes. ‘Well,’ he amended in an amused rumble, ‘not quite. But close enough. Close enough. Tell me, mortals, do you like my army? I do. Did you know the one thing a commander must battle against – more than any enemy across the plain, more than any personal crisis of will or confidence, more than unkind weather, broken supply chains, plague and all the rest? Do you know what a commander wages eternal war with, my friends? I will tell you. The true enemy is fear. The fear that haunts every soldier, that haunts even the beasts they ride.’ He lifted a gauntleted hand and waved to the valley below. ‘But not with this army! Oh, no. Fear belongs to the living, after all.’
‘As with the T’lan Imass,’ said Gruntle.
The darkness within the mask’s elongated eye-holes seemed to glitter as the Seguleh fixed his attention on Gruntle. ‘Trake’s cub. Now, wouldn’t you like to cross blades with me?’ A low laugh. ‘Yes, as with the T’lan Imass. Is it any wonder the Jaghut recoiled?’
Master Quell cleared his throat. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘what need has Hood for an army? Will he now wage war against the living?’
‘If only,’ the Seguleh replied in a grunt. ‘You don’t belong here – and if you drag that infernal carriage of yours back here any time soon, I will seek you out myself. And then Trake’s spitting kitten here can fulfil his desperate desire, hah!’ He twisted in his saddle. Other riders were approaching. ‘Look at them. My watchdogs. “Be reasonable”, indeed. Have I chopped these two interlopers to pieces? I have not. Restraint has been shown.’ He faced Gruntle and Quell once more. ‘You will confirm this, yes?’
‘Beyond you goading Gruntle here,’ Quell said, ‘yes, I suppose we can.’
‘It was a jest!’ the Seguleh shouted.
‘It was a threat,’ Quell corrected, and Gruntle was impressed by the man’s sudden courage.
The Seguleh tilted his head, as if he too was casting new measure upon the mage. ‘Oh, trundle your wagon wherever you like, then, see if I care.’
Three riders mounted the summit and, slowing their horses to a walk, drew up to where waited the Seguleh, who now sat slumped like a browbeaten bully.
Gruntle started, took an involuntary step forward. ‘Toc Anaster?’
The one-eyed soldier’s smile was strained. ‘Hello, old friend. I am sorry. There may come a time for this, but it is not now.’
Gruntle edged back, blunted by Toc Anaster’s cold – even harsh – tone. ‘I – I did not know.’
‘It was a messy death. My memories remain all too sharp. Gruntle, deliver this message to your god: not long now.’
Gruntle scowled. ‘Too cryptic. If you want me to pass on your words, you will have to do better than that.’
Toc Anaster’s single eye – terrifying in its lifelessness – shifted away.
‘He cannot,’ said the middle horseman, and there was something familiar about the face behind the helm’s cheekguards. ‘I remember you from Capustan. Gruntle, chosen servant of Treach. Your god is confused, but it must choose, and soon.’
Gruntle shrugged. ‘There is no point in bringing all this to me. Trake and me, we’re not really on speaking terms. I didn’t ask for any of this. I don’t even want it—’
‘Hah!’ barked the Seguleh, twisting round to face the middle rider. ‘Hear that, Iskar Jarak? Let me kill him!’
Iskar Jarak? I seem to recall he had a different name. One of those odd ones, common to the Malazan soldiery – what was it now?
‘Save your wrath for Skinner,’ Iskar Jarak calmly replied.
‘Skinner!’ roared the Seguleh, savagely wheeling his horse round. ‘Where is he, then? I’d forgotten! Hood, you bastard – you made me forget! Where is he?’ He faced the three riders. ‘Does Toc know? Brukhalian, you? Someone tell me where he’s hiding!’
‘Who knows?’ said Iskar Jarak. ‘But there is one thing for certain.’
‘What?’ demanded the Seguleh.
‘Skinner is not here on this hill.’
‘Bah!’ The Seguleh drove spurs into his horse’s senseless flanks. The animal surged forward anyway, plunging off the hilltop and raging downslope like an avalanche.
Soft laughter from Brukhalian, and Gruntle saw that even Toc was grinning – though he still would not meet his eyes. That death must have been terrible indeed, as if the world had but one answer, one way of ending things, and whatever lessons could be gleaned from that did not ease the spirit. The notion left him feeling morose.
It was a common curse to feel unclean, but that curse would be unbearable if no cleansing awaited one, if not at the moment of dying, then afterwards. Looking upon these animated corpses, Gruntle saw nothing of redemption, nothing purged – guilt, shame, regrets and grief, they all swirled about these figures like a noxious cloud.
‘If getting killed lands me with you lot,’ he said, ‘I’d rather do without.’
The one named Iskar Jarak leaned wearily over the large Seven Cities saddle horn. ‘I sympathize, truly. Tell me, do you think we’ve all earned our rest?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘You have lost all your followers.’
‘I have.’ Gruntle saw that Toc Anaster was now watching him, fixed, sharp as a dagger point.
‘They are not here.’
He frowned at Iskar Jarak. ‘And they should be, I suppose?’
Brukhalian finally spoke, ‘It is just that. We are no longer so sure.’
‘Stay out of Hood’s realm,’ said Toc Anaster. ‘The gate is…closed.’
Master Quell started. ‘Closed? But that’s ridiculous! Does Hood now turn the dead away?’
Toc’s single eye held on Gruntle. ‘The borders are sealed to the living. There will be sentinels. Patrols. Intrusions will not be tolerated. Where we march you can’t go. Not now, perhaps never. Stay away, until the choice is taken from you. Stay away.’
And Gruntle saw then, finally, the anguish that gripped Toc Anaster, the bone-deep fear and dread. He saw how the man’s warning was in truth a cry to a friend, from one already lost, already doomed. Save yourself. Just do that, and it will all be worth it – all we must do, the war we must seek. Damn you, Gruntle, give all this meaning.
Quell must have sensed something of these fierce undercurrents, for he then bowed to the three riders. ‘I shall deliver your message. To all the pilots of the Trygalle Trade Guild.’
The ground seemed to shift uneasily beneath Gruntle’s boots.
‘And now you had better leave,’ said Brukhalian.
The hill groaned – and what Gruntle had imagined as some internal vertigo was now revealed as a real quaking of the earth.
Master Quell’s eyes were wide and he held his hands out to the sides to stay balanced.
At the far end of the range of hills, a massive eruption thundered, lifting earth and stones skyward. From the ruptured mound something rose, clawing free, sinuous neck and gaping, snapping jaws, wings spreading wide—
The hill shivered beneath them.
The three riders had wheeled their horses and were now barrelling down the slope.
‘Quell!’
‘A moment, damn you!’
Another hill exploded.
Damned barrows all right! Holding dead dragons! ‘Hurry—’
‘Be quiet!’
The portal that split open was ragged, edges rippling as if caught in a storm.
The hill to their right burst its flanks. A massive wedge-shaped head scythed in their direction, gleaming bone and shreds of desiccated skin—
‘Quell!’
‘Go! I need to—’
The dragon heaved up from cascading earth, forelimbs tearing into the ground. The leviathan was coming for them.
No – it’s coming for the portal – Gruntle grasped Master Quell and dragged him towards the rent. The mage struggled, shrieking – but whatever he sought to say was lost in the deafening hiss from the dragon as it lurched forward. The head snapped closer, jaws wide – and Gruntle, with Quell in his arms, threw himself back, plunging into the portal—
They emerged at twice the height of a man above the sandy beach, plummeting downward to thump heavily in a tangle of limbs.
Shouts from the others—
As the undead dragon tore through the rent with a piercing cry of triumph, head, neck, forelimbs and shoulders, then one wing cracked out, spreading wide in an enormous torn sail shedding dirt. The second wing whipped into view—
Master Quell was screaming, weaving frantic words of power, panic driving his voice ever higher.
The monstrosity shivered out like an unholy birth, lunged skyward above the island. Stones rained down in clouds. As the tattered tip of its long tail slithered free, the rent snapped shut.
Lying half in the water, half on hard-packed sand, Gruntle stared up as the creature winged away, still shedding dust.
Shareholder Faint arrived, falling to her knees beside them. She was glaring at Master Quell who was slowly sitting up, a stunned look on his face.
‘You damned fool,’ she snarled, ‘why didn’t you throw a damned harness on that thing? We just lost our way off this damned island!’
Gruntle stared at her. Insane. They are all insane.
There was a tension in his stance that she had not seen before. He faced east, across the vast sweeping landscape of the Dwelling Plain. Samar Dev gave the tea another stir then hooked the pot off the coals and set it to one side. She shot Karsa Orlong a look, but the Toblakai was busy retying the leather strings of one of his moccasins, aided in some mysterious way by his tongue which had curled into view from the corner of his mouth – the gesture was so childlike she wondered if he wasn’t mocking her, aware as always that she was studying him.
Havok cantered into view from a nearby basin, his dawn hunt at an end. The other horses shifted nervously as the huge beast drew closer with head held high as if to show off the blood glistening on his muzzle.
‘We need to find water today,’ Samar Dev said, pouring out the tea.
‘So we will,’ Karsa replied, standing now to test the tightness of the moccasin. Then he reached beneath his trousers to make some adjustments.
‘Reminding yourself it’s there?’ she asked. ‘Here’s your tea. Don’t gulp.’
He took the cup from her. ‘I know it’s there,’ he said. ‘I was just reminding you.’
‘Hood’s breath,’ she said, and then stopped as Traveller seemed to flinch.
He turned to face them, his eyes clouded, far away. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Spitting something out.’
Samar Dev frowned. ‘Yes what?’
His gaze cleared, flitted briefly to her and then away again. ‘Something is happening,’ he said, walking over to pick up the tin cup. He looked down into the brew for a moment, then sipped.
‘Something is always happening,’ Karsa said easily. ‘It’s why misery gets no rest. The witch says we need water – we can follow yon valley, at least for a time, since it wends northerly.’
‘The river that made it has been dead ten thousand years, Toblakai. But yes, the direction suits us well enough.’
‘The valley remembers.’
Samar Dev scowled at Karsa. The warrior was getting more cryptic by the day, as if he was being overtaken by something of this land’s ambivalence. For the Dwelling Plain was ill named. Vast stretches of…nothing. Animal tracks but no animals. The only birds in the sky were those vultures that daily tracked them, wheeling specks of patience. Yet Havok had found prey.
The Dwelling Plain was a living secret, its language obscure and wont to drift like waves of heat. Even Traveller seemed uneasy with this place.
She drained the last of her tea and rose. ‘I believe this land was cursed once, long ago.’
‘Curses are immortal,’ said Karsa in a dismissive grunt.
‘Will you stop that?’
‘What? I am telling you what I sense. The curse does not die. It persists.’
Traveller said, ‘I do not think it was a curse. What we are feeling is the land’s memory.’
‘A grim memory, then.’
‘Yes, Samar Dev,’ agreed Traveller. ‘Here, life comes to fail. Beasts too few to breed. Outcasts from villages and cities. Even the caravan tracks seem to wander half lost – none are used with any consistency, because the sources of water are infrequent, elusive.’
‘Or they want to keep bandits guessing.’
‘I have seen no old camps,’ Traveller pointed out. ‘There are no bandits here, I think.’
‘We need to find water,’ Samar said again.
‘So you said,’ Karsa said, with an infuriating grin.
‘Why not clean up the breakfast leavings, Toblakai. Astonish me by being useful.’ She walked over to her horse, collecting the saddle on the way. She could draw a dagger, she could let slip some of her lifeblood, could reach down into this dry earth and see what was there to be seen. Or she could keep her back turned, her self closed in. The two notions warred with each other. Curiosity and trepidation.
She swung the saddle on to the horse’s broad back, adjusted the girth straps and then waited for the animal to release its held breath. Nothing likes to be bound. Not the living, perhaps not the dead. Once, she might have asked Karsa about that, if only to confirm what she already knew – but he had divested himself of that mass of souls trailing in his wake. Somehow, the day he killed the Emperor. Oh, two remained, there in that horrid sword of his.
