The guards opened the East Gate two hundred paces ahead, near the front of the chained line. A roar poured through that ancient arched passageway, a wave of sound that buffeted soldier and prisoner alike, bouncing off the high walls and rising up amidst an explosion of terrified pigeons from the upper eaves. The sound of chaotic flapping wings drifted down like polite applause, although to Heboric it seemed that he alone appreciated that ironic touch of the gods. Not to be denied a gesture, he managed a slight bow.
Hood keep his damned secrets. Here, Fener you old sow, it's that itch I could never scratch. Look on, now, closely, see what becomes of your wayward son...
Some part of Felisin's mind held onto sanity, held with a brutal grip in the face of a chaotic maelstrom. Soldiers lined Colonnade Avenue in ranks three deep, but again and again the mob seemed to find weak spots in that bristling line. She found herself observing, clinically even, as hands tore at her, fists pummelled her, blurred faces lunged at her with gobs of spit. And even as sanity held within her, so too a pair of steady arms encircled her – arms without hands, the ends scarred and suppurating, arms that pushed her forward, ever forward. No-one touched the priest. No-one dared. While ahead was Baudin – more horrifying than the mob itself.
He killed effortlessly. He tossed bodies aside with contempt, roaring, gesturing, beckoning. Even the soldiers stared beneath their ridged helmets, heads turning at his taunts, hands tightening on pike or sword hilt.
Baudin, laughing Baudin, his nose smashed by a well-flung brick, stones bouncing from him, his slave tunic in rags and soaked with blood and spit. Every body that darted within his reach he grasped, twisted, bent and broke. The only pause in his stride came when something happened ahead, some breach in the soldiery – or when Lady Gaesen faltered. He'd grasp her arms under the shoulders, none too gently, then propel her forward, swearing all the while.
Some wave of fear swept ahead of him, a touch of the terror inflicted turning back on the mob. The number of attackers diminished, although the bricks flew in a constant barrage, some hitting, most missing.
The march through the city continued. Felisin's ears rang painfully. She heard everything through a daze of sound, but her eyes saw clearly, seeking and finding – all too often – images she would never forget.
The gates were in sight when the most savage breach occurred. The soldiers seemed to melt away and the tide of fierce hunger swept into the street, engulfing the prisoners.
Felisin caught Heboric's grunting words close behind her as he shoved hard: 'This is the one, then.'
Baudin roared. Bodies crowded in, hands tearing, nails clawing. Felisin's last shreds of clothing were torn away. A hand closed on a fistful of her hair, yanked savagely, twisting her head around, seeking the crack of vertebrae. She heard screaming, realized it came from her own throat. A bestial snarl sounded behind her and she felt the hand clench spasmodically, then it was gone. More screaming filled her ears.
A strong momentum caught them, pulling or pushing – she couldn't tell – and Heboric's face came into view, his mouth spitting bloody skin. All at once a space cleared around Baudin. He crouched, a torrent of dock curses bellowing from his mashed lips. His right ear had been torn off, taking with it hair, skin and flesh. The bone of his temple glistened wetly. Broken bodies lay around him, few moving. At his feet was Lady Gaesen. Baudin held her by the hair, pulling her face into view. The moment seemed to freeze, the world closing in to this single place.
Baudin bared his teeth and laughed. 'I'm no whimpering noble,' he growled, facing the crowd. 'What do you want? You want the blood of a noblewoman?'
The mob screamed, reaching out eager hands. Baudin laughed again. 'We pass through, you hear me?' He straightened, dragging Lady Gaesen's head upward.
Felisin couldn't tell if the old woman was conscious. Her eyes were closed, the expression peaceful – almost youthful – beneath the smeared dirt and bruises. Perhaps she was dead. Felisin prayed that it was so. Something was about to happen, something to condense this nightmare into a single image. Tension held the air.
'She's yours!' Baudin screamed, his other hand grasping the Lady's chin. He twisted her head around. The neck snapped, the body sagged, twitching. Baudin wrapped a length of chain around her neck. He pulled it taut, then began sawing. Blood showed, making the chain look like a mangled scarf.
Felisin stared in horror.
'Fener have mercy,' Heboric breathed.
The crowd was stunned silent, withdrawing even in their bloodlust, shrinking back. A soldier appeared, helmetless, his young face white, his eyes fixed on Baudin, his steps ceasing. Beyond him the glistening peaked helms and broad blades of the Red Swords flashed above the crowd as the horsemen slowly pushed their way towards the scene.
No movement save the sawing chain. No breath save Baudin's grunting snorts. Whatever riot continued to rage beyond this place, it seemed a thousand leagues away.
Felisin watched the woman's head jerk back and forth, a mockery of life's animation. She remembered Lady Gaesen, haughty, imperious, beyond her years of beauty and seeking stature in its stead. What other choice? Many, but it didn't matter now. Had she been a gentle, kindly grandmother, it would not have mattered, would not have changed the mind-numbing horror of this moment.
The head came away with a sobbing sound. Baudin's teeth glimmered as he stared at the crowd. 'We had a deal,' he grated. 'Here's what you want, something to remember this day by.' He flung Lady Gaesen's head into the mob, a whirl of hair and threads of blood. Screams answered its unseen landing.
More soldiers appeared – backed by the Red Swords – moving slowly, pushing at the still silent onlookers. Peace was being restored, all along the line in all places but this one, violently, without quarter. As people began to die under sword strokes, the rest fled.
The prisoners who had filed out of the arena had numbered around three hundred. Felisin looked up the line, her first sight of what remained. Some shackles held only forearms, others were completely empty. Under a hundred prisoners remained on their feet. Many on the paving stones writhed, screaming in pain; the rest did not move at all.
Baudin glared at the nearest knot of soldiers. 'Likely timing, tin-heads.'
Heboric spat heavily, his face twisting as he glared at the thug. 'Imagined you'd buy your way out, did you, Baudin? Give them what they want. But it was wasted, wasn't it? The soldiers were coming. She could have lived—'
Baudin slowly turned, his face a sheet of blood. 'To what end, priest?'
'Was that your line of reasoning? She would've died in the hold anyway?'
Baudin showed his teeth, and said slowly, 'I just hate making deals with bastards.'
Felisin stared at the three-foot length of chain between herself and Baudin. A thousand thoughts could have followed, link by link – what she had been, what she was now; the prison she'd discovered, inside and out, merged as vivid memory – but all she thought, all she said, was: 'Don't make any more deals, Baudin.'
His eyes narrowed on her, her words and tone reaching him, somehow, someway.
Heboric straightened, a hard look in his eyes as he studied her. Felisin turned away, half in defiance, half in shame.
A moment later the soldiers – having cleared the line of the dead – pushed them along, out through the gate, onto the East Road towards the pier town of Luckless. Where Adjunct Tavore and her retinue waited, as did the slave ships of Aren.
Farmers and peasants lined the road, displaying nothing of the frenzy that had gripped their cousins in the city. Felisin saw in their faces a dull sorrow, a passion born of different scars. She could not understand where it came from, and she knew that her ignorance was the difference between her and them. She also knew, in her bruises, scratches and helpless nakedness, that her lessons had begun.
Now read the complete book – available from Bantam
Steven Erikson's magnificent
Malazan Book of the Fallen
sequence is a monumental achievement
that is being hailed by readers and critics alike as an epic of the imagination and a fantasy classic in the making
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DEADHOUSE GATES
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NIGHT OF KNIVES
A Novel of the Malazan Empire
By Ian C. Esslemont
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Malaz gave a great empire its name, but now this island and its city amount to little more than a sleepy backwater. Until this night.
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Also it is prophesied that the Emperor Kellanved will return this night, and there are those who would prevent that happening at any cost. As factions within the Empire draw up battle lines, an ancient presence begins its all-out assault upon the island. Witnesses to these cataclysmic events include a thief called Kiska, and Temper, a war-weary veteran. Although they do not know it, they each have a part to play in a confrontation that will determine not only the fate of Malaz City but also of the world beyond ...
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BOOK ONE: THE WAR WITH THE MEIN
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Presiding over Acacia, an empire named after the idyllic island from which he rules, Leodan Akaran has inherited a peace and prosperity won long ago by his ancestors.
He's an intelligent man, a widower who dotes on his four children, and so hides from them a terrible knowledge – that Acacia's prosperity is founded on the trafficking of drugs and human lives. He is also a man of integrity and determines to end this vile trade. But powerful forces stand in his way.
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COMING FROM DOUBLEDAY IN MAY
DEATH'S HEAD
By David Gunn
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Few survive the cage. Fewer still live to face the whipping post. But stubborn, insubordinate son-of-a-bitch Sven Tveskoeg does. As this ex-sergeant in the legion étrangere feels the first lash fall, he sees the desert tribes attack – and watches them slaughter his comrades before his comrades can kill him ...
Rescued from certain death, Sven joins the tribes. However his ruthless skills have come to the attention of an elite special ops force, the infamous Death's Head.
They want Sven to help them out with a little 'local difficulty'. He knows he's a pawn in an altogether more dangerous game – and pawns have a habit of being sacrificed. But Sven is nobody's sacrifice. And even a pawn can checkmate a king ...
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Gardens of the Moon Page 68