'The oasis is vast,' Leoman told the ex-priest. 'There are areas that hold true soil, and these we have planted with forage and crops. A few ancient cedar stands remain, amidst stumps that have turned to stone. There are pools and lakes, the water fresh and unending. Should we choose, we need never leave this place.'
'How many people?'
'Eleven tribes. Forty thousand of the best-trained cavalry this world has ever seen.'
Heboric grunted. 'And what can cavalry do against legions of infantry, Leoman?'
The desert warrior grinned. 'Only change the face of war, old man.'
'It's been tried before,' Heboric said. 'What has made the Malazan military so successful is its ability to adapt, to alter tactics—even on the field of battle. You think the Empire has not met horse cultures before, Leoman? Met, and subdued. A fine example would be the Wickans, or the Seti.'
'And how did the Empire succeed?'
'I am not the historian for such details—they never interested me. Had you a library with Imperial texts—works by Duiker and Tallobant—you could read for yourself. Assuming you can read Malazan, that is.'
'You define the limits of their region, the map of their seasonal rounds. You take and hold water sources, building forts and trading posts—for trade weakens your enemy's isolation, the very source of their power. And, depending on how patient you are, you either fire the grasslands and slaughter every animal on four legs, or you wait, and to every band of youths that rides into your settlements, you offer the glory of war and booty in foreign lands, with the promise to keep the group intact as a fighting unit. Such a lure plucks the flower from those tribes, until none but old men and old women mutter about the freedom that once existed,' Leoman replied.
'Ah, someone's done their reading, then.'
'Aye, we possess a library, Heboric. A vast one, at Sha'ik Elder's insistence. "Know your enemy better than they know themselves." So said Emperor Kellanved.'
'No doubt, though I dare say he wasn't the first.'
The mudbrick residences of the tribes appeared on all sides as the group emerged from an avenue between horse pens. Children ran in the sandy streets, trader carts pulled by mules and oxen were slowly winding their way out from the centre, the market done for the day. Packs of dogs came forward to assuage their curiosity, then fled at the rank challenge of the stiff roll of white bear fur resting across the Toblakai's broad shoulders.
A crowd began to gather, following them as they made their way towards the settlement's heart. Felisin felt a thousand eyes on her, heard the uncertain murmuring. Sha'ik, yet not Sha'ik. Yet Sha'ik, for look at her two favoured bodyguards, the Toblakai and Leoman of the Wastes, the great warriors thinned by their journey into the desert. The prophecy spoke of rebirth, a renewal. Sha'ik has returned. At long last, and she is reborn. Sha'ik Reborn—
'Sha'ik Reborn!' The two words found a hissing cadence, a rhythm like waves, growing louder. The crowds burgeoned, word spreading with swift breath.
'I hope there's a clearing or amphitheatre at the centre,' Heboric muttered. He gave Felisin an ironic grin. 'When did we last travel a crowded street, lass?'
'Better from shame to triumph than the other way around, Heboric.'
'Aye, I'll not argue that.'
'There is a parade ground before the palace tent,' Leoman said.
'Palace tent? Ah, a message of impermanence, a symbol saluting tradition—the power of the old ways of life and all that.'
Leoman turned to Felisin. 'Your companion's lack of respect could prove problematic, Sha'ik Reborn. When we meet the High Mages—'
'He'll wisely keep his mouth shut.'
'He had better.'
'Cut out his tongue,' the Toblakai growled. 'Then we need not worry."
'No?' Heboric laughed. 'You underestimate me still, oaf. I am blind, yet I see. Cut out my tongue and oh, how I shall speak! Relax, Felisin, I'm no fool.'
'You are if you continue using her old name," Leoman warned.
Felisin left them to bicker, sensing that, at last, despite the sharp edges to the words they threw at one another, a bond was developing between the three men. Not something as simple as friendship—the Toblakai and Heboric had chains of hatred linking them, after all—but one of experiences shared. My rebirth is what they share, even as they stand as points of a triangle, with Leoman the apex. Leoman, the man with no beliefs. They were nearing the settlement's centre. She saw a platform to one side, a disc-shaped dais surrounding a fountain. 'There, to start.'
Leoman turned in surprise. 'What?'
'I would speak to these followers.'
'Now? Before we meet with the High Mages?'
'Yes.'
'You would make the three most powerful men in this camp wait?'
'Would that concern Sha'ik, Leoman? Does my rebirth require their blessing? Unfortunately they weren't there, were they?'
'But—'
'Time for you to shut your mouth, Leoman,' Heboric said, not unkindly.
'Clear a path for me, Toblakai,' Felisin said.
The giant swung abruptly, cutting directly for the platform. He said nothing, for nothing was needed. His presence alone split the mob, peeled it back on both sides in hushed silence.
They reached the dais. 'I shall need your lungs to start, Toblakai. Name me once I've ascended.'
'I shall, Chosen One.'
Heboric snorted softly. 'Now that's an apt title.'
A cascade of thoughts swept through Felisin as she climbed onto the stone platform. Sha'ik Reborn, that dark cloak of Dryjhna descending. Felisin, nobleborn brat of Unta, whore of the mining pit. Open the Holy Book and thus complete the rite. That young woman has seen the face of the Abyss—that terrible journey behind her—and now comes the demand that she face the one before her. The young woman must relinquish her life. Opening the Holy Book—yet who would have thought the goddess so amenable to a deal? She knows my heart, and that grants her the confidence, it seems, of deferring her claim on it. The deal has been struck. Power granted—so many visions—yet Felisin remains, her rock-hard, scarred soul floats free in the vast Abyss.
And Leoman knows…
'Kneel before Sha'ik Reborn!' The Toblakai's bellow was like thunder in the hot, motionless air. As one, thousands dropped down, heads bowed.
Felisin stepped past the giant. Dryjhna's power trickled into her—ah, dear goddess, precious patroness, do you now hesitate in your gifts? Like this crowd, like Leoman, do you await the proof of my words? My intent?
Yet the power was sufficient to make her quiet words a clear whisper in the ears of everyone present—including those of the three High Mages who now stood beneath the parade-ground archway—who stood, who did not kneel. 'Rise, my faithful ones.'
She felt the three distant men flinch at that, as they were meant to. Oh yes, I know where you stand, you three… 'The Holy Desert Raraku lies protected within the Whirlwind circle, ensuring the sanctity of my return. While beyond, the rebellion's claim to dominion—to rightful independence from the Malazan tyrants—continues its spreading tide of blood. My servants lead vast armies. All but one of the Seven Holy Cities have been liberated.' She was silent a moment, feeling the power building within her, yet when she spoke again it was in a low whisper. 'Our time of preparation is at an end. The time has come to march, to set forth from this oasis. The Empress, upon her distant throne, would punish us. A fleet approaches Seven Cities, an army commanded by her chosen Adjunct, a commander whose mind I hold as a map within my own—she possesses no secrets I do not know…"
The three High Mages had not moved. Felisin was gifted with knowing them, a sudden rush of knowledge that could only be Sha'ik Elder's. She could see their faces as if she stood but a pace from each of them, and she knew that they now shared that sense of sudden, precise proximity—and a part of her found admiration in their refusal to tremble. The eldest of the three was ancient, withered Bidithal, the one who had first found her, no more than a child, in answer to his own visions. His f
ilmy eyes were fixed on her own. Bidithal, remember that child? The one you used so brutally that first and only night, to scourge from her all pleasures of the flesh. You broke her within her own body, left scars that felt nothing, that were senseless. The child would not be distracted, no children of her own, no man at her side who could wrest loyalty away from the goddess. Bidithal, I have reserved a place for you in the fiery Abyss, as you well know. But for now, you serve me. Kneel.
She saw with two visions, one close, the other from the distant vantage point of the platform, as the old man sank down, robes folding around him. She turned her attention to the next man. Febryl, the most craven and conniving of my High Mages. Thrice you sought to poison me, and thrice Dryjhna's power burned the poison from my veins—yet not once did I condemn you. Did you believe me ignorant of your efforts? And your most ancient secret—your flight from Dassem Ultor before the final battle, your betrayal of the cause—did you think I knew nothing of this? Nonetheless, I have need of you, for you are the lodestone of dissent, of those who would betray me. On your knees, bastard!
She added a surge of power to the command, which drove the man down to the ground as if with an invisible giant hand. He squirmed on the soft sand, whimpering.
Finally, we come to you, L'oric, my only true mystery. Your sorcerous arts are formidable, particularly in weaving an impervious barrier about you. The cast of your mind is unknown to me, even the breadth and depth of your loyalty. And though you seem faithless, I have found you the most reliable. For you are a pragmatist, L'oric. Like Leoman. Yet I am ever on your scales, my every decision, my every word. So, judge me now, High Mage, and decide.
He dropped to one knee, bowed his head. Felisin smiled. Half-measured. Very pragmatic, L'oric. I have missed you.
She saw his wry answering smile there in the shadows cast by his hood.
Finished with the three men, Felisin's attention returned to the crowd awaiting her next pronouncement. Silence gripped the air. What is left? 'We must march, my children. Yet that alone is not enough. We must announce what we are about to do, for all to see.' The goddess was ready. Felisin—Sha'ik Reborn—raised her arms. The golden dust twisted above her, corkscrewed into a column. It grew. The spout of raging wind and dust burgeoned, climbed skyward, drawing in the desert's gilded cloak, the breath clearing the vast dome on all sides, revealing a blue expanse that had not been seen for months.
And still the column grew, surging higher, ever higher. The Whirlwind was naught but preparation for this. This, the raising of Dryjhna's standard, the spear that is the Apocalypse. A standard to tower over an entire continent, seen by all. Now, at last, the war begins. My war.
Her head tilted back, she let her sorcerous vision feast on what was rising to the very edge of heaven's canopy. Dear sister, see what you've made.
The crossbow jolted in Fiddler's hands. A gout of fire bloomed in the heaving mass of rats, blackening and roasting scores of the creatures.
From point, the sapper had become rearguard, as the group retreated from Gryllen's nightmare pursuit. 'The D'ivers has stolen powerful lives,' said Apsalar, and Mappo, struggling to pull Icarium back, had nodded. 'Gryllen has never before shown such… capacity…"
Capacity. Fiddler grunted, chewing at the word. The last time he'd seen this D'ivers, the rats had been present in their hundreds. Now they were in their thousands, perhaps tens of thousands—he could only guess at their numbers.
The Hound Gear had rejoined them and now led their retreat down side tracks and narrow tunnels. They were seeking to circle around Gryllen—they could do naught else. Until Icarium loses control, and gods, he's close. Far too close. The sapper reached into his munitions, his fingers touching his last cusser, then brushing past, finding instead another flamer. No time to affix it to a quarrel, and he was running out of those anyway. The swarm's lead creatures, scampering towards him, were no more than half a dozen paces away. Fiddler's heart stuttered in his chest—Have I let them get too close this time? Hood's breath! He flung the grenado. Roast rat.
Heaving bodies swallowed the liquid fire, rolled and tumbled towards him.
The sapper wheeled and ran.
He nearly plunged into Shan's blood-smeared jaws. Wailing, Fiddler dodged, spun, went sprawling among boots and moccasins. The group had come to a halt. He scrambled upright. 'We got to run!'
'Where?' The question came from Crokus, in a dry, heavy tone.
They were at a bend in the path, and at both ends swarmed a solid wall of rats.
Four Hounds attacked the far mob, only Shan remaining with the group—taking the place of Blind, perilously close to Icarium.
With a shriek of rage the Jhag threw Mappo from his shoulders with a seemingly effortless shrug. The Trell staggered, lost his balance and struck the root floor with a rattling thud.
'Everybody down!' Fiddler screamed, his hand blindly reaching into the munitions bag, closing on that large, smooth object within.
Keening, Icarium drew his sword. Wood snapped and recoiled in answer. The iron sky blushed crimson, began twisting into a vortex directly above them. Sap sprayed from the walls like sleet, spattering everyone.
Shan attacked Icarium but was batted aside, sent flying, the Jhag barely noticing.
Fiddler stared at Icarium a moment longer; then, pulling his cusser free, the sapper wheeled around and threw it at the D'ivers.
But it was not a cusser.
Eyes wide, Fiddler stared as the conch shell struck the root floor and shattered like glass.
He heard a savage crack behind him, but had no time to give it thought, and all further sounds vanished as a whispering voice rose from the ruined shell—a Tano Spiritwalker's gift—a whispering that soon filled the air, a song of bones, finding muscle as it swept outward.
The heaving mass of rats on both sides sought to retreat, but there was nowhere to flee—the sound enveloped all. The creatures began crumpling, the flesh withering, leaving only fur and bones. The song took that flesh, and so grew.
Gryllen's thousand-voiced scream was an anguished explosion of pain and terror. And it, too, was swallowed, devoured.
Fiddler clapped his hands to his ears as the song resonated within, insistent, a voice anything but human, anything but mortal. He twisted away, fell to his knees. His wide eyes stared, barely registering what he saw before him.
His companions were down, curling around themselves. The Hounds cowered, the massive beasts trembling, ears flat. Mappo crouched over the prone, motionless form of Icarium. In the Trell's hands was his bone club, the flat side of the head spattered with fresh blood and snagged strands of long reddish hair. Mappo finally dropped the weapon and slapped his hands over his ears.
Gods, this will kill us all—stop! Stop, dammit!
He realized he was going mad, his vision betraying him, for he now saw a wall, a wall of water, sleet grey and webbed with foam, rushing upon them down the path, building higher, escaping the root-walls and tumbling outward. And he found he could see into the wall now, as if it had turned to liquid glass. Wreckage, foundation stones softened by algae, the rotting remains of sunken ships, encrusted, shapeless hunks of oxidized metal, bones, skulls, casks and bronze-bound chests, splintered masts and fittings—the submerged memory of countless civilizations, an avalanche of tragic events, dissolution and decay.
The wave buried them, drove them all down with its immense weight, its relentless force.
Then was gone, leaving them dry as dust.
Silence filled the air, slowly broken by harsh gasps, bestial whimpers, the muted rustling of clothing and weapons.
Fiddler lifted his head, pushing himself to his hands and knees. Ghostly remnants of that flood seemed to stain him through and through, permeating him with ineffable sorrow.
Protective sorcery?
The Spiritwalker had smiled. Of a sort.
And I'd planned on selling the damned thing in G'danisban, My last cusser was a damned conch shell—I never checked, not once. Hood's breath!<
br />
He was slow to sense a new tension rising in the air. The sapper looked up. Mappo had retrieved his club and now stood over Icarium's unconscious form. Around him ranged the Hounds. Raised hackles on all sides.
Fiddler scrabbled for his crossbow. 'Iskaral Pust! Call off those Hounds, damn you!'
'The bargain! The Azath will take him!' the High Priest gasped, still staggering about in the stunned aftermath of the Tano's sorcery. 'Now's the time!'
'No,' growled the Trell.
Fiddler hesitated. The deal, Mappo. Icarium made his wishes plain… 'Call them off, Pust,' he said, moving towards the nervous stand-off. He plunged one hand into his munition bag and swung the leather sack around until he clutched it against his stomach. 'Got one last cusser, and those Hounds could be made of solid marble, it won't save 'em when I fall down on what I'm holding here.'
'Damned sappers! Who invented them? Madness!'
Fiddler grinned. 'Who invented them? Why, Kellanved, who else—who Ascended to become your god, Pust. I'd have thought you'd appreciate the irony, High Priest.'
'The bargain—'
'Will wait a while longer. Mappo, how hard did you hit him? How long will he be out?'
'As long as I wish, friend.'
Friend, and in that word: 'thank you.'
'All right then. Call the mutts off, Pust. Let's get to the House.'
The High Priest ceased his circling stagger; he paused, slowly weaving back and forth. Glancing over at Apsalar, he offered her a wide grin.
'As the soldier says,' she said.
The grin vanished. 'The youth of today knows no loyalty. A shame, not at all how things used to be. Wouldn't you agree, Servant?'
Apsalar's father grimaced. 'You heard her.'
'Far too permissive, letting her get her way so. You've spoiled her, man! Betrayed by my own generation, alas! What next?'
'What's next is, we get going,' Fiddler said.
'And it won't be much farther,' Crokus said. He pointed down the path. 'There. I see the House. I see Tremorlor.'
The sapper watched Mappo sling his weapon over a shoulder, then gently lift Icarium. The Jhag hung limply within those massive arms. The scene was touched with such gentle caring that Fiddler had to look away.
Deadhouse Gates Page 68