Baudin, his right hand now a blunt bandaged lump, joined them, the corporal a step behind. The one-eared man grunted. “That’s a Quon dromon. Pre-Imperial.”
“You know your ships,” Gesler said, giving the man a sharp glance.
Baudin shrugged. “I worked in a prison gang, scuttling the republic’s fleet in Quon Harbor. That was twenty years ago—Dassem had been using them to train his Marines—”
“I know,” Gesler said, his tone revealing first-hand knowledge.
“Young to be in a prison gang,” Stormy said from where he squatted amidst the water casks. “You were what, ten? Fifteen?”
“Something like that,” Baudin said. “And what got me there ain’t your business, soldier.”
There was a long silence, then Gesler shook himself. “You done, Stormy?”
“Aye, all rigged up.”
“All right, let’s swim over before our lady makes her rush to the bottom. No gain if we end up all getting pulled down in her wake.”
“I ain’t happy,” Stormy said as he eyed the dromon. “That’s right out of a tavern tale told at midnight. Could be Hood’s Herald, could be cursed, plague-ridden—”
“Could be the only dry underfoot we’ll find,” Gesler said. “As for the rest, think of the tale you’ll spin in the next tavern, Stormy. You’ll have them pissing their pants and rushing off to the nearest temple for a blessing. You could set it up to take a cut from the avatars.”
“Well, maybe you ain’t got enough brains to be scared of anything…”
The corporal grinned. “Let’s get wet, everyone. I hear noblewomen pay in gold for a bath like the one we’re about to take. That right, lass?”
Felisin did not answer.
Kulp shook his head. “You’re just happy to be alive,” he said to Gesler.
“Damn right.”
The water was cool, strangely slick and not easy to swim through. The Ripath settled behind them, its decks awash. Then the mast leaned to one side, pausing a moment before sweeping down to the water. Within seconds it had slipped beneath the surface.
Half an hour later they reached the dromon, gasping with exhaustion. Truth proved the only one capable of climbing up the steering oar. He clambered over the high sterncastle railing. A few moments later a thick-twined hemp ladder tumbled down to the others.
It was a struggle, but eventually everyone was aboard, Gesler and Stormy pulling up the food chest and water casks last.
From the sterncastle, Kulp looked down the length of the ship’s deck. The abandonment had been a hasty thing. Coiled ropes and bundles of supplies wrapped in sealskin lay scattered about, along with discarded body armor, swords and belts. A thick, pale, greasy dust clung to everything.
The others joined him in silent study.
“Anybody see a name on the hull?” Gesler asked eventually. “I looked, but…”
“Silanda,” Baudin said.
Stormy growled, “Togg’s teats, man, there wasn’t no—”
“Don’t need one to know this ship,” Baudin said. “That cargo lying about down there, that’s from Drift Avalii. Silanda was the only craft sanctioned to trade with the Tiste Andii. She was on her way to the island when the Emperor’s forces overran Quon. She never returned.”
Silence followed his words.
It was broken by a soft laugh from Felisin. “Baudin the thug. Did your prison gangs work in libraries as well?”
“Anybody else notice the waterline?” Gesler asked. “This ship hasn’t moved in years.” He shot one last, piercing glare at Baudin, then descended to the main deck. “Might as well be a pile of rock knee-deep in guano,” he said, stopping at one of the sealskin bundles. He crouched down to unwrap it. A moment later he hissed a curse and lurched back. The bundle’s flaps fell away, releasing its contents: a severed head. It rolled crazily across the deck, thumping up against the lip of the hold’s hatchway.
Kulp pushed past a motionless Heboric, scrambled down to the main deck and approached the head. He raised his warren. Stopped.
“What do you see?” the ex-priest asked.
“Nothing I like,” the mage replied. He stepped closer, crouched. “Tiste Andii.” He glanced over at Gesler. “What I’m about to suggest is not pleasant, but…”
The corporal, his face white, nodded. “Stormy,” he said as he turned to the next bundle. “Give me a hand.”
“Doing what?”
“Counting heads.”
“Fener save me! Gesler—”
“You gotta be cold to spin a tale like this one. Takes practice. Get down here and get your hands dirty, soldier.”
There were dozens of bundles. Each contained a head, cleanly severed. Most were Tiste Andii, but some were human. Gesler began stacking them into a grisly pyramid around the main mast. The corporal’s recovery from his initial shock had been swift—clearly, the man had seen his share of horrors as a Marine of the Empire. Stormy was almost as quick in casting aside his revulsion, although a superstitious terror seemed to replace it—he worked frantically fast, and before too long every head had joined the ghastly pyramid.
Kulp turned his attention to the hatch leading down into the oar pit. A faint aura of sorcery rose from it, visible to his warren-touched senses as waves rippling the still air. He hesitated long before approaching it.
Apart from the mage and Gesler and Stormy, the others remained in the sterncastle, watching the proceedings with something like numb shock.
The corporal joined Kulp. “Ready to check below?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Lead on, then,” Gesler said with a tight grin. He unsheathed his sword.
Kulp glanced down at it.
The corporal shrugged. “Yeah, I know.”
Muttering under his breath, Kulp headed for the hatch. The lack of light below did nothing to hide what he saw. Sorcery lined everything, sickly yellow and faintly pulsing. Both hands on the railing, the mage descended the encrusted steps, Gesler close behind him.
“Can you see anything?” the corporal asked.
“Oh yes.”
“What’s that smell?”
“If patience has a smell,” Kulp said, “you’re smelling it.” He cast a wave of light down the length of the center walkway between the bench rows, spun it sideways and left it there.
“Well,” Gesler said, dry and rasping, “there’s a certain logic, isn’t there?”
The oars were manned by headless corpses, three to a bench. Other sealskin bundles crowded every available space. Another headless figure sat behind a skin drum, both hands gripping strange, gourdlike batons. The figure was massively muscled. There was no evidence of decay on any of the bodies. White bone and red flesh glistened at the necks.
Neither man spoke for a long time, then Gesler cleared his throat, to little effect as he squeezed out gravel words. “Did you say patience, Kulp?”
“Aye.”
“I ain’t misheard, then.”
Kulp shook his head. “Someone took the ship, beheaded everyone aboard…then put them to work.”
“In that order.”
“In that order.”
“How long ago?”
“Years. Decades. We’re in a warren, Corporal. No telling how time works here.”
Gesler grunted. “What say we check the captain’s cabin? There might be a log.”
“And a ‘take to the oars’ whistle.”
“Yeah. You know, if we hide that drum-beater, I could send Stormy down here to beat the time.”
“You’ve a wicked sense of humor, Gesler.”
“Aye. Thing is, Stormy tells the world’s most boring sea tales. It’d do a favor to anyone he meets from now on to spice things up a little.”
“Don’t tell me you’re serious.”
The corporal sighed. “No,” he said after a moment. “I won’t invite madness on anyone, Mage.”
They returned to the main deck. The others stared at them. Gesler shrugged. “What you’d expect,” he said, �
�if you was completely insane, that is.”
“Well,” Felisin replied, “you’re talking to the right crowd.”
Kulp strode toward the cabin hatch. The corporal sheathed his sword and then followed. The hatch descended two steps, then opened out into a galley. A large wooden table commanded the center. Opposite them was a second hatch, leading to a narrow walkway with berths on either side. At the far end was the door to the captain’s cabin.
No one occupied the berths, but there was gear aplenty, all waiting for owners who no longer needed it.
The cabin door opened with a loud squeal.
Even with all they had seen thus far, the interior was a scene of horror. Four bodies were immediately visible, three of them twisted grotesquely in postures of sudden death. There was no evidence of decay, but no blood was visible. Whatever had killed them had crushed them thoroughly without once breaking skin. The exception sat in the captain’s chair at the end of a map table, as if presiding over Hood’s own stage. A spear jutted from his chest, and had been pushed through to the chair, then beyond. Blood glistened down the front of the figure’s body, pooled in his lap. It had stopped flowing, yet looked still wet.
“Tiste Andii?” Gesler asked in a whisper.
“They have that look,” Kulp replied softly, “but not quite.” He stepped into the cabin. “Their skins are gray, not black. Nor do they look very…refined.”
“The Tiste Andii of Drift Avalii were said to be pretty barbaric—not that anyone living has visited the isle.”
“None returned, in any case,” Kulp conceded. “But these are wearing skins—barely cured. And look at their jewelry…” The four bodies were adorned in bone fetishes, claws, the canines of beasts, and polished seashells. There was none of the fine Tiste Andii craftwork that Kulp had had occasion to see in the past. Moreover, all four were brown-haired, the hair hanging loose and uncombed, stringy with grease. Tiste Andii hair was either silver-white or midnight black.
“What in Hood’s name are we seeing?” Gesler asked.
“The killers of the Quon sailors and the Tiste Andii, is my guess,” Kulp said. “They then sailed into this warren, maybe by choice, maybe not. And ran into something nastier than them.”
“You think the rest of the crew escaped?”
Kulp shrugged. “If you’ve got the sorcery to command headless corpses, who needs a bigger crew than the one we’re looking at right here?”
“They still look like Tiste Andii,” the corporal said, peering closely at the man in the chair.
“We should get Heboric in here,” Kulp said. “Maybe he’s read something somewhere that’ll bring light to all this.”
“Wait here,” Gesler said.
The ship was creaking now as the rest of the group began moving around on the main deck. Kulp listened to the corporal’s footsteps recede up the walkway. The mage leaned both hands on the table, scanning the charts splayed out on its surface. There was a map there, showing a land he could not recognize: a ragged coastline of fjords studded with cursory sketches of pine trees. Inland was a faint whitewash, as of ice or snow. A course had been plotted, striking east from the jagged shoreline, then southward across a vast ocean. The Malazan Empire purported to have world maps, but they showed nothing like the land he saw here. The Empire’s claim to dominance suddenly seemed pathetic.
Heboric stepped into the cabin behind him. Kulp did not turn from his study of the chart. “Give them a close look,” the mage said.
The old man moved past Kulp, crouching down to frown at the captain’s face. The high cheekbones and angular eye sockets looked Tiste Andii, as did the man’s evident height. Heboric reached out tentatively—
“Wait,” Kulp growled. “Be careful what you touch. And which arm you use.”
Heboric hissed in exasperation and dropped his arm. After a moment, he straightened. “I can only think of one thing. Tiste Edur.”
“Who?”
“Gothos’s Folly. There’s mention of three Tiste peoples arriving from another realm. Of course the only one that’s known to us is the Tiste Andii, and Gothos only names one of the other groups—Tiste Edur. Gray-skinned, not black. Children of the unwelcome union of Mother Dark with the Light.”
“Unwelcome?”
Heboric grimaced. “The Tiste Andii considered it a degradation of pure Dark, and the source of all their subsequent ills. Anyway, Gothos’s Folly is the only tome where you’ll find mention of them. It also happens to be the oldest.”
“Gothos was Jaghut, correct?”
“Aye, and as sour-tempered a writer as I’ve ever had the displeasure of reading. Tell me, Kulp, what does your warren reveal?”
“Nothing.”
Heboric glanced over in surprise. “Nothing at all?”
“No.”
“But they look to be in stasis—this blood’s still wet.”
“I know.”
Heboric gestured at something around the captain’s neck. “There’s your whistle, assuming we’re going to make use of what’s below decks.”
“Either that or we sit here and starve.” Kulp stepped closer to the captain’s corpse. A long bone whistle hung from a leather thong, resting alongside the spear’s shaft. “I sense nothing from that bone tube either. It may not even work.”
Heboric shrugged. “I’m going back up for what passes for fresh air. That spear’s Barghast, by the way.”
“It’s too damned big,” Kulp countered.
“I know, but that’s what it looks like to me.”
“It’s too big.”
Heboric made no reply, disappearing up the walkway. Kulp glared at the spear. It’s too big. After a moment he reached out and gingerly removed the whistle from around the corpse’s neck.
Emerging onto the main deck, the mage glanced again at the whistle. He grunted. It was alive with sorcery now. The breath of Otataral’s in that cabin. No wonder their sorcery couldn’t defend them. He looked around. Stormy had positioned himself at the prow, his ever-present crossbow strapped to his back. Baudin stood near him, cradling his bandaged hand. Felisin leaned against the railing near the main mast, arms crossed, appallingly cool with a pyramid of severed heads almost at her feet. Heboric was nowhere to be seen.
Gesler approached. “Truth is heading up to the crow’s nest,” he said. “You got the whistle?”
Kulp tossed it over. “Chosen a course yet?”
“Truth will see what he sees, then we’ll decide.”
The mage craned his head, eyes narrowing on the lad as he lithely scrambled up the rigging. Five breaths later Truth clambered into the crow’s nest and vanished from sight.
“Fener’s hoof!” The curse drifted down, snared everyone’s attention.
“Truth!”
“Three pegs to port! Storm sails!”
Gesler and Kulp rushed to the starboard railing. A smudge marred the formless horizon, flickering with lightning. Kulp hissed. “That Hood-damned wizard’s followed us!”
The corporal spun around. “Stormy! Check what’s left of these sails.” Without pause he put the whistle to his lips and blew. The sound was a chorus of voices, keening tonelessly. It chilled the air, the wail of souls twisted past torture, transforming pain into sound, fading with reluctance as Gesler pulled the whistle away.
Wood thumped on either side as oars were readied. Heboric stumbled from the hold hatch, his tattoos glowing like phosphor, his eyes wide as he swung to Gesler. “You’ve got your crew, Corporal.”
“Awake,” Felisin muttered, stepping away from the main mast.
Kulp saw what she had seen. The severed heads had opened their eyes, swiveling to fix on Gesler as if driven by a single ghastly mechanism.
The corporal seemed to flinch, then he shook it off. “Could’ve used one of these when I was a drill sergeant,” he said with a tight grin.
“Your drummer’s ready down below,” Heboric said from where he stood peering down into the rowers’ pit.
“Forget the sails,” Stor
my said. “Rotted through.”
“Man the steering oar,” Gesler ordered him. “Three pegs to port—we can’t do nothing but run.” He raised the whistle again and blew a rapid sequence. The drum started booming in time. The oars swung, blades flipping from horizontal to vertical, then dipped down into the sluggish water and pulled.
The ship groaned, crunching through the meniscus of crust that had clung to the hull. The Silanda lurched into motion and slowly eased round until the rapidly approaching storm cloud was directly astern. The oars pushed slimy water with relentless precision.
Gesler looped the whistle’s thong around his neck. “Wouldn’t the old Emperor have loved this old lady, Kulp, eh?”
“Your excitement’s nauseating, Corporal.”
The man barked a laugh.
The twin banks of oars lifted the Silanda into a ramming pace and stayed there. The cadence of the drum was a too swift heartbeat. It reverberated in Kulp’s bones with a resonance that etched his nerves with pain. He did not need to descend into the pit to affirm his vision of that thick-muscled, headless corpse pounding the gourds against the skin, the relentless heave and pull of the rowers, the searing play of Hood-bound sorcery in the stifling atmosphere. His eyes went in search of Gesler, and found him standing at the sterncastle alongside Stormy. These were hard men, harder than he could fathom. They’d taken the grim black humor of the soldier further than he’d thought possible, cold as the sunless core of a glacier. Bloody-minded confidence…or fatalism? Never knew Fener’s bristles could be so black.
The mad sorcerer’s storm still gained on them, slower than before, yet an undeniable threat nonetheless. The mage strode to Heboric’s side.
“Is this your god’s warren?”
The old man scowled. “Not my god. Not his warren. Hood knows where in the Abyss we are, and it seems there’s no easy wakening from this nightmare.”
“You drove the god-touched hand into Stormy’s wound.”
“Aye. Nothing but chance. Could have as easily been the other one.”
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 98