“Was, till he married a local woman who just happened to be the daughter of Halaf’s last Holy Protector. He’s turned renegade, had to execute half his own legion who refused to step across with him. The other half divested the Imperial uniform, proclaimed themselves a mercenary company, and took on Korbolo’s contract. It was that company that hit us in Orbal. Call themselves the Whirlwind Legion or something like that.” Keneb rose and kicked at the fire, scattering the last embers. “They rode in like allies. We didn’t suspect a thing.”
There was more to this tale, the assassin sensed. “I remember Korbolo,” Kalam muttered.
“Thought you might. He was Whiskeyjack’s replacement, wasn’t he?”
“For a time. After Raraku. A superb tactician, but a little too bloodthirsty for my tastes. For Laseen, too, which was why she holed him in Halaf.”
“And promoted Dujek instead.” The captain laughed. “Who’s now been outlawed.”
“Now there’s an injustice I’ll tell you about some day,” Kalam said, rising. “We should get going. Those raiders may have friends nearby.”
He felt Minala’s eyes on him as he readied his horse and was not a little disturbed. Husband dead only twenty-four hours ago. An anchor cut away. Kalam was a stranger who’d as much as taken charge despite being outranked by her brother-in-law. She must have thought for the first time in a long time that they stood a chance of surviving with him along. It was not a responsibility he welcomed. Still, I’ve always appreciated capable women. Only an interest this soon after her husband’s death is like a flower on a dead stalk. Attractive but not for long. She was capable, but if he let her, her own needs would end up undermining that capability. Not good for her. And besides, if I led this one on, she’d stop being what attracted me to her in the first place. Best to leave well alone. Best to stay remote.
“Corporal Kalam,” Minala said behind him.
He swung about. “What?”
“Those women. I think we should bury them.”
The assassin hesitated, then resumed checking his horse’s girth strap. “No time,” he grunted. “Worry about the living, not the dead.”
Her voice hardened. “I am. There are two young boys who need to be reminded about respect.”
“Not now.” He faced her again. “Respect won’t help them if they’re dead, or worse. See that everyone else is ready to ride, then get to your horse.”
“Captain gives the orders,” she said, paling.
“He’s got a busted head and keeps thinking this is a picnic. Watch the times he comes round—his eyes fill with fear. And here you go wanting to add yet another burden on the man. Even the slightest nudge might make him retreat into his head for good, and then what use is he? To anyone?”
“Fine,” she snapped, whirling away.
He watched her stalk off. Selv and Keneb stood by their horses, too far away to have heard anything but close enough to know that dark waters had been stirred between Minala and the assassin. A moment later the children rode into view on a single horse, the seven-year-old in front and sitting tall with his younger brother’s arms wrapped around him. Both looked older than their years.
Respect for life. Sure. The other lesson is just how cheap that life can become. Maybe the former comes from the latter, in which case they’re well on their way as it is.
“Ready,” Minala said in a cold voice.
Kalam swung into the saddle. He scanned the growing darkness. Stay close, Apt. Only not too close.
They rode out of the river bed and onto the grassy Odhan, Kalam in the lead. Luckily, the demon was shy.
The rogue wave took them from the port side, a thick, sludgy wall that seemed to leap over the railing, crashing down on the deck like a landslide of mud. The water drained from the silts within seconds, leaving Felisin and the others on the main deck knee-deep in the foul-smelling muck. The pyramid of heads was a shapeless mound.
Crawling, Heboric reached her, his face smeared a dull ochre. “This silt!” he gasped, pausing to spit some from his mouth. “Look at what’s in it!”
Almost too miserable to respond, she nevertheless reached down and scooped up a handful. “It’s full of seeds,” she said. “And rotting plants—”
“Aye! Grass seeds and rotting grasses—don’t you understand, lass? That’s not sea bottom down there. It’s prairie. Inundated. This warren’s flooded. Recently.”
She grunted, unwilling to share in his excitement. “That’s a surprise? Can’t sail a ship on prairie, can you?”
His eyes narrowed. “You got something there, Felisin.”
The silt around her shins felt strange, crawling, restless. Ignoring the ex-priest, she clambered her way toward the stern-castle. The wave had not gone that high. Gesler and Stormy were both at the steering oar, all four hands needed to maintain a course. Kulp was near them, waiting to relieve the first man whose strength gave out. And he’d been waiting long enough for it to be obvious that Gesler and Stormy were locked in a battle of pride, neither one wanting to surrender before the other. Their bared grins confirmed it for Felisin. Idiots! They’ll both collapse at once, leaving the mage to handle the steering oar by himself.
The sky continued to convulse over them, lashing lightning in all directions. The surface of the sea resisted the shrieking wind, the silt-heavy water lifting in turgid swells that seemed reluctant to go anywhere. The headless oarsmen continued their ceaseless rowing, though a dozen oars had snapped, the splintered shafts keeping time with those still pushing water. The drum beat on, answering the thunder overhead with its measured, impervious patience.
She reached the steps and climbed clear of the mud, then stopped in surprise. The silt fled her skin as if alive, poured down from her legs to rejoin the quaking pool that covered the main deck.
Crouched near the main mast, Heboric yelled in sudden alarm, eyes on the mud surrounding him as its shivering increased. “There’s something in it!”
“Come this way!” Truth shouted from the forecastle steps, reaching out with one hand. Baudin anchored him with a single-handed grip on the lad’s other arm. “Quick! Something’s coming out!”
Felisin climbed another step higher.
The mud was transmogrifying, coalescing into the shapes of figures. Flint blades appeared, some gray, some the deep red of chalcedony. Bedraggled fur slowly sprouted, riding broad, bony shoulders. Bone helmets gleamed polished gold and brown—the skulls of beasts that Felisin could not imagine existing anywhere. Long ropes of filthy hair were now visible, mostly black or brown. The mud did not so much fall away as change. These creatures were one with the clay.
“T’lan Imass!” Kulp shouted from where he stood clinging to the mizzen mast. Silanda was rocking with a wild energy. “Logros T’lan!”
They numbered six. All wore furs except one, who was smaller than the others and last to appear. It was bedecked in the oily, ragged feathers of colorful birds, and its long hair was iron gray streaked with red. Shell, antler and bone jewelry hung from its rotting hide shin, but it appeared to carry no weapons.
Their faces were withered, the bones underneath close to the surface and robust. The sockets of their eyes were black pits. The wiry remnants of beards remained, except on the silver-haired one, who now straightened and faced Kulp.
“Stand aside, Servant of the Chained One, we have come for our kin, and for the Tiste Edur.” The voice was a woman’s, the language Malazan.
Another T’lan Imass turned to the silver-haired one. It was by far the biggest of the group. The fur humped over its shoulders came from some kind of bear, the hairs were silver-tipped. “Mortal worshipers are a bane themselves,” it said in a bored tone. “We should kill them as well.”
“We shall,” the other one said. “But our quarry comes first.”
“There are no kin of yours here,” Kulp said shakily. “And the Tiste Edur are dead. Go see for yourself. In the captain’s cabin.”
The female T’lan Imass cocked her head. Two of her compan
ions strode toward the hatch. She then swung about and stared at Heboric, who stood by the forecastle railing. “Call down the mage linked to you. He is a wound. And he spreads. This must be stopped. More, I tell your god that such games place him in great peril. We shall not brook such damage to the warrens.”
Felisin laughed, the sound tinged with hysteria.
As one, the T’lan Imass looked at her.
She flinched from those lifeless gazes, then drew a breath to steady herself. “You may be immortal and powerful enough to threaten the boar god,” she said, “but you haven’t got one thing right yet.”
“Explain,” the female said.
“Ask someone who cares,” she said, meeting that depthless gaze, surprised that she neither flinched nor broke away.
“I am no longer a priest of Fener,” Heboric said, raising both stumps. “If the boar god is here, among us, then I am not aware of it, nor do I much care. The sorcerer riding this storm pursues us, seeking to destroy us. I know not why.”
“He is the madness of Otataral,” the female said.
The two Imass sent to the cabin now returned. Though no words were spoken aloud, the female nodded. “They are dead, then. And our kin have departed. We must continue the hunt.” She swung her gaze back to Heboric. “I would lay hands upon you.”
Felisin barked another laugh. “That’ll make him complete.”
“Shut up, girl,” Kulp growled, pushing past to descend to the main deck. “We’re not Servants of the Chained One,” he said. “Hood’s breath, what is the Chained One? Never mind, I don’t even want to know. We’re on this ship by accident, not design—”
“We did not anticipate this warren would be flooded,” the female said.
“It’s said you can cross oceans,” the mage muttered, frowning. Felisin could see he was having trouble following the T’lan Imass’s statements. So was she.
“We can cross bodies of water,” the female acknowledged. “But we can only find our shapes on land.”
“So, like us, you came to this ship to get your feet dry—”
“And complete our task. We pursue renegade kin.”
“If they were here, they’ve since left,” Kulp said. “Before we arrived. You are a Bonecaster.”
The female inclined her head. “Hentos Ilm, of Logros T’lann Imass.”
“And the Logros no longer serve the Malazan Empire. Glad to see you’re staying busy.”
“Why?”
“Never mind.” Kulp looked skyward. “He’s eased up some.”
“He senses us,” Hentos Ilm said. She faced Heboric again. “Your left hand is in balance, it is true. Otataral and a power unknown to me. If the mage in the storm continues to grow in power, the Otataral shall prevail, and you too shall know its madness.”
“I want it gone from me,” Heboric growled. “Please.”
Hentos Ilm shrugged, and approached the ex-priest. “We must destroy the one in the skies. Then we must seal the warren’s wound.”
“In other words,” Felisin said, “you’re probably not worth the trouble, old man.”
“Bonecaster,” Kulp said. “What warren is this?”
Hentos Ilm paused, attention still on Heboric. “Elder. Kurald Emurlahn.”
“I’ve heard of Kurald Galain—the Tiste Andii warren.”
“This is Tiste Edur. You surprise me, Mage. You are Meanas Rashan, which is the branch of Kurald Emurlahn accessible to mortal humans. The warren you use is the child of this place.”
Kulp was scowling at the Bonecaster’s back. “This makes no sense. Meanas Rashan is the warren of Shadow. Of Ammanas and Cotillion, and the Hounds.”
“Before Shadowthrone and Cotillion,” Hentos Ilm said, “there were Tiste Edur.” The Bonecaster reached toward Heboric. “I would touch you.”
“Be my guest,” he said.
Felisin watched her place the palm of one withered hand against the old man’s chest. After a moment she stepped back and turned away as if dismissing him. She addressed the bear-furred T’lan Imass who’d spoken earlier. “You are clanless, Legana Breed.”
“I am clanless,” he agreed.
She pointed at Kulp. “Mage. Do nothing.”
“Wait!” Heboric said. “What did you sense in me?”
“You are shorn from your god, though he continues to make use of you. I see no other purpose in your existence.”
Felisin bit back a nasty comment. Not this one. She could see Heboric’s shoulders slowly sag, as if some vital essence had been pulled, pulped and dripping blood, from his chest. He’d clung hard to something, and the Bonecaster had just pronounced it dead. I’m running out of things to wound in him. Maybe that’ll keep me from trying.
Hentos Ilm tilted her head back, then began dissolving, the dust of her being spinning in place. A moment later it spiraled upward, swiftly vanishing in the low clouds boiling overhead.
Lightning cracked, a rap of pain in Felisin’s ears. Crying out, she fell to her knees. The others suffered in like manner, with the exception of the remaining T’lan Imass, who stood in motionless indifference. The Silanda bucked. The mud-smeared pyramid of severed heads around the main mast collapsed. Heads tumbled and bounced heavily on the deck.
The T’lan Imass spun at that, weapons suddenly out.
Thunder bellowed in the roiling stormclouds. The air shivered again.
The one named Legana Breed reached down and lifted one head by its long, black hair. It was Tiste Andii, a woman. “She still lives,” the undead warrior said, revealing a muted hint of surprise. “Kurald Emurlahn, the sorcery has locked their souls to their flesh.”
A faint shriek bounced down through the clouds, a sound filled with despair and—jarringly—release. The clouds spilled out in every direction, tearing into thin wisps. A pale amber sky burned through. The storm was gone, and so too was the mad sorcerer.
Felisin ducked as something winged past her, leaving in its wake a musty, dead smell. When she looked up Hentos Ilm stood once again on the main deck, facing Legana Breed. Neither moved, suggesting a silent conversation was underway.
“Hood’s breath,” Kulp breathed beside Felisin. She glanced over. He was staring into the sky, his face pale. She followed his gaze.
A vast, black lesion, rimmed in fiery red and as large as a full moon, marred the amber sky. Whatever leaked from it seemed to steal into Felisin through her eyes, as if the act of simply seeing it was capable of transmitting an infection, a disease that would spread through her flesh. Like the poison of a bloodfly. A small whimper escaped her throat, then she desperately pulled her eyes away.
Kulp still stared, his face getting whiter, his mouth hanging listlessly. Felisin nudged him. “Kulp!” He did not respond. She struck him.
Gesler was suddenly beside them, wrapping an arm around Kulp’s eyes. “Dammit, Mage, snap out of it!”
Kulp struggled, then relaxed. She saw him nod. “Let him go now,” she said to the corporal.
As soon as Gesler relinquished his hold, the mage rounded on Hentos Ilm. His voice was a shaken rasp. “That’s the wound you mentioned, isn’t it? It’s spreading—I can feel it, like a cancer—”
“A soul must bridge it,” the Bonecaster said.
Legana Breed was on the move. All eyes followed him as he strode to the sterncastle steps, ascended and stood before Stormy. The scarred veteran did not recoil.
“Well,” the marine muttered, “this is as close as I’ve ever been.” His grin was sickly. “Once is enough.”
The T’lan Imass raised his gray flint sword.
“Hold it,” Gesler growled. “If you need a soul to stopper that wound…use mine.”
Legana Breed’s head pivoted.
Gesler’s jaw clenched. He nodded.
“Insufficient,” Hentos Ilm pronounced.
Legana Breed faced Stormy again. “I am the last of my clan,” he rumbled. “L’echae Shayn shall end. This weapon is our memory. Carry it, mortal. Learn its weight. Stone ever thirsts for blood.�
� He offered the marine the four-foot-long sword.
Face blank, Stormy accepted it. Felisin saw the muscles of his forearms stiffen as they took the weight and held it.
“Now,” Hentos Ilm said.
Legana Breed stepped back and collapsed in a column of dust. The column twisted, spinning in on itself. The air on all sides stirred, then swept inward, pulled to the whirling emanation. A moment later the wind fell away and Legana Breed was gone. The remaining T’lan Imass turned and lifted their gazes skyward.
Felisin was never certain whether she only imagined seeing the T’lan Imass reassume his form upon striking the heart of that wound, a tiny, seemingly insignificant splayed figure that was quickly swallowed in the inky darkness. A moment later the wound’s edges seemed to flinch, faint waves rippling outward. Then the lesion began folding in on itself.
Hentos Ilm continued staring upward. Finally she nodded. “Sufficient. The wound is bridged.”
Stormy slowly lowered the flint sword’s point until it rested on the deck.
A beat-up old veteran, knocked down cynical, just another of the Empire’s cast-offs. He was clearly overwhelmed. Insufficient, she said. Indeed.
“We shall go now,” Hentos Ilm said.
Stormy shook himself. “Bonecaster!”
There was obvious disdain in her tone as she said, “Legana Breed claimed his right.”
The marine did not relent. “This ‘bridging’…tell me, is it a thing of pain?”
Hentos Ilm’s shrug was an audible grate of bones, her only answer.
“Stormy—” Gesler warned, but his companion shook his head, descended to the main deck. As he approached the Bonecaster, another T’lan Imass stepped forward to block him.
“Soldier!” Gesler snapped. “Stand off!”
But Stormy only moved back to clear space as he raised the flint sword.
The T’lan Imass facing him closed again, the motion a blur, one arm shooting out, the hand closing on Stormy’s neck.
Cursing, Gesler pushed past Felisin, his own hand finding the sword’s grip at his side. The corporal slowed when it became obvious that the T’lan Imass was simply holding Stormy. And the marine himself had gone perfectly still. Quiet words slipped between them. Then the undead warrior released his grip and stepped back. Stormy’s anger had vanished. Something in the set of his shoulders reminded Felisin of Heboric.
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 102