Whatever she saw in his expression left her shaken. ‘All right. But right now we’ve got to get moving.’
‘Aye. You’d better strap me in – I won’t be able to stay awake.’
They came to the quorl. The Moranth seated in the forward chitinous saddle swung its helmed head to regard them in silence.
‘Queen of Dreams,’ Picker muttered as she wrapped the leather harness around Quick Ben’s limbs. ‘I ain’t never seen you this scared, Wizard. You got me ready to piss ice-cubes.’
They were the last words of the night that Quick Ben remembered, but remember them he did.
* * *
Ganoes Paran was plagued by images of drowning, but not in water. Drowning in darkness. Disorientated, thrashing in panic in an unknown and unknowable place. Whenever he closed his eyes, vertigo seized him, knots tightening in his gut, and it was as if he’d been stripped down to a child once again. Terrified, uncomprehending, his soul twisting with pain.
The captain left the barricade at the Divide, where the day’s last traders were still struggling through the press of Malazan guards, soldiers and clerics. He’d done as Dujek had commanded, setting up his encampment across the throat of the pass. Taxation and wagon searches had yielded a substantial haul, although, as the news spread, the takings were diminishing. It was a fine balance, keeping the tax at a level that the merchants could stomach, and allowing enough contraband through lest the chokehold turn to strangulation and travel between Darujhistan and Pale dried up entirely. Paran was managing, but just barely. Yet it was the least of his difficulties.
Since the debacle at Darujhistan, the captain had been feeling adrift, tossed this way and that by the chaotic transformation of Dujek and his renegade army. The Malazans’ anchor had been cut away. Support structures had collapsed. The burden upon the officer corps had grown overwhelming. Almost ten thousand soldiers had suddenly acquired an almost childlike need for reassurance.
And reassurance was something Paran was unable to give. If anything, the turmoil within him had deepened. Threads of bestial blood coursed his veins. Fragmented memories – few of them his own – and strange, unearthly visions plagued his nights. Daylight hours passed in a confused haze. Endless problems of matériel and logistics to deal with, the turgid needs of management pushed again and again through the rising flood of physical maladies now besetting him.
He’d been feeling ill for weeks, and Paran had his suspicions as to the source. The blood of the Hound of Shadow. A creature that plunged into Dark’s own realm … yet can I be sure of this? The emotions frothing this crest … more like a child’s. A child’s …
He pushed the thought away once more, knowing full well it would soon return – even as the pain in his stomach flared once again – and, with another glance up to where Trotts held sentinel position, continued making his way up the hillside.
The pain of illness had changed him – he could see that within himself, conjured as an image, a scene both peculiar and poignant. He felt as if his own soul had been reduced into something piteous – a bedraggled, sweat-smeared rat, trapped within a rock-fall, twisting and squirming through cracks in a desperate search for a place where the pressure – the vast, shifting weight – relented. A space in which to breathe. And the pain all around me, those sharp stones, are settling, still settling, the spaces between them vanishing … darkness rising like water …
Whatever triumphs had been achieved in Darujhistan now seemed trivial to Paran. Saving a city, saving the lives of Whiskeyjack and his squad, the shattering of Laseen’s plans, they had one and all crumbled into ash in the captain’s mind.
He was not as he had been, and this new shaping was not to his liking.
Pain darkened the world. Pain dislocated. Turned one’s own flesh and bones into a stranger’s house, from which no escape seemed possible.
Bestial blood … it whispers of freedom. Whispers of a way out – but not from the darkness. No. Into that darkness, where the Hounds went, deep into the heart of Anomander Rake’s cursed sword – the secret heart of Dragnipur.
He almost cursed aloud at that thought, as he worked his way along the hillside trail overlooking the Divide. Day’s light was fading. The wind combing the grasses had begun to fall away, the rasping voice retreating to a murmur.
The blood’s whisper was but one of many, each demanding his attention, each offering contradictory invitations – disparate paths of escape. But always escape. Flight. This cowering creature can think of nothing else … even as the burdens settle … and settle.
Dislocation. All I see around me … feels like someone else’s memories. Grass woven on low hills, outcrops of bedrock studding the summits, and when the sun sets and the wind cools, the sweat on my face dries, and darkness comes – and I drink its air as if it was the sweetest water. Gods, what does that mean?
The confusion within him would not settle. I escaped the world of that sword, yet I feel its chains about me none the less, drawing ever tighter. And within that tension, there was an expectation. Of surrender, of yielding … an expectation to become … what? Become what?
The Barghast sat amidst high, tawny grasses on a summit overlooking the Divide. The day’s flow of traders had begun to ebb on both sides of the barricade, the clouds of dust fading over the rutted road. Others were setting up camps – the throat of the pass was turning into an unofficial wayside. If the situation remained as it was, the wayside would take root, become a hamlet, then a village.
But it won’t happen. We’re too restless for that. Dujek’s mapped out our immediate future, shrouded in the dust of an army on the march. Even worse, there ‘re creases in that map, and it’s starting to look like the Bridgeburners are about to fall into one. A deep one.
Breathless and fighting yet more twinges, Captain Paran moved to crouch down beside the half-naked, tattooed warrior. ‘You’ve been strutting like a bull bhederin since this morning, Trotts,’ he said ‘What have you and Whiskeyjack brewed up, soldier?’
The Barghast’s thin, wide mouth twisted into something like a smile, his dark eyes remaining fixed on the scene down in the valley. ‘The cold darkness ends,’ he growled.
‘To Hood it does – the sun’s moments from setting, you grease-smeared fool.’
‘Cold and frozen,’ Trotts continued. ‘Blind to the world. I am the Tale, and the Tale has been unspoken for too long. But no longer. I am a sword about to leave its scabbard. I am iron, and in the day’s light I shall blind you all. Hah.’
Paran spat into the grasses. ‘Mallet mentioned your sudden … loquaciousness. He also mentioned that it hasn’t done anyone else any good, since with its arrival you’ve lost what little sense you showed before then.’
The Barghast thumped his chest, the sound reverberating like a drumbeat. ‘I am the Tale, and soon it shall be told. You will see, Malazan. You all will.’
‘The sun’s withered your brain, Trotts. Well, we’re heading back to Pale tonight – though I’d imagine Whiskeyjack’s already told you that. Here comes Hedge to relieve you as lookout’ Paran straightened, disguising the wince that came with the movement. ‘I’ll just finish my rounds, then.’
He trudged off.
Damn you, Whiskeyjack, what have you and Dujek cooked up? The Pannion Domin … why are we sparing a mole’s ass for some upstart zealots? These things burn out. Every time. They implode. The scroll scribblers take over – they always do – and start arguing obscure details of the faith. Sects form. Civil war erupts, and there it is, just one more dead flower trampled on history’s endless road.
Aye, it’s all so bright and flushed right now. Only, colours fade. They always do.
One day, the Malazan Empire will come face to face with its own mortality. One day, dusk will fall on the empire.
He bent over as yet another knot of burning pain seized his stomach. No, think not of the empire! Think not of Laseen’s cull! Trust in Tavore, Ganoes Paran – your sister will salvage the House. Better than you might have ma
naged. Far better. Trust in your sister … The pain eased slightly. Drawing a deep breath, the captain resumed making his way down to the crossing.
Drowning. By the Abyss, I am drowning.
* * *
Clambering like a rock ape, Hedge reached the summit. His bandy legs carried him to the Barghast’s side. As he passed behind Trotts he reached out and gave the warrior’s single knotted braid a sharp tug. ‘Hah,’ he said, moving to settle down beside the warrior, ‘I love the way your eyes bug out when I do that.’
‘You, sapper,’ the Barghast said, ‘are the scum beneath a pebble in a stream running through a field of sickly pigs.’
‘Good one, though a tad long-winded. Got the captain’s head spinning, have ya?’
Trotts said nothing, his gaze now on the distant Tahlyn Mountains.
Hedge pulled his scorched leather cap from his head, scratched vigorously through the few remaining wisps of hair on his pate, studied his companion for a long moment. ‘Not bad,’ he judged. ‘Noble and mysterious. I’m impressed.’
‘You should be. Such poses are not easy to hold, you know.’
‘You’re a natural. So why are you twisting Paran around?’
Trotts grinned, revealing a blue-stained row of filed teeth. ‘It is fun. Besides, it’s up to Whiskeyjack to explain things—’
‘Only he ain’t done any explaining yet. Dujek wants us back in Pale, gathering up what’s left of the Bridgeburners. Paran should be happy he’s getting a company to command again, instead of just a couple of beat-up squads. Did Whiskeyjack say anything about the upcoming parley with Brood?’
Trotts slowly nodded.
Hedge scowled. ‘Well, what?’
‘It is coming up.’
‘Oh, thanks for that. By the way, you’re officially relieved of this post, soldier. They’re cooking up a bhederin carcass for you down there. I had the cook stuff it with dung since that’s how you like it.’
Trotts rose. ‘One day I may cook and eat you, sapper.’
‘And choke to death on my lucky bone.’
The Barghast frowned. ‘My offer was true, Hedge. To honour you, my friend.’
The sapper squinted up at Trotts, then grinned. ‘Bastard! You almost had me there!’
Sniffing, Trotts turned away. ‘“Almost,”’ he said. ‘Hah hah.’
* * *
Whiskeyjack was waiting when Paran returned to the trader post and its makeshift barricade. Once sergeant, now Dujek Onearm’s second-in-command, the grizzled veteran had come in with the last flight of Moranth. He stood with his old squad’s healer, Mallet, the two of them watching a score of soldiers from the 2nd Army loading the past week’s toll onto the quorls. Paran approached, walking cautiously so as to hide the pain within him.
‘How fares the leg, Commander?’ he asked.
Whiskeyjack shrugged.
‘We were just discussing that,’ Mallet said, his round face flushed. ‘It’s healed badly. Needs serious attention—’
‘Later,’ the bearded commander growled. ‘Captain Paran, have the squads assembled in two bells – have you decided what to do with what’s left of the Ninth?’
‘Aye, they’ll join what’s left of Sergeant Antsy’s squad.’
Whiskeyjack frowned. ‘Give me some names.’
‘Antsy’s got Corporal Picker, and … let’s see … Spindle, Blend, Detoran. So, with Mallet here, and Hedge, Trotts and Quick Ben—’
‘Quick Ben and Spindle are now cadre mages, Captain. But you’ll have them with your company in any case. Otherwise, I’d guess Antsy will be happy enough—’
Mallet snorted. ‘Happy? Antsy don’t know the meaning of the word.’
Paran’s eyes narrowed. ‘I take it, then, that the Bridgeburners won’t be marching with the rest of the Host’
‘No, you won’t be – we’ll go into that back at Pale, though.’ Whiskeyjack’s flat grey eyes studied the captain for a moment, then slid away. ‘There’s thirty-eight Bridgeburners left – not much of a company. If you prefer, Captain, you can decline the position. There’s a few companies of elite marines short on officers, and they’re used to nobleborns commanding them…’
There was silence.
Paran turned away. Dusk was coming, the valley’s shadow rising up the slopes of the surrounding hillsides, a spatter of dim stars emerging from the sky’s dome. I might take a knife in the back, is what he’s telling me. Bridgeburners have an abiding dislike for nobleborn officers. A year ago he would have spoken those words out loud, in the belief that baring ugly truths was a good thing to do. The misguided notion that it was the soldier’s way … when in fact it’s the opposite that is a soldier’s way. In a world full of pitfalls and sinkholes, you dance the edges. Only fools jump feet first, and fools don’t live long besides. He’d felt knives enter his body once. Wounds that should have been fatal. The memory sheathed him in sweat. The threat was not something he could simply shrug off in a display of youthful, ignorant bravado. He knew that, and the two men facing him knew it as well. ‘I still,’ Paran said, eyes on the darkness devouring the south road, ‘would consider it an honour to command the Bridgeburners, sir. Perhaps, in time, I might have the opportunity to prove myself worthy of such soldiers.’
Whiskeyjack grunted. ‘As you like, Captain. The offer remains open if you change your mind.’
Paran faced him.
The commander grinned. ‘For a little while longer, anyway.’
A huge, dark-skinned figure emerged from the gloom, her weapons and armour softly clinking. Seeing both Whiskeyjack and Paran, the woman hesitated, then, fixing her gaze on the commander, she said, ‘The watch is being turned over, sir. We’re all coming in, as ordered.’
‘Why are you telling me, soldier?’ Whiskeyjack rumbled. ‘You talk to your immediate superior.’
The woman scowled, pivoted to face Paran. ‘The watch—’
‘I heard, Detoran. Have the Bridgeburners get their gear and assemble in the compound.’
‘It’s still a bell and a half before we leave—’
‘I’m aware of that, soldier.’
‘Yes, sir. At once, sir.’
The woman ambled off.
Whiskeyjack sighed. ‘About that offer—’
‘My tutor was Napan,’ Paran said. ‘I’ve yet to meet a Napan who knows the meaning of respect, and Detoran’s no exception. I’m also aware,’ he continued, ‘that she’s no exception as far as Bridgeburners go, either.’
‘It seems your tutor taught you well,’ Whiskeyjack muttered.
Paran frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘His disrespect for authority’s rubbed off, Captain. You just interrupted your commander.’
‘Uh, my apologies. I keep forgetting you’re not a sergeant any more.’
‘So do I, which is why I need people like you to get it right.’ The veteran turned to Mallet. ‘Remember what I said, Healer.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Whiskeyjack glanced once more at Paran. ‘The hurry up and wait was a good touch, Captain. Soldiers love to stew.’
Paran watched the man head off towards the gatehouse, then said to Mallet, ‘Your private discussion with the commander, Healer. Anything I should know?’
Mallet’s blink was sleepy. ‘No, sir.’
‘Very well. You may rejoin your squad.’
‘Yes, sir.’
When he was alone, Paran sighed. Thirty-eight bitter, resentful veterans, already twice betrayed. I wasn’t part of the treachery at the siege of Pale, and Laseen’s proclamation of outlawry embraced me as much as it did them. Neither event can be laid at my feet, yet they ‘re doing it anyway.
He rubbed at his eyes. Sleep had become an … unwelcome thing. Night after night, ever since their flight from Darujhistan … pain – and dreams, no, nightmares. Gods below … He spent the dark hours twisted beneath his blankets, his blood racing through him, acids bubbling in his stomach, and when consciousness finally slipped from him, his sleep was fitful, racked
with dreams of running. Running on all fours. Then drowning.
It’s the blood of the Hound, coursing undiminished within me. It must be.
He had tried to tell himself more than once that the Shadow Hound’s blood was also the source of his paranoia. The thought elicited a sour grin. Untrue. What I fear is all too real. Worse, this vast sense of loss … without the ability to trust – anyone. Without that, what do I see in the life awaiting me? Naught but solitude, and thus, nothing of value. And now, all these voices … whispering of escape. Escape.
He shook himself, spat to clear the sour phlegm in his throat. Think of that other thing, that other scene. Solitary. Baffling. Remember, Paran, the voice you heard. It was Tattersail’s – you did not doubt it then, why do so now? She lives. Somehow, some way, the sorceress lives …
Ahh, the pain! A child screaming in darkness, a Hound howling lost in sorrow. A soul nailed to the heart of a wound … and I think myself alone! Gods, I wish I were!
* * *
Whiskeyjack entered the gatehouse, closed the door behind him and strode over to the scribe’s table. He leaned against it, stretched out his aching leg. His sigh was like the easing of endless knots, and when it was done he was trembling.
After a moment the door opened.
Straightening, Whiskeyjack scowled at Mallet. ‘I thought your captain’d called for an assembly, Healer—’
‘Paran’s in worse shape than even you, sir.’
‘We’ve covered this. Guard the lad’s back – you having second thoughts, Mallet?’
‘You misunderstand. I just quested in his direction – my Denul warren recoiled, Commander.’
Whiskeyjack only now noted the pallid cast of the healer’s round face. ‘Recoiled?’
‘Aye. That’s never happened before. The captain’s sick.’
‘Tumours? Cancers? Be specific, damn it!’
‘Nothing like that, sir. Not yet, but they’ll come. He’s eaten a hole in his own gut. All that he’s holding in, I guess. But there’s more – we need Quick Ben. Paran’s got sorceries running through him like fireweed roots.’
‘Oponn—’
‘No, the Twin Jesters are long gone. Paran’s journey to Darujhistan – something happened to him on the way. No, not something. Lots of things. Anyway, he’s fighting those sorceries, and that’s what’s killing him. I could be wrong in that, sir. We need Quick Ben—’
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 163