‘Ah, yes. That is true. I would have done so but, alas, I find myself unable to release my swords from my own hands.’ The warrior was silent a moment longer, then he said, ‘Korbal Broach saw into me. His words have made my mind … troubled. Coll of Darujhistan, I think I am dead. Am I? Am I dead?’
‘I don’t know,’ the Daru replied, ‘but … I think so.’
‘The dead, it is said, do not sleep.’
Coll well knew the saying, and knew that it had originally come from Hood’s own temple. He knew, as well, the wry observation that closed the quote. ‘“While the living do not live.” Not that that makes much sense.’
‘It does to me,’ the warrior said. ‘For I now know that I have lost what I did not know I once possessed.’
Coll’s mind stumbled through that statement, then he sighed. ‘I’d be a fool not to take your word for it … have you a name?’
‘I believe so, but I have forgotten it.’
‘Well,’ Coll said as he crouched down over Murillio and gathered the man into his arms, ‘Knight of Death won’t do, I’m afraid.’ He straightened, grunting at the weight in his arms. ‘You were a Gidrath, yes? And a Capan – though I admit, with that bronze hue to your skin, you’ve more the colouring of—’
‘No, I was not Gidrath. Not Capan. I am not, I think, from this continent at all. I do not know why I appeared here. Nor how. I have not been here long. This is as my master wills. Of my past, I recall but one thing.’
Coll carried Murillio to the back of the wagon and laid the man down. ‘And what’s that?’
‘I once stood within fire.’
After a long moment, Coll sighed roughly. ‘An unfortunate memory…’
‘There was pain. Yet I held on. Fought on. Or so I believe. I was, I think, sworn to defend a child’s life. But the child was no more. It may be … that I failed.’
‘Well, we still need a name for you.’
‘Perhaps one will come to you eventually, Coll of Darujhistan.’
‘I promise it.’
‘Or perhaps one day my memories will return in full, and with them my name.’
And if Hood has any mercy in him that day will never come, friend. For I think there was nothing easy in your life. Or in your death. And it seems he does possess mercy, for he’s taken you far away from all that you once knew, for if I’m not mistaken, if only by your features and never mind that strange skin, you’re Malazan.
* * *
Itkovian had crossed on the last barge, beneath a vast spread of spearpoint stars, in the company of Stonny Menackis and Gruntle and his score of barbed followers, along with a hundred or so Rhivi – mostly elders and their dogs. The animals snapped and squabbled in the confines of the flat, shallow craft, then settled down for the journey’s second half once they’d managed to fight their way to the gunnels and could look out over the river.
The dogs were the first off when the barge ground ashore on the south side, barking wildly as they splashed through the reeds, and Itkovian was glad for their departure. Only half listening to Gruntle and Stonny exchanging insults like a husband and wife who had known each other far too long, Itkovian readied his horse to await the laying down of planks, and watched with mild interest the Rhivi elders following in the wake of their dogs without heed to the shore’s churned mud and matted reeds.
The low, worn-down hills on this side of the river still held a haze of dust and dung-smoke, draped like a mourner’s veil over the army’s score thousand or more tents. Apart from a few hundred Rhivi herders and the bhederin herd they were tasked to drive across come the dawn, the entire force of the invaders was now on Pannion territory.
No-one had contested the landing. The low hills to the south seemed devoid of life, revealing naught but the worn tracks left behind by Septarch Kulpath’s besieging army.
Gruntle moved up alongside him. ‘Something tells me we’ll be marching through razed land all the way down to Coral.’
‘That seems likely, sir. It is as I would have done, were I the Seer.’
‘I sometimes wonder if Brood and Dujek realize that the army that besieged Capustan was but one among at least three of comparable size. And while Kulpath was a particularly effective Septarch, there are six others competent enough to cause us grief.’
Itkovian pulled his gaze from the encampment ahead to study the hulking warrior at his side. ‘We must assume our enemy is preparing for us. Yet, within the Domin, the last grains of the bell-glass are even now trickling down.’
Treach’s Mortal Sword grunted. ‘You know something the rest of us don’t?’
‘Not specifically, sir. I have but drawn conclusions based on such details as I was able to observe when viewing Kulpath’s army, and the Tenescowri.’
‘Well, don’t keep them to yourself.’
Itkovian returned his gaze to the south. After a moment he sighed. ‘Cities and governments are but the flowering head of a plant whose stalk is the commonalty, and it is the commonalty whose roots are within the earth, drawing the necessary sustenance that maintains the flower. The Tenescowri, sir, is the Domin’s surviving commonalty – people torn from their land, from their villages, their homes, their farms. All food production has ceased, and in its place has arisen the horror of cannibalism. The countryside before us is indeed razed, but not in answer to us. It has been a wasteland for some time, sir. Thus, while the flower still blazes its colour, it is in fact already dead.’
‘Drying from a hook beneath the Crippled God’s shelf?’
Itkovian shrugged. ‘Caladan Brood and the High Fist have selected cities as their destinations. Lest, Setta, Maurik and Coral. Of these, I believe only the last still lives. None of the others would be able to feed a defending army; indeed, not even its own citizenry – if any still remain. The Seer has no choice but to concentrate his forces on the one city where he now resides, and his soldiers will have no choice but to assume the practices of the Tenescowri. I suspect that the Tenescowri were created for that eventual purpose – as food for the soldiers.’
Gruntle’s expression was troubled. ‘What you describe, Itkovian, is an empire that was never meant to sustain itself.’
‘Unless it could continue to expand without surcease.’
‘But even then, it would be alive only on its outer, ever-advancing edges, spreading out from a dead core, a core that grew with it.’
Itkovian nodded. ‘Aye, sir.’
‘So, if Brood and Dujek are expecting battles at Setta, Lest and Maurik, they may be in for a surprise.’
‘So I believe.’
‘Those Malazans will end up doing a lot of pointless marching,’ Gruntle observed, ‘if you’re right.’
‘Perhaps there are other issues sufficient to justify the division of forces, Mortal Sword.’
‘Not quite as united as they would have us believe?’
‘There are powerful leaders gathered within that command, sir. It is perhaps miraculous that a serious clash of wills has not yet occurred.’
Gruntle said nothing for a time.
The broad wicker platforms were being anchored in place at the front of the barge, a company of mercenaries assembling the walkway with practised efficiency.
‘Let us hope, then,’ he finally rumbled, ‘the siege at Coral is not a long one.’
‘It will not be,’ Itkovian asserted. ‘I predict a single attack, intended to overwhelm. A combination of soldiery and sorcery. The massive sundering of defences is the intention of the warlord and the High Fist. Both are well aware of the risks inherent in any prolonged investment.’
‘Sounds messy, Itkovian.’
Stonny Menackis came up behind them, leading her horse. ‘Get moving, you two – you’re holding us all up and this damned barge is settling. If I get any mud on these new clothes, I will kill whoever’s to blame. Barbed or otherwise.’
Itkovian smiled. ‘I’d intended complimenting you on your garb—’
‘The wonders of the Trygalle. Made to order by my
favourite tailor in Darujhistan.’
‘You seem to favour green, sir.’
‘Ever seen a jaelparda?’
Itkovian nodded. ‘Such snakes are known in Elingarth.’
‘Deadly kissers, jaelparda. This green is a perfect match, isn’t it? It’d better be. It’s what I paid for and it wasn’t cheap. And this pale gold – you see? Lining the cloak? Ever looked at the underbelly of a white paralt?’
‘The spider?’
‘The death-tickler, aye. This is the colour.’
‘I could not have mistaken it for otherwise,’ Itkovian replied.
‘Good, I’m glad someone here understands the subtle nuances of high civilization. Now move your damned horse or what you ain’t used for far too long will get introduced to the toe of my shiny new boot.’
‘Yes, sir.’
* * *
Corporal Picker watched Detoran drag Hedge towards her tent. The two passed in silence along the very edge of the firepit’s light Before they vanished once more into the gloom, Picker was witness to a comic pantomime as Hedge, the skin of his face stretched taut in a wild grimace, sought to bolt in an effort to escape Detoran. She responded by reaching up to grip the man’s throat and shaking his head back and forth until his struggles ceased.
After they’d disappeared, Blend grunted. ‘What night thankfully hides…’
‘Not well enough, alas,’ Picker muttered, poking at the fire with a splintered spear-shaft.
‘Well, she’ll probably be gagging him right now, then ripping off his—’
‘All right all right, I take your point’
‘Poor Hedge.’
‘Poor Hedge nothing, Blend. If it didn’t get him going it wouldn’t still be going on night after night.’
‘Then again, we’re soldiers one and all.’
‘And what’s that mean?’
‘Means we know that following orders is the best way of staying alive.’
‘So Hedge had better stand to attention if he wants to keep breathing? Is that what you’re saying? I’d have thought terror’d leave it limp and dangling.’
‘Detoran used to be a master sergeant, remember. I once saw a recruit stay at attention for a bell and a half after the poor lad’s heart had burst to one of her tirades. A bell and a half, Picker, standing there dead and cold—’
‘Rubbish. I was there. It was about a tenth of a bell and you know it.’
‘My point still stands, and I’d bet my whole column of back pay that Hedge’s is doing the same.’
Picker stabbed at the fire. ‘Funny, that,’ she murmured after a while.
‘What is?’
‘Oh, what you were saying. Not the dead recruit, but Detoran having been a master sergeant. We’ve all been busted about, us Bridgeburners. Almost every damned one of us, starting right up top with Whiskeyjack himself. Mallet led a healer’s cadre back when we had enough healers and the Emperor was in charge. And didn’t Spindle captain a company of sappers once?’
‘For three days, then one of ’em stumbled onto his own cusser—’
‘And then they all went up, yeah. We were a thousand paces up the road and my ears rang for days.’
‘That was the end of companies made up of sappers. Dassem broke ’em up after that, meaning that Spindle had no specialist corps to captain any more. So, Picker, what about it?’
‘Nothing. Just that none of us is what we once was.’
‘I’ve never been promoted.’
‘Well, surprise! You’ve made a profession of not getting noticed!’
‘Even so. And Antsy was born a sergeant—’
‘And it’s stunted his growth, aye. He’s never been busted down, granted, but that’s because he’s the worst sergeant there ever was. Keeping him one punishes all of us, starting with Antsy himself. All I was saying was, we’re all of us losers.’
‘Oh, that’s a welcome thought, Picker.’
‘And who said every thought has to be a nice one? Nobody.’
‘I would, only I didn’t think of it.’
‘Ha. Ha.’
The slow clump of horse hooves reached them. A moment later Captain Paran came into view, leading his horse by the reins.
‘Been a long day, Captain,’ Picker said. ‘We got some tea if you’d like.’
Paran looped the reins over the saddle horn and approached. ‘Last fire left among the Bridgeburners. Don’t you two ever sleep?’
‘We could ask the same of you, sir,’ Picker replied. ‘But we all already know that sleep’s for weaklings, right?’
‘Depends on how peaceful it is, I’d think.’
‘Captain’s right on that,’ Blend said to Picker.
‘Well,’ the corporal sniffed, ‘I’m peaceful enough when I sleep.’
Blend grunted. ‘That’s what you think.’
‘We’ve had word,’ Paran said, accepting the cup of steaming herbal brew from Picker, ‘from the Black Moranth.’
‘They reconnoitred Setta.’
‘Aye. There’s no-one there. Not breathing, anyway. The whole city’s one big necropolis.’
‘So why are we still marching there?’ Picker asked. ‘Unless we’re not…’
‘We are, Corporal.’
‘What for?’
‘We’re marching to Setta because we’re not marching to Lest.’
‘Well,’ Blend sighed, ‘I’m glad that’s been cleared up.’
Paran sipped his tea, then said, ‘I have elected a second.’
‘A second, sir?’ Picker asked. ‘Why?’
‘Obvious reasons. In any case, I’ve chosen you, Picker. You’re now a lieutenant. Whiskeyjack has given his blessing. In my absence you’re to command the Bridgeburners—’
‘No thanks, sir.’
‘It’s not up for discussion, Picker. Your lieutenancy is already inscribed in the rolls. Official, with Dujek’s seal on it.’
Blend nudged her. ‘Congratulations – oh, I suppose I should have saluted.’
‘Shut up,’ Picker growled. ‘But you’re right on one thing – don’t ever bump me again, woman.’
‘That’s a hard order to follow … sir.’
Paran drained the last of his tea and straightened. ‘I’ve only got one order for you, Lieutenant’
She looked up at him. ‘Captain?’
‘The Bridgeburners,’ Paran said, and his expression was suddenly severe. ‘Keep them together, no matter what happens. Together, Lieutenant’
‘Uh, yes, sir.’
They watched Paran return to his horse and lead it away.
Neither woman said much for a while thereafter, then Blend sighed. ‘Let’s go to bed, Picker.’
‘Aye.’
They stamped out the remnants of the fire. Darkness closing around them, Blend stepped closer and hooked her arm around Picker’s.
‘It’s all down,’ she murmured, ‘to what the night hides…’
To Hood it is. It’s all down to what the captain was saying behind what he said. That’s what I need to figure out. Something tells me it’s the end of sleeping peacefully for Lieutenant Picker …
They strode from the dying embers and were swallowed by darkness.
Moments later, no movement was visible, the stars casting their faint silver light down on the camp of the Bridgeburners. The oft-patched tents were colourless in the dull, spectral glow. A scene that was ghostly and strangely timeless. Revealing its own kind of peace.
* * *
Whiskeyjack entered Dujek’s command tent. As expected, the High Fist was prepared for him. Hooded lantern on camp table, two tankards of ale and a block of Gadrobi goat cheese. Dujek himself sat in one of the chairs, head lowered in sleep.
‘High Fist,’ Whiskeyjack said as he removed his gauntlets, eyes on the ale and cheese.
The old commander grunted, sat straighter, blinking. ‘Right.’
‘We’ve lost her.’
‘Too bad. You must be hungry, so I – oh, good. Keep filling your mouth and leav
e the talking to me, then.’ He leaned forward and retrieved his tankard. ‘Artanthos found Paran and delivered the orders. So, the captain will get the Bridgeburners ready – ready for what, they won’t know and that’s probably for the best As for Paran himself, all right, Quick Ben convinced me. Too bad, that, though I’ll be honest and say as far as I can see we’ll miss the wizard more than we will that nobleborn lad—’
Holding up one hand to stop Dujek, Whiskeyjack washed down the last of the cheese with a mouthful of ale.
The High Fist sighed, waited.
‘Dujek—’
‘Comb the crumbs from your beard,’ the High Fist growled, ‘since I expect you’ll want me to take you seriously.’
‘A word on Paran. With the loss of Tatter—of Silverfox, I mean, the captain’s value to us can’t be overestimated. No, not just us. The Empire itself. Quick Ben’s been adamant on this. Paran is the Master of the Deck. Within him is the power to reshape the world, High Fist’ He paused, mulling on his own words. ‘Now, maybe there’s no chance of Laseen ever regaining the man’s favour, but at the very least she’d be wise to avoid making the relationship worse.’
Dujek’s brows lifted. ‘I’ll so advise her the next time I see her.’
‘All right. Sorry. No doubt the Empress is cognizant—’
‘No doubt. As I was saying, however, it’s the loss of Quick Ben that stings the most. From my own point of view, that is.’
‘Well, sir, what the wizard has in mind … uh, I agree with him that the less Brood and company know of it the better. So long as the division of forces proceeds as planned, they’ll have no reason but to believe that Quick Ben marches in step with the rest of us.’
‘The wizard’s madness—’
‘High Fist, the wizard’s madness has saved our skins more than once. Not just mine and the Bridgeburners’, but yours as well—’
‘I am well aware of that, Whiskeyjack. Forgive an old man his fears, please. It was Brood and Rake and the Tiste Andii – and the damned Elder Gods, as well – who were supposed to step into the Crippled God’s path. They’re the ones with countless warrens and frightening levels of potency – not us, not one mortal squad wizard and a young nobleborn captain who’s already died once. Even if they don’t mess things up, look at the enemies we’ll acquire.’
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 243