‘You are as hard to kill as a Teblor,’ Karsa murmured.
‘Thank Hood that Arak was distracted at the time. Even so, if not for the Gral, I’d have bled to death.’
‘Why did they save you?’
‘The Gral like to ransom people. Of course, if they turn out worthless, they kill them. The trading partnership with the House of Nom took precedence over all that, of course.’
Torvald moved on to the other prisoner.
Karsa stood, rubbing his wrists. ‘What kind of trade?’
The Daru flashed a grin. ‘Brokering the ransoms.’
Moments later they were moving through the darkness towards the front gate, skirting the patches of light. Near the gatehouse a half-dozen bodies had been dragged up against the wall. The ground was soaked black with blood.
Three more Gral joined them. One by one, the group slipped through the gateway and into the street beyond. They crossed to an alley and made their way down to the far end, where they halted.
Torvald laid a hand on Karsa’s arm. ‘Friend, where would you go now? My own return to Genabackis will be delayed awhile. My kin here have embraced me with open arms—a unique experience for me, and I plan on savouring it. Alas, the Gral won’t take you—you’re too recognizable.’
‘He will come with me,’ the blue-eyed native said. ‘To a place of safety.’
Torvald looked up at Karsa, brows rising.
The Teblor shrugged. ‘It is clear that I cannot be hidden in this city; nor will I further endanger you or your kin, Torvald Nom. If this man proves unworthy I need only kill him.’
‘How long until the compound guards are changed?’ the blue-eyed man asked.
‘A bell at least, so you will have plenty—’
Sudden alarms shattered the night, from the direction of the Malazan garrison.
The Gral seemed to vanish before Karsa’s eyes, so quickly did they scatter. ‘Torvald Nom, for all you have done for me, I thank you—’
The Daru scurried over to a pile of rubbish in the alley. He swept it aside, then lifted into view Karsa’s bloodsword. ‘Here, friend.’ He tossed the sword into the Teblor’s hands. ‘Come to Darujhistan in a few years’ time.’
A final wave, then the Daru was gone.
The blue-eyed man—who had collected a sword from one of the dead guards—now gestured. ‘Stay close. There are ways out of Ehrlitan the Malazans know nothing of. Follow, and quietly.’
He set off. Karsa slipped into his wake.
Their route twisted through the lower city, down countless alleys, some so narrow that the Teblor was forced to sidle sideways along their crooked lengths. Karsa had thought that his guide would lead them towards the docks, or perhaps the outer walls facing onto the wasteland to the south. Instead, they climbed towards the single massive hill at Ehrlitan’s heart, and before long were moving through the rubble of countless collapsed buildings.
They arrived at the battered base of a tower, the native not hesitating as he ducked in through the gaping, dark doorway. Following, Karsa found himself in a cramped chamber, its floor uneven with heaved flagstones. A second portal was barely visible opposite the entrance, and at its threshold the man paused.
‘Mebra!’ he hissed.
There was movement, then: ‘Is it you? Dryjhna bless us, I had heard that you had been captured—ah, the alarms down below…well done—’
‘Enough of that. Do the provisions remain in the tunnels?’
‘Of course! Always. Including your own cache—’
‘Good, now move aside. I’ve someone with me.’
Beyond the portal was a rough series of stone steps, descending into even deeper darkness. Karsa sensed the man Mebra’s presence as he edged past, heard his sharp intake of breath.
The blue-eyed man below the Teblor halted suddenly. ‘Oh, and Mebra, tell no-one you have seen us—not even your fellow servants to the cause. Understand?’
‘Of course.’
The two fugitives continued on, leaving Mebra behind. The stairs continued down, until Karsa had begun to think that they were approaching the bowels of the earth. When it finally levelled out, the air was heavy with damp, smelling of salt, and the stones underfoot were wet and streaked in slime. At the tunnel’s mouth a number of niches had been carved into the limestone walls, each one holding leather packs and travel gear.
Karsa watched as his companion strode quickly to one niche in particular. After a moment’s examination, he dropped the Malazan sword he had been carrying and drew forth a pair of objects that moved with the sound of rustling chain.
‘Take that food-pack,’ the man instructed, nodding towards a nearby niche. ‘And you will find a telaba or two—clothes—and weapon-belts and harnesses—leave the lanterns, the tunnel ahead is long but has no branches.’
‘Where does it lead?’
‘Out,’ the man replied.
Karsa fell silent. He disliked the extent to which his life was in this native’s hands, but it seemed that, for the time being, there was nothing he could do about it. Seven Cities was a stranger place than even the Genabackan cities of Malyntaeas and Genabaris. The lowlanders filled this world like vermin—more tribes than the Teblor had thought possible, and it was clear that none liked each other. While that was a sentiment Karsa well understood—for tribes should dislike each other—it was also obvious that, among the lowlanders, there was no sense of any other sort of loyalty. Karsa was Uryd, but he was also Teblor. The lowlanders seemed so obsessed with their differences that they had no comprehension of what unified them.
A flaw that could be exploited.
The pace set by Karsa’s guide was fierce, and though most of the damage done to the Teblor was well along in healing, his reserves of strength and stamina were not what they had once been. After a time, the distance between the two began to lengthen, and eventually Karsa found himself travelling alone through the impenetrable darkness, one hand on the rough-hewn wall to his right, hearing only the sounds of his own passage. The air was no longer damp, and he could taste dust in his mouth.
The wall suddenly vanished under his hand. Karsa stumbled, drew to a halt.
‘You did well,’ the native said from somewhere on the Teblor’s left. ‘Running hunched over as you had to be…not an easy task. Look up.’
He did, and slowly straightened. There were stars overhead.
‘We’re in a gully,’ the man continued. ‘It will be dawn before we climb out of it. Then it’s five, maybe six days across the Pan’potsun Odhan. The Malazans will be after us, of course, so we will have to be careful. Rest awhile. Drink some water—the sun is a demon and will steal your life if it can. Our route will take us from one place of water to the next, so we need not suffer.’
‘You know this land,’ Karsa said. ‘I do not.’ He raised his sword. ‘But know this, I will not be taken prisoner again.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ the lowlander replied.
‘That is not what I meant.’
The man laughed. ‘I know. If you so wish it, once we are clear of this gully you may go in any direction you like. What I have offered you is the best chance of surviving. There is more than recapture by the Malazans to worry about in this land. Travel with me, and you shall learn how to survive. But as I said, the choice is yours. Now, shall we proceed?’
Dawn arrived to the world above before the two fugitives reached the end of the gully. While they could see bright blue sky overhead, they continued walking through chill shadows. The means of exit was marked by a tumbled scree of boulders where a past flood had undercut one wall sufficiently to trigger a collapse.
Clambering up the slope, they emerged onto a heat-blasted land of weathered crags, sand-filled riverbeds, cacti and thorny bushes, the sun blindingly bright, making the air shimmer in all directions. There was no-one in sight, nor was there any sign that the area was inhabited by anything other than wild creatures.
The lowlander led Karsa southwestward, their route circuitous, making use
of every form of cover available and avoiding ridges or hilltops that would set them against the sky. Neither spoke, saving their breath in the enervating heat as the day stretched on.
Late in the afternoon, the lowlander halted suddenly and turned. He hissed a curse in his native language, then said, ‘Horsemen.’
Karsa swung round, but could see no-one in the desolate landscape behind them.
‘Feel them underfoot,’ the man muttered. ‘So, Mebra has turned. Well, one day I will answer that betrayal.’
And now Karsa could sense, through the callused soles of his bared feet, the tremble of distant horse hoofs. ‘If you’d suspected this Mebra why did you not kill him?’
‘If I killed everyone I was suspicious about I’d have scant company. I needed proof, and now I have it.’
‘Unless he told someone else.’
‘Then he’s either a traitor or stupid—both lead to the same fatal consequence. Come, we need to make this a challenge for the Malazans.’
They set off. The lowlander was unerring in choosing paths that left no footprints or other signs of passage. Despite this, the sound of the riders drew ever nearer. ‘There’s a mage among them,’ the lowlander muttered as they raced across yet another stretch of bedrock.
‘If we can avoid them until nightfall,’ Karsa said, ‘then I shall become the hunter and they the hunted.’
‘There’s at least twenty of them. We’re better off using the darkness to stretch the distance between us. See those mountains to the southwest? That is our destination. If we can reach the hidden passes, we will be safe.’
‘We cannot outrun horses,’ Karsa growled. ‘Come dark, I will be done running.’
‘Then you attack alone, for it will mean your death.’
‘Alone. That is well. I need no lowlander getting underfoot.’
The plunge into night was sudden. Just before the last light failed, the two fugitives, slipping onto a plain crowded with enormous boulders, finally caught sight of their pursuers. Seventeen riders, three spare horses. All but two of the Malazans were in full armour, helmed and armed with either lances or crossbows. The other two riders were easily recognizable to Karsa. Silgar and Damisk.
Karsa suddenly recalled that, the night of their escape from the compound, the stocks had been empty. He’d thought little of it at the time, assuming that the two prisoners had been taken inside for the night.
The pursuers had not seen the two fugitives, who quickly moved behind the cover of the boulders.
‘I have led them to an old campground,’ the lowlander at Karsa’s side whispered. ‘Listen. They’re making camp. The two who weren’t soldiers—’
‘Yes. The slavemaster and his guard.’
‘They must have taken that otataral anklet off him. He wants you badly, it seems.’
Karsa shrugged. ‘And he will find me. Tonight. I am done with those two. Neither will see the dawn, this I swear before Urugal.’
‘You cannot attack two squads on your own.’
‘Then consider it a diversion and make good your escape, lowlander.’ With that the Teblor swung about and made his way towards the Malazan camp.
He was not interested in waiting for them to settle. The crossbowmen had ridden all day with their weapons cocked. They would probably be replacing the wrapped cords at this very moment, assuming they followed the practice that Karsa had seen among the squads of the Ashok Regiment. Others would be removing saddles and tending to the horses, whilst most of the remaining soldiers would be preparing to cook meals and raise tents. At most, there would be two or three guards establishing a picket around the camp.
Karsa paused behind a huge boulder just beyond the Malazans. He could hear them setting up their position for the night. The Teblor collected a handful of sand and dried the sweat from his palms, then he hefted his blood-sword in his right hand and edged forward.
Three fires had been lit using dung, the hearths ringed with large rocks to cut the light cast out by the flickering flames. The horses stood within a rope corral, three soldiers moving among them. A half-dozen crossbowmen sat nearby, their weapons dismantled on their laps. Two guards stood facing the plain of boulders, one positioned slightly behind the other. The soldier closest to Karsa held a drawn short-sword and a round shield, his companion six paces behind him a short bow, arrow nocked.
There were, in fact, more guards at the pickets than Karsa would have liked, one visible on each other flank of the encampment. The bowman was so positioned as to permit him a field of fire for every one of them.
Crouched before a firepit near the centre of the camp were Silgar, Damisk and a Malazan officer, the latter with his back to Karsa.
The Teblor silently worked his way around the boulder. The guard closest to him was looking to the left at the moment. Five paces to close in a charge. The bowman had turned in his restless scanning towards the guard at the far end of the camp.
Now.
The helmed head was swinging back, the weathered face pale beneath its rim.
And then Karsa was alongside him, his left hand snapping out to close around the man’s throat. Cartilage collapsed with a dry popping sound.
Enough to make the bowman whirl.
Had his attacker the short legs of a lowlander, he would have had a chance to loose his arrow. As it was, he barely had time to draw before the Teblor reached him.
The man’s mouth opened to shout as he tensed to throw himself backward. Karsa’s sword flashed outward, sending the helmed head tumbling from shoulders. Armour clattered behind him as the corpse fell to the ground.
Faces swung round. Shouts rang through the night.
Three soldiers rose from a hearth directly in front of the Teblor. Short-swords hissed from scabbards. One Malazan threw himself into Karsa’s path in an effort to give his companions time to find their shields. A brave and fatal gesture, for his weapon’s reach was no match for the blood-sword. The man shrieked as he lost both forearms to a vicious lateral slash.
One of the next two Malazans had managed to ready his round shield, raising it into the path of Karsa’s downward swing. The bronze-banded wood exploded at the impact, the arm holding it shattering beneath it. As the soldier crumpled, the Teblor leapt over him, quickly cutting down the third man.
A blaze of pain along the top of his right thigh as a lance ripped a path to thrum into the dusty ground behind him. Wheeling, he whipped his blade around in time to bat aside another lance which had been about to strike his chest.
Footsteps rushing him from behind and to the left—one of the picket guards—while directly before him, three paces distant, stood Silgar, Damisk and the Malazan officer. The slavemaster’s face was twisted with terror, even as sorcery rose into a writhing wave in front of him, then roared towards Karsa.
The magic struck him at the precise moment that the picket guard arrived. Sorcery engulfed them both. The Malazan’s scream ripped through the air. Grunting at the writhing, ghostly tendrils seeking to snare him in place, Karsa surged through it—and came face to face with the slavemaster.
Damisk had already fled. The officer had thrown himself to one side, deftly ducking beneath Karsa’s side-swing.
Silgar threw his hands up.
Karsa cut them off.
The slavemaster reeled back.
The Teblor chopped down, severing Silgar’s right leg just above the ankle. The man toppled onto his upper shoulders, legs in the air. A fourth swing sent the left foot spinning.
Two soldiers rushed Karsa from his right, a third one trailing.
A bellowed command rang through the night, and the Teblor—weapon readied—was surprised to see the three men peel away. By his count there were five others, as well as the officer and Damisk. He spun, glaring, but there was no-one—just the sounds of boots retreating into the darkness. He looked to where the horses had been corralled—the animals were gone.
A lance darted towards him. Snarling, Karsa splintered it as the back of his bloodsword deflected i
t to one side. He paused, then padded over to Silgar. The slavemaster had curled into a tight ball. Blood flowed from the four stumps. Karsa picked him up by his silk belt and carried him back to the plain of boulders.
As he moved around the first of the massive rocks a voice spoke low and clear from the shadows. ‘This way.’
The Teblor grunted. ‘You were supposed to have fled.’
‘They will regroup, but without the mage we should be able to elude them.’
Karsa followed his companion deeper into the studded plain, then, after fifty or so paces, the man stopped and turned to the Teblor.
‘Of course, with your prize leaving a trail of blood, there will be little trouble in following us. Do something with him now.’
Karsa dropped Silgar to the ground, kicked him onto his back. The slavemaster was unconscious.
‘He will bleed to death,’ the lowlander said. ‘You have your revenge. Leave him here to die.’
Instead, the Teblor began cutting strips from Silgar’s telaba, tying them tight about the stumps at the ends of his arms and legs.
‘There will still be some leakage—’
‘Which we shall have to live with,’ Karsa growled. ‘I am not yet done with this man.’
‘What value senseless torture?’
Karsa hesitated, then he sighed. ‘This man enslaved an entire tribe of Teblor. The Sunyd’s spirit is broken. The slavemaster is not as a soldier—he has not earned swift death. He is as a mad dog, to be driven into a hut and killed—’
‘So kill him.’
‘I shall…once I have driven him mad.’
Karsa lifted Silgar once more, throwing him over a shoulder. ‘Lead us on, lowlander.’
Hissing under his breath, the man nodded.
Eight days later, they reached the hidden pass through the Pan’potsun Mountains. The Malazans had resumed their pursuit, but had not been seen since two days past, indicating that the efforts to evade them had succeeded.
They ascended the steep, rocky trail through the course of the day. Silgar was still alive, fevered and only periodically aware. He had been gagged to prevent him making any sounds. Karsa carried him on his shoulder.
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 294