The alley outside Heboric’s tent was empty in both directions. The sun’s sudden descent seemed to bring a strange silence along with the gloom. Dust hung motionless in the air.
The Destriant of Treach paused in the aisle.
Behind him Scillara said, ‘Where is everyone?’
He had been wondering the same thing. Then, slowly, the hairs rose on the back of his neck. ‘Can you hear that, lass?’
‘Only the wind…’
But there was no wind.
‘No, not wind,’ Scillara murmured. ‘A song. From far away—the Malazan army, do you think?’
He shook his head, but said nothing.
After a moment Heboric gestured Scillara to follow and he set out down the alley. The song seemed suspended in the very air, raising a haze of dust that seemed to shiver before his eyes. Sweat ran down his limbs. Fear. Fear has driven this entire city from the streets. Those voices are the sound of war.
‘There should be children,’ Scillara said. ‘Girls…’
‘Why girls more than anyone else, lass?’
‘Bidithal’s spies. His chosen servants.’
He glanced back at her. ‘Those he…scars?’
‘Yes. They should be…everywhere. Without them—’
‘Bidithal is blind. It may well be he has sent them elsewhere, or even withdrawn them entirely. There will be…events this night, Scillara. Blood will be spilled. The players are, no doubt, even now drawing into position.’
‘He spoke of this night,’ she said. ‘The hours of darkness before the battle. He said the world will change this night.’
Heboric bared his teeth. ‘The fool has sunk to the bottom of the Abyss, and now stirs the black mud.’
‘He dreams of true Darkness unfolding, Destriant. Shadow is but an upstart, a realm born of compromise and filled with impostors. The fragments must be returned to the First Mother.’
‘Not just a fool, then, but mad. To speak of the most ancient of battles, as if he himself is a force worthy of it—Bidithal has lost his mind.’
‘He says something is coming,’ Scillara said, shrugging. ‘Suspected by no-one, and only Bidithal himself has any hope of controlling it, for he alone remembers the Dark.’
Heboric halted. ‘Hood take his soul. I must go to him. Now.’
‘We will find him—’
‘In his damned temple, aye. Come on.’
They swung about.
Even as two figures emerged from the gloom of an alley mouth, blades flickering out.
With a snarl, Heboric closed on them. One taloned hand shot out, tore under and into an assassin’s neck, then snapped upward, lifting the man’s head clean from his shoulders.
The other killer lunged, knife-point darting for Heboric’s left eye. The Destriant caught the man’s wrist and crushed both bones. A slash from his other hand spilled the assassin’s entrails onto the dusty street.
Flinging the body away, Heboric glared about. Scillara stood a few paces back, her eyes wide. Ignoring her, the Destriant crouched down over the nearest corpse. ‘Korbolo Dom’s. Too impatient by far—’
Three quarrels struck him simultaneously. One deep into his right hip, shattering bone. Another plunging beneath his right shoulder blade to draw short a finger’s breadth from his spine. The third, arriving from the opposite direction, took him high on his left shoulder with enough force to spin him round, so that he tumbled backward over the corpse.
Scillara scrabbled down beside him. ‘Old man? Do you live?’
‘Bastards,’ he growled. ‘That hurts.’
‘They’re coming—’
‘To finish me off, aye. Flee, lass. To the stone forest. Go!’
He felt her leave his side, heard her light steps patter away.
Heboric sought to rise, but agony ripped up from his broken hip, left him gasping and blinded.
Approaching footsteps, three sets, moccasined, two from the right and one from the left. Knives whispered from sheaths. Closing…then silence.
Someone was standing over Heboric. Through his blurred vision, he could make out dust-smeared boots, and from them a stench, as of musty, dry death. Another set of boots scuffed the ground beyond the Destriant’s feet.
‘Begone, wraiths,’ a voice hissed from a half-dozen paces away.
‘Too late for that, assassin,’ murmured the figure above Heboric. ‘Besides, we’ve only just arrived.’
‘In the name of Hood, Hoarder of Souls, I banish you from this realm.’
A soft laugh answered the killer’s command. ‘Kneel before Hood, do you? Oh yes, I felt the power in your words. Alas, Hood’s out of his depth on this one. Ain’t that right, lass?’
A deep, grunting assent from the one standing near Heboric’s feet.
‘Last warning,’ the assassin growled. ‘Our blades are sanctioned—they will bleed your souls—’
‘No doubt. Assuming they ever reach us.’
‘There are but two of you…and three of us.’
‘Two?’
Scuffing sounds, then, sharp and close, the spray of blood onto the ground. Bodies thumped, long breaths exhaled wetly.
‘Should’ve left one alive,’ said another woman’s voice.
‘Why?’
‘So we could send him back to that fly-blown Napan bastard with a promise for the morrow.’
‘Better this way, lass. No-one appreciates surprise any more—that’s what’s gone wrong with the world, if you ask me—’
‘Well, we wasn’t asking you. This old man going to make it, you think?’
A grunt. ‘I doubt Treach will give up on his new Destriant with nary a meow. Besides, that sweet-lunged beauty is on her way back.’
‘Time for us to leave, then.’
‘Aye.’
‘And from now on we don’t surprise no-one, ’til come the dawn. Understood?’
‘Temptation got the better of us. Won’t happen again.’
Silence, then footsteps once more. A small hand settled on his brow.
‘Scillara?’
‘Yes, it’s me. There were soldiers here, I think. They didn’t look too good—’
‘Never mind that. Pull the quarrels from me. Flesh wants to heal, bone to knit. Pull ’em out, lass.’
‘And then?’
‘Drag me back to my temple…if you can.’
‘All right.’
He felt a hand close on the quarrel buried in his left shoulder. A flash of pain, then nothing.
Elder Sha’ik’s armour was laid out on the table. One of Mathok’s warriors had replaced the worn straps and fittings, then polished the bronze plates and the full, visored helm. The longsword was oiled, its edges finely honed. The iron-rimmed hide-covered shield leaned against one table leg.
She stood, alone in the chamber, staring down at the accoutrements left by her predecessor. The old woman reputedly had skill with the blade. The helm seemed strangely oversized, its vented cheek guards flared and full length, hinged to the heavy brow-band. Fine blackened chain hung web-like across the eye-slits. A long, wide lobster-tail neck guard sprawled out from the back rim.
She walked over to the quilted under-padding. It was heavy, sweat-stained, the laces beneath the arms and running the length of the sides. Boiled leather plates covered her upper thighs, shoulders, arms and wrists. Working methodically, she tightened every lace and strap, shifting about to settle the weight evenly before turning to the armour itself.
Most of the night remained, stretching before her like infinity’s dark road, but she wanted to feel the armour encasing her; she wanted its massive weight, and so she affixed the leg greaves, footplates and wrist vambraces, then shrugged her way into the breastplate. Sorcery had lightened the bronze, and its sound as it rustled was like thin tin. The design allowed her to cinch the straps herself, and moments later she picked up the sword and slid it into its scabbard, then drew the heavy belt about her waist, setting the hooks that held it to the cuirass so that its weight did not drag at he
r hips.
All that remained was the pair of gauntlets, and the under-helm and helm itself. She hesitated. Have I any choice in all this? The goddess remained a towering presence in her mind, rooted through every muscle and fibre, her voice whispering in the flow of blood in her veins and arteries. Ascendant power was in Sha’ik’s grasp, and she knew she would use it when the time came. Or, rather, it would use her.
To kill my sister.
She sensed the approach of someone and turned to face the entrance. ‘You may enter, L’oric.’
The High Mage stepped into view.
Sha’ik blinked. He was wearing armour. White, enamelled, scarred and stained with use. A long, narrow-bladed sword hung at his hip. After a moment, she sighed. ‘And so we all make preparations…’
‘As you have observed before, Mathok has over three hundred warriors guarding this palace, Chosen One. Guarding…you.’
‘He exaggerates the risk. The Malazans are far too busy—’
‘The danger he anticipates, Chosen One, lies not with the Malazans.’
She studied him. ‘You look exhausted, L’oric. I suggest you return to your tent and get some rest. I shall have need for you on the morrow.’
‘You will not heed my warning?’
‘The goddess protects me. I have nothing to fear. Besides,’ she smiled, ‘Mathok has three hundred of his chosen warriors guarding this palace.’
‘Sha’ik, there will be a convergence this night. You have readers of the Deck among your advisers. Command they field their cards, and all that I say will be confirmed. Ascendant powers are gathering. The stench of treachery is in the air.’
She waved a hand. ‘None of it matters, L’oric. I cannot be touched. Nor will the goddess be denied.’
He stepped closer, his eyes wide. ‘Chosen One! Raraku is awakening.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Can you not hear it?’
‘The rage of the goddess consumes all, L’oric. If you can hear the voice of the Holy Desert, then it is Raraku’s death-cry. The Whirlwind shall devour this night. And any ascendant power foolish enough to approach will be annihilated. The goddess, L’oric, will not be denied.’
He stared at her a moment longer, then seemed to sag beneath his armour. He drew a hand across his eyes, as if seeking to claw some nightmarish vision from his sight. Then, with a nod, he swung about and strode towards the doorway.
‘Wait!’ Sha’ik moved past him then halted.
Voices sounded from beyond the canvas walls.
‘Let him pass!’ she cried.
Two guards stumbled in, dragging a man between them. Smeared in dust and sweat, he was unable to even stand, so exhausted and battered was he. One of the guards barked, ‘It is Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas. One of Leoman’s officers.’
‘Chosen One!’ the man gasped. ‘I am the third rider Leoman has sent to you! I found the bodies of the others—assassins pursued me almost to your very palace!’
Sha’ik’s face darkened with fury. ‘Get Mathok,’ she snapped to one of the guards. ‘L’oric, gift this man some healing, to aid in his recovery.’
The High Mage stepped forward, settled a hand on Corabb’s shoulder.
The desert warrior’s breathing slowed, and he slowly straightened. ‘Leoman sends his greetings, Chosen One. He wishes to know of Mathok’s deployment—’
‘Corabb,’ Sha’ik cut in. ‘You will return to Leoman—with an escort. My orders to him are as follows—are you listening?’
He nodded.
‘Leoman is to ride immediately back to me. He is to take over command of my armies.’
Corabb blinked. ‘Chosen One?’
‘Leoman of the Flails is to assume command of my armies. Before the dawn. L’oric, go to Korbolo Dom and convey to him my summons. He is to attend me immediately.’
L’oric hesitated, then nodded. ‘As you command, Chosen One. I will take my leave of you now.’
He exited the chamber, made his way through the intervening rooms and passageways, passing guard after guard, seeing weapons drawn and feeling hard eyes on him. Korbolo Dom would be a fool to attempt to reach her with his assassins. Even so, the night had begun, and in the oasis beyond starlight now played on drawn blades.
Emerging onto the concourse before the palace, L’oric paused. His warren was unveiled, and he made that fact visible through a spark-filled penumbra surrounding his person. He wanted no-one to make any fatal mistakes. Feeling strangely exposed none the less, he set out towards Korbolo Dom’s command tent.
The Dogslayers were ready in their reserve trenches, a ceaseless rustling of weapons and armour and muted conversations that fell still further as he strode past, only to rise again in his wake. These soldiers, L’oric well knew, had by choice and by circumstance made of themselves a separate force. Marked by the butchery of their deeds. By the focus of Malazan outrage. They know that no quarter will be given them. Their bluster was betrayed by diffidence, their reputed savagery streaked now with glimmers of fear. And their lives were in Korbolo Dom’s stained hands. Entirely. They will not sleep this night.
He wondered what would happen when Leoman wrested command from the Napan renegade. Would there be mutiny? It was very possible. Of course, Sha’ik possessed the sanction of the Whirlwind Goddess, and she would not hesitate to flex that power should Leoman’s position be challenged. Still, this was not the way to ready an army on the night before battle.
She has waited too long. Then again, perhaps this was intended. Designed to knock Korbolo off balance, to give him no time to prepare any counter-moves. If so, then it is the boldest of risks, on this, the most jagged-edged of nights.
He made his way up the steep pathway to the Napan’s command tent. Two sentries emerged from near the entrance to block his progress.
‘Inform Korbolo Dom that I bring word from Sha’ik.’
He watched the two soldiers exchange a glance, then one nodded and entered the tent.
A few moments later the sorceress, Henaras, strode out from the entrance. Her face knotted in a scowl. ‘High Mage L’oric. You shall have to relinquish your warren to seek audience with the Supreme Commander of the Apocalypse.’
One brow rose at that lofty title, but he shrugged and lowered his magical defences. ‘I am under your protection, then,’ he said.
She cocked her head. ‘Against whom do you protect yourself, High Mage? The Malazans are on the other side of the basin.’
L’oric smiled.
Gesturing, Henaras swung about and entered the command tent. L’oric followed.
The spacious chamber within was dominated by a raised dais at the end opposite the doorway, on which sat a massive wooden chair. The high headrest was carved in arcane symbols that L’oric recognized—with a shock—as Hengese, from the ancient city of Li Heng in the heart of the Malazan Empire. Dominating the carvings was a stylized rendition of a raptor’s talons, outstretched, that hovered directly over the head of the seated Napan, who sat slouched, his hooded gaze fixed on the High Mage.
‘L’oric,’ he drawled. ‘You foolish man. You are about to discover what happens to souls who are far too trusting. Granted,’ he added with a smile, ‘you might have assumed we were allies. After all, we have shared the same oasis for some time now, have we not?’
‘Sha’ik demands that you attend her, Korbolo Dom. Immediately.’
‘To relieve me of my command, yes. With the ill-informed belief that my Dogslayers will accept Leoman of the Flails—did you peruse them on your way here, L’oric? Were you witness to their readiness? My army, High Mage, is surrounded by enemies. Do you understand? Leoman is welcome to attempt an approach, with all the desert warriors he and Mathok care to muster—’
‘You would betray the Apocalypse? Turn on your allies and win the battle for the Adjunct, Korbolo Dom? All to preserve your precious position?’
‘If Sha’ik insists.’
‘Alas, Sha’ik is not the issue,’ L’oric said. ‘The Whirlwi
nd Goddess, however, is, and I believe her toleration of you, Korbolo Dom, is about to end.’
‘Do you think so, L’oric? Will she also accept the destruction of the Dogslayers? For destroy them she must, if she is to wrest control from me. The decimation of her vaunted Army of the Apocalypse. Truly, will the goddess choose this?’
L’oric slowly cocked his head, then he slowly sighed. ‘Ah, I see now the flaw.
You have approached this tactically, as would any soldier. But what you clearly do not understand is that the Whirlwind Goddess is indifferent to tactics, to grand strategies. You rely upon her common sense, but Korbolo, she has none. The battle tomorrow? Victory or defeat? The goddess cares neither way. She desires destruction. The Malazans butchered on the field, the Dogslayers slaughtered in their trenches, an enfilade of sorcery to transform the sands of Raraku into a red ruin. This is what the Whirlwind Goddess desires.’
‘What of it?’ the Napan rasped, and L’oric saw sweat beading the man’s scarred brow. ‘Even the goddess cannot reach me, not here, in this sanctified place—’
‘And you call me the fool? The goddess will see you slain this night, but you are too insignificant for her to act directly in crushing you under thumb.’
Korbolo Dom bolted forward on the chair. ‘Then who?’ he shrieked. ‘You, L’oric?’
The High Mage spread his hands and shook his head. ‘I am less than a messenger in this, Korbolo Dom. I am, if anything at all, merely the voice of…common sense. It is not who she will send against you, Supreme Commander. It is, I believe, who she will allow through her defences. Don’t you think?’
Korbolo stared down at the High Mage, then he snarled and gestured.
The knife plunging into his back had no chance of delivering a fatal wound. L’oric’s tightly bound defences, his innermost layers of Kurald Thyrllan, defied the thirst of iron. Despite this, the blow drove the High Mage to his knees. Then he pitched forward onto the thick carpets, almost at the Napan’s boots.
And already, he was ignored as he lay there, bleeding into the weave, as Korbolo rose and began bellowing orders. And none were close enough to hear the High Mage murmur, ‘Blood is the path, you foolish man. And you have opened it. You poor bastard…’
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 358