—and the assassins now closing in on her.
Sorcery streamed from their knives, a skein of death-magics.
The goddess shrieked as the first knife was driven into her back.
He watched them kill her. A prolonged, brutal butchering. Korbolo’s Talons, his chosen assassins, who had been waiting in ambush, guided here by Febryl—no-one else could have managed that path—and abetted by the sorcerous powers of Kamist Reloe, Henaras and Fayelle. She fought back with a ferocity near to match, and soon three of the four assassins were dead—torn limb from limb. But more chains now ensnared the goddess, dragging her down, and L’oric could see the fires dying in her eye sockets, could see spirits writhe away, suddenly freed and eager to flee. And the last killer darted in, hammering down with his knife. Through the top of the skull. A midnight flash, the detonation flinging the killer back. Both skull and blade had shattered, lacerating the Talon’s face and chest. Blinded and screaming, he reeled back, tripped over a root and thumped to the ground.
L’oric listened to the man moaning.
Chains snaked over the fallen body of the goddess, until nothing visible was left of her, the black iron links heaped and glistening.
Whatever high wind had lashed the treetops now fell away, leaving only silence.
They all wanted this shattered warren. This fraught prize. But Toblakai killed Febryl. He killed the two Deragoth.
He killed Bidithal.
And as for Korbolo Dom—something tells me the Empress will soon speak to him in person. The poor bastard.
Beneath the High Mage, his lifeblood soaked the moss.
It came to him, then, that he was dying.
Twigs snapped nearby.
‘I’m hardly surprised. You sent your familiar away, didn’t you? Again.’
L’oric twisted his head around, stared upward, and managed a weak smile.
‘Father.’
‘I don’t think much has changed in your room, son, since you left it.’
‘Dusty, I would think.’
Osric grunted. ‘The entire keep is that, I would hazard. Haven’t been there in centuries.’
‘No servants?’
‘I dismissed them…about a thousand years ago.’
L’oric sighed. ‘I’d be surprised if the place is still standing.’
Osric slowly crouched down beside his son, the sorcerous glow of Denul now surrounding him. ‘Oh, it still stands, son. I always keep my options open. An ugly cut you have there. Best healed slowly.’
L’oric closed his eyes. ‘My old bed?’
‘Aye.’
‘It’s too short. It was when I left, anyway.’
‘Too bad he didn’t cut off your feet, then, L’oric.’
Strong arms reached under him and he was lifted effortlessly.
Absurdly—for a man my age—he felt at peace. In his father’s arms.
‘Now,’ Osric said, ‘how in Hood’s name do we get out of here?’
The moment passed.
She stumbled, barely managing to right herself. Behind the iron mesh, she blinked against the hot, close air. All at once, the armour seemed immeasurably heavy. A surge of panic—the sun was roasting her alive beneath these plates of metal.
Sha’ik halted. Struggled to regain control of herself.
Myself. Gods below…she is gone.
She stood alone in the basin. From the ridge opposite a lone figure was descending the slope. Tall, unhurried, the gait achingly familiar.
The ridge behind Tavore, and those on every battered island of ancient coral, was now lined with soldiers.
The Army of the Apocalypse was watching as well, Sha’ik suspected, though she did not turn about.
She is gone. I have been…abandoned.
I was Sha’ik, once. Now, I am Felisin once more. And here, walking towards me, is the one who betrayed me. My sister.
She remembered watching Tavore and Ganoes playing with wooden swords. Beginning on that path to deadly familiarity, to unthinking ease wielding the weight of that weapon. Had the world beyond not changed—had all stood still, the way children believed it would—she would have had her turn. The clack of wood, Ganoes laughing and gently instructing her—there was joy and comfort to her brother, the way he made teaching subservient to the game’s natural pleasures. But she’d never had the chance for that.
No chance, in fact, for much of anything that could now return to her, memories warm and trusting and reassuring.
Instead, Tavore had dismembered their family. And for Felisin, the horrors of slavery and the mines.
But blood is the chain that can never break.
Tavore was now twenty strides away. Drawing out her otataral sword.
And, though we leave the house of our birth, it never leaves us.
Sha’ik could feel the weight of her own weapon, dragging hard enough to make her wrist ache. She did not recall unsheathing it.
Beyond the mesh and through the slits of the visor, Tavore strode ever closer, neither speeding up nor slowing.
No catching up. No falling back. How could there be? We are ever the same years apart. The chain never draws taut. Never slackens. Its length is prescribed. But its weight, oh, its weight ever varies.
She was lithe, light on her feet, achingly economical. She was, for this moment, perfect.
But, for me, the blood is heavy. So heavy.
And Felisin struggled against it—that sudden, overwhelming weight. Struggled to raise her arms—unthinking of how that motion would be received.
Tavore, it’s all right—
A thunderous clang, a reverberation jolting up her right arm, and the sword’s enervating weight was suddenly gone from her hand.
Then something punched into her chest, a stunning blossom of cold fire piercing through flesh, bone—and then she felt a tug from behind, as if something had reached up, clasped her hauberk and yanked on it—but it was just the point, she realized. The point of Tavore’s sword, as it drove against the underside of the armour shielding her back.
Felisin looked down to see that rust-hued blade impaling her.
Her legs gave way and the sword suddenly bowed to her weight.
But she did not slide off that length of stained iron.
Her body held on to it, releasing only in shuddering increments as Felisin fell back, onto the ground.
Through the visor’s slit, she stared up at her sister, a figure standing behind a web of black, twisted iron wire that now rested cool over her eyes, tickling her lashes.
A figure who now stepped closer. To set one boot down hard on her chest—a weight that, now that it had arrived, seemed eternal—and dragged the sword free.
Blood.
Of course. This is how you break an unbreakable chain.
By dying.
I just wanted to know, Tavore, why you did it. And why you did not love me, when I loved you. I—I think that’s what I wanted to know.
The boot lifted from her chest. But she could still feel its weight.
Heavy. So very heavy…
Oh, Mother, look at us now.
Karsa Orlong’s hand snapped out, caught Leoman before the man fell, then dragged him close. ‘Hear me, friend. She is dead. Take your tribes and get out of here.’
Leoman lifted a hand and passed it across his eyes. Then he straightened. ‘Dead, yes. I’m sorry, Toblakai. It wasn’t that. She’—his face twisted—‘she did not know how to fight!’
‘True, she did not. And now she’s dead, and the Whirlwind Goddess with her. It is done, friend. We have lost.’
‘More than you know,’ Leoman groaned, pulling away.
In the basin below, the Adjunct was staring down at Sha’ik’s corpse. From both armies lining the ridges, silence. Karsa frowned. ‘The Malazans do not cheer.’
‘No,’ Leoman snarled, turning to where Corabb waited with the horses. ‘They probably hate the bitch. We ride to Y’Ghatan, Toblakai—’
‘Not me,’ Karsa growled.
> His friend paused and then nodded without turning around, and vaulted onto his horse. He took the reins from Corabb then glanced over at Toblakai. ‘Fare well, my friend.’
‘And you, Leoman of the Flails.’
‘If L’oric returns from wherever he went, tell him…’ His voice trailed away, then he shrugged. ‘Take care of him if he needs help.’
‘I shall, but I do not think we will see him again.’
Leoman nodded. Then he said to Corabb, ‘Tell the warchiefs to scatter with their tribes. Out of Raraku as fast as they can manage it—’
‘Out of the Holy Desert, Leoman?’ Corabb asked.
‘Can’t you hear it? Never mind. Yes. Out. Rejoin me on the western road—the ancient one that runs straight.’
Corabb saluted, then pulled his horse round and rode off.
‘You too, Toblakai. Out of Raraku—’
‘I will,’ Karsa replied, ‘when I am done here, Leoman. Now, go—officers are riding to the Adjunct. They will follow with an attack—’
‘Then they’re fools,’ Leoman spat.
Karsa watched his friend ride off. Then strode to his own mount. He was tired. His wounds hurt. But some issues remained unsettled, and he needed to take care of that.
The Teblor swung himself onto Havok’s back.
Lostara walked down the slope, the cracked ground crunching underfoot. At her side marched Pearl, breathing hard beneath the weight of Korbolo Dom’s bound, limp form.
Tavore still stood alone on the flats, a few paces from Sha’ik’s body. The Adjunct’s attention had been fixed on the Dogslayer trenches, and on the lone, ragged standard rising from the highest ground at the central ramp’s summit.
A standard that had no right being here. No right existing at all.
Coltaine’s standard, the wings of the Crow Clan.
Lostara wondered who had raised it, where it had come from, then decided she didn’t want to know. One truth could not be ignored, however. They’re all dead. The Dogslayers. All. And the Adjunct did not need to even raise a hand to achieve that.
She sensed her own cowardice and scowled. Skittering away, again and again, from thoughts too bitter with irony to contemplate. Their journey to the basin had been nightmarish, as Kurald Emurlahn swarmed the entire oasis, as shadows warred with ghosts, and the incessant rise and fall of that song grew audible enough for Lostara to sense, if not hear. A song still climbing in crescendo.
But, at the feet of…of everything. A simple, brutal fact.
They had come too late.
Within sight, only to see Tavore batter Sha’ik’s weapon out of her hands, then thrust that sword right through her…name it, Lostara Yil, you damned coward. Name it! Her sister. Through her sister. There. It’s done, dragged out before us.
She would not look at Pearl, could say nothing. Nor did he speak.
We are bound, this man and I. I didn’t ask for this. I don’t want it. I’ll never be without it. Oh, Queen forgive me…
Close enough now to see Tavore’s face beneath the helm, an expression stern—almost angry—as she turned to watch their approach.
Officers were riding down, though slowly.
There would be time, Lostara realized, for a private conversation.
She and Pearl halted six paces from the Adjunct.
The Claw dumped Korbolo Dom onto the ground between them. ‘He won’t wake up any time soon,’ he said, taking a deep breath, then sighing and looking away.
‘What are you two doing here?’ the Adjunct asked. ‘Did you lose the trail?’
Pearl did not glance at Lostara, but simply shook his head in answer to Tavore’s question. A pause, then, ‘We found her, Adjunct. With deep regret…Felisin is dead.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘Yes, Adjunct.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘I can say one thing for certain, Tavore. She died quickly.’
Lostara’s heart felt ready to explode at Pearl’s quiet words. Jaws clenching, she met the Adjunct’s eyes, and slowly nodded.
Tavore stared at them both for a long moment, then lowered her head. ‘Well, there is mercy in that, I suppose.’
And then sheathed her sword, turned away and began walking towards her approaching officers.
Under her breath, so low that only Pearl could hear her, Lostara said, ‘Yes, I suppose there is…’
Pearl swung to her suddenly. ‘Here comes Tene Baralta. Stall him, lass.’ He walked over to Sha’ik’s body. ‘The warrens are clear enough…I hope.’ He bent down and tenderly picked her up, then faced Lostara once more. ‘Yes, she’s a heavier burden than you might think.’
‘No, Pearl, I don’t think that. Where?’
The Claw’s smile lanced into her heart. ‘A hilltop…you know the one.’
Lostara nodded. ‘Very well. And then?’
‘Convince them to get out of Raraku, lass. As fast as they can. When I’m done…’ he hesitated.
‘Come and find me, Pearl,’ she growled. ‘Or else I’ll come looking for you.’
A flicker of life in his weary eyes. ‘I will. I promise.’
She watched his gaze flit past her shoulder and she turned. Tavore was still twenty paces from the riders, who had all but Baralta halted their horses. ‘What is it, Pearl?’
‘Just watching her…walking away,’ he replied. ‘She looks so…’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes. That is the word, isn’t it. See you later, lass.’
She felt the breath of the warren gust against her back, then the day’s heat returned. Lostara hitched her thumbs in her belt, and waited for Tene Baralta.
Her once-commander would have wanted Sha’ik’s body. A trophy for this day. He would be furious. ‘Well,’ she muttered, ‘that’s just too damned bad.’
Keneb watched her approach. There was none of the triumph there he thought he would see. Indeed, she looked worn down, as if the falling of spirit that followed every battle had already come to her, the deathly stillness of the mind that invited dire contemplation, that lifted up the host of questions that could never be answered.
She had sheathed her sword without cleansing it, and Sha’ik’s blood had run crooked tracks down the plain scabbard.
Tene Baralta rode past her, on his way, Keneb suspected, to Sha’ik’s body. If he said anything to the Adjunct in passing, she made no reply.
‘Fist Blistig,’ she announced upon arriving. ‘Send scouts to the Dogslayer ramps. Also, a detachment of guards—the Claw have delivered to us Korbolo Dom.’
Ah, so that was what that man was carrying. Keneb glanced back to where the duel had taken place. Only the woman stood there now, over the prone shape that was the Napan renegade, her face turned up to Tene Baralta, who remained on his horse and seemed to be berating her. Even at this distance, something told Keneb that Baralta’s harangue would yield little result.
‘Adjunct,’ Nil said, ‘there is no need to scout the Dogslayer positions. They are all dead.’
Tavore frowned. ‘Explain.’
‘Raraku’s ghosts, Adjunct.’
Nether spoke up. ‘And the spirits of our own slain. Nil and I—we were blind to it. We’d forgotten the ways of…of seeing. The cattle dog, Adjunct. Bent. It should have died at Coltaine’s feet. At the Fall. But some soldiers saved it, saw to the healing of its wounds.’
‘A cattle dog? What are you talking about?’ Tavore demanded, revealing, for the very first time, an edge of exasperation.
‘Bent and Roach,’ Nil said. ‘The only creatures still living to have walked the Chain the entire way. Two dogs.’
‘Not true,’ Temul said from behind the two Wickan shamans. ‘This mare. It belonged to Duiker.’
Nil half turned to acknowledge the correction, then faced Tavore once more. ‘They came back with us, Adjunct—’
‘The dogs.’
He nodded. ‘And the spirits of the slain. Our own ghosts, Adjunct, have marched with us. Those that fell around Coltaine at the very end. Those that died on the tr
ees of Aren Way. And, step by step, more came from the places where they were cut down. Step by step, Adjunct, our army of vengeance grew.’
‘And yet you sensed nothing?’
‘Our grief blinded us,’ Nether replied.
‘Last night,’ Nil said, ‘the child Grub woke us. Led us to the ridge, so that we could witness the awakening. There were legions, Adjunct, that had marched this land a hundred thousand years ago. And Pormqual’s crucifed army and the legions of the Seventh on one flank. The three slaughtered clans of the Wickans on the other. And still others. Many others. Within the darkness last night, Tavore, there was war.’
‘Thus,’ Nether said, smiling, ‘you were right, Adjunct. In the dreams that haunted you from the very first night of this march, you saw what we could not see.’
‘It was never the burden you believed it to be,’ Nil added. ‘You did not drag the Chain of Dogs with you, Adjunct Tavore.’
‘Didn’t I, Nil?’ A chilling half-smile twisted her thin-lipped mouth, then she looked away. ‘All those ghosts…simply to slay the Dogslayers?’
‘No, Adjunct,’ Nether answered. ‘There were other…enemies.’
‘Fist Gamet’s ghost joined them,’ Nil said.
Tavore’s eyes narrowed sharply. ‘You saw him?’
Both Wickans nodded, and Nether added, ‘Grub spoke with him.’
The Adjunct shot Keneb a querying look.
‘He can be damned hard to find,’ the captain muttered, shrugging. ‘As for talking with ghosts…well, the lad is, uh, strange enough for that.’
The Adjunct’s sigh was heavy.
Keneb’s gaze caught movement and he swung his head round, to see Tene Baralta riding back in the company of two soldiers wearing little more than rags. Both were unshaven, their hair long and matted. Their horses bore no saddles.
The Fist reined in with his charges. His face was dark with anger. ‘Adjunct. That Claw has stolen Sha’ik’s body!’
Keneb saw the woman approaching on foot, still twenty paces distant. She looked…smug.
Tavore ignored Tene Baralta’s statement and was eyeing the two newcomers. ‘And you are?’ she asked.
The elder of the two saluted. ‘Captain Kindly, Adjunct, of the Ashok Regiment. We were prisoners in the Dogslayer camp. Lieutenant Pores and myself, that is.’
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 365