The Azath tower was indeed dying. And desperation forced a straying onto unprecedented paths.
Among all the prisoners, a choice had been made. And preparations were under way, slow as the track of roots through stone, but equally inexorable. But there was so little time.
The urgency was a silent scream that squeezed blood from the Azath tower. Five kin creatures, taken and held since the time of the K’Chain Che’Malle, were almost within reach of the surface.
And this was not good, for they were Toblakai.
Chapter Five
Against the flat like thunder
Where the self dwells between the eyes,
Beneath the blow the bone shattered
And the soul was dragged forth
To writhe in the grip
Of unredeemed vengeance…
THE LAST NIGHT OF BLOODEYE
AUTHOR UNKNOWN (COMPILED BY TISTE ANDII SCHOLARS OF BLACK CORAL)
The Shadow’s laughter was low, a sound that promised madness to all who heard it. Udinaas let the netting fall away from his fingers and leaned back against the sun-warmed rock. He squinted up at the bright sky. He was alone on the beach, the choppy waves of the bay stretching out before him. Alone, except for the wraith that now haunted him at every waking moment.
Conjured, then forgotten. Wandering, an eternal flight from the sun, but there were always places to hide.
‘Stop that,’ Udinaas said, closing his eyes.
‘Why ever? I smell your blood, slave. Growing colder. I once knew a world of ice. After I was killed, yes, after. Even darkness has flaws, and that’s how they stole me. But I have dreams.’
‘So you’re always saying. Then follow them, wraith, and leave me alone.’
‘I have dreams and you understand nothing, slave. Was I pleased to serve? Never. Never ever never and again, never. I’m following you.’
Udinaas opened his eyes and stared down at the sliver of shadow between two rocks, from which the voice was emerging. Sand fleas scampered and darted on the flanking stone, but of the wraith itself there was no visible sign. ‘Why?’
‘Why ever why? That which you cast beckons me, slave. You promise a worthy journey—do you dream of gardens, slave? I know you do—I can smell it. Half dead and overgrown, why ever not? There is no escape. So, with my dreams, it serves me to serve. Serves to serve. Was I not once a Tiste Andii? I believe I was. Murdered and flung into the mud, until the ice came. Then torn loose, after so long, to serve my slayers. My slavers, whose diligence then wavered. Shall we whisper of betrayers, slave?’
‘You would bargain?’
‘Hither when you call me, call me Wither. I have dreams. Give me that which you cast. Give me your shadow, and I will become yours. Your eyes behind you, whom no-one else can see or hear, unless they guess and have power but why would they guess? You are a slave. Who behaves. Be sure to behave, slave, until the moment you betray.’
‘I thought Tiste Andii were supposed to be dour and miserable. And please, Wither, no more rhymes.’
‘Agreed, once you give me your shadow.’
‘Can other wraiths see you? Hannan Mosag’s—’
‘That oaf? I will hide in your natural casting. Hidden. Never found. See, no rhymes. We were bold in those days, slave. Soldiers in a war, an invasion. Soaked in the cold blood of K’Chain Che’Malle. We followed the youngest child of Mother Dark herself. And we were witness.’
‘To what?’
‘To Bloodeye’s betrayal of our leader. To the dagger driven into our lord’s back. I myself fell to a blade wielded by a Tiste Edur. Unexpected. Sudden slaughter. We stood no chance. No chance at all.’
Udinaas made a face, studied the tossing waves that warred with the river’s outpouring current. ‘The Edur claim it was the other way round, Wither.’
‘Then why am I dead and they alive? If we were the ambushers that day?’
‘How should I know? Now, if you intend to lurk in my shadow, Wither, you must learn to be silent. Unless I speak to you. Silent, and watchful, and nothing more.’
‘First, slave, you must do something for me.’
Udinaas sighed. Most of the noble-born Edur were at the interment ceremony for the murdered fisherman, along with a half-dozen kin from the Beneda, since the Edur’s identity had finally been determined. Fewer than a dozen warriors remained in the compound behind him. Shadow wraiths seemed to grow bolder at such times, emerging to flit across the ground, between longhouses and along the palisade walls.
He had often wondered at that. But now, if Wither was to be believed, he had his answer. Those wraiths are not ancestral kin to the mortal Edur. They are Tiste Andii, the bound souls of the slain. And, I was desperate for allies…‘Very well, what do you wish me to do, Wither?’
‘Before the seas rose in this place, slave, the Hasana Inlet was a lake. To the south and west, the land stretched out to join with the westernmost tip of the Reach. A vast plain, upon which the last of my people were slaughtered. Walk the shoreline before you, slave. South. There is something of mine—we must find it.’
Udinaas rose and brushed the sand from his coarse woollen trousers. He looked about. Three slaves from the Warlock King’s citadel were down by the river mouth, beating clothes against rocks. A lone fisherboat was out on the water, but distant. ‘How far will I need to walk?’
‘It lies close.’
‘If I am perceived to be straying too far, I will be killed outright.’
‘Not far, slave—’
‘I am named Udinaas, and so you will address me.’
‘You claim the privilege of pride?’
‘I am more than a slave, Wither, as you well know.’
‘But you must behave as if you were not. I call you “slave” to remind you of that. Fail in your deception, and the pain they shall inflict upon you in the search for all you would hide from them shall be without measure—’
‘Enough.’ He walked down to the waterline. The sun threw his shadow into his wake, pulled long and monstrous.
The rollers had built a humped sweep of sand over the stones, on which lay tangled strands of seaweed and a scattering of detritus. A pace inland of this elongated rise was a depression filled with slick pebbles and rocks. ‘Where should I be looking?’
‘Among the stones: A little further. Three, two paces. Yes. Here.’
Udinaas stared down, scanning the area. ‘I see nothing.’
‘Dig. No, to your left—those rocks, move those. That one. Now, deeper. There, pull it free.’
A misshapen lump that sat heavy in his hand. Finger-length and tapered at one end, the metal object within swallowed by thick calcifications. ‘What is it?’
‘An arrowhead, slave. Hundreds of millennia, crawling to this shore. The passage of ages is measured by chance. The deep roll of tides, the succession of wayward storms. This is how the world moves—’
‘Hundreds of millennia? There would be nothing left—’
‘A blade of simple iron without sorcerous investment would indeed have vanished. The arrowhead remains, slave, because it will not surrender. You must chip away at all that surrounds it. You must resurrect it.’
‘Why?’
‘I have my reasons, slave.’
There was nothing pleasing in this, but Udinaas straightened and tucked the lump in his belt pouch. He returned to his nets. ‘I shall not,’ he muttered, ‘be the hand of your vengeance.’
Wither’s laugh followed him in the crunch of stones.
There was smoke hanging above the lowlands, like clouds dragged low and now shredded by the dark treetops.
‘A funeral,’ Binadas said.
Seren Pedac nodded. There had been no storms, and besides, the forest was too wet to sustain a wildfire. The Edur practice of burial involved a tumulus construction, which was then covered to form a pyre. The intense heat baked the coin-sheathed corpse as if it was clay, and stained the barrow stones red. Shadow wraiths danced amidst the flames, twisted skyward with the smoke,
and would linger long after the mourners were gone.
Seren drew her knife and bent to scrape mud from her boots. This side of the mountains the weather daily crept in from the sea shedding rain and mist in pernicious waves. Her clothes were soaked through. Three times since morning the heavily burdened wagons had skidded off the trail, once crushing a Nerek to death beneath the solid, iron-rimmed wheels.
Straightening, she cleaned her knife between two gloved fingers, then sheathed it at her side.
Moods were foul. Buruk the Pale had not emerged from his wagon in two days, nor had his three half-blood Nerek concubines. But the descent was finally done, and ahead was a wide, mostly level trail leading to Hannan Mosag’s village.
Binadas stood and watched as the last wagon rocked clear of the slope, and Seren sensed the Edur’s impatience. Someone had died in his village, after all. She glanced over at Hull Beddict, but could sense nothing from him. He had withdrawn deep into himself, as if building reserves in anticipation of what was to come. Or, equally likely, struggling to bolster crumbling resolve. She seemed to have lost her ability to read him. Pain worn without pause and for so long could itself become a mask.
‘Binadas,’ Seren said, ‘the Nerek need to rest. The journey before us is clear. There is no need for you to remain with us as escort. Go to your people.’
His eyes narrowed on her, suspicious of her offer.
She added nothing more. He would believe what he would believe, after all, no matter how genuine her intent.
‘She speaks true,’ Hull said. ‘We would not constrain you, Binadas.’
‘Very well. I shall inform Hannan Mosag of your impending visit.’
They watched the Edur set off down the trail. In moments the trees swallowed him.
‘Do you see?’ Hull asked her.
‘I saw only conflicting desires and obligations,’ Seren replied, turning away.
‘Only, then, what you chose to.’
Seren’s shrug was weary. ‘Oh, Hull, that is the way of us all.’
He stepped close. ‘But it need not be so, Acquitor.’
Surprised, she met his gaze, and wondered at the sudden earnestness there. ‘How am I supposed to respond to that?’ she asked. ‘We are all like soldiers, crouching behind the fortifications we have raised. You will do what you believe you must, Hull.’
‘And you, Seren Pedac? What course awaits you?’
Ever the same course. ‘The Tiste Edur are not yours to use. They may listen, but they are not bound to follow.’
He turned away. ‘I have no expectations, Seren, only fears. We should resume the journey.’
She glanced over at the Nerek. They sat or squatted near the wagons, steam rising from their backs. Their expressions were slack, strangely indifferent to the dead kin they had left behind in his makeshift grave of rutted mud, rocks and roots. How much could be stripped from a people before they began stripping away themselves? The steep slope of dissolution began with a skid, only to become a headlong run.
The Letherii believed in cold-hearted truths. Momentum was an avalanche and no-one was privileged with the choice of stepping aside. The division between life and death was measured in incremental jostling for position amidst all-devouring progress. No-one could afford compassion. Accordingly, none expected it from others either.
We live in an inimical time. But then, they are all inimical times.
It began to rain once more.
Far to the south, beyond the mountains they had just crossed, the downfall of the Tiste Edur was being plotted. And, she suspected, Hull Beddict’s life had been made forfeit. They could not afford the risk he presented, the treason he had as much as promised. The irony existed in their conjoined desires. Both sought war, after all. It was only the face of victory that was different.
But Hull possessed little of the necessary acumen to play this particular game and stay alive.
And she had begun to wonder if she would make any effort to save him.
A shout from Buruk’s wagon. The Nerek climbed wearily to their feet. Seren drew her cloak tighter about her shoulders, eyes narrowed on the path ahead. She sensed Hull coming to her side, but did not look over.
‘What temple was it you were schooled at?’
She snorted, then shook her head. ‘Thurlas, the Shrouded Sisters of the Empty Throne.’
‘Just opposite Small Canal. I remember it. What sort of child were you, Seren?’
‘Clearly, you have an image in your mind.’
She caught his nod in her periphery, and he said, ‘Zealous. Proper to excess. Earnest.’
‘There are ledgers, recording the names of notable students. You will find mine in them, again and again. For example, I hold title to the most punishments inflicted in a year. Two hundred and seventy-one. I was more familiar with the Unlit Cell than my own room. I was also accused of seducing a visiting priest. And before you ask, yes, I was guilty. But the priest swore otherwise, to protect me. He was excommunicated. I later heard he killed himself. Had I still possessed any innocence, I would have lost it then.’
He came round to stand before her, as the first wagon was pulled past by the Nerek. She was forced to look at him. Hesitated, then offered him a wry smile. ‘Have I shocked you, Hull Beddict?’
‘The ice has broken beneath me.’
A flash of anger, then she realized the self-mockery in his confession. ‘We are not born innocent, simply unmeasured.’
‘And, presumably, immeasurable as well.’
‘For a few years at least. Until the outside is inflicted upon the inside, then the brutal war begins. We are not born to compassion either—large wide eyes and sweet demeanor notwithstanding.’
‘And you came to recognize your war early.’
Seren shrugged. ‘My enemy was not authority, although perhaps it seemed so. It was childhood itself. The lowered expectations of adults, the eagerness to forgive. It sickened me—’
‘Because it was unjust.’
‘A child’s sense of injustice is ever self-serving, Hull. I couldn’t fool myself with that indignation. Why are we speaking of this?’
‘Questions I forgot to ask. Back then. I think I was a child myself in those days. All inside, no outside.’
Her brows rose, but she said nothing.
Hull understood anyway. ‘You might be right. In some things, that is. But not when it comes to the Edur.’
The second wagon trundled past. Seren studied the man before her. ‘Are you so certain of that?’ she asked. ‘Because I see you driven by your own needs. The Edur are the sword but the hand is your own, Hull. Where is the compassion in that?’
‘You have it wrong, Seren. I intend to be the sword.’
The chill in her bones deepened. ‘In what way?’
But he shook his head. ‘I cannot trust you, Seren. Like everyone else, you shall have to wait. One thing, however. Do not stand in my way. Please.’
I cannot trust you. Words that cut to her soul. Then again, the issue of trust stood on both sides of the path, didn’t it?
The third wagon halted beside them. The curtain in the door window was dragged aside and Buruk’s deathly face peered out. ‘And this is guidance? Who blazes the trail? Are we doomed now to wander lost? Don’t tell me you have become lovers once more! Seren, you look positively besieged. Such is the curse of love, oh, my heart weeps for you!’
‘Enough, Buruk,’ Seren said. She wiped the rain from her face and, ignoring Hull, moved past onto the path. Nerek stepped to either side to let her pass.
The forest trail was flanked by Blackwood trees, planted to assert Edur possession of these lands. Rough midnight bark that had been twisted into nightmarish images and arcane script by the shadow wraiths that clung to every groove and fissure in the rugged skin. Wraiths that now rose into view to watch Seren and those following in her wake.
There seemed more than usual. Flowing restless like black mist between the huge boles. Scores, then hundreds, crowding either side of the t
rail. Seren’s steps slowed.
She could hear the Nerek behind her, low moans, the clack of the wagons slowing, then halting.
Hull came alongside her. ‘They have raised an army,’ he whispered.
There was dark satisfaction in his tone.
‘Are they truly the ancestors of the Edur?’
His gaze snapped to her, feverish. ‘Of course. What else could they be?’
She shook herself. ‘Urge the Nerek onward, Hull. They’ll listen to you. Two days remaining, that’s all—’ And then she fell silent.
For a figure was standing upon the trail. Skin the colour of bleached linen, tall as an Edur, a face obscured by dark streaks, as if blood-stained fingers had drawn down the gaunt cheeks. An apparition, the dull red eyes burning from those deep sockets dead. Mould hung in ragged sheets from rotting armour. Two scabbards, both empty.
Wraiths swarmed at the figure’s feet, as if in worship.
A wagon door clattered and Buruk staggered out, wrapped in a blanket that dragged the ground behind him as he came to Seren’s side.
‘Barrow and Root!’ the merchant hissed. ‘The tiles did not lie!’
Seren took a step forward.
Hull reached out a hand. ‘No—’
‘Would you have us stand here for ever?’ she snapped, pulling herself free. Despite the bravado of her words, she was terrified. Ghosts revealed themselves in childhood tales and legends, and in the occasional fevered rumour in the capital. She had believed in such apparitions in a half-hearted way, an idea made wilfully manifest. A whispery vision of history, risen as harbinger, as silent warning. A notion, then, as much symbolic as actual.
And even then, she had imagined something far more…ephemeral. Lacking distinction, a face comprised of forlorn hints, features blurred by the fading of their relevance. Half seen in currents of darkness, there one moment, gone the next.
But there was a palpability in the tall conjuration standing before her, an assertion of physical insistence. Etched details on the long, pallid face, the flat, filmed eyes watching her approach with fullest comprehension.
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 385