Attackers, appearing out of the darkness and blowing snow. Moments of frenzied fighting, sparks and the hiss of iron and the bite of wood and stone. A succession of ambushes that seemed without end, convincing Trull that he was indeed within a nightmare, ever folding in on itself. Each time, the Jheck appeared in threes, never more, and the Hiroth warrior began to believe that they were the same three, dying only to rise once again—and so it would continue, until they finally succeeded, until they killed him.
Yet he fought on, leaving blood and bodies in his wake.
Running, snow crunching underfoot.
And then the wind fell off, sudden like a spent breath.
Patches of dark ground ahead. An unseen barrier burst across, the lurid glare of a setting sun to his right, the languid flow of cool, damp air, the smell of mud.
And shouts. Figures off to his left, half a thousand paces distant. Brothers of the hearth, the dead welcoming his arrival.
Gladness welling in his heart, Trull staggered towards them. He was not to be a ghost wandering for ever alone, then. There would be kin at his side. Fear, and Binadas. And Rhulad.
Midik Buhn, and Theradas, rushing towards him.
Brothers, all of them. My brothers—
The sun’s light wavered, rippled like water, then darkness rose up in a devouring flood.
The sleds were off to one side, their runners buried in mud. On one was a wrapped figure, around which jagged slabs of ice had been packed and strapped in place. Binadas was propped up on the other sled, his eyes closed, his face deeply lined with pain.
Trull slowly sat up, feeling light-headed and strangely awkward. Furs tumbled from him as he clambered to his feet and stood, wavering, and dazedly looked around. To the west shimmered a lake, flat grey beneath the overcast sky. The faint wind was warm and humid.
A fire had been lit, and over it was spit a scrawny hare, tended to by Midik Buhn. Off to one side stood Fear and Theradas, facing the distant ice-fields to the east as they spoke in quiet tones.
The smell of the roasting meat drew Trull to the fire. Midik Buhn glanced up at him, then looked quickly away, as if shamed by something.
Trull’s fingers were fiercely itching, and he lifted them into view. Red, the skin peeling, but at least he had not lost them to the cold. Indeed, he seemed intact, although his leather armour was split and cut all across his chest and shoulders, and he could see that the quilted under-padding bore slices, here and there stained dark red, and beneath them was the sting of shallow wounds on his body.
Not a nightmare, then, those countless attacks. He checked for his sword and found he was not wearing the belted scabbard. A moment later he spied his weapon, leaning against a pack. It was barely recognizable. The blade was twisted, the edge so battered as to make the sword little more than a club.
Footsteps, and Trull turned.
Fear laid a hand upon his shoulder. ‘Trull Sengar, we did not expect to see you again. Leading the Jheck away from our path was a bold tactic, and it saved our lives.’ He nodded towards the sword. ‘Your weapon tells the tale. Do you know how many you defeated?’
Trull shook his head. ‘No. Fear, I did not intentionally lead them away from you. I became lost in the storm.’
His brother smiled and said nothing.
Trull glanced over at Theradas. ‘I became lost, Theradas Buhn.’
‘It matters not,’ Theradas replied in a growl.
‘I believed I was dead.’ Trull looked away, rubbed at his face. ‘I saw you, and thought I was joining you in death. I’d expected…’ He shook his head. ‘Rhulad…’
‘He was a true warrior, Trull,’ Fear said. ‘It is done, and now we must move on. There are Arapay on the way—Binadas managed to awaken their shamans to our plight. They will hasten our journey home.’
Trull nodded distractedly. He stared at the distant field of ice. Remembering the feel and sound beneath his moccasins, the blast of the wind, the enervating cold. The horrifying Jheck, silent hunters who claimed a frozen world as their own. They had wanted the sword. Why?
How many Jheck could those ice-fields sustain? How many had they killed? How many wives and children were left to grieve? To starve?
There should have been five hundred of us. Then they would have left us alone.
‘Over there!’
At Midik’s shout Trull swung round, then faced in the direction Midik was pointing. Northward, where a dozen huge beasts strode, coming down from the ice, four-legged and brown-furred, each bearing long, curved tusks to either side of a thick, sinuous snout.
Ponderous, majestic, the enormous creatures walked towards the lake.
This is not our world.
A sword waited in the unyielding grip of a corpse, sheathed in waxed cloth, bound with ice. A weapon familiar with cold’s implacable embrace. It did not belong in Hannan Mosag’s hands.
Unless the Warlock King had changed.
And perhaps he has.
‘Come and eat, Trull Sengar,’ his brother called behind him.
Sisters have mercy on us, in the way we simply go on, and on. Would that we had all died, back there on the ice. Would that we had failed.
Chapter Nine
You may be written this way
Spun in strands sewn in thread
Blood woven to the child you once were
Huddled in the fold of night
And the demons beyond the corner
Of your eye stream down
A flurry of arachnid limbs
Twisting and tumbling you tight
To feed upon later.
You may be written this way
Stung senseless at the side of the road
Waylaid on the dark trail
And the recollections beyond the corner
Of your eye suckle in the mud
Dreadful fluids seeping
From improbable pasts
And all that might have been.
You would be written this way
Could you crack the carcass
And unfurl once more
The child you once were
WAYLAID
WRATHEN URUT
Rolled onto the beach, naked and grey, the young man lay motionless in the sand. His long brown hair was tangled, snarled with twigs and strands of seaweed. Scaled birds pranced around the body, serrated beaks gaping in the morning heat.
They scattered at Withal’s arrival, flapping into the air. Then, as three black Nachts bounded down from the verge, the birds screamed and whirled out over the waves.
Withal crouched down at the figure’s side, studied it for a moment, then reached out and rolled the body onto its back.
‘Wake up, lad.’
Eyes snapped open, filled with sudden terror and pain. Mouth gaped, neck stretched, and piercing screams rose into the air. The young man convulsed, legs scissoring the sand, and clawed at his scalp.
Withal leaned back on his haunches and waited.
The screams grew hoarse, were replaced by weeping. The convulsions diminished to waves of shuddering as the young man slowly curled up in the sand.
‘It gets easier, one hopes,’ Withal murmured.
Head twisted round, large, wet eyes fixing on Withal’s own. ‘What…where…’
‘The two questions I am least able to answer, lad. Let’s try the easier ones. I’m named Withal, once of the Third Meckros city. You are here—wherever here is—because my master wills it.’ He rose with a grunt. ‘Can you stand? He awaits you inland—not far.’
The eyes shifted away, focused on the three Nachts at the edge of the verge. ‘What are those things? What’s that one doing?’
‘Bhoka’ral. Nachts. Name them as you will. As I have. The one making the nest is Pule, a young male. This particular nest has taken almost a week—see how he obsesses over it, adjusting twigs just so, weaving the seaweed, going round and round with a critical eye. The older male, over there and watching Pule, is Rind. He’s moments from hilarity, as you’ll see. The f
emale preening on the rock is Mape. You’ve arrived at a propitious time, lad. Watch.’
The nest-builder, Pule, had begun backing away from the intricate construct on the verge, black tail flicking from side to side, head bobbing. Fifteen paces from the nest, it suddenly sat, arms folded, and seemed to study the colourless sky.
The female, Mape, ceased preening, paused a moment, then ambled casually towards the nest.
Pule tensed, even as it visibly struggled to keep its gaze on the sky.
Reaching the nest, Mape hesitated, then attacked. Driftwood, grasses and twigs flew in all directions. Within moments, the nest had been destroyed in a wild frenzy, and Mape was squatting in the wreckage, urinating.
Nearby, Rind was rolling about in helpless mirth.
Pule slumped in obvious dejection.
‘This has happened more times than I’d care to count,’ Withal said, sighing.
‘How is it you speak my language?’
‘I’d a smattering, from traders. My master has, it seems, improved upon it. A gift, you might say, one of a number of gifts, none of which I asked for. I suspect,’ he continued, ‘you will come to similar sentiments, lad. We should get going.’
Withal watched the young man struggle to his feet. ‘Tall,’ he observed, ‘but I’ve seen taller.’
Pain flooded the youth’s features once more and he doubled over. Withal stepped close and supported him before he toppled.
‘It’s ghost pain, lad. Ghost pain and ghost fear. Fight through it.’
‘No! It’s real! It’s real, you bastard!’
Withal strained as the youth’s full weight settled in his arms. ‘Enough of that. Stand up!’
‘It’s no good! I’m dying!’
‘On your feet, dammit!’
A rough shake, then Withal pushed him away.
He staggered, then slowly straightened, drawing in deep, ragged breaths. He began shivering. ‘It’s so cold…’
‘Hood’s breath, lad, it’s blistering hot. And getting hotter with every day.’
Arms wrapped about himself, the young man regarded Withal. ‘How long have you lived…lived here?’
‘Longer than I’d like. Some choices aren’t for you to make. Not for you, not for me. Now, our master’s losing patience. Follow me.’
The youth stumbled along behind him. ‘You said “our”.’
‘Did I?’
‘Where are my clothes? Where are my—no, never mind—it hurts to remember. Never mind.’
They reached the verge, withered grasses pulling at their legs as they made their way inland. The Nachts joined them, clambering and hopping, hooting and snorting as they kept pace.
Two hundred paces ahead squatted a ragged tent, the canvas sun-bleached and stained. Wafts of grey-brown smoke drifted from the wide entrance, where most of one side had been drawn back to reveal the interior.
Where sat a hooded figure.
‘That’s him?’ the youth asked. ‘That’s your master? Are you a slave, then?’
‘I serve,’ Withal replied, ‘but I am not owned.’
‘Who is he?’
Withal glanced back. ‘He is a god.’ He noted the disbelief writ on the lad’s face, and smiled wryly. ‘Who’s seen better days.’
The Nachts halted and huddled together in a threesome.
A last few strides across withered ground, then Withal stepped to one side. ‘I found him on the strand,’ he said to the seated figure, ‘moments before the lizard gulls did.’
Darkness hid the Crippled God’s features, as was ever the case when Withal had been summoned to an attendance. The smoke from the brazier filled the tent, seeping out to stream along the mild breeze. A gnarled, thin hand emerged from the folds of a sleeve as the god gestured. ‘Closer,’ he rasped. ‘Sit.’
‘You are not my god,’ the youth said.
‘Sit. I am neither petty nor overly sensitive, young warrior.’
Withal watched the lad hesitate, then slowly settle onto the ground, cross-legged, arms wrapped about his shivering frame. ‘It’s cold.’
‘Some furs for our guest, Withal.’
‘Furs? We don’t have any—’ He stopped when he noticed the bundled bearskin heaped beside him. He gathered it up and pushed it into the lad’s hands.
The Crippled God scattered some seeds onto the brazier’s coals. Popping sounds, then more smoke. ‘Peace. Warm yourself, warrior, while I tell you of peace. History is unerring, and even the least observant mortal can be made to understand, through innumerable repetition. Do you see peace as little more than the absence of war? Perhaps, on a surface level, it is just that. But let me describe the characteristics of peace, my young friend. A pervasive dulling of the senses, a decadence afflicting the culture, evinced by a growing obsession with low entertainment. The virtues of extremity—honour, loyalty, sacrifice—are lifted high as shoddy icons, currency for the cheapest of labours. The longer peace lasts, the more those words are used, and the weaker they become. Sentimentality pervades daily life. All becomes a mockery of itself, and the spirit grows…restless.’
The Crippled God paused, breath rasping. ‘Is this a singular pessimism? Allow me to continue with a description of what follows a period of peace. Old warriors sit in taverns, telling tales of vigorous youth, their pasts when all things were simpler, clearer cut. They are not blind to the decay all around them, are not immune to the loss of respect for themselves, for all that they gave for their king, their land, their fellow citizens.
‘The young must not be abandoned to forgetfulness. There are always enemies beyond the borders, and if none exist in truth, then one must be fashioned. Old crimes dug out of the indifferent earth. Slights and open insults, or the rumours thereof. A suddenly perceived threat where none existed before. The reasons matter not—what matters is that war is fashioned from peace, and once the journey is begun, an irresistible momentum is born.
‘The old warriors are satisfied. The young are on fire with zeal. The king fears yet is relieved of domestic pressures. The army draws its oil and whetstone. Forges blast with molten iron, the anvils ring like temple bells. Grain-sellers and armourers and clothiers and horse-sellers and countless other suppliers smile with the pleasure of impending wealth. A new energy has gripped the kingdom, and those few voices raised in objection are quickly silenced. Charges of treason and summary execution soon persuade the doubters.’
The Crippled God spread his hands. ‘Peace, my young warrior, is born of relief, endured in exhaustion, and dies with false remembrance. False? Ah, perhaps I am too cynical. Too old, witness to far too much. Do honour, loyalty and sacrifice truly exist? Are such virtues born only from extremity? What transforms them into empty words, words devalued by their overuse? What are the rules of the economy of the spirit, that civilization repeatedly twists and mocks?’
He shifted slightly and Withal sensed the god’s regard. ‘Withal of the Third City. You have fought wars. You have forged weapons. You have seen loyalty, and honour. You have seen courage and sacrifice. What say you to all this?’
‘Nothing,’ Withal replied.
Hacking laughter. ‘You fear angering me, yes? No need. I give you leave to speak your mind.’
‘I have sat in my share of taverns,’ Withal said, ‘in the company of fellow veterans. A select company, perhaps, not grown so blind with sentimentality as to fashion nostalgia from times of horror and terror. Did we spin out those days of our youth? No. Did we speak of war? Not if we could avoid it, and we worked hard at avoiding it.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? Because the faces come back. So young, one after another. A flash of life, an eternity of death, there in our minds. Because loyalty is not to be spoken of, and honour is to be endured. Whilst courage is to be survived. Those virtues, Chained One, belong to silence.’
‘Indeed,’ the god rasped, leaning forward. ‘Yet how they proliferate in peace! Crowed again and again, as if solemn pronouncement bestows those very qualities upon the speaker. Do the
y not make you wince, every time you hear them? Do they not twist in your gut, grip hard your throat? Do you not feel a building rage—’
‘Aye,’ Withal growled, ‘when I hear them used to raise a people once more to war.’
The Crippled God was silent a moment, then he leaned back and dismissed Withal’s words with a careless wave of one hand. He fixed his attention on the young warrior. ‘I spoke of peace as anathema. A poison that weakens the spirit. Tell me, warrior, have you spilled blood?’
The youth flinched beneath his furs. Tremors of pain crossed his face. Then fear. ‘Spilled blood? Spilled, down, so much of it—everywhere. I don’t—I can’t—oh, Daughters take me—’
‘Oh no,’ the Crippled God hissed, ‘not the Daughters. I have taken you. Chosen you. Because your king betrayed me! Your king hungered for the power I offered, but not for conquest. No, he simply sought to make himself and his people unassailable.’ Misshapen fingers curled into fists. ‘Not good enough!’
The Crippled God seemed to spasm beneath his ragged blankets, then coughed wretchedly.
Some time later the hacking abated. More seeds on the coals, roiling smoke, then, ‘I have chosen you, Rhulad Sengar, for my gift. Do you remember?’
Shivering, his lips strangely blue, the young warrior’s face underwent a series of fraught expressions, ending on dread. He nodded. ‘I died.’
‘Well,’ the Crippled God murmured, ‘every gift has a price. There are powers buried in that sword, Rhulad Sengar. Powers unimagined. But they are reluctant to yield. You must pay for them. In combat. With death. No, I should be precise in this. With your death, Rhulad Sengar.’
A gesture, and the mottled sword was in the Crippled God’s hand. He tossed it down in front of the young warrior. ‘Your first death is done, and as a consequence your skills—your powers—have burgeoned. But it is just the beginning. Take your weapon, Rhulad Sengar. Will your next death prove easier for you to bear? Probably not. In time, perhaps…’
Withal studied the horror on the young warrior’s face, and saw beneath it the glimmer of…ambition.
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 398