Apsalar said nothing for a time. Then she nodded. ‘Poliel.’
‘Aye.’
‘And not enough healers left to intercede.’
‘The horse trader said officials went to the Temple of D’rek, in Kansu. The foremost healers are found there, of course. They found everyone within slaughtered.’
She glanced over at him.
‘I take the south track,’ Paran said, fighting with his edgy gelding.
Yes, there is nothing more to be said, is there. The gods are indeed at war. ‘The west for us,’ Apsalar replied, already uncomfortable with the Seven Cities style of saddle. Neither she nor Cotillion had ever had much success with horses, but at least the mare beneath her seemed a docile beast. She opened her cloak and dragged out Telorast, then Curdle, tossing them both onto the ground, where they raced ahead, long tails flicking.
‘All too short,’ Paran said, meeting her eyes.
She nodded. ‘But just as well, I think.’
Her comment was not well received. ‘I am sorry to hear you say that.’
‘I do not mean to offend, Ganoes Paran. It’s just that, well, I was rediscovering…things.’
‘Like comradeship?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that is something you feel you cannot afford.’
‘Invites carelessness,’ she said.
‘Ah, well. For what it is worth, Apsalar, I believe we will see each other again.’
She allowed that sentiment, and nodded. ‘I will look forward to that.’
‘Good, then there’s hope for you yet.’
She watched him ride away, his two packhorses trailing. Changes came to a man in ways few could imagine. He seemed to have let go of so much…she was envious of that. And already, she realized with a faint stab of regret, already she missed him. Too close, too dangerous by far. Just as well.
As for plague, well, he was probably right. Neither he nor Apsalar had much to fear. Too bad for everyone else, though.
The broken remnants of the road made for an agonized traverse up the limestone hillside, rocks tumbling and skittering down in clouds of dust. A flash flood had cut through the passage unknown years or decades past, revealing countless layers of sediments on the channel’s steep-cut walls. Leading her horse and the pack-mules by the reins, Samar Dev studied those multi-hued layers. ‘Wind and water, Karsa Orlong, without end. Time’s endless dialogue with itself.’
Three paces ahead, the Toblakai warrior did not reply. He was nearing the summit, taking the down-flow path of the past flood, ragged, gnawed rock rising to either side of him. The last hamlet was days behind them now; these lands were truly wild. Reclaimed, since surely this road must have led somewhere, once, but there were no other signs of past civilization. In any case, she was less interested in what had gone before. What was to come was her fascination, the wellspring of all her inventions, her inspirations.
‘Sorcery, Karsa Orlong, that is the heart of the problem.’
‘What problem now, woman?’
‘Magic obviates the need for invention, beyond certain basic requirements, of course. And so we remain eternally stifled—’
‘To the Faces with stifled, witch. There is nothing wrong with where we are, how we are. You spit on satisfaction, leaving you always unsettled and miserable. I am a Teblor – we live simply enough, and we see the cruelty of your so-called progress. Slaves, children in chains, a thousand lies to make one person better than the next, a thousand lies telling you this is how things should be, and there’s no stopping it. Madness called sanity, slavery called freedom. I am done talking now.’
‘Well, I’m not. You’re no different, calling ignorance wisdom, savagery noble. Without striving to make things better, we’re doomed to repeat our litany of injustices—’
Karsa reached the summit and turned to face her, his expression twisting. ‘Better is never what you think it is, Samar Dev.’
‘What does that mean?’
He raised a hand, suddenly still. ‘Quiet. Something’s not right.’ He slowly looked round, eyes narrowing. ‘There’s a…smell.’
She joined him, dragging the horse and mules onto level ground. High rocks to either side, the edge of a gorge just beyond – the hill they were on was a ridge, blade-edged, with more jagged rock beyond. A twisted ancient tree squatting on the summit. ‘I don’t smell anything…’
The Toblakai drew his stone sword. ‘A beast has laired here, nearby, I think. A hunter, a killer. And I think it is close…’
Eyes widening, Samar Dev scanned the area, her heart pounding hard in her chest. ‘You may be right. There are no spirits here…’
He grunted. ‘Fled.’
Fled. Oh.
Like a mass of iron filings, the sky was slowly lowering on all sides, a heavy mist that was dry as sand. Not that that made any sense, Kalam Mekhar allowed, but this was what came of sustained terror, the wild pathetic conjurations of a beleaguered imagination. He was clinging with every part of his body that was capable of clinging to the sheer, battered underside of a sky keep, the wind or whatever it was moaning in his ears, a trembling stealing the strength from his limbs as he felt the last of Quick Ben’s magic seep away.
Unanticipated, this sudden repudiation of sorcery – he could see no otataral, nothing veined through this brutal, black basalt. No obvious explanation. Leather gloves cut through, blood slicking his hands, and above, a mountain to climb, with this dry silver mist closing in around him. Somewhere far below crouched Quick Ben and Stormy, the former wondering what had gone wrong and, hopefully, trying to come up with an idea for dealing with it. The latter likely scratching his armpits and popping lice with his fingernails.
Well, there was no point in waiting for what might not come, when what was going to come was inevitable. Groaning with the effort, Kalam began pulling himself along the rock.
The last sky keep he had seen had been Moon’s Spawn, and its pocked sides had been home to tens of thousands of Great Ravens. Fortunately, this did not seem to be the case here. A few more man-heights’ worth of climbing and he would find himself on a side, rather than virtually upside-down as he was now. Reach there, he knew, and he would be able to rest.
Sort of.
That damned wizard. That damned Adjunct. Damned everybody, in fact, since not one of them was here, and of course they weren’t, since this was madness and nobody else was this stupid. Gods, his shoulders were on fire, the insides of his thighs a solid ache edging towards numbness. And that wouldn’t be good, would it?
Too old for this by far. Men his age didn’t reach his age falling for stupid plans like this one. Was he getting soft? Soft-brained.
He pulled himself round a chiselled projection, scrabbled with his feet for a moment, then edged over, drew himself up and found ledges that would take his weight. A whimper escaped him, sounding pathetic even to his own ears, as he settled against the stone.
A while later, he lifted his head and began looking round, searching for a suitable outcrop or knob of rock that he could loop his rope over.
Quick Ben’s rope, conjured out of nothing. Will it even work here, or will it just vanish? Hood’s breath, I don’t know enough about magic. Don’t even know enough about Quick, and I’ve known the bastard for bloody ever. Why isn’t he the one up here?
Because, if the Short-Tails noticed the gnat on their hide, Quick was better backup, even down there, than Kalam could have been. A crossbow quarrel would be spent by the time it reached this high – you could just pluck it out of the air. As for Stormy – a whole lot more expendable than me, as far as I’m concerned – the man swore he couldn’t climb, swore that as a babe he never once made it out of his crib without help.
Hard imagining that hairy-faced miserable hulk ever fitting into a crib in the first place.
Regaining control of his breathing, Kalam looked down.
To find Quick Ben and Stormy nowhere in sight. Gods below, now what? The modest features of the ash-laden plain beneath offered
little in the way of cover, especially from this height. Yet, no matter where he scanned, he saw no-one. The tracks they had made were faintly visible, leading to where the assassin had left them, and at that location there was…something dark, a crack in the ground. Difficult to determine scale, but maybe…maybe big enough to swallow both of the bastards.
He resumed his search for projections for the rope. And could see none. ‘All right, I guess it’s time. Cotillion, consider this a sharp tug on your rope. No excuses, you damned god, I need your help here.’
He waited. The moan of the wind, the slippery chill of the mist.
‘I don’t like this warren.’
Kalam turned his head to find Cotillion alongside him, one hand and one foot holding the god in place. He held an apple in the other hand, from which he now took a large bite.
‘You think this is funny?’ Kalam demanded.
Cotillion chewed, then swallowed. ‘Somewhat.’
‘In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re clinging to a sky keep, and it’s got companions, a whole damned row of them.’
‘If you needed a ride,’ the god said, ‘you’d be better off with a wagon, or a horse.’
‘It’s not moving. It stopped. And I’m trying to break into this one. Quick Ben and a marine were waiting below, but they’ve just vanished.’
Cotillion examined the apple, then took another bite.
‘My arms are getting tired.’
Chewing. Swallowing. ‘I’m not surprised, Kalam. Even so, you will have to be patient, since I have some questions. I’ll start with the most obvious one. Why are you trying to break into a fortress filled with K’Chain Che’Malle?’
‘Filled? Are you sure?’
‘Reasonably.’
‘Then what are they doing here?’
‘Waiting, looks like. Anyway, I’m the one asking questions.’
‘Fine. Go ahead, I’ve got all day.’
‘Actually, I think that was my only question. Oh, wait, there’s one more. Would you like me to return you to solid ground, so we can resume our conversation in more comfort?’
‘You’re enjoying this way too much, Cotillion.’
‘The opportunities for amusement grow ever rarer. Fortunately, we’re in something like this keep’s shadow, so our descent will be relatively easy.’
‘Any time.’
Cotillion tossed the apple aside, then reached out to grasp Kalam’s upper arm. ‘Step away and leave the rest to me.’
‘Hold on a moment. Quick Ben’s spells were dispelled – that’s how I ended up stuck here—’
‘Probably because he’s unconscious.’
‘He is?’
‘Or dead. We should confirm things either way, yes?’
You sanctimonious blood-lapping sweat-sucking—
‘Risky,’ Cotillion cut in, ‘making your cursing sound like praying.’ A sharp tug, and Kalam bellowed as he was snatched out from the rockface. And was held, suspended in the air by Cotillion’s grip on his arm. ‘Relax, you damned ox, “easy” is a relative term.’
Thirty heartbeats later their feet touched ground. Kalam pulled his arm away and headed over to the fissure gaping in the place where Quick and Stormy had been waiting. He approached the edge carefully. Called down into the dark. ‘Quick! Stormy!’ No answer.
Cotillion was at his side. ‘Stormy? That wouldn’t be Adjutant Stormy, would it? Pig-eyed, hairy, scowling—’
‘He’s now a corporal,’ Kalam said. ‘And Gesler’s a sergeant.’
A snort from the god, but no further comment.
The assassin leaned back and studied Cotillion. ‘I didn’t really think you’d answer my prayer.’
‘I am a god virtually brimming with surprises.’
Kalam’s gaze narrowed. ‘You came damned fast, too. As if you were…close by.’
‘An outrageous assumption,’ Cotillion said. ‘Yet, oddly enough, accurate.’
The assassin drew the coil of rope from his shoulder, then looked around, and swore.
Sighing, Cotillion held out one hand.
Kalam gave him one end of the rope. ‘Brace yourself,’ he said, as he tumbled the coil down over the pit’s edge. He heard a distant snap.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Cotillion said. ‘I’ll make it as long as you need.’
Hood-damned gods. Kalam worked his way over the edge, then began descending through the gloom. Too much climbing today. Either that or I’m gaining weight. His moccasins finally settled on stone. He stepped away from the rope.
From overhead a small globule of light drifted down, illuminating the nearest wall, vertical, man-made, featuring large painted panels, the images seeming to dance in the descending light. For a moment, Kalam simply stared. No idle decoration, this, but a work of art, a master’s hand exuberantly displayed in each and every detail. Heavily clothed, more or less human in form, the figures were in positions of transcendence, arms upraised in worship or exaltation, faces filled with joy. Whilst, crowding their feet, dismembered body parts had been painted, blood-splashed and buzzing with flies. The mangled flesh continued down to the chamber’s floor, then on out, and Kalam saw now that the bloody scene covered the entire expanse of floor, as far as he could see in every direction.
Pieces of rubble were scattered here and there, and, less than a half-dozen paces away, two motionless bodies.
Kalam headed over.
Both men lived, he was relieved to discover, though it was difficult to determine the extent of their injuries, beyond the obvious. Stormy had broken both legs, one above the knee, the other both bones below the knee. The back of his helm was dented, but he breathed evenly, which Kalam took for a good sign. Quick Ben seemed physically intact – nothing obviously shattered, at least, nor any blood. For both of them, however, internal injuries were another matter. Kalam studied the wizard’s face for a moment, then slapped it.
Quick’s eyes snapped open. He blinked, looked round, coughed, then sat up. ‘One half of my face is numb – what happened?’
‘No idea,’ Kalam said. ‘You and Stormy fell through a hole. The Falari’s in rough shape. But somehow you made it unscathed – how did you do that?’
‘Unscathed? I think my jaw’s broken.’
‘No it isn’t. Must have hit the floor – looks a little puffy but you wouldn’t be talking if it was broke.’
‘Huh, good point.’ He climbed to his feet and approached Stormy. ‘Oh, those legs look bad. We need to set those before I can do any healing.’
‘Healing? Dammit, Quick, you never did any healing in the squad.’
‘No, that was Mallet’s task. I was the brains, remember?’
‘Well, as I recall, that didn’t take up much of your time.’
‘That’s what you think.’ The wizard paused and looked round. ‘Where are we? And where did that light come from?’
‘Compliments of Cotillion, who is on the other end of that rope.’
‘Oh. Well, he can do the healing, then. Get him down here.’
‘Then who will hold the rope?’
‘We don’t need it. Hey, weren’t you climbing the Moon’s Spawn? Ah, that’s why your god is here. Right.’
‘To utter the demon’s name is to call him,’ Kalam said, looking up to watch Cotillion’s slow, almost lazy descent.
The god settled near Stormy and Quick Ben. A brief nod to the wizard, one eyebrow lifting, then Cotillion crouched beside the marine. ‘Adjutant Stormy, what has happened to you?’
‘That should be obvious,’ Kalam said. ‘He broke his legs.’
The god rolled the marine onto his back, pulled at each leg, drawing the bones back in line, then rose. ‘That will do, I think.’
‘Hardly—’
‘Adjutant Stormy,’ Cotillion said, ‘is not quite as mortal as he might seem. Annealed in the fires of Thyrllan. Or Kurald Liosan. Or Tellann. Or all three. In any case, as you can see, he’s mending already. The broken ribs are completely healed, as is the failing liver and shat
tered hip. And the cracked skull. Alas, nothing can be done for the brain within it.’
‘He’s lost his mind?’
‘I doubt he ever had one,’ the god replied. ‘He’s worse than Urko. At least Urko has interests, peculiar and pointless as they are.’
A groan from Stormy.
Cotillion walked over to the nearest wall. ‘Curious,’ he said. ‘This is a temple to an Elder God. Not sure which one. Kilmandaros, maybe. Or Grizzin Farl. Maybe even K’rul.’
‘A rather bloody kind of worship,’ Kalam muttered.
‘The best kind,’ Quick Ben said, brushing dust from his clothes.
Kalam noted Cotillion’s sly regard of the wizard and wondered at it. Ben Adaephon Delat, Cotillion knows something about you, doesn’t he? Wizard, you’ve got too many secrets by far. The assassin then noticed the rope, still dangling from the hole far above. ‘Cotillion, what did you tie the rope to?’
The god glanced over, smiled. ‘A surprise. I must be going. Gentlemen…’ And he faded, then was gone.
‘Your god makes me nervous, Kalam,’ Quick Ben said as Stormy groaned again, louder this time.
And you in turn make him nervous. And now…He looked down at Stormy. The rips in the leggings were all that remained of the ghastly compound fractures. Adjutant Stormy. Annealed in holy fires. Still scowling.
High rock, the sediments stepped and ragged, surrounded their camp, an ancient tree to one side. Cutter sat near the small dung-fire they had lit, watching as Greyfrog circled the area, evincing ever more agitation. Nearby, Heboric Ghost Hands looked to be dozing, the hazy green emanations at the ends of his wrists dully pulsing. Scillara and Felisin Younger were packing their pipes for their new sharing of a post-meal ritual. Cutter’s gaze returned to the demon.
Greyfrog, what’s ailing you?
‘Nervous. I have intimations of tragedy, swiftly approaching. Something…worried and uncertain. In the air, in the sands. Sudden panic. We should leave here. Turn back. Flee.’
Cutter felt sweat bead his skin. He had never heard the demon so…frightened. ‘We should get off this ridge?’
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 486