‘’Zactly!’
Ormly frowned at the pond and its ice. At that moment a huge slab buckled with a loud crack! And he found himself involuntarily stepping back, one step, two. ‘Is it coming up?’ he demanded.
‘No,’ Ursto said, squinting one-eyed at the groaning heap of ice. ‘That’d be the one needing his finger back.’
The meltwater fringing the lake was bubbling and swirling now, bringing up clouds of silt as some current swept round the solid mass in the middle. Round and round, like a whirlpool only in reverse.
And all at once there was a thrashing, a spray of water, and a figure in its midst – struggling onto the bank, coughing, streaming muddy water, and holding in one incomplete hand a scabbarded sword.
Pinosel, her eyes bright as diamonds, lifted the jug in a wavering toast. ‘Hail the Saviour! Hail the half-drowned dog spitting mud!’ And then she crowed, the cry shifting into a cackle, before drinking deep once more.
Ormly plucked the severed finger from his purse and walked down to where knelt Brys Beddict. ‘Looking for this?’ he asked.
There had been a time of sleep, and then a time of pain. Neither had seemed to last very long, and now Brys Beddict, who had died of poison in the throne room of the Eternal Domicile, was on his hands and knees beside a lake of icy water. Racked with shivers, still coughing out water and slime.
And some man was crouched beside him, trying to give him a severed finger swollen and dyed pink.
He felt his left hand gripping a scabbard, and knew it for his own. Blinking to clear his eyes, he flitted a glance to confirm that the sword still resided within it. It did. Then, pushing the man’s gift away, he slowly settled onto his haunches, and looked round.
Familiar, yes.
The man beside him now laid a warm hand on his shoulder, as if to still his shivering. ‘Brys Beddict,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Tehol is about to die. Brys, your brother needs you now.’
And, as Brys let the man help him to his feet, he drew out his sword, half expecting to see it rusted, useless – but no, the weapon gleamed with fresh oil.
‘Hold on!’ shouted another voice.
The man steadying Brys turned slightly. ‘What is it, Ursto?’
‘The demon god’s about to get free! Ask ’im!’
‘Ask him what?’
‘The name! Ask ’im what’s its name, damn you! We can’t send it away without its name!’
Brys spat grit from his mouth. Tried to think. The demon god in the ice, the ice that was failing. Moments from release, moments from…‘Ay’edenan of the Spring,’ he said. ‘Ay’edenan tek’ velut !enan.’
The man beside him snorted. ‘Try saying that five times fast! Errant, try saying it once!’
But someone was cackling.
‘Brys—’
He nodded. Yes. Tehol. My brother – ‘Take me,’ he said. ‘Take me to him.’
‘I will,’ the man promised. ‘And on the way, I’ll do some explaining. All right?’
Brys Beddict, Saviour of the Empty Throne, nodded.
‘Imagine,’ Pinosel said with a gusty sigh, ‘a name in the old tongue. Oh now, ain’t this one come a long way!’
‘You stopped being drunk now, munch-sweets?’
She stirred, clambered onto her feet, then reached down and tugged at her husband. ‘Come on.’
‘But we got to wait – to use the name and send it away!’
‘We got time. Let’s perch ourselves down top of Wormface Alley, have another jug, an’ we can watch the Edur crawl up t’us like the Turtle of the Abyss.’
Ursto snorted. ‘Funny how that myth didn’t last.’
A deeper, colder shadow slid over Hannan Mosag and he halted his efforts. Almost there, yes – where the alley opened out, he saw two figures seated in careless sprawls and leaning against one another. Passing a jug between them.
Squalid drunks, but perhaps most appropriate as witnesses – to the death of this gross empire. The first to die, too. Also fitting enough.
He made to heave himself closer, but a large hand closed about his cloak, just below his collar, and he was lifted from the ground.
Hissing, seeking his power—
Hannan Mosag was slowly turned about, and he found himself staring into an unhuman face. Grey-green skin like leather. Polished tusks jutting from the corners of the mouth. Eyes with vertical pupils, regarding him now without expression.
Behind him the two drunks were laughing.
The Warlock King, dangling in the air before this giant demoness, reached for the sorcery of Kurald Emurlahn to blast this creature into oblivion. And he felt it surge within him—
But now her other hand took him by the throat.
And squeezed.
Cartilage crumpled like eggshells. Vertebrae crunched, buckled, broke against each other. Pain exploded upward, filling Hannan Mosag’s skull with white fire.
As the sun’s bright, unforgiving light suddenly bathed his face.
Sister Dawn – you greet me—
But he stared into the eyes of the demoness, and saw still nothing. A lizard’s eyes, a snake’s eyes.
Would she give him nothing at all?
The fire in his skull flared outward, blinding him, then, with a soft, fading roar, it contracted once more, darkness rushing into its wake.
But Hannan Mosag’s eyes saw none of this.
The sun shone full on his dead face, highlighting every twist, every marred flare of bone, and the unseeing eyes that stared out into that light were empty.
As empty as the Jaghut’s own.
Ursto and Pinosel watched the Jaghut fling the pathetic, mangled body away.
Then she faced them. ‘My ritual is sundered.’
Pinosel laughed through her nose, which proved a messy outburst the cleaning of which occupied her for the next few moments.
Ursto cast her a disgusted glance, then nodded to the Jaghut sorceress. ‘Oh, they all worked at doing that. Mosag, Menandore, Sukul Ankhadu, blah blah.’ He waved one hand. ‘But we’re here, sweetness. We got its name, y’see.’
The Jaghut cocked her head. ‘Then, I am not needed.’
‘Well, that’s true enough. Unless you care for a drink?’ He tugged the jug free of Pinosel’s grip, raised it.
The Jaghut stared a moment longer, then she said, ‘A pleasing offer, thank you.’
The damned sun was up, but on this side the city’s wall was all shadow. Except, Sergeant Balm saw, for the wide open gate.
Ahead, Masan Gilani did that unthinkable thing again and rose in her stirrups, leaning forward as she urged her horse into a gallop.
From just behind Balm, Throatslitter moaned like a puppy under a brick. Balm shook his head. Another sick thought just popping into his head like a squeezed tick. Where was he getting them from anyway? And why was that gate open and why were they all riding hard straight for it?
And was that corpses he saw just inside? Figures moving about amidst smoke? Weapons?
What was that sound from the other side of that gate?
‘Sharpers!’ Deadsmell called out behind him. ‘Keneb’s in! He’s holding the gate!’
Keneb? Who in Hood’s name was Keneb?
‘Ride!’ Balm shouted. ‘They’re after us! Ride for Aren!’
Masan Gilani’s rising and lowering butt swept into the shadow of the gate.
Throatslitter cried out and that was the sound all right, when the cat dives under the cartwheel and things go squirt and it wasn’t his fault he’d hardly kicked at all. ‘It dived out there, Ma! Oh, I hate cities! Let’s go home – ride! Through that hole! What’s it called? The big false-arched cantilevered hole!’
Plunging into gloom, horse hoofs suddenly skidding, the entire beast slewing round beneath him. Impact. Hip to rump, and Balm was thrown, arms reaching out, wrapping tight round a soft yielding assembly of perfected flesh – and she yelped, pulled with him as he plunged past dragging Masan Gilani from her saddle.
Hard onto cobbles, Bal
m’s head slamming down, denting and dislodging his helm. Her weight deliciously flattening him for a single exquisite moment before she rolled off.
Horses stumbling, hoofs cracking down way too close. Soldiers rushing in, pulling them clear.
Balm stared up into a familiar face. ‘Thom Tissy, you ain’t dead?’
The ugly face spread into a toad’s grin – toad under a brick oh they smile wide then don’t they – and then a calloused hand slapped him hard. ‘You with us, Balm? Glad you arrived – we’re getting pressed here – seems the whole damned city garrison is here, tryin’ to retake the gate.’
‘Garrison? What’s Blistig thinking? We’re on his side! Show me the famous dancing girls of Aren, Tissy, that’s what I’m here to see and maybe more than see, hey?’
Thom Tissy dragged Balm onto his feet, set the dented helm back onto Balm’s head, then he took him by the shoulders and turned him round.
And there was Keneb, and there, just beyond, barricades of wreckage and soldiers crouching down reloading crossbows while others hacked at Letherii soldiers trying to force a breach. Somewhere to the right a sharper detonated in an alley mouth where the enemy had been gathering for another rush. People screamed.
Fist Keneb stepped up to Balm. ‘Where are the rest, Sergeant?’
‘Sir?’
‘The Adjunct and the army!’
‘In the transports, sir, where else? Worst storm I’ve ever seen and now all the ships are upside down—’
Behind Balm Deadsmell said, ‘Fist, they should be on the march.’
‘Get Masan Gilani back on her horse,’ Keneb said and Balm wanted to kiss the man, ‘and I don’t care if she kills the beast but I want her to reach the Adjunct – they need to step it up. Send their cavalry ahead riding hard.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘We’re running low on munitions and quarrels and there’s more of the Letherii gathering with every damned breath and if they find a decent commander we won’t be able to hold.’
Was the Fist talking to Balm? He wasn’t sure, but he wanted to turn round to watch Masan Gilani jump with her legs spread onto that horse’s back, oh yes he did, but these hands on his shoulders wouldn’t let him and someone was whimpering in his ear—
‘Stop making that sound, Sergeant,’ Keneb said.
Someone rode back out through the gate and where did they think they were going? There was a fight here! ‘Boyfriends of the dancing girls,’ he whispered, reaching for his sword.
‘Corporal,’ Keneb said. ‘Guide your sergeant here to the barricade to the left. You too, Throatslitter.’
Deadsmell said, ‘He’ll be fine in a moment, sir—’
‘Yes, just go.’
‘Aye, Fist.’
Boyfriends. Balm wanted to kill every one of them.
‘This city looks like a hurricane went through it,’ Cuttle said in a low mutter.
He had that right. The looting and all the rest was days old, however, and now it seemed that word of the Malazan breach was sweeping through in yet another storm – this one met with exhaustion – as the squad crouched in shadows near one end of an alley, watching the occasional furtive figure rush across the street.
They’d ambushed one unit forming up to march for the western gate. Quarrels and sharpers and a burner under the weapons wagon – still burning back there by the column of black smoke lifting into the ever-brightening sky. Took them all out, twenty-five dead or wounded, and before he and Gesler had pulled away locals were scurrying out to loot the bodies.
The captain had commandeered Urb and his squad off to find Hellian and her soldiers – the damned drunk had taken a wrong turn somewhere – which left Fiddler and Gesler to keep pushing for the palace.
Forty paces down the street to their right was a high wall with a fortified postern. City Garrison block and compound, and now that gate had opened and troops were filing out to form up ranks in the street.
‘That’s where we find the commander,’ Cuttle said. ‘The one organizing the whole thing.’
Fiddler looked directly across from where he and his marines were hiding and saw Gesler and his soldiers in a matching position in another alley mouth. It’d be nice if we were on the roofs. But no-one was keen to break into these official-looking buildings and maybe end up fighting frenzied clerks and night watch guards. Noise like that and there’d be real troops pushing in from behind them.
Maybe closer to the palace – tenement blocks there, and crowded together. It’d save us a lot of this ducking and crawling crap.
And what could be messy ambushes.
‘Hood’s breath, Fid, there’s a hundred out there and still more coming.’ Cuttle pointed. ‘There, that’s the man in charge.’
‘Who’s our best shot with the crossbow?’ Fiddler asked.
‘You.’
Shit.
‘But Koryk’s all right. Though, if I’d pick anyone, it’d be Corabb.’
Fiddler slowly smiled. ‘Cuttle, sometimes you’re a genius. Not that it’ll ever earn you rank of corporal or anything like that.’
‘I’ll sleep easy tonight, then.’ Cuttle paused, then mused, ‘Forty paces and a clear shot, but we’d blow any chance of ambush.’
Fiddler shook his head. ‘No, this is even better. He looses his quarrel, the man goes down. We rush out, throw five or six sharpers, then wheel and back into the alley – away as fast as we can. The survivors rush up, crowd the alley mouth, and Gesler hits ’em from behind with another five or six sharpers.’
‘Beautiful, Fid. But how’s Gesler gonna know—’
‘He’ll work it out.’ Fiddler turned and gestured Corabb forward.
A freshly appointed Finadd of the Main Garrison, standing five paces from Atri-Preda Beshur, turned from reviewing his squads to see an aide’s head twitch, sparks flying from his helm, and then Finadd Gart, who was beside the Atri-Preda, shrieked. He was holding up one hand, seemingly right in Beshur’s face, and there was a quarrel stub jutting from that hand, and blood was gushing down Beshur’s face – as the Atri-Preda staggered back, the motion pulling Gart’s hand with him. For the quarrel was buried in Beshur’s forehead.
The new Finadd, nineteen years of age and now the ranking officer of this full-strength unit, stared in disbelief.
Shouts, and he saw figures appearing at the mouth of an alley a ways down the street. Five, six in all, rushing forward with rocks in their hands—
Pointing, the Finadd screamed the order to counter-charge, and then he was running at the very head of his soldiers, waving his sword in the air.
Thirty paces.
Twenty.
The rocks flew out, arced towards them. He ducked one that sailed close past his right shoulder and then, suddenly deaf, eyes filled with grit, he was lying on the cobbles and there was blood everywhere. Someone stumbled into his line of sight, one of his soldiers. The woman’s right arm dangled from a single thin strip of meat, and the appendage swung wildly about as the woman did a strange pirouette before promptly sitting down.
She looked across at him, and screamed.
The Finadd sought to climb to his feet, but something was wrong. His limbs weren’t working, and now there was a fire in his back – someone had lit a damned fire there – why would they do that? Searing heat reaching down, through a strange numbness, and the back of his head was wet.
Struggling with all his will, he brought one hand up behind, to settle the palm on the back of his head.
And found his skull entirely gone.
Probing, trembling fingers pushed into some kind of pulped matter and all at once the burning pain in his back vanished.
He could make things work again, he realized, and pushed some more, deeper.
Whatever he then touched killed him.
As Fiddler led his squad into a seeming rout, with fifty or sixty Letherii soldiers charging after them, Gesler raised his hand, which held a burner. Aye, messy, but there were a lot of them, weren’t there?
Fiddler
and his marines made it into the alley, tore off down it.
A crowd of Letherii reached the mouth, others pushing up behind them.
And munitions flew, and suddenly the street was a conflagration.
Without waiting, and as a gust of fierce heat swept over them, Gesler turned and pushed Stormy to lead the retreat.
Running, running hard.
They’d find the next street and swing right, come up round the other side of the walled compound. Expecting to see Fiddler and his own soldiers waiting opposite them again. More alley mouths, and just that much closer to the palace.
‘We got gold, damn you!’
‘Everybody’s got that,’ replied the barkeep, laconic as ever.
Hellian glared at him. ‘What kinda accent is that?’
‘The proper kind for the trader’s tongue, which makes one of us sound educated and I suppose that’s something.’
‘Oh, I’ll show you something!’ She drew out her corporal’s sword, giving him a hard push on the chest to clear the weapon, then hammered the pommel down on the bartop. The weapon bounced up from her hand, the edge scoring deep across Hellian’s right ear. She swore, reached up and saw her hand come away red with blood. ‘Now look what you made me do!’
‘And I suppose I also made you invade our empire, and this city, and—’
‘Don’t be an idiot, you ain’t that important. It was the winged monkeys did that.’
The barkeep’s thin, overlong face twisted slightly as he arched a single brow.
Hellian turned to her corporal. ‘What kinda sword you using, fool? One that don’t work right, that’s what kind, I’d say.’
‘Aye, Sergeant.
‘Sorry, Sergeant.’
‘Aye and sorry don’t cut it with me, Corporal. Now get that sword outa my sight.’
‘Did you hear it coming?’ another one of her soldiers asked.
‘What? What’s that supposed to mean, Boatsnort?’
‘Uh, my name’s—’
‘I just told you your name!’
‘Nothing, Sergeant. I didn’t mean nothing.’
The barkeep cleared his throat. ‘Now, if you are done with jabbering amongst yourselves, you can kindly leave. As I said before, this tavern is dry—’
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 691