The twins were listening to this, and Setoc saw relief in their eyes. More friends of Toc. Will that do, girls? Seemed it would.
‘Cartographer, what is a Destriant?’
‘Ah. Well. A Destriant is one who is chosen from among all mortals to wear the skin of a god.’
‘The—the skin?’
‘Too poetic? Let me think, then. Look into the eyes of a thousand priests. If there is a Destriant among that thousand, you will find him or her. How? The truth is in their eyes, for you shall, in looking into those eyes, find yourself looking upon the god’s own.’
‘Toc bears a wolf’s eye.’
‘Because he is the Herald of War.’
The title chilled her. ‘Then why is his other eye not a wolf’s eye, too?’
‘It was human, I’m sure.’
‘Exactly. Why?’
Cartographer made the mistake of scratching his temple, and came away with a swath of crinkled skin impaled on his fingernails. He fluttered his fingers to send it drifting away into the night. ‘Because, I imagine, humans are the true heralds of war, don’t you think?’
‘Maybe.’ But she wasn’t so sure. ‘Toc was leading us into the east. If he’s the Herald of War, as you say, then . . .’
Cartographer nodded. ‘I should think so, Setoc. He was leading you to a place and a time where you will be needed.’
As Destriant to the Wolves of Winter. To gods of war. She looked over to where Baaljagg stood, just beyond the firelight. Deathly and deathly still, the huge teeth for ever bared, the eyes for ever empty.
The skin of war.
And I am to wear it. Her attention snapped over to Gruntle. ‘Cartographer.’
‘Yes?’
‘He said he holds his god in no high esteem. He said he calls what he is a curse.’
‘That is true.’
‘I need to talk to him.’
‘Of course, Setoc.’
The Mortal Sword had sat down by the fire, with the boy perched on one bouncing knee. The barbed tattoos seemed to have inexplicably faded, as had the feline traits of his features. The man looked almost human now, barring the eyes. There was quiet pleasure in the face.
What would Onos Toolan have made of this? Toc, were you bringing us to these ones? She sighed. The skin of war. The Wolves want me to wear it.
But I do not.
‘Take me to him, please.’
Mappo glanced over to see the young woman crouching opposite Gruntle, with Cartographer providing translations. No doubt they had much to discuss. An unknown war in the offing, a clash of desperate mortals and, perhaps, desperate gods. And Icarium? Old friend, you must have no place in what is coming. If thousands needlessly die by your hand, what dire balance would that tip? What cruel fate would that invite? No. I must find you. Take you away. Already, too many have died on your trail.
He heard a ragged sigh to his left. Angling round, he studied the woman lying on a bedroll. ‘You will live, Faint,’ he said.
‘Then—then—’
‘You did not reach him in time. If you had, you would be the one now dead, rather than Master Quell.’
She reached up to her own face, dragged her nails to scrape away the blood crusting the corners of her mouth. ‘Better for you if I had. Now we are stranded.’
He might have replied, But we are now so close. I can feel him—we are almost there. But that was a selfish thought. Delivering Mappo was but half the task. These poor shareholders needed to find a way home, and now they had lost the one man capable of achieving that. So, to Faint’s statement, he had nothing to say.
‘My chest hurts,’ she said.
‘The Che’Malle struck you, its claws scoring deep. I have sewn almost three hundred stitches, from your right shoulder to below your rib cage on the left.’
She seemed to think about that for a moment, and then she said, ‘So we’ve seen the last of Faint’s bouncing tits.’
‘You did not lose them, if that is what you fear. They will still, er, bounce, if perhaps unevenly.’
‘So the gods really do exist. Listen. Precious Thimble—is she still alive?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then we have a chance.’
Mappo winced. ‘She is young, Faint, mostly untutored—’
‘There’s a chance,’ Faint insisted. ‘Beru’s black nipples, this hurts.’
‘She will attempt some healing, in a while,’ said Mappo. ‘It took all of her strength just to keep Jula alive.’
Faint grunted and then gasped. Recovering, she said, ‘Guilt will do that.’
Mappo nodded. The Bole brothers had followed Precious Thimble into this Guild, and she had joined on a whim, or, more likely, to see how far her two would-be lovers would go in their pursuit of her. When love turned into a game, people got hurt, and Precious Thimble had finally begun to comprehend the truth of that. You took them too far, didn’t you?
At the same time without the Boles none of them here would be alive right now. Mappo still found it difficult to believe that a mortal man’s fists could do the damage he’d seen from Jula and Amby Bole. They had simply launched themselves on to the winged Che’Malle, and those oversized knuckles had struck with more power than Mappo’s own mace. He had heard bones crack beneath those blows, had heard the Che’Malle’s gasps of shock and pain. When it lashed out, it had been in frantic self-defence, a blind panic to dislodge its frenzied attackers. The creature’s talons, each one as long as a Semk scimitar, had plunged into Jula’s back, the four tips erupting from the man’s chest. It had flung the man away—and at that moment Amby’s lashing fists found the Che’Malle’s throat. Those impacts would have crushed the neck of a horse, and they proved damaging enough to force the Che’Malle into the air, wings thundering. A back-handed blow scraped Amby off and then the thing was lifting upward.
Gruntle, who appeared to have been the Che’Malle’s original target—carried off in the first attack and presumed by the others to be dead—had then returned, an apparition engulfed in the rage of his god. Veered into the form of an enormous tiger, its shape strangely blurred and indistinct except for the barbs that writhed like tongues of black flame, he had launched himself into the air in an effort to drag down the Che’Malle. But it eluded him and then, wings hammering, it fled skyward.
Mappo subsequently learned from Gruntle—once his fury was past, something like his human form returning—that his first battle with the thing had been a thousand reaches above the Wastelands, and when the Che’Malle failed to slay him, it had simply dropped him earthward. Gruntle had veered into his Soletaken form in mid-air. He now complained of bruised, throbbing joints, but Mappo knew it was a fall that should have killed him. Trake intervened. No other possible explanation serves.
He thought again about that horrifying creature, reiterating his own conviction that it was indeed some breed of K’Chain Che’Malle, though not one he had ever seen before, nor even heard of from those more intimate with the ancient race. It was twice the height of a K’ell Hunter, although gaunter. Its wingspan matched that of a middle-aged Eleint, yet where among dragons those wings served to aid speed and direct their manoeuvring in the air—with sorcery in effect carrying the dragon’s massive weight—for this Che’Malle all lift was produced by those wings. And its weight was but a fraction of an Eleint’s. Gods, it was fast. And such strength! In its second attack, after Gruntle was gone, the Che’Malle had simply lifted the entire carriage into the air, horses and all. If the carriage’s frame had not splintered in its grip, the beast would have carried them all skyward, until it reached a height from which a fall would be fatal. Simple and effective. The Che’Malle had attempted the tactic a few more times, before finally descending to do battle.
To its regret.
And, it must be admitted, ours as well. Glanno Tarp was dead. So too Reccanto Ilk. And of course Master Quell. When Mappo had reached the carriage to pull Precious Thimble from the interior cabin, she had been hysterical—Quell had interposed himself between her and the a
ttacking Che’Malle, and it had simply eviscerated him. If not for the Boles leaping on to its back, it would have slain her as well. Mappo still bore slashes on his hands and wrists from the woman’s blind terror.
The carriage had proved beyond mundane repair. There had been no choice but to continue on foot, carrying away their wounded, with the threat of another attack ever looming over them.
Still, I think the Boles hurt it.
That Che’Malle, it wasn’t out here waiting for us. Its attack was opportunistic—what else could it have been? No, the creature has other tasks awaiting it. For all I know, it too is hunting Icarium, a possibility too terrible to consider. In any case, let us hope it has now concluded we’re too much trouble.
His eyes strayed to his mace, lying on the ground close to hand. He had managed to strike the Che’Malle one solid blow, enough to rock it back a step. It had felt as if his mace had collided with an iron obelisk. His shoulders still ached. The eye looks past the target, to where the weapon is intended to reach. When it fails, shock thunders through the body. Every muscle, every bone. I can’t even remember the last time it so utterly failed.
‘Who are these strangers?’ Faint asked.
Mappo sighed. ‘I am not sure. There is an undead ay with them.’
‘A what?’
‘An ancient wolf, from the age of the Imass. Their bloodline was harvested in the shaping of the Hounds of Shadow . . . but not the Hounds of Darkness. For those, it was the bloodline of a breed of plains bear. Ty’nath okral, in the language of the Bentract Imass.’
‘An undead wolf?’
‘Pardon? Oh, yes, called an ay when alive. Now? Perhaps a maeth ay, one of rot or decay. Or one could say an oth ay, referring to its skeletal state. For myself, I think I prefer T’ay—a broken ay, if you will—’
‘Mappo, I really don’t care what you call it. It’s an undead wolf, something to keep Cartographer company—he’s back, right? I’m sure I heard him—’
‘Yes. He guided these others to us and now interprets.’
‘They don’t speak Daru? Barbarians.’
‘Yet two of them—those twin girls—they possess Daru blood. I am almost certain of it. The boy now clinging to Gruntle, there is Imass in him. More than half, I would judge. Therefore, either his mother or father was probably Barghast. The leader among them—she is named Setoc and proclaimed by Gruntle to be the Destriant of the Wolves—reminds me of a Kanese, though she is not. Some scenes painted on the oldest of tombs on the north coast of Seven Cities display people much like her in appearance, from the time before the tribes came out of the desert, one presumes.’
‘You’re trying to keep me awake, aren’t you?’
‘You landed on your head, Faint. For a time there, you spoke in tongues.’
‘I did what?’
‘Well, it was a mix of languages, sixteen that I could identify, and some others I could not. An extraordinary display, Faint. There is a scholar who states that we possess every language, deep within our minds, and that the potential exists for perhaps ten thousand languages in all. She would have delighted in witnessing your feat. Then there is a dystigier, a dissector of human corpses, living in Ehrlitan, who claims that the brain is nothing more than a clumped mass of snarled chains. Most links are fused, but some are not. Some can be prised open and fitted anew. Any major head injury, he says, can result in a link breaking. This is usually permanent, but on rare occasions a new link is forged. Chains, Faint, packed inside our skull.’
‘Only they don’t look like chains, do they?’
‘No, alas, they don’t. It is the curse of theory disconnected from physical observation. Of course, Icarium would argue that one should not always test theory solely on the basis of pragmatic observation. Sometimes, he would say, theory needs to be interpreted more poetically, as metaphor, perhaps.’
‘I have a metaphor for you, Mappo.’
‘Oh?’
‘A woman lies on the ground, brain addled, listening to a hairy Trell with tusks discussing possible interpretations of theory. What does this mean?’
‘I don’t know, but whatever it may be, I doubt it would qualify as a metaphor.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, since I don’t even know what a metaphor is, truth be told. Try this, then. The woman listens to all that, but she knows her brain is addled. So, just how addled is it? Is it so addled that she actually believes she’s listening to a hairy Trell spouting philosophy?’
‘Ah, perhaps a tautology, then. Or some other manner of unprovable proof. Then again, it might well be something else entirely. Though I am occasionally philosophical, I do not claim to be a philosopher. The distinction is important, I’m sure.’
‘If you really want to keep me awake, Mappo, find a new subject.’
‘Do you truly believe Precious Thimble is capable of taking you back to Darujhistan?’
‘If she isn’t we’re stuck and it’s time to start learning the local tongue from Setoc. But she can’t be from here anyway, can she? This land is blasted. Quell says it’s used up. Exhausted. No one can live here.’
‘The cut of Setoc’s clothing is Barghast,’ said Mappo. He scratched the bristle on his jaw. ‘And since that boy has, I think, Barghast blood . . .’ He raised his voice and, in Barghast, called over to Setoc, ‘Do we share this language between us, Destriant Setoc?’
At the question all four newcomers looked over. And Setoc said, ‘It seems we do.’
‘Nice guess,’ said Faint.
‘Observation and theory,’ Mappo replied. ‘Now, you can rest for a short time. I mean to get the story of these strangers. I will be back to wake you anon.’
‘Can’t wait,’ Faint muttered.
‘If no solution serves,’ ventured Shield Anvil Tanakalian, ‘then what remains to us? We must proceed on the path we have always known, until some other alternative presents itself.’ He held his gaze on the entourage of Queen Abrastal as it slowly drew closer, the dozen or so horses gently cantering across the uneven ground, the pennons above the riders flapping like impaled birds.
Beside him, Mortal Sword Krughava shifted heavily on her saddle. Leather creaked, iron scraped. ‘The absence haunts,’ she said. ‘It gapes at our side, sir.’
‘Then choose one, Mortal Sword. Be done with it.’
Her expression darkened beneath the rim of her helm. ‘You truly advise this, Shield Anvil? Am I to be so desperate as to be careless? Must I swallow my dissatisfaction? I have done this once already, sir, and I begin to find regret in that.’
Once already? You miserable witch. I took that sour face of yours to be the one you always wear. Now you tell me I was a choice made without confidence. Did that old man talk you into it, then? But between you and me, woman, only I was witness to his bitter dissatisfaction at the very end. So, in your mind he still argues in my favour. Well enough. ‘It grieves me, Mortal Sword, to hear you say this. I do not know how I have failed you, nor do I know what reparation remains available to me.’
‘My indecision, sir, stings you into impatience. You urge action without contemplation, but if the selection of a new Destriant does not demand contemplation, what possibly can? In your mind, it would seem, these are but titles. Responsibilities one grows into, as it were. But the truth of it is, the title awaits only those who have already grown into a person worthy of the responsibility. From you, I receive all the irritation of a young man convinced of his own rightness, as young men generally are, said conviction leading you into rash impulses and ill-considered advice. Now I ask that you be silent. The Queen arrives.’
Tanakalian struggled against his fury, endeavouring to hold flat his expression in the face of the Bolkando riders. You strike me in the moment before this parley, to test my self-control. I know all your tactics, Mortal Sword. You shall not best me.
Queen Abrastal wasted little time. ‘We have met with the Saphii emissary, and I am pleased to inform you that resupply is forthcoming—at a reasonable price, I might add. Generous
of them, all things considered.’
‘Indeed, Highness,’ said Krughava.
‘Furthermore,’ Abrastal continued, ‘the Malazan columns have been sighted by the Saphii, almost due north of the Saphii Mountains, approaching the very edge of the Wastelands. They have made good time. Curiously, your allies are with escort—none other than Prince Brys Beddict, in command of a Letherii army.’
‘I see,’ said Krughava. ‘And this Letherii army now marches well beyond Lether’s borders, suggesting their role as escort was not precautionary.’
The Queen’s eyes sharpened. ‘As I said, most curious, Mortal Sword.’ She paused, and then said, ‘It has become obvious to me that, of all the luminaries involved in this escapade, I alone remain ignorant.’
‘Highness?’
‘Well, you are all marching somewhere, yes? Into the Wastelands, no less. And through them, in fact, into Kolanse. My warnings to you of the grim—no, horrifying—situation in that distant land appear to have gone unheeded.’
‘On the contrary, Queen Abrastal,’ said Krughava, ‘we heed them most assiduously, and hold your concern in the highest regard.’
‘Then answer me, do you march to win yourselves an empire? Kolanse, weakened so by internal strife, drought and starvation, must present to you an easy conquest. Surely, you cannot imagine such a beleaguered people to be your deadliest enemy? You’ve never even been there. If,’ she added, ‘you were wondering why I am still with you and the Khundryl, so far from my own realm and still weeks to go before our grand parley with the Adjunct, perhaps now you can surmise my reasons.’
‘Curiosity?’ Krughava asked, brows lifting.
A flash of irritation lit Abrastal’s features.
Yes, Queen, I know how you feel.
‘A more apt description would be unease. As co-ruler of Bolkando, it is my responsibility to hold tight the reins of my people. I am well aware of the human tendency towards chaos and cruelty. The very purpose of rule, as I hold it, is to enforce civility. To achieve this, I must begin with a personal adherence to the same. Does it distress me that I am perhaps aiding a horde of rabid conquerors? Does it sit well with my conscience that I am assisting in the invasion of a distant kingdom?’
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 916