There was no sound from within. He edged forward until he came to one side of the doorway.
A body lay just inside, grey-swathed, fixed in a contortion of limbs, evincing that he had died beneath a wave of magic. Shadows were flowing in the darkness beyond.
Kalam drew his otataral long-knife, crept in through the doorway.
The shadowy wraiths flinched back.
The floor had collapsed long ago, leaving a vast pit. Five paces ahead, at the base of a rubble-strewn ramp, a young girl sat amidst the blood and entrails of three more corpses. She was streaked with gore, her eyes darkly luminous as she looked up at Kalam. ‘Do you remember the dark?’ she asked.
Ignoring her question, he stepped past at a safe distance. ‘Make no move, lass, and you’ll survive my visit.’
A thin voice chuckled from the gloom at the far end of the pit. ‘Her mind is gone, Claw. No time, alas, to fully harden my subjects to the horrors of modern life, try though I might. In any case, you should know that I am not your enemy. Indeed, the one who seeks to kill me this night is none other than the Malazan renegade, Korbolo Dom. And, of course, Kamist Reloe. Shall I give you directions to their abode?’
‘I’ll find it in due course,’ Kalam murmured.
‘Do you think your otataral blade sufficient, Claw? Here, in my temple? Do you understand the nature of this place? I imagine you believe you do, but I am afraid you are in error. Slavemaster, offer our guest some wine from that jug.’
A misshapen figure squirmed wetly across the rubble from Kalam’s left. No hands or feet. A mass of suppurating sores and the mangled rot of leprosy. With horrible absurdity, a silver tray had been strapped to the creature’s back, on which sat a squat, fired clay jug.
‘He is rather slow, I’m afraid. But I assure you, the wine is so exquisite that you will agree it is worth the wait. Assassin, you are in the presence of Bidithal, archpriest of all that is sundered, broken, wounded and suffering. My own…awakening proved both long and torturous, I admit. I had fashioned, in my own mind, every detail of the cult I would lead. All the while unaware that the shaping was being…guided.
‘Blindness, wilful and, indeed, spiteful. Even when the fated new House was laid out before me, I did not realize the truth. This shattered fragment of Kurald Emurlahn, Claw, shall not be the plaything of a desert goddess. Nor of the Empress. None of you shall have it, for it shall become the heart of the new House of Chains. Tell your empress to stand aside, assassin. We are indifferent to who would rule the land beyond the Holy Desert. She can have it.’
‘And Sha’ik?’
‘You can have her as well. Marched back to Unta in chains—and that is far more poetic than you will ever know.’
The shadow-wraiths—torn souls from Kurald Emurlahn—were drawing closer round Kalam, and he realized, with a chill, that his otataral long-knife might well prove insufficient. ‘An interesting offer,’ he rumbled. ‘But something tells me there are more lies than truths within it, Bidithal.’
‘I suppose you are right,’ the archpriest sighed. ‘I need Sha’ik, for this night and the morrow at least. Febryl and Korbolo Dom must be thwarted, but I assure you, you and I can work together towards such an end, since it benefits us both. Korbolo Dom calls himself Master of the Talon. Yes, he would return to Laseen’s embrace, more or less, and use Sha’ik to bargain for his own position. As for Febryl, well, I assure you, what he awaits no-one but he is mad enough to desire.’
‘Why do you bother with all this, Bidithal? You’ve no intention of letting me leave here alive. And here’s another thing. A pair of beasts are coming—hounds, not of Shadow, but something else. Did you summon them, Bidithal? Do you, or your Crippled God, truly believe you can control them? If so, then it is you two who are mad.’
Bidithal leaned forward. ‘They seek a master!’ he hissed.
Ah, so Cotillion was right about the Chained One. ‘One who is worthy,’ Kalam replied. ‘In other words, one who is meaner and tougher than they are. And in this oasis, they will find no such individual. And so, I fear, they will kill everyone.’
‘You know nothing of this, assassin,’ Bidithal murmured, leaning back. ‘Nor of the power I now possess. As for not permitting you to leave here alive…true enough, I suppose. You’ve revealed too much knowledge, and you are proving far less enthusiastic to my proposals than I would have hoped. An unfortunate revelation, but it no longer matters. My servants were scattered about earlier, you see, defending every approach, requiring time to draw them in, to arrange them between us. Ah, Slavemaster has arrived. By all means, have some wine. I am prepared to linger here for that. Once you are done, however, I must take my leave. I made a promise to Sha’ik, after all, and I mean to keep it. Should you, by some strange miracle, escape here alive, know that I will not oppose your efforts against Korbolo Dom and his cadre. You will have earned that much, at least.’
‘Best leave now, then, Bidithal. I have no interest in wine this night.’
‘As you wish.’
Darkness swept in to engulf the archpriest, and Kalam shivered at the uncanny familiarity of the sorcerous departure.
The wraiths attacked.
Both knives slashed out, and inhuman screams filled the chamber. As it turned out, his otataral weapon proved sufficient after all. That, and the timely arrival of a god.
Korbolo Dom seemed to have unleashed an army upon his own allies this night. Again and again, Karsa Orlong found his path blocked by eager killers. Their corpses were strewn in his wake. He had taken a few minor wounds from knives invested with sorcery, but most of the blood dripping from the giant warrior belonged to his victims.
He strode with his sword in both hands now, tip lowered and to one side. There had been four assassins hiding outside Heboric Ghost Hands’s dwelling. After killing them, Karsa slashed a new doorway in the tent wall and entered, only to find the abode empty. Frustrated, he set out for the temple round. Leoman’s pit was unoccupied as well, and appeared to have been so for some time.
Approaching Bidithal’s temple, Karsa slowed his steps as he heard fierce fighting within. Shrill screams echoed. Raising his weapon, the Toblakai edged forward.
A figure was crawling out from the doorway on its belly, gibbering to itself. A moment later Karsa recognized the man. He waited until Slavemaster’s desperate efforts brought him up against the Toblakai’s feet. A disease-ravaged face twisted into view.
‘He fights like a demon!’ Silgar rasped. ‘Both blades cut through the wraiths and leave them writhing in pieces! A god stands at his shoulder. Kill them, Teblor! Kill them both!’
Karsa sneered. ‘I take no commands from you, Slavemaster, or have you forgotten that?’
‘Fool!’ Silgar spat. ‘We are brothers in the House now, you and I. You are the Knight of Chains, and I am the Leper. The Crippled God has chosen us! And Bidithal, he has become the Magi—’
‘Yes, Bidithal. He hides within?’
‘No—he wisely fled, as I am doing. The Claw and his patron god are even now slaying the last of his shadow servants. You are the Knight—you possess your own patron, Karsa Orlong of the Teblor. Kill the enemy—it is what you must do—’
Karsa smiled. ‘And so I shall.’ He reversed his grip on his sword and drove the point down between Silgar’s shoulder blades, severing the spine then punching out through the sternum to bury itself a hand’s width deep between two flagstones.
Vile fluids poured from the Slavemaster. His head cracked down on the stone, and his life was done. Leoman was right, long ago—a quick death would have been the better choice.
Karsa pulled the sword free. ‘I follow no patron god,’ he growled.
He turned from the temple entrance. Bidithal would have used sorcery to escape, drawing shadows about himself in an effort to remain unseen. Yet his passage would leave footprints in the dust.
The Toblakai stepped past the body of Silgar, the man who had once sought to enslave him, and began searching.
Twenty of M
athok’s clan warriors accompanied Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas on his return to Leoman’s encampment. Their journey was unopposed, although Corabb was certain hidden eyes followed their progress.
They rode up the slope to the hill’s summit and were challenged by sentinels. A more welcoming sound Corabb could not imagine. Familiar voices, warriors he had fought alongside against the Malazans.
‘It is Corabb!’ He had been given a hook-bladed sword drawn from the Chosen One’s armoury, and he now raised it high in salute as the picket guards emerged from their places of hiding. ‘I must speak with Leoman! Where is he?’
‘Asleep,’ one of the sentinels growled. ‘If you’re lucky, Bhilan, your arrival, loud as it was, has awakened him. Ride to the centre of the summit, but leave your escort here.’
That brought Corabb up short. ‘They are Mathok’s own—’
‘Leoman’s orders. No-one from the oasis is allowed to enter our camp.’
Scowling, Corabb nodded and waved back his fellow horse warriors. ‘Take no offence, friends,’ he called, ‘I beg you.’ Without waiting to gauge their reaction, he dismounted and hurried to Leoman’s tent.
The warleader was standing outside the flap, drinking deep from a waterskin. He was out of his armour, wearing only a thin, sweat-stained linen shirt.
Corabb halted before him. ‘There is much to tell you, Leoman of the Flails.’
‘Out with it, then,’ Leoman replied when he’d finished drinking.
‘I was your only messenger to survive to reach Sha’ik. She has had a change of heart—she now commands that you lead the Army of the Apocalpyse come the morrow. She would have you, not Korbolo Dom, leading us to victory.’
‘Would she now,’ he drawled, then squinted and looked away. ‘The Napan has his assassins between us and Sha’ik?’
‘Aye, but they will not challenge our entire force—they would be mad to attempt such a thing.’
‘True. And Korbolo Dom knows this—’
‘He has not yet been informed of the change of command—at least he hadn’t when I left. Although Sha’ik had issued a demand for his presence—’
‘Which he will ignore. As for the rest, the Napan knows. Tell me, Corabb, do you think his Dogslayers will follow any other commander?’
‘They shall have no choice! The Chosen One has so ordered!’
Leoman slowly nodded. Then he turned back to his tent. ‘Break camp. We ride to Sha’ik.’
Exultation filled Corabb’s chest. Tomorrow would belong to Leoman of the Flails. ‘As it should be,’ he whispered.
Kalam stepped outside. His clothes were in tatters, but he was whole. Though decidedly shaken. He had always considered himself one of the ablest of assassins, and he had drawn a blade against a veritable host of inimical, deadly foes over the years. But Cotillion had put him to shame.
No wonder the bastard’s a god. Hood’s breath, I’ve never before seen such skill. And that damned rope!
Kalam drew a deep breath. He had done as the Patron of Assassins had asked. He had found the source of the threat to the Realm of Shadow. Or at least confirmed a host of suspicions. This fragment of Kurald Emurlahn will be the path to usurpation…by none other than the Crippled God. The House of Chains had come into play, and the world had grown very fraught indeed.
He shook himself. Leave that to Cotillion and Ammanas. He had other, more immediate tasks to attend to this night. And the Patron of Assassins had been kind enough to deliver a pair of Kalam’s favourite weapons…
His eyes lit upon the leprous corpse lying a half-dozen paces away, then narrowed. Kalam moved closer. Gods below, that is some wound. If I didn’t know better, I’d say from the sword of a T’lan Imass. The blood was thickening, soaking up dust from the flagstones.
Kalam paused to think. Korbolo Dom would not establish his army’s camp among the ruins of this city. Nor in the stone forest to the west. The Napan would want an area both clear and level, with sufficient room for banking and trenches, and open lines of sight.
East, then, what had once been irrigated fields for the city, long ago.
He swung in that direction and set out.
From one pool of darkness to the next, along strangely empty streets and alleys. Heavy layers of sorcery had settled upon this oasis, seeming to flow in streams—some of them so thick that Kalam found himself leaning forward in order to push his way through. A miasma of currents, mixed beyond recognition, and none of them palatable. His bones ached, his head hurt, and his eyes felt as if someone was stirring hot sand behind them.
He found a well-trod track heading due east and followed it, staying to one side where the shadows were deep. Then saw, two hundred paces ahead, a fortified embankment.
Malazan layout. That, Napan, was a mistake.
He was about to draw closer when he saw the vanguard to a company emerge through the gate. Soldiers on foot followed, flanked by lancers.
Kalam ducked into an alley.
The troop marched past at half-pace, weapons muffled, the horses’ hoofs leather-socked. Curious, but the fewer soldiers in the camp the better, as far as he was concerned. It was likely that all but the reserve companies would have been ensconced in their positions overlooking the field of battle. Of course, Korbolo Dom would not be careless when it came to protecting himself.
He calls himself master of the Talon, after all. Not that Cotillion, who was Dancer, knows a damned thing about them. Sparing the revelation only a sneer.
The last of the soldiers filed past. Kalam waited another fifty heartbeats, then he set out towards the Dogslayer encampment.
The embankment was preceded by a steep-sided trench. Sufficient encumbrance to a charging army, but only a minor inconvenience to a lone assassin. He clambered down, across, then up the far side, halting just beneath the crest-line.
There would be pickets. The gate was thirty paces on his left, lantern-lit. He moved to just beyond the light’s range, then edged up onto the bank. A guard patrolled within sight on his right, not close enough to spot the assassin as he squirmed across the hard-packed, sun-baked earth to the far edge.
Another trench, this one shallower, and beyond lay the ordered ranks of tents, the very centre of the grid dominated by a larger command tent.
Kalam made his way into the camp.
As he had suspected, most of the tents were empty, and before long he was crouched opposite the wide street encircling the command tent.
Guards lined every side, five paces apart, assault crossbows cocked and cradled in arms. Torches burned on poles every ten paces, bathing the street in flickering light. Three additional figures blocked the doorway, grey-clad and bearing no visible weapons.
Flesh and blood cordon…then sorcerous wards. Well, one thing at a time.
He drew out his pair of ribless crossbows. A Claw’s weapons, screw-torqued, the metal blackened. He set the quarrels in their grooves and carefully cocked both weapons. Then settled back to give the situation some thought.
Even as he watched he saw the air swirl before the command tent’s entrance, and a portal opened. Blinding white light, the flare of fire, then Kamist Reloe emerged. The portal contracted behind him, then winked out.
The mage looked exhausted but strangely triumphant. He gestured at the guards then strode into the tent. The three grey-clothed assassins followed the mage inside.
A hand light as a leaf settled on Kalam’s shoulder, and a voice rasped, ‘Eyes forward, soldier.’
He knew that voice, from more years back than he’d like to think. But that bastard’s dead. Dead before Surly took the throne.
‘Granted,’ the voice continued, and Kalam knew that acid-spattered face was grinning, ‘no love’s lost between me and the company I’m sharing…again. Figured I’d seen the last of every damn one of them…and you. Well, never mind that. Need a way in there, right? Best we mount a diversion, then. Give us fifty heartbeats…at least you can count those, Corporal.’
The hand lifted away.
&nb
sp; Kalam Mekhar drew a deep, shaky breath. What in Hood’s name is going on here? That damned captain went renegade. They found his body in Malaz City the morning after the assassinations…or something closely approximating his body…
He focused his gaze once more upon the command tent.
From beyond it a scream broke the night, then the unmistakable flash and earth-shaking thump of Moranth munitions.
Suddenly the guards were running.
Tucking one of the crossbows into his belt, Kalam drew out the otataral long-knife. He waited until only two Dogslayers were visible, both to the right of the entrance, facing the direction of the attack—where screams ripped the air, as much born of horror as from the pain of wounds—then surged forward.
Raising the crossbow in his left hand. The recoil thrumming the bones of his arm. The quarrel burying itself in the back of the further guard. Long-knife thrusting into the nearer man, point punching through leather between plates of bronze, piercing flesh then sliding between ribs to stab the heart.
Blood sprayed as he tugged the weapon free and darted into the tent’s doorway.
Wards collapsed around him.
Within the threshold he reloaded the crossbow and affixed it in the brace on his wrist—beneath the voluminous sleeves. Then did the same with the other one on his left wrist.
The main chamber before him held but a lone occupant, a grey-robed assassin who spun at Kalam’s arrival, a pair of hooked Kethra knives flashing into guard position. The face within the hood was expressionless, a narrow, sun-darkened visage tattooed in the Pardu style, the swirling artistry broken by a far heavier sigil branded into the man’s forehead—a talon.
The grey-clad assassin suddenly smiled. ‘Kalam Mekhar. I suppose you don’t remember me.’
In answer Kalam drew out his second long-knife and attacked.
Sparks bit the air as the blades clashed and whispered, the Pardu driven back two steps until, with a sweeping backslash, he leapt to the right and sidestepped round to give himself more space. Kalam maintained the pressure, weapons flashing as they darted out, keeping the Talon on the defensive.
The Malazan Empire Page 360