He had skill with those heavy Kethra knives, and both quickness and strength. Kalam’s blades took blocking blows that reverberated up the bones of his arms. Clearly, the Pardu was seeking to break the thinner weapons, and, well made as they were, nicks and notches were being driven into the edges.
Further, Kalam knew he was running out of time. The diversion continued, but now, along with the crack of sharpers ripping the air, waves of sorcery had begun rolling in deafening counterpoint. Whatever the nature of the squads attacking the Dogslayers, mages were giving answer.
Worse yet, this Talon didn’t enter here alone.
Kalam suddenly shifted stance, extending the knife in his left hand and drawing his right hand back to take guard position. He led with the point, evading the parries, and, in increments, slowly retracted his left arm, beginning at the shoulder. The faintest pivoting of hips, drawing the lead leg back—
And the Pardu closed the distance with a single step.
Kalam’s right hand shot across, beating aside both Kethra blades, simultaneously lunging high with his left hand.
The Pardu flung both weapons up to parry and trap the thrust.
And Kalam stepped in still closer, stabbing crossways with the longknife in his right hand. Punching the tip into the man’s lower belly.
A gush of fluids, the edge gouging along the spine, the point then plunging out the other side.
The parry and trap had torn the long-knife in his left hand from its grasp, flinging it to one side.
But the Talon was already sagging, folding over the belly wound and the weapon impaling him.
Kalam leaned closer. ‘No,’ he growled. ‘I don’t.’
He tugged his knife free and let the dying man fall to the layered rugs of the tent floor.
‘A damned shame,’ mused a voice near the back wall.
Kalam slowly turned. ‘Kamist Reloe. I’ve been looking for you.’
The High Mage smiled. He was flanked by the other two Talons, one of whom held Kalam’s second long-knife and was examining it curiously. ‘We’ve been expecting a strike by the Claws,’ Kamist Reloe said. ‘Although an attack by long-dead ghosts was, I admit, not among our expectations. It is Raraku, you understand. This damned land is…awakening. Well, never mind that. Soon, there will be…silence.’
‘He holds an otataral weapon,’ the assassin on Kamist’s right said.
Kalam glanced down at the blood-smeared long-knife in his right hand. ‘Ah, well, that.’
‘Then,’ the High Mage sighed, ‘you two shall have to take him in the, uh, mundane way. Will you suffice?’
The one holding the long-knife flung it behind him and nodded. ‘We’ve watched. He has patterns…and skill. Against either one of us singly we’d be in trouble. But against both of us?’
Kalam had to agree with the man’s assessment. He stepped back, and sheathed his weapon. ‘He’s probably right,’ he rumbled. With his other hand he drew out the acorn and tossed it on the floor. All three men flinched back as it bounced then rolled towards them. The innocuous object came to a halt.
One of the Talons snorted. Kicked it to one side.
Then the two assassins stepped forward, knives flickering.
Kalam raised both arms, twisted his wrists outward, then flexed them hard.
Both Talons grunted, then staggered backward, each impaled by a quarrel.
‘Careless of you,’ Kalam muttered.
Kamist shrieked, unveiling his warren.
The wave of sorcery that struck the High Mage caught him entirely unawares, coming from one side. Death-magic closed around him in a sizzling, raging web of black fire.
His shriek escalated. Then Kamist Reloe sprawled, the sorcery still flickering over his twitching, burned body.
A figure slowly emerged from where the Talon had kicked the acorn moments earlier, and crouched down beside Kamist Reloe. ‘It’s disloyalty that bothers us the most,’ he said to the dying High Mage. ‘We always answer it. Always have. Always will.’
Kalam recovered his second long-knife, eyes on the closed flaps on the chamber’s back wall. ‘He’s through there,’ he said, then paused and grinned. ‘Good to see you, Quick.’
Quick Ben glanced over and nodded.
The wizard was, Kalam saw, looking older. Worn down. Scars not written on his skin, but on his heart. He will, I suspect, have nothing good to tell me when all this is done. ‘Did you,’ he asked Quick Ben, ‘have anything to do with the diversion?’
‘No. Nor did Hood, although the hoary bastard’s arrived. This is all Raraku.’
‘So Kamist said, not that I understand either of you.’
‘I’ll explain later, friend,’ Quick Ben said, rising. He faced the back flap. ‘He has that witch Henaras with him, I think. She’s behind some fierce wards that Kamist Reloe raised.’
Kalam approached the doorway. ‘Leave those to me,’ he growled, unsheathing his otataral long-knife.
The room immediately beyond was small, dominated by a map table, on which was sprawled the corpse of Henaras. Blood was still flowing in streams down the table’s sides.
Kalam glanced back at Quick Ben and raised his brows.
The wizard shook his head.
The assassin gingerly approached, and his eyes caught something glimmering silver-white on the woman’s chest.
A pearl.
‘Seems the way is clear,’ Kalam whispered.
Another flap slashed the wall opposite.
Using the points of his knives, Kalam prised it open.
A large high-backed chair filled the next chamber, on which was seated Korbolo Dom.
His blue skin was a ghastly grey, and his hands shook where they rested on the chair’s ornate arms. When he spoke his voice was high and tight, jittery with fear. ‘I sent an emissary to the Adjunct. An invitation. I am prepared to attack Sha’ik and her tribes—with my Dogslayers.’
Kalam grunted. ‘If you think we’ve come with her answer, you’d be wrong, Korbolo.’
The Napan’s eyes darted to Quick Ben. ‘We assumed you were either dead with the rest of the Bridgeburners, or still on Genabackis.’
The wizard shrugged. ‘Tayschrenn sent me ahead. Even so, he’s brought the fleet across on mage-driven winds. Dujek Onearm and his legions reached Ehrlitan a week past—’
‘What’s left of those legions, you mean—’
‘More than enough to complement the Adjunct’s forces, I should think.’
Kalam stared between the two men. The Bridgeburners…dead? Whiskeyjack? Onearm’s Host—gods below, what happened over there?
‘We can salvage this,’ Korbolo Dom said, leaning forward. ‘All of Seven Cities, returned to the Empire. Sha’ik brought in chains before the Empress—’
‘And for you and your soldiers a pardon?’ Quick Ben asked. ‘Korbolo Dom, you have truly lost your mind—’
‘Then die!’ the Napan shrieked, leaping forward, hands reaching for the wizard’s throat.
Kalam stepped in and, knife reversed, struck Korbolo Dom hard against the side of the head.
The Napan staggered.
A second fist shattered his nose and sent him sprawling.
Quick Ben stared down at the man. ‘Truss him up, Kalam. That diversion’s over, from the silence outside—I’ll find us a way out.’
Kalam began tying the unconscious man’s hands. ‘Where are we taking him?’
‘I’ve a thought to that.’
The assassin glanced up at his friend. ‘Quick? The Bridgeburners? Whiskeyjack?’
The hard, dark eyes softened. ‘Dead. Barring Picker and a handful of others. There’s a tale there, and I promise I will tell it in full…later.’
Kalam stared down at Korbolo Dom. ‘I feel like cutting throats,’ he rasped.
‘Not him. Not now.’
Hold back on the feelings, Kalam Mekhar. Hold back on everything. Quick’s right. In time. In time…
Oh, Whiskeyjack…
There was time for…ever
ything. This night and for the day to come, Bidithal needed Sha’ik. And the Whirlwind Goddess. And perhaps, if all went well, there would be the opportunity for bargaining. Once the goddess’s rage has cooled, annealed into beauty by victory—we can still achieve this.
But I know now what Febryl has done. I know what Korbolo Dom and Kamist Reloe plan for the dawn.
They could be stopped. The knives could be turned.
He hobbled as quickly as he could towards Sha’ik’s palace. Ghosts flitted about on the edges of his vision, but his shadows protected him. In the distance he heard screams, detonations and sorcery—coming, he realized, from the Dogslayers’ camp. Ah, so that Claw’s made it that far, has he? Both good and…troubling. Well, at the very least he’ll keep Kamist occupied.
Of course, the danger posed by the roving assassins still existed, though that was diminishing the closer he got to Sha’ik’s abode.
Still, the streets and alleys were disturbingly deserted.
He came within sight of the sprawling palace, and saw with relief the pools of torchlight surrounding it.
Counter the Napan’s gambit—awaken the goddess to the threat awaiting her. Then hunt down that gnarled bhok’aral Febryl and see his skin stripped from his writhing flesh. Even the goddess—yes, even the goddess will have to recognize me. My power. When flanked by my new pets—
A hand shot out of the darkness and closed about Bidithal’s neck. He was lifted into the air—flailing—then thrown hard to the ground. Blinded. Choking.
His shadow-servants swarmed to defend him.
A growl, the hissing swing of something massive that cut a sweeping path—and suddenly the wraiths were gone.
Slowly, Bidithal’s bulging eyes made out the figure crouched above him.
Toblakai—
‘You should have left her alone,’ Karsa Orlong said quietly, his voice devoid of inflection. Behind and around the giant were gathering ghosts, chained souls.
We are both servants of the same god! You fool! Let me speak! I would save Sha’ik!
‘But you didn’t. I know, Bidithal, where your sick desires come from. I know where your pleasure hides—the pleasure you would take from others. Witness.’
Karsa Orlong set down his stone sword, then reached between Bidithal’s legs.
A hand closed indiscriminately around all that it found.
And tore.
Until, with a ripping of tendons and shreds of muscle, a flood of blood and other fluids, the hand came away with its mangled prize.
The pain was unbearable. The pain was a rending of his soul. It devoured him.
And blood was pouring out, hot as fire, even as deathly cold stole across his skin, seeped into his limbs.
The scene above him blackened, until only Toblakai’s impassive, battered face remained, coolly watching Bidithal’s death.
Death? Yes. You fool, Toblakai—
The hand around his neck relaxed, drew away.
Involuntarily, Bidithal drew in an agonizing breath and made to scream—
Something soft and bloody was pushed into his mouth.
‘For you, Bidithal. For every nameless girl-child you destroyed. Here. Choke on your pleasure.’
And choke he did. Until Hood’s Gate yawned—
And there, gathered by the Lord of Death, waited demons who were of like nature to Bidithal himself, gleefully closing about their new victim.
A lifetime of vicious pleasure. An eternity of pain in answer.
For even Hood understood the necessity for balance.
Lostara Yil edged up from the sinkhole and squinted in an effort to pierce the gloom. A glance behind her revealed a starlit desert, luminous and glittering. Yet, ahead, darkness swathed the oasis and the ruined city within it. A short while earlier she had heard distant thumps, faint screams, but now silence had returned.
The air had grown bitter cold. Scowling, Lostara checked her weapons, then made to leave.
‘Make no move,’ a voice murmured from a pace or two off to her right.
Her head snapped round, then her scowl deepened. ‘If you’re here to watch, Cotillion, there’s little to see. I woke Pearl, and he hardly swore at all, despite the headache. He’s in there, somewhere—’
‘Aye, he is, lass. But already he’s returning…because he can feel what’s coming.’
‘What’s coming. Enough to make you hide here beside me?’
The shadow-shrouded god seemed to shrug. ‘There are times when it is advisable to step back…and wait. The Holy Desert itself senses the approach of an ancient foe, and will rise in answer if need be. Even more precarious, the fragment of Kurald Emurlahn that the Whirlwind Goddess would claim is manifesting itself. The goddess is fashioning a portal, a gate—one massive enough to swallow this entire oasis. Thus, she too makes a play for Raraku’s immortal heart. The irony is that she herself is being manipulated, by a far cleverer god, who would take this fragment for himself, and call it his House of Chains. So you see, Lostara Shadow Dancer, best we remain precisely where we are. For tonight, and in this place, worlds are at war.’
‘It is nothing to Pearl and me,’ she insisted, squinting hard into the gloom. ‘We’re here for Felisin—’
‘And you have found her, but she remains beyond you. Beyond Pearl as well. For the moment…’
‘Then we must needs but await the clearing of the path.’
‘Aye. As I have advised, patience.’
Shadows swirled, hissed over sand, then the god was gone.
Lostara grunted. ‘Goodbye to you as well,’ she muttered, then drew her cloak tighter about herself and settled down to wait.
Assassins armed with crossbows had crept up behind him. Febryl had killed them, one after another, as soon as they arrived, with a host of most painful spells, and now his sorcerous web told him that there were no more. Indeed, Korbolo Dom and Kamist Reloe had been bearded in their den. By ghosts and worse—agents of the Malazan Empire.
Wide and bloody paths had carved messily across his web, leaving him blind here and there, but none stretched anywhere close to his position…so far. And soon, the oasis behind him would become as a nightmare wakened into horrid reality, and Febryl himself would vanish from the minds of his enemies in the face of more immediate threats.
Dawn was but two bells away. While, behind him, darkness had devoured the oasis, the sky overhead and to the east was comparatively bright with the glitter of stars. Indeed, everything was proceeding perfectly.
The starlight also proved sufficient for Febryl to detect the shadow that fell over him.
‘I never liked you much,’ rumbled a voice above him.
Squealing, Febryl sought to dive forward.
But was effortlessly plucked and lifted high from the ground.
Then broken.
The snap of his spine was like brittle wood in the cold night air.
Karsa Orlong flung Febryl’s corpse away. He glared up at the stars for a moment, drew a deep breath into his lungs, and sought to clear his mind.
Urugal’s withered voice was screaming in his skull. It had been that voice, and that will, that had driven him step by step from the oasis.
The false god of the Uryd tribe wanted Karsa Orlong…gone.
He was being pushed hard…away from what was coming, from what was about to happen in the oasis.
But Karsa did not like being pushed.
He lifted his sword clear of his harness rings and closed both hands about the grip, lowering the point to hover just above the ground, then forced himself to turn about and face the oasis.
A thousand ghostly chains stretched taut behind him, then began pulling.
The Teblor growled under his breath and leaned forward. I am the master of these chains. I, Karsa Orlong, yield to none. Not gods, not the souls I have slain. I will walk forward now, and either resistance shall end, or the chains will be snapped.
Besides, I have left my horse tethered in the stone forest.
Twin howls tore the
night air above the oasis, sudden and fierce as cracks of lightning.
Karsa Orlong smiled. Ah, they have arrived.
He lifted his sword’s point slightly higher, then surged forward.
It would not do—it turned out—to have the chains sundered. The tension suddenly vanished, and, for this night at least, all resistance to Toblakai’s will had ended.
He left the ridge and descended the slope, into the gloom once more.
Fist Gamet was lying on his cot, struggling to breathe as a tightness seized his throat. Thunder filled his head, in thrumming waves of pain radiating out from a spot just above and behind his right eye.
Pain such as he had never felt before, driving him onto his side, the cot creaking and pitching as nausea racked him, the vomit spraying onto the floor. But the emptying of his stomach offered no surcease from the agony in his skull.
His eyes were open but he was blind.
There had been headaches. Every day, since his fall from his horse. But nothing like this.
The barely healed knife-slash in his palm had reopened during his contortions, smearing sticky blood across his face and brow when he sought to claw the pain out from his head, and the wound now felt as if it was afire, scorching his veins.
Groaning, he clambered sideways from the cot and then halted, on his hands and knees, head hanging down, as waves of trembling shivered through him.
I need to move. I need to act. Something. Anything.
I need—
A time of blankness, then he found himself standing near the tent flap. Weighted in his armour, gauntlets covering his hands, helm on his head. The pain was fading, a cool emptiness rising in its wake.
He needed to go outside. He needed his horse.
Gamet strode from the tent. A guard accosted him but he waved the woman away and hurried towards the corrals.
Ride. Ride out. It’s time.
Then he was cinching the saddle of his horse, waiting for the beast to release its breath, then drawing it a notch tighter. A clever horse. Paran stables, of course. Fast and of almost legendary endurance. Impatient with incompetence, ever testing the rider’s claim to being in charge, but that was to be expected from such a fine breed.
The Malazan Empire Page 361