‘That,’ he growled, ‘is a Thelomen Toblakai! Riding a damned Jhag horse!’
Crossbows were levelled.
‘What’s that horse dragging?’ asked the woman who had just arrived on foot—whom Keneb now recognized, belatedly, as one of Tene Baralta’s officers.
Nether suddenly hissed, and she and her brother flinched back as one.
Heads. From some demonic beasts—
Weapons were readied.
The Adjunct lifted a hand. ‘Wait. He’s not drawn his weapon—’
‘It’s a stone sword,’ Squint rasped. ‘T’lan Imass.’
‘Only bigger,’ one of the soldiers spat.
No-one spoke as the huge, blood-spattered figure rode closer.
To halt ten paces away.
Tene Baralta leaned forward and spat onto the ground. ‘I know you,’ he rumbled. ‘Bodyguard to Sha’ik—’
‘Be quiet,’ the Toblakai cut in. ‘I have words for the Adjunct.’
‘Speak, then,’ Tavore said.
The giant bared his teeth. ‘Once, long ago, I claimed the Malazans as my enemies. I was young. I took pleasure in voicing vows. The more enemies the better. So it was, once. But no longer. Malazan, you are no longer my enemy. Thus, I will not kill you.’
‘We are relieved,’ Tavore said drily.
He studied her for a long moment.
During which Keneb’s heart began to pound hard and fast in his chest.
Then the Toblakai smiled. ‘You should be.’
With that he wheeled his Jhag horse round and rode a westerly path down the length of the basin. The huge hound heads bounced and thumped in their wake.
Keneb’s sigh was shaky.
‘Excuse my speaking,’ Squint rasped, ‘but something tells me the bastard was right.’
Tavore turned and studied the old veteran. ‘An observation,’ she said, ‘I’ll not argue, soldier.’
Once more, Keneb collected his reins.
Surmounting the ridge, Lieutenant Ranal sawed hard on the reins, and the horse reared against the skyline.
‘Gods take me, somebody shoot him.’
Fiddler did not bother to turn round to find out who had spoken. He was too busy fighting his own horse to care much either way. It had Wickan blood, and it wanted his. The mutual hatred was coming along just fine.
‘What is that bastard up to?’ Cuttle demanded as he rode alongside the sergeant. ‘We’re leaving even Gesler’s squad behind—and Hood knows where Borduke’s gone to.’
The squad joined their lieutenant atop the ancient raised road. To the north stretched the vast dunes of Raraku, shimmering in the heat.
Ranal wheeled his mount to face his soldiers. Then pointed west. ‘See them? Have any of you eyes worth a damn?’
Fiddler leaned to one side and spat grit. Then squinted to where Ranal was pointing. A score of riders. Desert warriors, likely a rearguard. They were at a loping canter. ‘Lieutenant,’ he said, ‘there’s a spider lives in these sands. Moves along under the surface, but drags a strange snakelike tail that every hungry predator can’t help but see. Squirming away along the surface. It’s a big spider. Hawk comes down to snatch up that snake, and ends up dissolving in a stream down that spider’s throat—’
‘Enough with the damned horse-dung, Sergeant,’ snapped Ranal. ‘They’re there because they were late getting out of the oasis. Likely too busy looting the palace to notice that Sha’ik had been skewered, the Dogslayers were dead and everyone else was bugging out as fast as their scrawny horses could take ’em.’ He glared at Fiddler. ‘I want their heads, you grey-whiskered fossil.’
‘We’ll catch them sooner or later, sir,’ Fiddler said. ‘Better with the whole company—’
‘Then get off that saddle and sit your backside down here on this road, Sergeant! Leave the fighting to the rest of us! The rest of you, follow me!’
Ranal kicked his lathered horse into a gallop.
With a weary gesture, Fiddler waved the marines on, then followed on his own bucking mare.
‘Got a pinched nerve,’ Koryk called out as he cantered past.
‘Who, my horse or the lieutenant?’
The Seti grinned back. ‘Your horse…naturally. Doesn’t like all that weight, Fid.’
Fiddler reached back and readjusted the heavy pack and the assembled lobber crossbow. ‘I’ll pinch her damned nerve,’ he muttered. ‘Just you wait.’
It was past midday. Almost seven bells since the Adjunct cut down Sha’ik. Fiddler found himself glancing again and again to the north—to Raraku, where the song still rushed out to embrace him, only to fall away, then roll, forward once more. The far horizon beyond that vast basin of sand, he now saw, now held up a bank of white clouds.
Now that don’t look right…
Sand-filled wind gusted suddenly into his face.
‘They’ve left the road!’ Ranal shouted.
Fiddler squinted westward. The riders had indeed plunged down the south bank, were cutting out diagonally—straight for a fast-approaching sandstorm. Gods, not another sandstorm…This one, he knew, was natural. The kind that plagued this desert, springing up like a capricious demon to rage a wild, cavorting path for a bell or two, before vanishing as swiftly as it had first appeared.
He rose up on his saddle. ‘Lieutenant! They’re going to ride into it! Use it as cover! We’d better not—’
‘Flap that tongue at me one more time, Sergeant, and I’ll tear it out! You hear me?’
Fiddler subsided. ‘Aye, sir.’
‘Full pursuit, soldiers!’ Ranal barked. ‘That storm’ll slow them!’
Oh, it will slow them, all right…
Gesler glared into the blinding desert. ‘Now who,’ he wondered under his breath, ‘are they?’
They had drawn to a halt when it became obvious that the four strange riders were closing fast on an intercept course. Long-bladed white swords flashing over their heads. Bizarre, gleaming white armour. White horses. White everything.
‘They’re none too pleased with us,’ Stormy rumbled, running his fingers through his beard.
‘That’s fine,’ Gesler growled, ‘but they ain’t renegades, are they?’
‘Sha’ik’s? Who knows? Probably not, but even so…’
The sergeant nodded. ‘Sands, get up here.’
‘I am,’ the sapper snapped.
‘What’s your range, lad, with that damned thing?’
‘Ain’t sure. No chance to try it yet. Fid’s is anywhere from thirty to forty paces with a cusser—which is ugly close—’
‘All right. Rest of you, dismount and drive your horses down the other side. Truth, hold on good to their reins down there—if they bolt we’re done for.’
‘Saw Borduke and his squad south of here,’ Pella ventured.
‘Aye, as lost as we are—and you can’t see ’em now, can you?’
‘No, Sergeant.’
‘Damn that Ranal. Remind me to kill him when we next meet.’
‘Aye, Sergeant.’
The four attackers were tall bastards. Voicing eerie warcries now as they charged towards the base of the hill.
‘Load up, lad,’ Gesler muttered, ‘and don’t mess up.’
The lobber had been copied from Fiddler’s own. It looked decent, at least as far as lobbers went—which ain’t far enough. Thirty paces with a cusser. Hood roast us all…
And here they came. Base of the slope, horses surging to take them up the hill.
A heavy thud, and something awkward and grey sailed out and down.
A cusser—holy f—‘Down! Down! Down!’
The hill seemed to lift beneath them. Gesler thumped in the dust, coughing in the spiralling white clouds, then, swearing, he buried his head beneath his arms as stones rained down.
Some time later, the sergeant clambered to his feet.
On the hill’s opposite side, Truth was trying to run in every direction at once, the horses trailing loose reins as they pelted in wild panic.
&nbs
p; ‘Hood’s balls on a skillet!’ Gesler planted his hands on his hips and glared about. The other soldiers were picking themselves up, shaken and smeared in dust. Stormy closed on Sands and grabbed him by the throat.
‘Not too hard, Corporal,’ Gesler said as Stormy began shaking the sapper about. ‘I want him alive for my turn. And dammit, make sure he ain’t got any sharpers on his body.’
That stopped Stormy flat.
Gesler walked to the now pitted edge of the hill and looked down. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘they won’t be chasing us any more, I’d say.’
‘Wonder who they were?’ Pella asked.
‘Armour seems to have weathered the blast—you could go down and scrape out whatever’s left inside ’em…on second thought, never mind. We need to round up our horses.’ He faced the others. ‘Enough pissing about, lads. Let’s get moving.’
Lying on the smoking edge of the crater, sprayed in horseflesh and deafened by the blast, Jorrude groaned. He was a mass of bruises, his head ached, and he wanted to throw up—but not until he pried the helm from his head.
Nearby in the rubble, Brother Enias coughed. Then said, ‘Brother Jorrude?’
‘Yes?’
‘I want to go home.’
Jorrude said nothing. It would not do, after all, to utter a hasty, heartfelt agreement, despite their present circumstance. ‘Check on the others, Brother Enias.’
‘Were those truly the ones who rode that ship through our realm?’
‘They were,’ Jorrude answered as he fumbled with the helm’s straps. ‘And I have been thinking. I suspect they were ignorant of Liosan laws when they travelled through our realm. True, ignorance is an insufficient defence. But one must consider the notion of innocent momentum.’
From off to one side, Malachar grunted. ‘Innocent momentum?’
‘Indeed. Were not these trespassers but pulled along—beyond their will—in the wake of the draconian T’lan Imass bonecaster? If an enemy we must hunt, then should it not be that dragon?’
‘Wise words,’ Malachar observed.
‘A brief stay in our realm,’ Jorrude continued, ‘to resupply and requisition new horses, along with repairs and such, seems to reasonably obtain in this instance.’
‘Truly judged, brother.’
From the other side of the crater sounded another cough.
At least, Jorrude dourly reflected, they were all still alive.
It’s all the dragon’s fault, in fact. Who would refute that?
They rode into the sandstorm, less than fifty strides behind the fleeing horse warriors, and found themselves floundering blind in a maelstrom of shrieking winds and whipping gravel.
Fiddler heard a horse scream.
He drew hard on his own reins, the wind hammering at him from all sides. Already he’d lost sight of his companions. This is wide-eyed stupid.
Now, if I was the commander of those bastards, I’d—
And suddenly figures flashed into view, scimitars and round shields, swathed faces and ululating warcries. Fiddler threw himself down against his horse’s withers as a heavy blade slashed, slicing through sand-filled air where his head had been a moment earlier.
The Wickan mare lunged forward and to one side, choosing this precise moment to buck its hated rider from the saddle.
With profound success.
Fiddler found himself flying forward, his bag of munitions rolling up his back, then up over his head.
Still in mid-air, but angling down to the ground, he curled himself into a tight ball—though he well knew, in that instant, that there was no hope of surviving. No hope at all. Then he pounded into the sand, and rolled—to see, upside-down, a huge hook-bladed sword spinning end over end across his own wake. And a stumbling horse. And its rider, a warrior thrown far back on his saddle—with the munition bag wrapped in his arms.
A surprised look beneath the ornate helm—then rider, horse and munitions vanished into the whirling sands.
Fiddler clambered to his feet and began running. Sprinting, in what he hoped—what he prayed—was the opposite direction.
A hand snagged his harness from behind. ‘Not that way, you fool!’ And he was yanked to one side, flung to the ground, and a body landed on top of him.
The sergeant’s face was pushed into the sand and held there.
Corabb bellowed. The bulky, heavy sack was hissing in his arms. As if filled with snakes. It had clunked hard against his chest, arriving like a flung boulder out of the storm, and he’d time only to toss his sword away and raise both arms.
The impact threw him onto the horse’s rump, but his feet stayed in the stirrups.
The bag’s momentum carried it over his face, and the hissing filled his ears.
Snakes!
He slid on his back down one side of the mount’s heaving hindquarters, letting the bag’s weight pull his arms with it. Don’t panic! He screamed.
Snakes!
The bag tugged in his hands as it brushed the ground.
He held his breath, then let go.
Tumbling clunks, a burst of frenzied hissing—then the horse’s forward charge carried him blissfully away.
He struggled to right himself, his leg and stomach muscles fiercely straining, and finally was able to grasp the horn and pull himself straight.
One pass, Leoman had said. Then wheel and into the storm’s heart.
He’d done that much. One pass. Enough.
Time to flee.
Corabb Bhilan Thun’alas leaned forward, and bared muddy teeth.
Spirits below, it is good to be alive!
The detonation should have killed Fiddler. There was fire. Towering walls of sand. The air concussed, and his breath was torn from his lungs even as blood spurted from his nose and both ears.
And the body lying atop him seemed to wither in shreds.
He’d recognized the voice. It was impossible. It was…infuriating.
Hot smoke rolled over them.
And that damned voice whispered, ‘Can’t leave you on your own for a Hood-damned minute, can I? Say hello to Kalam for me, will ya? I’ll see you again, sooner or later. And you’ll see me, too. You’ll see us all.’ A laugh. ‘Just not today. Damned shame ’bout your fiddle, though.’
The weight vanished.
Fiddler rolled over. The storm was tumbling away, leaving a white haze in its wake. He groped with his hands.
A terrible, ragged moan ripped from his throat, and he lifted himself onto his knees. ‘Hedge!’ he screamed. ‘Damn you! Hedge!’
Someone jogged into view, settled down beside him. ‘Slamming gates, Fid—you’re Hood-damned alive!’
He stared at the man’s battered face, then recognized it. ‘Cuttle? He was here. He—you’re covered in blood—’
‘Aye. I wasn’t as close as you. Luckily. ’Fraid I can’t say the same for Ranal. Someone had taken down his horse. He was stumbling around.’
‘That blood—’
‘Aye,’ Cuttle said again, then flashed a hard grin. ‘I’m wearing Ranal.’
Shouts, and other figures were closing in. Every one of them on foot.
‘—killed the horses. Bastards went and—’
‘Sergeant! You all right? Bottle, get over here—’
‘Killed the—’
‘Be quiet, Smiles, you’re making me sick. Did you hear that blast? Gods below—’
Cuttle clapped Fiddler on one shoulder, then dragged him to his feet.
‘Where’s the lieutenant?’ Koryk asked.
‘Right here,’ Cuttle answered, but did not elaborate.
He’s wearing Ranal.
‘What just happened?’ Koryk asked.
Fiddler studied his squad. All here. That’s a wonder.
Cuttle spat. ‘What happened, lad? We got slapped down. That’s what happened. Slapped down hard.’
Fiddler stared at the retreating storm. Aw, shit. Hedge.
‘Here comes Borduke’s squad!’
‘Find your horses, everyone,’ C
orporal Tarr said. ‘Sergeant’s been knocked about. Collect whatever you can salvage—we gotta wait for the rest of the company, I reckon.’
Good lad.
‘Look at that crater,’ Smiles said. ‘Gods, Sergeant, you couldn’t have been much closer to Hood’s Gate and lived, could you?’
He stared at her. ‘You’ve no idea how right you are, lass.’
And the song rose and fell, and he could feel his heart matching that cadence. Ebb and flow. Raraku has swallowed more tears than can be imagined. Now comes the time for the Holy Desert to weep. Ebb and flow, his blood’s song, and it lived on.
It lives on.
They had fled in the wrong direction. Fatal, but unsurprising. The night had been a shambles. The last survivor of Korbolo Dom’s cadre of mages, Fayelle rode a lathered horse in the company of thirteen other Dogslayers down the channel of a long-dead river, boulders and banks high on either side.
Herself and thirteen battered, bloodied soldiers. All that was left.
The clash with Leoman had begun well enough, a perfectly sprung ambush. And would have ended perfectly, as well.
If not for the damned ghosts.
Ambush turned over, onto its back like an upended tortoise. They’d been lucky to get out with their lives, these few. These last.
Fayelle well knew what had happened to the rest of Korbolo’s army. She had felt Henaras’s death. And Kamist Reloe’s.
And Raraku was not finished with them. Oh no. Not at all finished.
They reached a slope leading out of the defile.
She had few regrets—
Crossbow quarrels whizzed down. Horses and soldiers screamed. Bodies thumped onto the ground. Her horse staggered, then rolled onto its side. She’d no time to kick free of the stirrups, and as the dying beast pinned her leg its weight tore the joint from her hip, sending pain thundering through her. Her left arm was trapped awkwardly beneath her as her own considerable weight struck the ground—and bones snapped.
Then the side of her head hammered against rock.
Fayelle struggled to focus. The pain subsided, became a distant thing. She heard faint pleas for mercy, the cries of wounded soldiers being finished off.
Then a shadow settled over her.
‘I’ve been looking for you.’
The Malazan Empire Page 366