The Malazan Empire

by Steven Erikson

  She thought for a time, then her eyes narrowed. ‘You are being blackmailed.’ He voiced no denial, so she continued, ‘You are Indebted, aren’t you?’

  ‘Debts start small. Barely noticeable. Temporary. And so, in repayment, you are asked to do something. Something vile, a betrayal. And then, they have you. And you are indebted anew, in the maintenance of the secret, in your gratitude for not being exposed in your crime, which has since grown larger. As it always does, if you are in possession of a conscience.’ He was silent a moment, then he sighed and said, ‘I do envy those who have no conscience.’

  ‘Can you not get out, Buruk?’

  He would not look up from the flames. ‘Of course I can,’ he said easily.

  That tone, so at odds with all else he had said, frightened her. ‘Make yourself…un-useful, Buruk.’

  ‘Indeed, that seems the way of it, Acquitor. And I am in a hurry to do just that.’ He rose. ‘Time to sleep. Downhill to the river, then we can trail our sore feet in the cool water, all the way to Trate.’

  She remained awake for a while longer, too tired to think, too numb to feel fear.

  Above the fire, sparks and stars swam without distinction.

  Dusk the following day, the two travellers reached Kraig’s Landing, to find its three ramshackle buildings surrounded by the tents of an encamped regiment. Soldiers were everywhere, and at the dock was tethered an ornate, luxuriously appointed barge above which drifted in the dull wind the king’s banner, and directly beneath it on the spar the crest of the Ceda.

  ‘There’s a cadre here,’ Buruk said as they strode down the trail towards the camp, which they would have to pass through to reach the hostel and dock.

  She nodded. ‘And the soldiers are here as escort. There can’t have been engagements already, can there?’

  He shrugged. ‘At sea, maybe. The war is begun, I think.’

  Seren reached out and halted Buruk. ‘There, those three.’

  The merchant grunted.

  The three figures in question had emerged from the rows of tents, the soldiers nearby keeping their distance but fixing their attention on them as they gathered for a moment, about halfway between the two travellers and the camp.

  ‘The one in blue—do you recognize her, Acquitor?’

  She nodded. Nekal Bara, Trate’s resident sorceress, whose power was a near rival to the Ceda’s own. ‘The man on her left, in the black furs, that’s Arahathan, commander of the cadre in the Cold Clay Battalion. I don’t know the third one.’

  ‘Enedictal,’ Buruk said. ‘Arahathan’s counterpart in the Snakebelt Battalion. We see before us the three most powerful mages of the north. They intend a ritual.’

  She set off towards them.

  ‘Acquitor! Don’t!’

  Ignoring Buruk, Seren unslung her pack and dropped it to the ground. She had caught the attention of the three mages. Visible in the gloom, Nekal Bara’s mocking lift of the eyebrows.

  ‘Acquitor Seren Pedac. The Errant smiles upon you indeed.’

  ‘You’re going to launch an attack,’ Seren said. ‘You mustn’t.’

  ‘We do not take orders from you,’ Enedictal said in a growl.

  ‘You’re going to strike the villages, aren’t you?’

  ‘Only the ones closest to the borders,’ Nekal Bara said, ‘and those are far enough away to permit us a full unveiling—beyond those mountains, yes? If the Errant wills it, that’s where the Edur armies will have already gathered.’

  ‘We shall obliterate the smug bastards,’ Enedictal said. ‘And end this stupid war before it’s begun.’

  ‘There are children—’

  ‘Too bad.’

  Without another word the three mages moved to take positions, twenty paces distant from one another. They faced the slope of the trail, the rearing mountains before them.

  ‘No!’ Seren shouted.

  Soldiers appeared, surrounding her, expressions dark and angry beneath the rim of their helms. One spoke. ‘It’s this, woman, or the fields of battle. Where people die. Make no move. Say nothing.’

  Buruk the Pale arrived to stand nearby. ‘Leave it be, Acquitor.’

  She glared at him. ‘You don’t think he’ll retaliate? He’ll disperse the attack, Buruk. You know he will.’

  ‘He may not have the time,’ the merchant replied. ‘Oh, perhaps his own village, but what of the others?’

  A flash of light caught her attention and she turned to see that but one mage remained, Nekal Bara. Then Seren saw, two hundred paces distant, the figure of Enedictal. Twisting round, she could make out Arahathan, two hundred paces in the opposite direction. More flashes, and the two sorcerors reappeared again, double the distance from Nekal Bara.

  ‘They’re spreading out,’ Buruk observed. ‘This is going to be a big ritual.’

  A soldier said, ‘The Ceda himself is working tonight. Through these three here, and the rest of the cadre strung out another league in both directions. Four villages will soon be nothing but ashes.’

  ‘This is a mistake,’ Seren said.

  Something was building between the motionless sorcerors. Blue and green light, ravelled taut, like lightning wound round an invisible rope linking the mages. The glow building like sea foam, a froth that began crackling, spitting drawn-out sparks that whipped like tendrils.

  The sound became a hissing roar. The light grew blinding, the tendrils writhing out from the glowing foam. The twisting rope bucked and snapped between the stationary mages, reaching out past the three who were still visible, out beyond the hills to either side.

  She watched the power burgeoning, the bucking frenzied, the tendrils whipping like the limbs of some giant, wave-thrashed anemone.

  Darkness had been peeled back by the bristling energy, the shadows dancing wild.

  A sudden shout.

  The heaving chain sprang loose, the roar of its escape thundering in the ground beneath Seren’s feet. Figures staggered as the wave launched skyward, obliterating the night. Its crest was blinding green fire, the curving wall in its wake a luminescent ochre, webbed with foam in a stretching latticework.

  The wall swallowed the north sky, and still the crest rose, power streaming upward. The grasses near the mages blackened, then spun into white ash on swirling winds.

  Beneath the roar, a shriek, then screams. Seren saw a soldier stumbling forward, against the glowing wall at the base of the wave. It took him, stripped armour, clothes, then hair and skin, then, in a gush of blood, it devoured his flesh. Before the hapless figure could even crumple, the bones were plucked away, leaving naught but a single upright boot on the blistered ground in front of the foaming wall. The crimson blush shot upward, paling as it went. Until it was gone.

  Air hissed past her, buffeting and bitter cold.

  She sank down, the only response possible to fight that savage tugging, and dug her fingers into the stony ground. Others did the same around her, clawing in panic. Another soldier was dragged away, pulled shrieking into the wave.

  The roaring snapped suddenly, like a breath caught in a throat, and Seren saw the base lift away, roll upward like a vast curtain, rising to reveal, once again, the battered slopes leading to the pass, then the pallid mountains and their blunt, ancient summits.

  The wave swiftly dwindled as it soared northward, its wild light reflected momentarily in a patchwork cascade across reflective surfaces far below, sweeps of snow near the peaks and ice-polished stone blossoming sickly green and gold, as if awakened to an unexpected sunset.

  Then the mountains were black silhouettes once more.

  Beyond them, the wave, from horizon to horizon, was descending. Vanishing behind the range.

  In the corner of her vision, Seren saw Nekal Bara slump to her knees.

  Sudden light, across the rim of the world to the north, billowing like storm seas exploding against rock. The glow shot back into the night sky, this time in fiery arms and enormous, whipping tentacles.

  She saw a strange ripple of grey ag
ainst black on the facing mountainside, swiftly plunging.

  Then comprehension struck her. ‘Lie flat! Everyone! Down!’

  The ripple struck the base of the slope. The few scraggly trees clinging to a nearby hillside toppled in unison, as if pushed over by a giant invisible hand.

  The sound struck.

  And broke around them, strangely muted.

  Dazed, Seren lifted her head. Watched the shale tiles of an outlying building’s roof dance away into the darkness. Watched as the north-facing wall tilted, then collapsed, taking the rest of the structure with it. She slowly climbed to her hands and knees.

  Nekal Bara stood nearby, her hair and clothes untouched by the wind that raged on all sides.

  Muddy rain sifted down through the strangely thick air. The stench of charred wood and the raw smell of cracked stone.

  Beyond, the wind had died, and the rain pummelled the ground. Darkness returned, and if fires still burned beyond the mountains, no sign was visible from this distance.

  Buruk the Pale staggered to her side, his face splashed with mud. ‘He did not block it, Acquitor!’ he gasped. ‘It is as I said: no time to prepare.’

  A soldier shouted, ‘Errant take us! Such power!’

  There was good reason why Lether had never lost a war. Even the Onyx Wizards of Bluerose had been crushed by the cadres of the Ceda. Archpriests, shamans, witches and rogue sorcerors, none had ever managed to stand for long against such ferocity.

  Seren felt sick inside. Sick, and bereft.

  This is not war. This is…what? Errant save us, I have no answer, no way to describe the magnitude of this slaughter. It is mindless. Blasphemous. As if we have forgotten dignity. Theirs, our own. The word itself. No distinction between innocence and guilt, condemned by mere existence. People transformed against their will into nothing more than symbols, sketchy representations, repositories of all ills, of all frustrations.

  Is this what must be done? Take the enemy’s flesh and fill it with diseases, corrupting and deadly to the touch, breath of poison? And that which is sick must be exterminated, lest it spread its contamination.

  ‘I doubt,’ Buruk said in an empty voice, ‘there was time to suffer.’

  True. Leave that to us.

  There had been no defence. Hannan Mosag, Rhulad, the slave Udinaas and Feather Witch. Hull Beddict. The names skittered away in her mind, and she saw—with a sudden twisting of her insides that left her shocked—the face of Trull Sengar. No. It was Hull I was thinking of. No. Why him? ‘But they’re dead.’

  ‘They’re all dead,’ Buruk said beside her. ‘I need a drink.’

  His hand plucked at her arm.

  She did not move. ‘There’s nowhere to go.’

  ‘Acquitor. The tavern beneath the hostel’s built solid enough to withstand a siege. I’d imagine that’s where those soldiers just went, to toast their lost comrades. Poor fools. The dead ones, I mean. Come on, Seren. I’m in the mood to spend coin.’

  Blinking, she looked round. The mages were gone.

  ‘It’s raining, Acquitor. Let’s go.’

  His hand closed on her arm. She allowed him to drag her away.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘You’re in shock, Acquitor. No surprise. Here, I’ve some tea for you, the captain’s own. Enjoy the sunshine—it’s been rare enough lately.’

  The river’s swift current pulled the barge along. Ahead, the sun was faintly copper, but the breeze sidling across the water’s spinning surface was warm.

  She took the cup from his hands.

  ‘We’ll be there by dusk,’ Buruk said. ‘Soon, we should be able to make out its skyline. Or at least the smoke.’

  ‘The smoke,’ she said. ‘Yes, there will be that.’

  ‘Think on it this way, Seren. You’ll soon be free of me.’

  ‘Not if there’s not to be a war.’

  ‘No. I intend to release you from your contract in any case.’

  She looked over at him, struggled to focus. There had been a night. After the sorcerous assault. In the tavern. Boisterous soldiers. Scouting parties were to head north the next day—today. She was starting to recall details, the gleam of some strange excitement as lurid as the tavern’s oil lamps. ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘My need for you is ended, Acquitor.’

  ‘Presumably, the Edur will sue for peace. If anything, Buruk, you will find yourself far busier than ever.’ She sipped the tea.

  He nodded, slowly, and she sensed from him a kind of resignation.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I’d forgotten. You must needs make yourself of no use.’

  ‘Indeed. My days as a spy are over, Acquitor.’

  ‘You will be the better for it, Buruk.’

  ‘Assuredly.’

  ‘Will you stay in Trate?’

  ‘Oh yes. It is my home, after all. I intend never to leave Trate.’

  Seren drank her tea. Mint, and something else that thickened her tongue. Flowed turgid and cloying through her thoughts. ‘You have poisoned this tea, Buruk.’ The words slurred.

  ‘Had to, Seren Pedac. Since last night. I can’t have you thinking clearly. Not right now. You’ll sleep again. One of the dockhands will waken you tonight—I will make sure of that, and that you’re safe.’

  ‘Is this another…another betrayal?’ She felt herself sagging on the bench.

  ‘My last, dear. Remember this, if you can: I didn’t want your help.’

  ‘My…help.’

  ‘Although,’ he added from a great distance, ‘you have always held my heart.’

  Fierce pain behind her eyes. She blinked them open. It was night. A robe covered her, tucked up round her chin. The slow rise and fall beneath her and the faint creaks told her she was still aboard the barge, which was now tied up alongside a stone pier. Groaning, she sat up.

  Scuffling sounds beside her, then a tankard was hovering before her face. ‘Drink this, lass.’

  She did not recognize the voice, but pushed the tankard away.

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ the man insisted. ‘Just ale. Clean, cool ale. To take the ache from your head. He said you’d be hurting, you see. And ale’s always done it for me, when I done and drunk too much.’

  ‘I wasn’t drunk—’

  ‘No matter, you wasn’t sleeping a natural sleep. It ain’t no different, you see? Come now, lass, I need to get you up and around. It’s my wife, you see, she’s poorly. We’re past the third bell an’ I don’t like leaving her too long alone. But he paid me good. Errant knows, more than an honest man makes in a year. Jus’ to sit with you, you see. See you’re safe an’ up and walking.’

  She struggled to her feet, clutching at and missing the cloak as it slipped down to her feet.

  The dockhand, a bent, wizened old man, set the tankard down and collected it. ‘Turn now, lass. I got the clasps. There’s a chill this night—you’re shivering. Turn now, yes, good, that’s it.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The weight of the cloak pulled at her neck muscles and shoulders, making the pain in her head throb.

  ‘I had a daughter, once. A noble took her. Debts, you see. Maybe she’s alive, maybe she isn’t. He went through lasses, that one. Back in Letheras. We couldn’t stay there, you see, not after that. Chance t’see her, or a body turning up, like they do. Anyway, she was tall like you, that’s all. Here, have some ale.’

  She accepted the tankard, drank down three quick mouthfuls.

  ‘There, better now.’

  ‘I have to go. So do you, to your wife.’

  ‘Well enough, lass. Can you walk?’

  ‘Where’s my pack?’

  ‘He took it with him, said you could collect it. In the shed behind his house. He was specific ’bout that. The shed. Don’t go in the house, he said. Very specific—’

  She swung to the ladder. ‘Help me.’

  Rough hands under her arms, moving down to her behind as she climbed, then her thighs. ‘Best I can do, lass,’ came a gasp below her as she moved bey
ond his reach. She clambered onto the pier.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said.

  The city was quiet, barring a pair of dogs scrapping somewhere behind a warehouse. Seren stumbled on occasion as she hurried down the streets. But, true to the dockhand’s word, the ale dulled the pain behind her eyes. Made her thoughts all too clear.

  She reached Buruk the Pale’s home, an old but well-maintained house halfway down a row on the street just in from the riverside warehouses.

  No lights showed behind the shuttered windows.

  Seren climbed the steps and drove her boot against the door.

  Four kicks and the locks broke. By this time, neighbours had awakened. There were shouts, calls for the guard. Somewhere down the row a bell began ringing.

  She followed the collapsing door into the cloakroom beyond. No servants, no sound from within. Into the dark hallway, ascending the stairs to the next level. Another hallway, step by step closing in on the door to Buruk’s bedroom. Through the doorway. Inside.

  Where he hung beneath a crossbeam, face bloated in the shadows. A toppled chair off to one side, up against the narrow bed.

  A scream, filled with rage, tore loose from Seren’s throat. Below, boots on the stairs.

  She screamed again, the sound falling away to a hoarse sob.

  You have always held my heart.

  Smoke rising in broad plumes, only to fall back and unfold like a grey cloak over the lands to the north. Obscuring all, hiding nothing.

  Hanradi Khalag’s weathered face was set, expressionless, as he stared at the distant devastation. Beside the chief of the Merude, Trull Sengar remained silent, wondering why Hanradi had joined him at this moment, when the mass of warriors were in the midst of breaking camp on the forested slopes all around them.

  ‘Hull Beddict spoke true,’ the chief said in his raspy voice. ‘They would strike pre-emptively. Beneda, Hiroth and Arapay villages.’

  A night of red fires filling the north. At least four villages, and among them Trull’s own. Destroyed.