At that word the yellow-haired witch started, and the Preda’s elongated eyes widened slightly.
‘—and this warrior, a lowly hunter among the twenty-thousand-strong clan of the Toblakai, was, by chance, close by, and so he represents only the beginning of what will be, I am afraid, a most thorough retribution. Assuming the Preda is, of course, foolish enough to await their arrival.’
A certain measure of amusement glittered in the Taxilian’s eyes, quickly veiled as he turned to relay Samar’s words to the yellow-haired witch.
Whatever she in turn said to the Preda was twice as long as the Taxilian’s version.
Preda. Would that be a variation on Predal’atr, I wonder? A unit commander in a legion of the First Empire, Middle Period. Yet…this makes no sense. These warriors are not even human, after all.
The witch’s translation was cut short by a gesture from the Preda, who then spoke once more.
When the Taxilian at last translated, there was something like admiration in his tone. ‘The Preda wishes to express his appreciation for this warrior’s formidable skills. Further, he enquires if the warrior’s desire for vengeance is yet abated.’
‘It is not,’ Karsa Orlong replied.
The tone was sufficient for the Preda, who spoke again. The yellow-haired witch’s expression suddenly closed, and she related his words to the Taxilian in a strangely flat monotone.
She hides glee.
Suspicion rose within Samar Dev. What comes now?
The Taxilian said, ‘The Preda well understands the…Toblakai’s position. Indeed, he empathizes, for the Preda himself abhors what he has been commanded to do, along this entire foreign coastline. Yet he must follow the needs of his Emperor. That said, the Preda will order a complete withdrawal of his Tiste Edur forces, back to the fleet. Is the Toblakai satisfied with this?’
‘No.’
The Taxilian nodded at Karsa’s blunt reply, as the Preda spoke again.
Now what?
‘The Preda again has no choice but to follow the commands of his Emperor, a standing order, if you will. The Emperor is the greatest warrior this world has seen, and he ever defends that claim in personal combat. He has faced a thousand or more fighters, drawn from virtually every land, and yet still he lives, triumphant and unvanquished. It is the Emperor’s command that his soldiers, no matter where they are, no matter with whom they speak, are to relate the Emperor’s challenge. Indeed, the Emperor invites any and every warrior to a duel, always to the death – a duel in which no-one can interfere, no matter the consequences, and all rights of Guest are accorded the challenger. Further, the soldiers of the Emperor are instructed to provide transportation and to meet every need and desire of such warriors who would so face the Emperor in duel.’
More words from the Preda.
A deep chill was settling in Samar Dev, a dread she could not identify – but there was something here…something vastly wrong.
The Taxilian resumed. ‘Thus, if this Toblakai hunter seeks the sweetest vengeance of all, he must face the one who has so commanded that his soldiers inflict atrocities upon all strangers they encounter. Accordingly, the Preda invites the Toblakai – and, if desired, his companion – to be Guest of the Tiste Edur on this, their return journey to the Lether Empire. Do you accept?’
Karsa blinked, then looked down at Samar Dev. ‘They invite me to kill their Emperor?’
‘It seems so. But, Karsa, there is—’
‘Tell the Preda,’ the Toblakai said, ‘that I accept.’
She saw the commander smile.
The Taxilian said, ‘Preda Hanradi Khalag then welcomes you among the Tiste Edur.’
Samar Dev looked back at the bodies lying sprawled through the camp. And for these fallen kin, Preda Hanradi Khalag, you care nothing? No, gods below, something is very wrong here—
‘Samar Dev,’ Karsa said, ‘will you stay here?’
She shook her head.
‘Good,’ he grunted. ‘Go get Havok.’
‘Get him yourself, Toblakai.’
The giant grinned. ‘It was worth a try.’
‘Stop looking so damned pleased, Karsa Orlong. I don’t think you have any idea to what you are now bound. Can you not hear the shackles snapping shut? Chaining you to this…this absurd challenge and these damned bloodless Tiste Edur?’
Karsa’s expression darkened. ‘Chains cannot hold me, witch.’
Fool, they are holding you right now.
Glancing across, she saw the yellow-haired witch appraising Karsa Orlong with avid eyes.
And what does that mean, I wonder, and why does it frighten me so?
‘Fist Temul,’ Keneb asked, ‘how does it feel, to be going home?’
The young, tall Wickan – who had recently acquired full-body blue tattooing in the style of the Crow Clan, an intricate geometric design that made his face look like a portrait fashioned of tesserae – was watching as his soldiers led their horses onto the ramps down on the strand below. At Keneb’s question he shrugged. ‘Among my people, I shall face yet again all that I have faced here.’
‘But not alone any more,’ Keneb pointed out. ‘Those warriors down there, they are yours, now.’
‘Are they?’
‘So I was led to understand. They no longer challenge your orders, or your right to command, do they?’
‘I believe,’ Temul said, ‘that most of these Wickans will choose to leave the army once we disembark at Unta. They will return to their families, and when they are asked to recount their adventures in Seven Cities, they will say nothing. It is in my mind, Fist Keneb, that my warriors are shamed. Not because of how they have shown me little respect. No, they are shamed by this army’s list of failures.’ He fixed dark, hard eyes on Keneb. ‘They are too old, or too young, and both are drawn to glory as if she was a forbidden lover.’
Temul was not one for speeches, and Keneb could not recall ever managing to pull so many words from the haunted young man. ‘They sought death, then.’
‘Yes. They would join with Coltaine, Bult and the others, in the only way still possible. To die in battle, against the very same enemy. It is why they crossed the ocean, why they left their villages. They did not expect ever to return home, and so this final journey, back to Quon Tali, will break them.’
‘Damned fools. Forgive me—’
A bitter smile from Temul as he shook his head. ‘No need for that. They are fools, and even had I wisdom, I would fail in its sharing.’
From the remnants of the camp behind them, cattle-dogs began howling. Both men turned in surprise. Keneb glanced over at Temul. ‘What is it? Why—’
‘I don’t know.’
They set off, back towards the camp.
Lieutenant Pores watched Bent race up the track, skirls of dust rising in the dog’s wake. He caught a momentary glimpse of wild half-mad eyes above that mangled snout, then the beast was past. So only now we find out that they’re terrified of water. Well, good. We can leave the ugly things behind. He squinted towards the file of Wickans and Seti overseeing the loading of their scrawny horses – not many of those animals would survive this journey, he suspected, which made them valuable sources of meat. Anything to liven up the deck-wash and bilge-crud sailors call food. Oh, those horse-warriors might complain, but that wouldn’t keep them from lining up with their bowls when the bell tolled.
Kindly had made sure the Adjunct knew, in torrid detail, his displeasure with Fist Keneb’s incompetence. There was no question of Kindly lacking courage, or at least raging megalomania. But this time, dammit, the old bastard had had a point. An entire day and half a night had been wasted by Keneb. A Hood-damned kit inspection, presented squad by squad – and right in the middle of boarding assembly – gods, the chaos that ensued. ‘Has Keneb lost his mind?’ Oh yes, Kindly’s first question to the Adjunct, and something in her answering scowl told Pores that the miserable woman had known nothing about any of it, and clearly could not comprehend why Keneb would have ordered such a thi
ng.
Well, no surprise, that, with her moping around in her damned tent doing who knew what with that cold beauty T’amber. Even the Admiral’s frustration had been obvious. Word was going through the ranks that Tavore was likely in line for demotion – Y’Ghatan could have been handled better. Every damned soldier turned out to be a tactical genius when it came to that, and more than once Pores had bitten out a chunk of soldier meat for some treasonous comment. It didn’t matter that Nok and Tavore were feuding; it didn’t matter that Tene Baralta was a seething cauldron of sedition among the officers; it didn’t even matter that Pores himself was undecided whether the Adjunct could have done better at Y’Ghatan – the rumours alone were as poisonous as any plague the Grey Goddess could spit out.
He was both looking forward to and dreading boarding the transports, and the long, tedious journey ahead. Bored soldiers were worse than woodworm in the keel – or so the sailors kept saying, as they cast jaded eyes on the dusty, swearing men and women who ascended the ramps only to fall silent, huddling like shorn sheep in the raft-like scuttles as the heave and haul chant rang out over the choppy water. Worse still, seas and oceans were nasty things. Soldiers would face death with nary a blink if they knew they could fight back, maybe even fight their way out of it, but the sea was immune to swinging swords, whistling arrows and shield-walls. And Hood knows, we’ve been swallowing that lumpy helpless thing enough as it is.
Damned cattle-dogs were all letting loose now.
Now what? Unsure of his own reasons, Pores set off in the direction Bent had gone. East on the track, past the command tent, then the inner ring of pickets, and out towards the latrine trenches – and the lieutenant saw the racing figures of a dozen or so cattle-dogs, their mottled, tanned shapes converging, then circling with wild barking – and on the road, the subjects of their excitement, a troop approaching on foot.
So who in the Queen’s name are they? The outriders were all in – he was sure of that – he’d seen the Seti practising heaving their guts up on the ramps – they got seasick standing in a puddle. And the Wickans had already surrendered their mounts to the harried transport crews.
Pores glanced round, saw a soldier leading three horses towards the strand. ‘Hey! Hold up there.’ He walked over. ‘Give me one of those.’
‘They ain’t saddled, sir.’
‘Really? How can you tell?’
The man started pointing at the horse’s back—
‘Idiot,’ Pores said, ‘give me those reins, no, those ones.’
‘That’s the Adjunct’s—’
‘Thought I recognized it.’ He pulled the beast away then vaulted onto its back. Then set off onto the road. The foundling, Grub, was walking out from the camp, at one ankle that yipping mutt that looked like what a cow would regurgitate after eating a mohair rug. Ignoring them, Pores angled his mount eastward, and kicked it into a canter.
He could already put a name to the one in the lead. Captain Faradan Sort. And there was that High Mage, Quick Ben, and that scary assassin Kalam, and – gods below, but they’re all – no, they weren’t. Marines! Damned marines!
He heard shouts from the camp behind him now, an alarm being raised outside the command tent.
Pores could not believe his own eyes. Survivors – from the firestorm – that was impossible. Granted, they look rough, half-dead in fact. Like Hood used ’em to clean out his hoary ears. There’s Lostara Yil – well, she ain’t as bad as the rest—
Lieutenant Pores reined in before Faradan Sort. ‘Captain—’
‘We need water,’ she said, the words barely making it out between chapped, cracked and blistered lips.
Gods, they look awful. Pores wheeled his horse round, nearly slipping off the animal’s back in the process. Righting himself, he rode back towards the camp.
As Keneb and Temul reached the main track, thirty paces from the command tent, they saw the Adjunct appear, and, a moment later, Blistig, and then T’amber. Soldiers were shouting something as yet incomprehensible from the eastern end of the camp.
The Adjunct turned towards her two approaching Fists. ‘It seems my horse has gone missing.’
Keneb’s brows rose. ‘Thus the alarms? Adjunct—’
‘No, Keneb. A troop has been spotted on the east road.’
‘A troop? We’re being attacked?’
‘I do not think so. Well, accompany me, then. It seems we shall have to walk. And this will permit you, Fist Keneb, to explain the fiasco that occurred regarding the boarding of your company.’
‘Adjunct?’
‘I find your sudden incompetence unconvincing.’
He glanced across at her. There was the hint of an emotion, there on that plain, drawn visage. A hint, no more, not enough that he could identify it. ‘Grub,’ he said.
The Adjunct’s brows rose. ‘I believe you will need to elaborate on that, Fist Keneb.’
‘He said we should take an extra day boarding, Adjunct.’
‘And this child’s advice, a barely literate, half-wild child at that, is sufficient justification for you to confound your Adjunct’s instructions?’
‘Not normally, no,’ Keneb replied. ‘It’s difficult to explain…but he knows things. Things he shouldn’t, I mean. He knew we were sailing west, for example. He knew our planned ports of call—’
‘Hiding behind the command tent,’ Blistig said.
‘Have you ever seen the boy hide, Blistig? Ever?’
The man scowled. ‘Must be he’s good at it, then.’
‘Adjunct, Grub said we needed to delay one day – or we would all die. At sea. I am beginning to believe—’
She held up a gloved hand, the gesture sharp enough to silence him, and he saw that her eyes were narrowed now, fixed on what was ahead—
A rider, bareback, coming at full gallop.
‘That’s Kindly’s lieutenant,’ Blistig said.
When it became obvious that the man had no intention of slowing down, nor of changing course, everyone quickly moved to the sides of the road.
The lieutenant sketched a hasty salute, barely seen through the dust, as he plunged past, shouting something like: ‘They need water!’
‘And,’ Blistig added, waving at clouds of dust as they all set out again, ‘that was your horse, Adjunct.’
Keneb looked down the road, blinking to get the grit from his eyes. Figures wavered into view. Indistinct…no, that was Faradan Sort…wasn’t it?
‘Your deserter is returning,’ Blistig said. ‘Stupid of her, really, since desertion is punishable by execution. But who are those people behind her? What are they carrying?’
The Adjunct halted suddenly, the motion almost a stagger.
Quick Ben. Kalam. More faces, covered in dust, so white they looked like ghosts – and so they are. What else could they be? Fiddler. Gesler, Lostara Yil, Stormy – Keneb saw one familiar, impossible face after another. Sun-ravaged, stumbling, like creatures trapped in delirium. And in their arms, children, dull-eyed, shrunken…
The boy knows things…Grub…
And there he stood, flanked by his ecstatic dogs, talking, it seemed, with Sinn.
Sinn, we’d thought her mad with grief – she’d lost a brother, after all…lost, and now found again.
But Faradan Sort had suspected, rightly, that something else had possessed Sinn. A suspicion strong enough to drive her into desertion.
Gods, we gave up too easily – but no – the city, the firestorm – we waited for days, waited until the whole damned ruin had cooled. We picked through the ashes. No-one could have lived through that.
The troop arrived to where the Adjunct stood.
Captain Faradan Sort straightened with only a slight waver, then saluted, fist to left side of her chest. ‘Adjunct,’ she rasped, ‘I have taken the liberty of re-forming the squads, pending approval—’
‘That approval is Fist Keneb’s responsibility,’ the Adjunct said, her voice strangely flat. ‘Captain, I did not expect to see you again.’
A nod. ‘I understand the necessities of maintaining military discipline, Adjunct. And so, I now surrender myself to you. I ask, however, that leniency be granted Sinn – her youth, her state of mind at the time…’
Horses from up the road. Lieutenant Pores returning, more riders behind him. Bladders filled with water, swinging and bouncing like huge udders. The other riders – healers, one and all, including the Wickans Nil and Nether. Keneb stared at their expressions of growing disbelief as they drew closer.
Fiddler had come forward, a scrawny child sleeping or unconscious in his arms. ‘Adjunct,’ he said through cracked lips, ‘without the captain, digging with her own hands, not one of us trapped under that damned city would have ever left it. We’d be mouldering bones right now.’ He stepped closer, but his effort at lowering his voice to a whisper failed, as Keneb heard him say, ‘Adjunct, you hang the captain for desertion and you better get a lot more nooses, ’cause we’ll leave this miserable world when she does.’
‘Sergeant,’ the Adjunct said, seemingly unperturbed, ‘am I to understand that you and those squads behind you burrowed beneath Y’Ghatan in the midst of the firestorm, somehow managing not to get cooked in the process, and then dug your way clear?’
Fiddler turned his head and spat blood, then he smiled a chilling, ghastly smile, the flaking lips splitting in twin rows of red, glistening fissures. ‘Aye,’ he said in a rasp, ‘we went hunting…through the bones of the damned city. And then, with the captain’s help, we crawled outa that grave.’
The Adjunct’s gaze left the ragged man, travelled slowly along the line, the gaunt faces, the deathly eyes staring out from dust-caked faces, the naked, blistered skin. ‘Bonehunters in truth, then.’ She paused, as Pores led his healers forward with their waterskins, then said, ‘Welcome back, soldiers.’
Book Four
The Bonehunters
Who will deny that it is our nature to believe the very worst in our fellow kind? Even as cults rose and indeed coalesced into a patronomic worship – not just of Coltaine, the Winged One, the Black Feather, but too of the Chain of Dogs itself – throughout Seven Cities, with shrines seeming to grow from the very wastes along that ill-fated trail, shrines in propitiation to one dead hero after another: Bult, Lull, Mincer, Sormo E’nath, even Baria and Mesker Setral of the Red Blades; and to the Foolish Dog clan, the Weasel clan and of course the Crow and the Seventh Army itself; while at Gelor Ridge, in an ancient monastery overlooking the old battle site, a new cult centred on horses was born – even as this vast fever of veneration gripped Seven Cities, so certain agents in the heart of the Malazan Empire set loose, among the commonry, tales purporting the very opposite: that Coltaine had betrayed the empire; that he had been a renegade, secretly allied with Sha’ik. After all, had the countless refugees simply stayed in their cities, accepting the rebellion’s dominion; had they not been dragged out by Coltaine and his bloodthirsty Wickans; and had the Seventh’s Mage Cadre leader, Kulp, not so mysteriously disappeared, thus leaving the Malazan Army vulnerable to the sorcerous machinations and indeed manipulations of the Wickan witches and warlocks – had not all this occurred, there would have been no slaughter, no terrible ordeal of crossing half a continent exposed to every predating half-wild tribe in the wastes. And, most heinous of all, Coltaine had then, in league with the traitorous Imperial Historian, Duiker, connived to effect the subsequent betrayal and annihilation of the Aren Army, led by the naïve High Fist Pormqual who was the first victim of that dread betrayal. Why else, after all, would those very rebels of Seven Cities take to the worship of such figures, if not seeing in Coltaine and the rest heroic allies…
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