Gods, no wonder you hid down here, Quick. ‘That’s…uncanny. You’re sending shivers all through me.’
‘I know. I feel the same way.’
‘So, how did you hide from Hood?’
‘I was part of the Gate, of course. Just another corpse, just another staring face.’
‘Hey, now that was clever.’
‘Wasn’t it?’
‘What was it like, among all those bones and bodies and stuff?’
‘Kind of…comforting…’
I can see that. Kalam scowled again. Hold on…I wonder…is there maybe something wrong with us? ‘Quick, you and me.’
‘Yes?’
‘I think we’re insane.’
‘You’re not.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re too slow. You can’t be insane if you only just realized that we’re insane. Understand?’
‘No.’
‘As I said, then.’
‘Well,’ the assassin grunted, ‘that’s a relief.’
‘For you, yes. Shh!’ The wizard’s hand clutched Kalam’s arm. ‘It’s back!’ he hissed. ‘Close!’
‘Within reach?’ Kalam asked in a whisper.
‘Gods, I hope not!’
A solitary resident in this cabin, and in the surrounding alcoves and cubby berths, a cordon of Red Blades, fiercely protective of their embittered, broken commander, although none elected to share the Fist’s quarters, despite the ship’s crowded conditions. Beyond those soldiers, the Khundryl Burned Tears, seasick one and all, filling the air below-decks with the sour reek of bile.
And so he remained alone. Wreathed by his own close, fetid air, no lantern light to beat back the dark, and this was well. For all that was outside matched what was inside, and Fist Tene Baralta told himself, again and again, that this was well.
Y’Ghatan. The Adjunct had sent them in, under strength, knowing there would be slaughter. She didn’t want the damned veterans and their constant gnawing at her command. She wanted to be rid of the Red Blades, and the marines – soldiers like Cuttle and Fiddler. She had probably worked it out, conspiring with Leoman himself. That conflagration, its execution had been too perfect, too well-timed. There had been signals – those fools with the lanterns on the rooftops, along the wall’s battlements.
And the season itself – a city filled with olive oil, an entire year’s harvest – she hadn’t rushed the army after Leoman, she hadn’t shown any haste at all, when any truly loyal commander would have…would have chased that bastard down, long before he reached Y’Ghatan.
No, the timing was…diabolical.
And here he was, maimed and trapped in the midst of damned traitors. Yet, again and again, events had transpired to befoul the Adjunct and her treasonous, murderous plans. The survival of the marines – Lostara among them. Then, Quick Ben’s unexpected countering of those Edur mages. Oh yes, his soldiers reported to him, every morsel of news. They understood – although they revealed nothing of their suspicions – he could well see it in their eyes, they understood. That necessary things were coming. Soon.
And it would be Fist Tene Baralta himself who would lead them. Tene Baralta, the Maimed, the Betrayed. Oh yes, there would be names for him. There would be cults to worship him, just as there were cults worshipping other great heroes of the Malazan Empire. Like Coltaine. Bult. Baria Setral and his brother, Mesker, of the Red Blades.
In such company, Tene Baralta would belong. Such company, he told himself, was his only worthy company.
One eye left, capable of seeing…almost…In daylight a blurred haze swarmed before his vision, and there was pain, so much pain, until he could not even so much as turn his head – oh yes, the healers had worked on him – with orders, he now knew, to fail him again and again, to leave him with a plague of senseless scars and phantom agonies. And, once out of his room, they would laugh, at the imagined success of their charade.
Well, he would deliver their gifts back into their laps, all those healers.
In this soft, warm darkness, he stared upward from where he lay on the cot. Things unseen creaked and groaned. A rat scuttled back and forth along one side of the cramped chamber. His sentinel, his bodyguard, his caged soul.
A strange smell reached him, sweet, cloying, numbing, and he felt his aches fading, the shrieking nerves falling quiescent.
‘Who’s there?’ he croaked.
A rasping reply, ‘A friend, Tene Baralta. One, indeed, whose visage matches your own. Like you, assaulted by betrayal. You and I, we are torn and twisted to remind us, again and again, that one who bears no scars cannot be trusted. Ever. It is a truth, my friend, that only a mortal who has been broken can emerge from the other side, whole once more. Complete, and to all his victims, arrayed before him, blindingly bright, yes? The searing white fires of his righteousness. Oh, I promise you, that moment shall taste sweet.’
‘An apparition,’ Tene Baralta gasped. ‘Who has sent you? The Adjunct, yes? A demonic assassin, to end this—’
‘Of course not – and even as you make such accusations, Tene Baralta, you know them to be false. She could kill you at any time—’
‘My soldiers protect me—’
‘She will not kill you,’ the voice said. ‘She has no need. She has already cast you away, a useless, pathetic victim of Y’Ghatan. She has no realization, Tene Baralta, that your mind lives on, as sharp as it has ever been, its judgement honed and eager to draw foul blood. She is complacent.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I am named Gethol. I am the Herald of the House of Chains. And I am here, for you. You alone, for we have sensed, oh yes, we have sensed that you are destined for greatness.’
Ah, such emotion here, at his words…no, hold it back. Be strong…show this Gethol your strength. ‘Greatness,’ he said. ‘Yes, of that I have always been aware, Herald.’
‘And the time has come, Tene Baralta.’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you feel our gift within you? Diminishing your pain, yes?’
‘I do.’
‘Good. That gift is yours, and there is more to come.’
‘More?’
‘Your lone eye, Tene Baralta, deserves more than a clouded, uncertain world, don’t you think? You need a sharpness of vision to match the sharpness of your mind. That seems reasonable, indeed, just.’
‘Yes.’
‘That will be your reward, Tene Baralta.’
‘If I do what?’
‘Later. Such details are not for tonight. Until we speak again, follow your conscience, Tene Baralta. Make your plans for what will come. You are returning to the Malazan Empire, yes? That is good. Know this, the Empress awaits you. You, Tene Baralta, more than anyone else in this army. Be ready for her.’
‘Oh, I shall, Gethol.’
‘I must leave you now, lest this visitation be discovered – there are many powers hiding in this army. Be careful. Trust no-one—’
‘I trust my Red Blades.’
‘If you must, yes, you will need them. Goodbye, Tene Baralta.’
Silence once more, and the gloom, unchanged and unchanging, inside and out. Destined, yes, for greatness. They shall see that. When I speak with the Empress. They shall all see that.
Lying in her bunk, the underside of the one above a mere hand’s-breadth away, knotted twine and murky tufts of bedding, Lostara Yil kept her breathing slow, even. She could hear the beat of her own heart, the swish of blood in her ears.
The soldier in the bunk beneath her grunted, then said in a low voice, ‘He’s now talking to himself. Not good.’
The voice from within Tene Baralta’s cabin had been murmuring through the wall for the past fifty heartbeats, but had now, it seemed, stopped.
Talking to himself? Hardly, that was a damned conversation. She closed her eyes at the thought, wishing she had been asleep and unmindful of the ever more sordid nightmare that was her commander’s world: the viscous light in his eye when she looked upon him, the muscles of his
frame sagging into fat, the twisted face beginning to droop, growing flaccid where there were no taut scars. Pallid skin, strands of hair thick with old sweat.
What has burned away is what tempered his soul. Now, there is only malice, a mottled collection of stains, fused impurities.
And I am his captain once more, by his own command. What does he want with me? What does he expect?
Tene Baralta had ceased speaking. And now she could sleep, if only her mind would cease its frantic racing.
Oh Cotillion, you knew, didn’t you? You knew this would come. Yet, you left the choice to me. And now freedom feels like a curse.
Cotillion, you never play fair.
The western coast of the Catal Sea was jagged with fjords, high black cliffs and tumbled boulders. The mountains rising almost immediately behind the shoreline were thick with coniferous trees, their green needles so dark as to be almost black. Huge red-tailed ravens wheeled overhead, voicing strange, harsh laughter as they banked and pitched towards the fleet of ominous ships that approached the Malazans, swooping low only to lift with heavy, languid beats of their wings.
The Adjunct’s flagship was now alongside Nok’s own, and the Admiral had just crossed over to join Tavore as they awaited the arrival of the Perish.
Keneb stared with fascination at the massive warships drawing ever nearer. Each was in fact two dromons linked by arching spans, creating a catamaran of cyclopean proportions. The sudden dying of the wind had forced oars into the becalmed waters, and this included a double bank of oars on the inward side of each dromon, foreshortened by the spans.
The Fist had counted thirty-one of the giant craft, arrayed in a broad, flattened wedge. He could see ballistae mounted to either side of the wolf-head prows, and attached to the outer rails along the length of the ships was a double row of overlapping rectangular shields, their bronze facings polished and glinting in the muted sunlight.
As the lead ship closed, oars were lifted, shipped.
One of Nok’s officers said, ‘Look beneath the surface between the hulls, Admiral. The spans above are matched by ones below the waterline…and those possess rams.’
‘It would be unwise indeed,’ Nok said, ‘to invite battle with these Perish.’
‘Yet someone had done just that,’ the Adjunct said. ‘Mage-fire damage, there, on the one flanking the flagship. Admiral, what do you imagine to be the complement of soldiers aboard each of these catamarans?’
‘Could be as many as two hundred marines or the equivalent for each dromon. Four hundred per craft – I wonder if some of them are at the oars. Unless, of course, there are slaves.’
The flag visible beneath the crow’s nest on the lead ship’s mainmast showed a wolf’s head on a black field bordered in grey.
They watched as a long craft resembling a war canoe was lowered between the flagship’s two hulls, then armoured soldiers descended, taking up paddles. Three more figures joined them. All but one wore iron helms, camailed at the back, with sweeping cheek-guards. Grey cloaks, leather gauntlets. The lone exception was a man, tall, gaunt and bald, wearing a heavy woollen robe of dark grey. Their skins were fair, but all other characteristics remained unseen beneath armour.
‘That’s a whole lot of chain weighing down that canoe,’ the same officer muttered. ‘If she rolls, a score lumps rusting on the bottom…’
The craft slid over the submerged ram, swiftly propelled by the paddlers whose blades flashed in perfect unison. Moments later a soft-voiced command triggered a withdrawal of the paddles, barring that of the soldier at the very stern, who ruddered, bringing the canoe around to draw up alongside the Malazan flagship.
At Nok’s command, sailors rushed over to help the Perish contingent aboard.
First to appear was a tall, broad-shouldered figure, black-cloaked. Beneath the thick wool was a surcoat of blackened chain that glistened with oil. The longsword at the left hip revealed a silver wolf’s-head pommel. The Perish paused, looked round, then approached the Adjunct as others appeared from the rail. Among them was the robed man, who called out something to the one Keneb surmised was the commander. That person halted, half-turned, and the voice that emerged from behind the visored helm startled Keneb, for it was a woman’s.
She’s a damned giant – even the women heavies in our army would hesitate facing this one.
Her question was short.
The bald man replied with a single word, at which the woman in armour bowed and stepped to one side.
Keneb watched the robed man stride forward, eyes on the Adjunct. ‘Mezla,’ he said. ‘Welcome.’
He speaks Malazan. Well, that should make this easier.
The Adjunct nodded. ‘Welcome in return, Perish. I am Adjunct Tavore Paran, and this is Admiral Nok—’
‘Ah, yes, that name is known to us, sir.’ A low bow towards Nok, who seemed startled for a moment, before replying in kind.
‘You speak our language well,’ Tavore said.
‘Forgive me, Adjunct. I am Destriant Run’Thurvian.’ He gestured to the huge woman beside him. ‘This is the Mortal Sword Krughava.’ And then, stepping to one side, he bowed to another soldier standing two steps behind the Mortal Sword. ‘Shield Anvil Tanakalian.’ The Destriant added something in his own language, and in response both the Mortal Sword and the Shield Anvil removed their helms.
Ah, these are hard, hard soldiers. Krughava, iron-haired, was blue-eyed, her weathered face seamed with scars, yet the bones beneath her stern, angular features were robust and even. The Shield Anvil was, in contrast, quite young, and if anything broader of shoulder, although not as tall as the Mortal Sword. His hair was yellow, the colour of stalks of wheat; his eyes deep grey.
‘Your ships have seen fighting,’ Admiral Nok said to the Destriant.
‘Yes sir. We lost four in the engagement.’
‘And the Tiste Edur,’ the Adjunct asked, ‘how many did they lose?’
The Destriant suddenly deferred to the Mortal Sword, bowing, and the woman replied in fluent Malazan, ‘Uncertain. Perhaps twenty, once their sorcery was fended aside. Although nimble, the ships were under-strength. Nonetheless, they fought well, without quarter.’
‘Are you in pursuit of the surviving ships?’
‘No, sir,’ Krughava replied, then fell silent.
The Destriant said, ‘Noble sirs, we have been waiting for you. For the Mezla.’
He turned then and walked to stand at the Shield Anvil’s side.
Krughava positioned herself directly opposite the Adjunct. ‘Admiral Nok, forgive me,’ she said, holding her gaze on Tavore. The Mortal Sword then drew her sword.
As with every other Malazan officer witness to this, Keneb tensed, reaching for his own weapon.
But the Adjunct did not flinch. She wore no weapon at all.
The length of blue iron sliding from the scabbard was etched from tip to hilt, two wolves stretched in full charge, every swirl of fur visible, their fangs polished brighter than all else, gleaming, the eyes blackened smears. The artisan-ship was superb, yet that blade’s edge was notched and battered. Its length gleamed with oil.
The Mortal Sword held the sword horizontally, against her own chest, and there was a formal rigidity to her words as she said, ‘I am Krughava, Mortal Sword of the Grey Helms of the Perish, sworn to the Wolves of Winter. In solemn acceptance of all that shall soon come to pass, I pledge my army to your service, Adjunct Tavore Paran. Our complement: thirty-one Thrones of War. Thirteen thousand and seventy-nine brothers and sisters of the Order. Before us, Adjunct Tavore, awaits the end of the world. In the name of Togg and Fanderay, we shall fight until we die.’
No-one spoke.
The Mortal Sword settled onto one knee, and laid the sword at Tavore’s feet.
On the forecastle, Kalam stood beside Quick Ben, watching the ceremony on the mid deck. The wizard beside the assassin was muttering under his breath, the sound finally irritating Kalam enough to draw his gaze from the scene below, even as the Adjunct, with a solemn
ity to match the Mortal Sword’s, picked up the sword and returned it to Krughava.
‘Will you be quiet, Quick!’ Kalam hissed. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
The wizard stared at him with a half-wild look in his dark eyes. ‘I recognize these…these Perish. Those titles, the damned formality and high diction – I recognize these people!’
‘And?’
‘And…nothing. But I will say this, Kal. If we ever end up besieged, woe to the attackers.’
The assassin grunted. ‘Grey Helms—’
‘Grey Helms, Swords…gods below, Kalam – I need to talk to Tavore.’
‘Finally!’
‘I really need to talk to her.’
‘Go on down and introduce yourself, High Mage.’
‘You must be mad…’
Quick Ben’s sudden trailing away brought Kalam’s gaze back round to the crowd below, and he saw the Destriant, Run’Thurvian, looking up, eyes locked with Quick’s own. Then the robed man smiled, and bowed low in greeting.
Heads turned.
‘Shit,’ Quick Ben said at his side.
Kalam scowled. ‘High Mage Ben Adaephon Delat,’ he said under his breath, ‘the Lord of High Diction.’
Chapter Twenty-one
A Book of Prophecy opens the door. You need a second book to close it.
Tanno Spiritwalker Kimloc
With silver tongs, the servant set another disk of ground rustleaf atop the waterpipe. Felisin Younger drew on the mouthpiece, waving the servant away, watching bemused as the old woman – head bowed so low her forehead was almost scraping the floor – backed away on her hands and knees. More of Kulat’s rules of propriety when in the presence of Sha’ik Reborn. She was tired of arguing about it – if the fools felt the need to worship her, then so be it. After all, for the first time in her life, she found that her every need was met, attended to with fierce diligence, and those needs – much to her surprise – were growing in count with every day that passed.
As if her soul was a vast cauldron, one that demanded filling, yet was in truth bottomless. They fed her, constantly, and she was growing heavy, clumsy with folds of soft fat – beneath her breasts, and on her hips and behind, the underside of her arms, her belly and thighs. And, no doubt, her face as well, although she had outlawed the presence of mirrors in her throne room and private chambers.
The Malazan Empire Page 551