‘If you needed a ride,’ the god said, ‘you’d be better off with a wagon, or a horse.’
‘It’s not moving. It stopped. And I’m trying to break into this one. Quick Ben and a marine were waiting below, but they’ve just vanished.’
Cotillion examined the apple, then took another bite.
‘My arms are getting tired.’
Chewing. Swallowing. ‘I’m not surprised, Kalam. Even so, you will have to be patient, since I have some questions. I’ll start with the most obvious one. Why are you trying to break into a fortress filled with K’Chain Che’Malle?’
‘Filled? Are you sure?’
‘Reasonably.’
‘Then what are they doing here?’
‘Waiting, looks like. Anyway, I’m the one asking questions.’
‘Fine. Go ahead, I’ve got all day.’
‘Actually, I think that was my only question. Oh, wait, there’s one more. Would you like me to return you to solid ground, so we can resume our conversation in more comfort?’
‘You’re enjoying this way too much, Cotillion.’
‘The opportunities for amusement grow ever rarer. Fortunately, we’re in something like this keep’s shadow, so our descent will be relatively easy.’
‘Any time.’
Cotillion tossed the apple aside, then reached out to grasp Kalam’s upper arm. ‘Step away and leave the rest to me.’
‘Hold on a moment. Quick Ben’s spells were dispelled – that’s how I ended up stuck here—’
‘Probably because he’s unconscious.’
‘He is?’
‘Or dead. We should confirm things either way, yes?’
You sanctimonious blood-lapping sweat-sucking—
‘Risky,’ Cotillion cut in, ‘making your cursing sound like praying.’ A sharp tug, and Kalam bellowed as he was snatched out from the rockface. And was held, suspended in the air by Cotillion’s grip on his arm. ‘Relax, you damned ox, “easy” is a relative term.’
Thirty heartbeats later their feet touched ground. Kalam pulled his arm away and headed over to the fissure gaping in the place where Quick and Stormy had been waiting. He approached the edge carefully. Called down into the dark. ‘Quick! Stormy!’ No answer.
Cotillion was at his side. ‘Stormy? That wouldn’t be Adjutant Stormy, would it? Pig-eyed, hairy, scowling—’
‘He’s now a corporal,’ Kalam said. ‘And Gesler’s a sergeant.’
A snort from the god, but no further comment.
The assassin leaned back and studied Cotillion. ‘I didn’t really think you’d answer my prayer.’
‘I am a god virtually brimming with surprises.’
Kalam’s gaze narrowed. ‘You came damned fast, too. As if you were… close by.’
‘An outrageous assumption,’ Cotillion said. ‘Yet, oddly enough, accurate.’
The assassin drew the coil of rope from his shoulder, then looked around, and swore.
Sighing, Cotillion held out one hand.
Kalam gave him one end of the rope. ‘Brace yourself,’ he said, as he tumbled the coil down over the pit’s edge. He heard a distant snap.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Cotillion said. ‘I’ll make it as long as you need.’
Hood-damned gods. Kalam worked his way over the edge, then began descending through the gloom. Too much climbing today. Either that or I’m gaining weight. His moccasins finally settled on stone. He stepped away from the rope.
From overhead a small globule of light drifted down, illuminating the nearest wall, vertical, man-made, featuring large painted panels, the images seeming to dance in the descending light. For a moment, Kalam simply stared. No idle decoration, this, but a work of art, a master’s hand exuberantly displayed in each and every detail. Heavily clothed, more or less human in form, the figures were in positions of transcendence, arms upraised in worship or exaltation, faces filled with joy. Whilst, crowding their feet, dismembered body parts had been painted, blood-splashed and buzzing with flies. The mangled flesh continued down to the chamber’s floor, then on out, and Kalam saw now that the bloody scene covered the entire expanse of floor, as far as he could see in every direction.
Pieces of rubble were scattered here and there, and, less than a half-dozen paces away, two motionless bodies.
Kalam headed over.
Both men lived, he was relieved to discover, though it was difficult to determine the extent of their injuries, beyond the obvious. Stormy had broken both legs, one above the knee, the other both bones below the knee. The back of his helm was dented, but he breathed evenly, which Kalam took for a good sign. Quick Ben seemed physically intact – nothing obviously shattered, at least, nor any blood. For both of them, however, internal injuries were another matter. Kalam studied the wizard’s face for a moment, then slapped it.
Quick’s eyes snapped open. He blinked, looked round, coughed, then sat up. ‘One half of my face is numb – what happened?’
‘No idea,’ Kalam said. ‘You and Stormy fell through a hole. The Falari’s in rough shape. But somehow you made it unscathed – how did you do that?’
‘Unscathed? I think my jaw’s broken.’
‘No it isn’t. Must have hit the floor – looks a little puffy but you wouldn’t be talking if it was broke.’
‘Huh, good point.’ He climbed to his feet and approached Stormy. ‘Oh, those legs look bad. We need to set those before I can do any healing.’
‘Healing? Dammit, Quick, you never did any healing in the squad.’
‘No, that was Mallet’s task. I was the brains, remember?’
‘Well, as I recall, that didn’t take up much of your time.’
‘That’s what you think.’ The wizard paused and looked round. ‘Where are we? And where did that light come from?’
‘Compliments of Cotillion, who is on the other end of that rope.’
‘Oh. Well, he can do the healing, then. Get him down here.’
‘Then who will hold the rope?’
‘We don’t need it. Hey, weren’t you climbing the Moon’s Spawn? Ah, that’s why your god is here. Right.’
‘To utter the demon’s name is to call him,’ Kalam said, looking up to watch Cotillion’s slow, almost lazy descent.
The god settled near Stormy and Quick Ben. A brief nod to the wizard, one eyebrow lifting, then Cotillion crouched beside the marine. ‘Adjutant Stormy, what has happened to you?’
‘That should be obvious,’ Kalam said. ‘He broke his legs.’
The god rolled the marine onto his back, pulled at each leg, drawing the bones back in line, then rose. ‘That will do, I think.’
‘Hardly—’
‘Adjutant Stormy,’ Cotillion said, ‘is not quite as mortal as he might seem. Annealed in the fires of Thyrllan. Or Kurald Liosan. Or Tellann. Or all three. In any case, as you can see, he’s mending already. The broken ribs are completely healed, as is the failing liver and shattered hip. And the cracked skull. Alas, nothing can be done for the brain within it.’
‘He’s lost his mind?’
‘I doubt he ever had one,’ the god replied. ‘He’s worse than Urko. At least Urko has interests, peculiar and pointless as they are.’
A groan from Stormy.
Cotillion walked over to the nearest wall. ‘Curious,’ he said. ‘This is a temple to an Elder God. Not sure which one. Kilmandaros, maybe. Or Grizzin Farl. Maybe even K’rul.’
‘A rather bloody kind of worship,’ Kalam muttered.
‘The best kind,’ Quick Ben said, brushing dust from his clothes.
Kalam noted Cotillion’s sly regard of the wizard and wondered at it. Ben Adaephon Delat, Cotillion knows something about you, doesn’t he? Wizard, you’ve got too many secrets by far. The assassin then noticed the rope, still dangling from the hole far above. ‘Cotillion, what did you tie the rope to?’
The god glanced over, smiled. ‘A surprise. I must be going. Gentlemen…’ And he faded, then was gone.
‘Your god makes me n
ervous, Kalam,’ Quick Ben said as Stormy groaned again, louder this time.
And you in turn make him nervous. And now… He looked down at Stormy. The rips in the leggings were all that remained of the ghastly compound fractures. Adjutant Stormy. Annealed in holy fires. Still scowling.
High rock, the sediments stepped and ragged, surrounded their camp, an ancient tree to one side. Cutter sat near the small dung-fire they had lit, watching as Greyfrog circled the area, evincing ever more agitation. Nearby, Heboric Ghost Hands looked to be dozing, the hazy green emanations at the ends of his wrists dully pulsing. Scillara and Felisin Younger were packing their pipes for their new sharing of a post-meal ritual. Cutter’s gaze returned to the demon.
Greyfrog, what’s ailing you?
‘Nervous. I have intimations of tragedy, swiftly approaching. Something… worried and uncertain. In the air, in the sands. Sudden panic. We should leave here. Turn back. Flee.’
Cutter felt sweat bead his skin. He had never heard the demon so… frightened. ‘We should get off this ridge?’
The two women looked up at his spoken words. Felisin Younger glanced at Greyfrog, frowned, then paled. She rose. ‘We’re in trouble,’ she said.
Scillara straightened and walked over to Heboric, nudged him with a boot. ‘Wake up.’
The Destriant of Treach blinked open his eyes, then sniffed the air and rose in a single, fluid motion.
Cutter watched all this in growing alarm. Shit. He kicked sand over the fire. ‘Collect your gear, everyone.’
Greyfrog paused in his circling and watched them. ‘So imminent? Uncertain. Troubled, yes. Need for panic? Changing of mind? Foolishness? Uncertain.’
‘Why take chances?’ Cutter asked. ‘There’s enough light – we’ll see if we can find a more defensible place to camp.’
‘Appropriate compromise. Nerves easing their taut sensitivity. Averted? Unknown.’
‘Usually,’ Heboric said in a rough voice, pausing to spit. ‘Usually, running from one thing throws you into the path of another.’
‘Well, thanks for that, old man.’
Heboric gave Cutter an unpleasant smile. ‘My pleasure.’
The cliff-face was pocked with caves which had, over countless centuries, seen use as places of refuge, as crypts for internment of the dead, as storage chambers, and as sheltered panels for rock-paintings. Detritus littered the narrow ledges that had been used as pathways; here and there a dark sooty stain marred overhangs and crevasses where fires had been lit, but nothing looked recent to Mappo’s eye, and he recognized the funerary ceramics as belonging to the First Empire era.
They were approaching the summit of the escarpment, Icarium scrambling up towards an obvious notch cut into the edge by past rains. The lowering sun on their left was red behind a curtain of suspended dust that had been raised by the passing of a distant storm. Bloodflies buzzed the air around the two travellers, frenzied by the storm’s brittle, energized breath.
Icarium’s drive had become obsessive, a barely restrained ferocity. He wanted judgement, he wanted the truth of his past revealed to him, and when that judgement came, no matter how harsh, he would stand before it and raise not a single hand in his own defence.
And Mappo could think of nothing to prevent it, short of somehow incapacitating his friend, of striking him into unconsciousness. Perhaps it would come to that. But there were risks to such an attempt. Fail and Icarium’s rage would burgeon into life, and all would be lost.
He watched as the Jhag reached the notch and clambered through, then out of sight. Mappo quickly followed. Reaching the summit, he paused, wiping grit from his hands. The old drainage channel had carved a channel through the next tiers of limestone, creating a narrow, twisting track flanked by steep walls. A short distance beyond, Mappo could see the edge of another drop-off, towards which Icarium was heading.
Thick shadows within the channel, insects swarming in the few shafts of sunlight spearing through a gnarled tree. Three strides from reaching Icarium’s side, and the gloom seemed to explode around the Trell. He caught a momentary glimpse of something closing on Icarium from the pinnacle of stone to the Jhag’s right, then figures swarmed him.
The Trell lashed out, felt his fist connect with flesh and bone to his left, the sound solid and crunching. A spatter of blood and phlegm.
A brawny arm snaked round from behind to close on his neck, twisting his head back, the glistening skin of that limb sliding as if oiled before the arm locked tight. Another figure plunged into view from the front, long-taloned hands snapping out, puncturing Mappo’s belly. He bellowed in agony as the claws raked across in an eviscerating slash.
That failed, for the Trell’s hide was thicker than the leather armour covering it. Even so, blood sprayed. The creature behind him tightened its stranglehold. He could feel something of its immense weight and size. Unable to draw a weapon, Mappo pivoted, then flung himself backward into a rock wall. The crunch of bone and skull behind him, a gasp from the beast that rose into a screech of pain.
The creature with its claws in Mappo’s belly had been dragged closer by the Trell’s backward lunge. He closed his hands round its squat, bony skull, flexed, then savagely twisted the head to one side. The neck snapped. Another scream, this time seeming to come from all sides.
Roaring, Mappo staggered forward, grasping at the forearm drawn across his neck. The beast’s weight slammed into him, sent him stumbling.
He caught a glimpse of Icarium, collapsing beneath a swarm of dark, writhing creatures.
Too late he felt his leading foot pitch down over the crumbled edge of the cliff-side, down into… open air. The creature’s weight pushed him further forward, then, as it saw the precipice they were both about to plunge over, the forearm loosened.
But Mappo held fast, twisting to drag the beast with him as he fell.
Another shriek, and he finally caught full sight of the thing. Demonic, mouth opened wide, needle-like fangs fully locked in their hinges, each as long as Mappo’s thumb, glistening black eyes, the pupils vertical and the hue of fresh blood.
T’rolbarahl.
How?
He saw its rage, its horror, as they both plummeted from the cliff.
Falling.
Falling…
Gods, this was—
Book Two
Beneath This Name
In darkness he came, this brutal slayer of kin, discharged and unleashed, when all but ghosts fled the wild disheveled swagger – oh he knew pain, twin fires of vast oblivion burning his soul – and so the ghosts did gather, summoned by one who would stand, mortal and feckless, in the terrible slayer’s path, would stand, this precious fool, and gamble all in the clasping of hand, warm to cold, and be led to the place long vanished, and beasts long vanquished would at his word awaken once more.
And who was there to warn him? Why, no-one, and what found its way free was no friend to the living. When you play horror against horror, dear listener, leave all hope behind – and ride a fast horse.
Master Blind
Saedevar of the Widecut Jhag
Chapter Seven
Never bargain with a man who has nothing to lose.
Sayings of the Fool
Thenys Bule
*
Leoman of the Flails staggered from the inner sanctum, a sheen of sweat on his face. In a hoarse voice he asked, ‘Is it night yet?’
Corabb rose quickly, then sat back down on the bench as blackness threatened to engulf him – he had been sitting too long, watching Dunsparrow attempt to pace a trench in the stone floor. He opened his mouth to reply, but the Malazan woman spoke first.
‘No, Leoman, the sun rides the horizon.’
‘Movement yet from the Malazan camps?’
‘The last runner reported half a bell ago. Nothing at that time.’
There was a strange, triumphant gleam in Leoman’s eyes that troubled Corabb, but he had no time to ask as the great warrior strode past. ‘We must hurry. Back to the palace – s
ome final instructions.’
The enemy was attacking this very night? How could Leoman be so certain? Corabb stood once again, more slowly this time. The High Priestess had forbidden witnesses to the ritual, and when the Queen of Dreams manifested, even the High Priestess and her acolytes had left the chamber with discomfited expressions, leaving Leoman alone with the goddess. Corabb fell in two steps behind his leader, prevented from drawing closer by that damned woman, Dunsparrow.
‘Their mages will make detection difficult,’ the Third was saying as they headed out of the temple.
‘No matter,’ Leoman snapped. ‘It’s not like we have any worthy of the name anyway. Even so, we need to make it look as if we’re trying.’
Corabb frowned. Trying? He did not understand any of this. ‘We need soldiers on the walls!’ he said. ‘As many as can be mustered!’
‘We can’t hold the walls,’ Dunsparrow said over her shoulder. ‘You must have realized that, Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas.’
‘Then – then, why are we here?’
The sky overhead was darkening, the bruise of dusk only moments away.
Through empty streets, the three of them rushed along. Corabb’s frown deepened. The Queen of Dreams. Goddess of divination and who knew what else. He despised all gods, except, of course, for Dryjhna the Apocalyptic. Meddlers, deceivers, murderers one and all. That Leoman would seek one out… this was troubling indeed.
Dunsparrow’s fault, he suspected. She was a woman. The Queen’s priesthood was mostly women – at least, he thought it was – there’d been a High Priestess, after all, a blurry-eyed matron swimming in the fumes of durhang and likely countless other substances. Just to stand near her was to feel drunk. Too seductive by far. Nothing good was going to come of this, nothing at all.
They approached the palace and, finally, some signs of activity. Warriors moving about, weapons clanking, shouts from the fortifications. So, the outer walls would be breached – no other reason for all this preparation. Leoman expected a second siege, here at the palace itself. And soon.
‘Warleader!’ Corabb said, shouldering Dunsparrow aside. ‘Give me command of the palace gates! We shall hold against the Malazan storm in the name of the Apocalypse!’
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