Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

‘Impossible. The Unbound have delivered you. Where could you go even if you might? We are leagues upon leagues from anywhere.’ He sucked on the pebbles, swallowed spit, then continued, ‘You would have no food. No water. Please, Chosen One, a temple awaits you within this buried city – I have worked so long, so hard to ready it for you. There is food, and water. And soon there will be more servants, all desperate to answer your every desire – once you accept what you have become.’ He paused to smile again, and she saw the stones – black, polished, at least three, each the size of a knuckle bone. ‘Soon, you shall realize what you have become – leader of the greatest cult of Seven Cities, and it will sweep beyond, across every sea and every ocean – it shall claim the world—’

  ‘You are mad,’ Felisin said.

  ‘The Whispers do not lie.’ He reached for her and she recoiled at that glistening, pustuled hand. ‘Ah, there was plague, you see. Poliel, the goddess herself, she bowed before the Chained One – as must we all, even you – and only then shall you come into your rightful power. Plague – it claimed many, it left entire cities filled with blackened bodies – but others survived, because of the Whispers, and so were marked – by sores and twisted limbs, by blindness. For some it was their tongues. Rotting and falling off, thus leaving them mute. Among others, their ears bled and all sound has left their world. Do you understand? They had weakness, and the Chained One – he has shown how weakness becomes strength. I can sense them, for I am the first. Your seneschal. I sense them. They are coming.’

  She continued staring down at his sickly hand, and after a moment he returned it to his side.

  Clicking. ‘Please, follow me. Let me show you all that I have done.’

  Felisin lifted her hands to her face. She did not understand. None of this made any sense. ‘What,’ she asked, ‘is your name?’

  ‘Kulat.’

  ‘And what,’ she said in a whisper, ‘is mine?’

  He bowed. ‘They did not understand – none of them did. The Apocalyptic – it is not just war, not just rebellion. It is devastation. Not just of the land – that is but what follows – do you see? The Apocalypse, it is of the spirit. Crushed, broken, slave to its own weaknesses. Only from such a tormented soul can ruin be delivered to the land and to all who dwell upon it. We must die inside to kill all that lies outside. Only then, once death takes us all, only then shall we find salvation.’ He bowed lower. ‘You are Sha’ik Reborn, Chosen as the Hand of the Apocalypse.’

  ‘Change of plans,’ muttered Iskaral Pust as he scurried about, seemingly at random, moving into and out of the campfire’s light. ‘Look!’ he hissed. ‘She’s gone, the mangy cow! A few monstrous shadows in the night and poof! Nothing but spiders, hiding in every crack and cranny. Bah! Snivelling coward. I was thinking, Trell, that we should run. Yes, run. You go that way and I’ll go this way – I mean, I’ll be right behind you, of course, why would I abandon you now? Even with those things on the way…’ He paused, pulled at his hair, then resumed his frantic motion. ‘But why should I worry? Have I not been loyal? Effective? Brilliant as ever? So, why are they here?’

  Mappo drew out a mace from his sack. ‘I see nothing,’ he said, ‘and all I can hear is you, High Priest. Who has come?’

  ‘Did I say anything was coming?’

  ‘Yes, you did.’

  ‘Can I help it if you’ve lost your mind? But why, that’s what I want to know, yes, why? It’s not like we need the company. Besides, you’d think this was the last place they’d want to be, if what I’m smelling is what I’m smelling, and I wouldn’t be smelling what I’m smelling if something wasn’t there that didn’t smell, right?’ He paused, cocked his head. ‘What’s that smell? Never mind, where was I? Yes, trying to conceive of the inconceivable, the inconceivable being the notion that Shadowthrone is actually quite sane. Preposterous, I know. Anyway, if that, then this, this being he knows what he’s doing. He has reasons – actual reasons.’

  ‘Iskaral Pust,’ Mappo said, rising from where he had been sitting near the fire. ‘Are we in danger?’

  ‘Has Hood seen better days? Of course we’re in danger, you oafish fool – oh, I must keep such opinions to myself. How about this? Danger? Haha, my friend, of course not. Haha. Ha. Oh, here they are…’

  Massive shapes emerged from the darkness. Red ember eyes to one side, lurid green eyes on another, then other sets, one gold, another coppery. Silent, hulking and deadly.

  The Hounds of Shadow.

  Somewhere far away in the desert, a wolf or coyote howled as if it had caught a scent from the Abyss itself. Closer to hand, even the crickets had fallen silent.

  The hairs on the back of the Trell’s neck stiffened. He too could now smell the fell beasts. Acrid, pungent. With that reek came painful memories. ‘What do they want with us, High Priest?’

  ‘Be quiet – I need to think.’

  ‘No need to tax yourself,’ said a new voice from the darkness, and Mappo turned to see a man step into the fire’s light. Grey-cloaked, tallish, and otherwise nondescript. ‘They are but… passing through.’

  Iskaral’s face brightened with false pleasure even as he flinched. ‘Ah, Cotillion – can you not see? I have achieved all Shadowthrone asked of me—’

  ‘With that clash you had with Dejim Nebrahl,’ Cotillion said, ‘you have in fact exceeded expectations – I admit, I had no idea you possessed such prowess, Iskaral Pust. Shadowthrone chose well his Magi.’

  ‘Yes, he’s full of surprises, isn’t he?’ The High Priest crab-walked over to crouch by the fire, then he cocked his head and said, ‘Now, what does he want? To put me at ease? He never puts me at ease. To lead the Hounds onto some poor fool’s trail? Not for long, I hope. For that fool’s sake. No, none of these things. He’s here to confound me, but I am a High Priest of Shadow, after all, and so cannot be confounded. Why? Because I serve the most confounding god there is, that’s why. Thus, need I worry? Of course, but he’ll never know, will he? No, I need only smile up at this killer god and say: Would you like some cactus tea, Cotillion?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Cotillion replied, ‘I would.’

  Mappo set his mace down and resumed his seat as Iskaral poured out the tea. The Trell struggled against the desperation growing within him. Somewhere to the north, Icarium sat before flames likely little different from these ones, haunted as ever by what he could not remember. Yet, he was not alone. No, another has taken my place. That should have been cause for relief, but all Mappo could feel was fear. I cannot trust the Nameless Ones – I learned that a long time ago. No, Icarium was now being led by someone who cared nothing for the Jhag—

  ‘It pleases me, Mappo Runt,’ said Cotillion, ‘that you are well.’

  ‘The Hounds of Shadow once fought at our sides,’ Mappo said, ‘on the Path of Hands.’

  Cotillion nodded, sipping at the tea. ‘Yes, you and Icarium came very close, then.’

  ‘Close? What do you mean?’

  The Patron God of Assassins was a long time in replying. Around them, just beyond the camp, the huge Hounds seemed to have settled for the night. ‘It is less a curse,’ he finally said, ‘than a… residue. The death of an Azath House releases all manner of forces, energies – not just those belonging to the denizens in their earthen tombs. There is, burned into Icarium’s soul, something like an infection, or, perhaps, a parasite. Its nature is chaos, and the effect is one of discontinuity. It defies progression, of thought, of spirit, of life itself. Mappo, that infection must be expunged, if you would save Icarium.’

  The Trell could barely draw breath. In all the centuries at the Jhag’s side, among all the words given him by the Nameless Ones, by scholars and sages across half the world, he had never before heard anything like this. ‘Are – are you certain?’

  A slow nod. ‘As much as is possible. Shadowthrone, and I,’ he looked up, then half-shrugged, ‘our path to ascendancy was through the Houses of the Azath. There were years – a good number of them – in which neither I nor the man who at that ti
me was known as Emperor Kellanved were to be found anywhere within the Malazan Empire. For we had begun another quest, a bolder gambit.’ Firelight gleamed in his dark eyes. ‘We set out to map the Azath. Every House, across this entire realm. We set out to master its power—’

  ‘But that is not possible,’ Mappo said. ‘You failed – you cannot have done otherwise, else you both would now be far more than gods—’

  ‘True enough, as far as it goes.’ He studied the tea in the clay cup nestled in the bowl of his hands. ‘Certain realizations came to us, however, earned from hard experience and somewhat unrelenting diligence. The first was this: our quest would demand far more than a single, mortal lifespan. The other realizations – well, perhaps I had best leave those for another night, another time. In any case, in comprehending that such a gambit would enforce upon us demands we could not withstand – not as Emperor and Master Assassin, that is – it proved necessary to make use of what we had learned to date.’

  ‘To make yourselves gods.’

  ‘Yes. And in so doing, we learned that the Azath are far more than Houses created as prisons for entities of power. They are also portals. And one more thing for certain – they are the repositories for the Lost Elementals.’

  Mappo frowned. ‘I have not heard that phrase before. Lost Elementals?’

  ‘Scholars tend to acknowledge but four, generally: water, fire, earth and air; yet others exist. And it is from these others that comes the immense power of the Azath Houses. Mappo, one is at an immediate disadvantage in discerning a pattern, when one has but four points of reference, with an unknown number of others as yet invisible, unaccounted for in the scheme.’

  ‘Cotillion, these Lost Elementals – are they perhaps related to the aspects of sorcery? The warrens and the Deck of Dragons? Or, more likely, the ancient Holds?’

  ‘Life, death, dark, light, shadow… possibly, but even that seems a truncated selection. What of, for example, time? Past, present, future? What of desire, and deed? Sound, silence? Or are the latter two but minor aspects of air? Does time belong to light? Or is it but a point somewhere between light and dark, yet distinct from shadow? What of faith and denial? Can you now understand, Mappo, the potential complexity of relationships?’

  ‘Assuming they exist at all, beyond the notion of concepts.’

  ‘Granted. Yet, maybe concepts are all that’s needed, if the purpose of the elements is to give shape and meaning to all that surrounds us on the outside, and all that guides us from within.’

  Mappo leaned back. ‘And you sought to master such power?’ He stared at Cotillion, wondering if even a god was capable of such conceit, such ambition. And they began on their quest long before they became gods… ‘I confess that I hope you and Shadowthrone fail – for what you describe should not fall into anyone’s hands, not a god’s, not a mortal’s. No, leave it to the Azath—’

  ‘And so we would have, had we not come to understand that the Azath’s control was failing. The Nameless Ones, I suspect, have come to the same realization, and so are now driven to desperation. Alas, we believe their latest decision will, if anything, further pitch the Azath towards chaos and dissolution.’ He nodded towards Iskaral Pust, who crouched nearby, muttering to himself. ‘Hence, our decision to… intervene. Too late, unfortunately, to prevent Dejim Nebrahl’s release, and the ambush itself. But… you are alive, Trell.’

  And so, Cotillion, in seeking to master the Azath, you now find yourself serving it. Desire versus deed… ‘To lift Icarium’s curse,’ Mappo shook his head. ‘This is an extraordinary offer, Cotillion. I find myself torn between doubt and hope.’ A wry smile – ‘Ah, I begin to understand how mere concepts are enough.’

  ‘Icarium has earned an end to his torment,’ the god said, ‘has he not?’

  ‘What must I do?’

  ‘For now, do as you are doing – pursue your friend. Stay on that trail, Mappo. A convergence is coming, of a magnitude so vast it will very likely defy comprehension. The gods seem oblivious to the cliff-edge they are all approaching, and yes, every now and then I include myself among them.’

  ‘You hardly seem oblivious.’

  ‘Well then, perhaps helpless is a more accurate term. In any event, you and I will speak again. For now, do not doubt that you are needed. By us, by every mortal and above all, by Icarium.’ He set the cup down and rose.

  The faint sound of the Hounds lifting themselves into readiness reached Mappo’s ears.

  ‘I know I need not say this,’ the god said, ‘but I shall anyway. Do not give up hope, Mappo. For this, despair is your greatest foe. When the time comes for you to stand between Icarium and all that the Nameless Ones seek… well, I believe that you will not fail.’

  Mappo watched Cotillion walk into the darkness, the Hounds slipping into the god’s wake. After a moment, the Trell glanced over at Iskaral Pust. And found sharp, glittering eyes fixed on him. ‘High Priest,’ Mappo asked, ‘do you intend to join me in my journey?’

  ‘Alas, I cannot.’ The Dal Honese glanced away. ‘The Trell’s insane! He will fail! Of course he will fail! As good as dead, ah, I cannot bear now to even so much as look at him. All Mogora’s healing – for naught! A waste!’ Iskaral Pust rubbed at his face, then leapt to his feet. ‘Too many equally important tasks await me, Mappo Runt. No, you and I shall walk momentarily divergent paths, yet side by side to glory nonetheless! As Cotillion has said, you shall not fail. Nor will I. Victory shall be ours!’ He raised a bony fist and shook it at the night sky. Then hugged himself. ‘Gods below, we’re doomed.’

  A cackle from Mogora, who had reappeared, her arms loaded down with firewood implausibly cut and split as if by a master woodsman. She dumped it beside the fire. ‘Stir them embers, dear pathetic husband of mine.’

  ‘You cannot command me, hag! Stir them yourself! I have more vital tasks before me right now!’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, to begin with, I need to pee.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  And all these people gathered to honour the one who had died, was it a man, a woman, a warrior, a king, a fool, and where were the statues, the likenesses painted on plaster and stone?

  yet so they stood or sat, the wine spilling at their feet, dripping red from their hands, with wasps in their dying season spinning about in sweet thirst and drunken voices cried out, stung awake voices blended in confused profusion, the question asked again then again – why?

  But this is where a truth finds its own wonder, for the question was not why did this one die, or such to justify for in their heart of milling lives there were none for whom this gathering was naught but an echo, of former selves.

  They asked, again and yet again, why are we here?

  The one who died had no name but every name, no face but every face of those who had gathered, and so it was we who learned among wasps swept past living yet nerve-firing one last piercing that we were the dead and all in an unseen mind — stood or sat a man, or a woman, a warrior, queen or fool, who in drunken leisure gave a moment’s thought to all passed by in life.

  Fountain Gathering

  Fisher Kel Tath

  *

  Even with four new wheels, the Trygalle carriage was a battered, decrepit wreck. Two of the horses had died in the fall. Three shareholders had been crushed and a fourth had broken his neck. Karpolan Demesand sat on a folding camp-stool, his head swathed in a bloodstained bandage, sipping herbal tea in successive winces.

  They had left Ganath’s warren of Omtose Phellack, and now the familiar desert, scrubland and barren hills of Seven Cities surrounded them, the sun reaching towards noon behind a ceiling of cloud. The smell of rain tinged the unusually humid air. Insects spun and swirled overhead.

  ‘This comes,’ said Ganath, ‘with the rebirth of the inland sea.’

  Paran glanced over at her, then resumed cinching tight the girth strap on his horse – the beast had taken to holding its breath, chest swollen in an effort to keep the strap loose, likely hoping Paran
would slide off from its back at some perfectly inopportune moment. Horses were reluctant companions in so many human escapades, disasters and foibles – Paran could not resent the animal’s well-earned belligerence. ‘Ganath,’ he said, ‘do you know precisely where we are?’

  ‘This valley leads west to Raraku Sea, beyond the inside range; and east, through a little-used pass, down to the city of G’danisban.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘It has been a long time since I have been this far east… this close to the cities of your kind.’

  ‘G’danisban. Well, I have need of supplies.’

  She faced him. ‘You have completed your task, Master of the Deck. The Deragoth unleashed, the D’ivers known as Dejim Nebrahl, the hunter, now the hunted. Do you now return to Darujhistan?’

  He grimaced. ‘Not yet, alas.’

  ‘There are still more forces you intend to release upon the world?’

  A certain edge to her voice brought him round. ‘Not if I can help it, Ganath. Where do you now go?’

  ‘West.’

  ‘Ah, yes, to repair the damage to that ritual of yours. I’m curious, what did it imprison?’

  ‘A sky keep of the K’Chain Che’Malle. And… other things.’

  A sky keep? Gods below. ‘Where did it come from?’

  ‘A warren, I suppose,’ she said.

  She knew more than that, he suspected, but he did not press the issue. Paran made some final adjustments to the saddle, and said, ‘Thank you, Ganath, for accompanying us – we would not have survived without you.’

  ‘Perhaps, some day, I can ask of you a favour in return.’

  ‘Agreed.’ He drew out a long, cloth-wrapped object that had been strapped to the saddle, carried it over to Karpolan Demesand.

  ‘High Mage,’ he said.

  The corpulent man looked up. ‘Ah, our payment.’

  ‘For services rendered,’ Paran said. ‘Do you wish me to unwrap it?’

  ‘Hood no, Ganoes Paran – sorcery’s the only thing keeping my skull intact right now. Even scabbarded and bundled as that sword now is, I can feel its entropy.’