Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  A broken goddess, who had sought to heal Burn. For such was the true purpose of fever, such was the cold arbiter of disease. Only humans, she reminded herself – her last thought – only humans centre salvation solely upon themselves.

  And then the Deragoth, the first enslavers of humanity, were upon her.

  ‘She’s a carrier now,’ Brokeface said, ‘and more. No longer protected, the plague runs wild within her, no matter what happens to Poliel. Once begun, these things follow their own course. Please,’ he added as he watched the man attempt to awaken Torahaval, ‘come with me.’

  The stranger looked up with helpless eyes. ‘Come? Where?’

  ‘The Temple of Soliel.’

  ‘That indifferent bitch—’

  ‘Please,’ Brokeface insisted. ‘You will see. I cannot help but believe her words.’

  ‘Whose words?’

  ‘It’s not far. She must be healed.’ And he reached down once more, collecting the woman’s legs. ‘As before. It’s not far.’

  The man nodded.

  Behind them, a single shriek rose from the temple, piercing enough to send fissures rippling through the building’s thick walls, dust snapping out from the cracks. Groaning sounds pushed up from beneath them as foundations buckled, tugging at the surrounding streets.

  ‘We must hurry away!’ Brokeface said.

  Dismounting, dragging a stumbling, gasping Noto Boil with one hand, Paran kicked down the doors to the Temple of Soliel – a modest but most satisfying burst of power that was sufficient, he trusted, to apprise the Sweet Goddess of his present frame of mind.

  The girl slipped past him as he crossed the threshold and cast him a surprisingly delighted glance as she hurried ahead to the central chamber.

  On the corridor’s walls, paintings of figures kneeling, heads bowed in blessing, beseeching or despair – likely the latter with this damned goddess, Paran decided. Depending in folds from the arched ceiling were funeral shrouds, no doubt intended to prepare worshippers for the worst.

  They reached the central chamber even as the ground shook – the Grand Temple was collapsing. Paran pulled Noto Boil to his side, then pushed him stumbling towards the altar. With luck it’ll bury the damned Deragoth. But I’m not holding my breath.

  He drew out a card and tossed it onto the floor. ‘Soliel, you are summoned.’

  The girl, who had been standing to the right of the altar, suddenly sagged, then looked up, blinking owlishly. Her smile broadened.

  Paran vowed, then, that he would seek to recall every detail of the goddess’s upon her enforced appearance, so exquisite her bridling fury. She stood behind the altar, as androgynous as her now-dead sister, her long fingers – so perfect for closing eyelids over unseeing eyes – clutching, forming fists at her side, as she said in a grating voice, ‘You have made a terrible mistake—’

  ‘I’m not finished yet,’ he replied. ‘Unleash your power, Soliel. Begin the healing. You can start with Noto Boil here, in whom you shall place a residue of your power, sufficient in strength and duration to effect the healing of the afflicted in the encamped army outside the city. Once you are done with him, others will arrive, Poliel’s cast-offs. Heal them as well, and send them out—’ His voice hardened. ‘Seven Cities has suffered enough, Soliel.’

  She seemed to study him for a long moment, then she shrugged. ‘Very well. As for suffering, I leave that to you, and through no choice of mine.’

  Paran frowned, then turned at a surprised shout from behind them.

  The captain blinked, and grinned. ‘Quick Ben!’

  The wizard and Brokeface were dragging a woman between them – the one he had last seen in the altar chamber of the Grand Temple – and all at once, Paran understood. Then, immediately thereafter, realized that he understood… nothing.

  Quick Ben looked up at the altar and his eyes narrowed. ‘That her? Hood’s breath, I never thought… never mind. Ganoes Paran, this was all by your hand? Did you know the Hounds were for me?’

  ‘Not entirely, although I see how you might think that way. You bargained with Shadowthrone, didn’t you? For,’ he gestured at the unconscious woman, ‘her.’

  The wizard scowled. ‘My sister.’

  ‘He has released the Deragoth,’ Soliel said, harsh and accusory. ‘They tore her apart!’

  Quick Ben’s sister moaned, tried gathering her legs under her.

  ‘Shit,’ the wizard muttered. ‘I’d better leave. Back to the others. Before she comes round.’

  Paran sighed and crossed his arms. ‘Really, Quick—’

  ‘You more than anybody should know about a sister’s wrath!’ the wizard snapped, stepping away. He glanced over at Brokeface, who stood, transfixed, staring up at Soliel. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘You were right. Go to her.’

  With a faint whimper, Brokeface stumbled forward.

  Paran watched as Quick Ben opened a warren.

  The wizard hesitated, looked over at the captain. ‘Ganoes,’ he said, ‘tell me something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tavore. Can we trust her?’

  The question felt like a slap, stinging, sudden. He blinked, studied the man, then said, ‘Tavore will do, wizard, what needs to be done.’

  ‘To suit her or her soldiers?’ Quick Ben demanded.

  ‘For her, friend, there is no distinction.’

  Their gazes locked for a moment longer, then the wizard sighed. ‘I owe you a tankard of ale when it’s all over.’

  ‘I will hold you to it, Quick.’

  The wizard flashed that memorable, infuriating grin, and vanished into the portal.

  As it whispered shut behind him, the woman, his sister, lifted herself to her hands and knees. Her hair hung down, obscuring her face, but Paran could hear her clearly as she said, ‘There was a wolf.’

  He cocked his head. ‘A Hound of Shadow.’

  ‘A wolf,’ she said again. ‘The loveliest, sweetest wolf in the world…’

  Quick Ben opened his eyes and looked around.

  Bottle sat across from him, the only one present in the clearing. From somewhere nearby there was shouting, angry, sounds of rising violence. ‘Nicely done,’ Bottle said. ‘Shadowthrone threw you right into their path, so much of you that, had the Hounds caught you, I’d now be burying this carcass of yours. You used his warren to get here. Very nice – a thread must’ve survived, wizard, one even Shadowthrone didn’t see.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  The soldier shrugged. ‘Old argument, I think. Kalam and Fiddler found Apsalar – with blood on her knives. They figure you’re dead, you see, though why—’

  Quick Ben was already on his feet. And running.

  The scene he came upon moments later was poised on the very edge of disaster. Kalam was advancing on Apsalar, his long-knives out, the otataral blade in the lead position. Fiddler stood to one side, looking both angry and helpless.

  And Apsalar. She simply faced the burly, menacing assassin. No knives in her hands and something like resignation in her expression.

  ‘Kalam!’

  The man whirled, as did Fiddler.

  ‘Quick!’ the sapper shouted. ‘We found her! Blood on the blades – and you—’

  ‘Enough of all that,’ the wizard said. ‘Back away from her, Kalam.’

  The assassin shrugged, then scabbarded his weapons. ‘She wasn’t big on explanations,’ he said in a frustrated growl. ‘As usual. And I would swear, Quick, she was wanting this—’

  ‘Wanting what?’ he demanded. ‘Did she have her knives out? Is she in a fighting stance, Kalam? Is she not a Shadow Dancer? You damned idiot!’ He glared at Apsalar, and in a lower voice, added, ‘What she wants… ain’t for us to give…’

  Boots on stones sounded behind him, and Quick Ben swung round to see Bottle, at his side Captain Faradan Sort.

  ‘There you all are,’ the captain said, clearly struggling to keep her curiosity in check. ‘We’re about to march. With luck, we’ll reach the Fourteenth this ni
ght. Sinn seems to think so, anyway.’

  ‘That’s good news,’ Quick Ben said. ‘Lead on, Captain, we’re right with you.’

  Yet he held back, until Apsalar walked past him, then he reached out and brushed her sleeved arm.

  She looked over.

  Quick Ben hesitated, then nodded and said, ‘I know it was you, Apsalar. Thank you.’

  ‘Wizard,’ she said, ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

  He let her go. No, what she wants ain’t for us to give. She wants to die.

  Layered in dust, wan with exhaustion, Cotillion strode into the throne room, then paused.

  The Hounds were gathered before the Shadow Throne, two lying down, panting hard, tongues lolling. Shan paced in a circle, the black beast twitching, its flanks slashed and dripping blood. And, Cotillion realized, there were wounds on the others as well.

  On the throne sat Shadowthrone, his form blurred as if within a roiling storm-cloud. ‘Look at them,’ he said in a low, menacing voice. ‘Look well, Cotillion.’

  ‘The Deragoth?’

  ‘No, not the Deragoth.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. Those look like knife cuts.’

  ‘I had him. Then I lost him.’

  ‘Had who?’

  ‘That horrid little thousand-faced wizard, that’s who!’ A shadowy hand lifted, long fingers curling. ‘I had him, here in this very palm, like a melting piece of ice.’ A sudden snarl, the god tilting forward on the throne. ‘It’s all your fault!’

  Cotillion blinked. ‘Hold on, I didn’t attack the Hounds!’

  ‘That’s what you think!’

  ‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Cotillion demanded.

  The other hand joined the first one, hovering, clutching the air in spasmodic, trembling rage. Then another snarl – and the god vanished.

  Cotillion looked down at Baran, reached out towards the beast.

  At a low growl, he snatched his hand back. ‘I didn’t!’ he shouted.

  The Hounds, one and all staring at him, did not look convinced.

  Dusk muted the dust in the air above the camp as Captain Ganoes Paran – leading his horse – and the cutter Noto Boil, and the girl – whose name was Naval D’natha – climbed the slope and passed through the first line of pickets.

  The entire camp looked as if it had been struck by a freak storm. Soldiers worked on repairing tents, re-splicing ropes, carrying stretchers. Horses loose from their paddocks still wandered about, too skittish to permit anyone close enough to take their bits.

  ‘The Hounds,’ Paran said. ‘They came through here. As did, I suspect, the Deragoth. Damned unfortunate – I hope there weren’t too many injuries.’

  Noto Boil glanced over at him, then sneered. ‘Captain Kindly? You have deceived us. Ganoes Paran, a name to be found on the List of the Fallen in Dujek’s own logs.’

  ‘A name with too many questions hanging off it, cutter.’

  ‘Do you realize, Captain, that the two remaining Malazan armies in Seven Cities are commanded by brother and sister? For the moment at least. Once Dujek’s back on his feet—’

  ‘A moment,’ Paran said.

  Hurlochel and Sweetcreek were standing outside the command tent. Both had seen Paran and his companions.

  Something in the outrider’s face…

  They reached them. ‘Hurlochel?’ Paran asked.

  The man looked down.

  Sweetcreek cleared her throat. ‘High Fist Dujek Onearm died two bells ago, Captain Paran.’

  ‘As for suffering, I leave that to you, and through no choice of mine.’

  She had known. Soliel had already known.

  Sweetcreek was still talking, ‘… fever broke a short while ago. They’re conscious, they’ve been told who you are – Ganoes Paran, are you listening to me? They’ve read Dujek’s logs – every officer among us has read them. It was required. Do you understand? The vote was unanimous. We have proclaimed you High Fist. This is now your army.’

  She had known.

  All he had done here… too late.

  Dujek Onearm is dead.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The privileged waifs are here now, preening behind hired armies, and the legless once-soldier who leans crooked against a wall like a toppled, broken statue — writ on his empty palm the warning that even armies cannot eat gold — but these civil younglings cannot see so far and for their own children, the future’s road is already picked clean, cobbles pried free to build rough walls and decrepit wastrel shelters, yet this is a wealthy world still heaving its blood-streaked treasures at their silken feet – they are here now, the faces of civilization and oh how we fallen fools yearn to be among them, fellow feasters at the bottomless trough.

  What is to come of this? I rest crooked, hard stone at my back, and this lone coin settling in my hand has a face — some ancient waif privileged in his time, who once hid behind armies, yes, until – until those armies awoke one day with empty bellies – such pride, such hauteur! Look on the road!

  From this civil strait I would run, and run – if only I had not fought, defending that mindless devourer of tomorrow, if only I had legs — so watch them pass, beneath their parasols and the starving multitudes are growing sullen, now eyeing me in their avid hunger — I would run, yes, if only I had legs.

  In the Last Days of the First Empire

  Sogruntes

  *

  A single strand of black sand, four hundred paces long, broke the unrelieved basalt ruin of the coastline. That strip was now obscured beneath ramps, equipment, horses and soldiers; and the broad loader skiffs rocked through the shallows on their heavy draw-lines out to the anchored transports crowding the bay. For three days the Fourteenth Army had been embarking, making their escape from this diseased land.

  Fist Keneb watched the seeming chaos down below for a moment longer, then, drawing his cloak tighter about himself against the fierce north sea’s wind, he turned about and made his way back to the skeletal remnants of the encampment.

  There were problems – almost too many to consider. The mood among the soldiers was a complex mixture of relief, bitterness, anger and despondency. Keneb had seriously begun to fear mutiny during the wait for the fleet – the embers of frustration fanned by dwindling supplies of food and water. It was likely the lack of options that had kept the army tractable, if sullen – word from every city and settlement west, east and south had been of plague. Bluetongue, ferocious in its virulence, sparing no-one. The only escape was with the fleet.

  Keneb could understand something of the soldiers’ sentiments. The Fourteenth’s heart had been cut out at Y’Ghatan. It was extraordinary how a mere handful of veterans could prove the lifeblood of thousands, especially when, to the Fist’s eyes, they had done nothing to earn such regard.

  Perhaps survival alone had been sufficiently heroic. Survival, until Y’Ghatan. In any case, there was a palpable absence in the army, a hole at the core, gnawing its way outward.

  Compounding all this, the command was growing increasingly divided – for we have our own core of rot. Tene Baralta. The Red Blade… who lusts for his own death. There were no healers in the Fourteenth skilled enough to erase the terrible damage to Baralta’s visage; it would take High Denul to regenerate the man’s lost eye and forearm, and that was a talent growing ever rarer – at least in the Malazan Empire. If only Tene had also lost the capacity for speech. Every word from him was bitter with poison, a burgeoning hatred for all things, beginning with himself.

  Approaching the Adjunct’s command tent, Keneb saw Nether exit, her expression dark, bridling. The cattle-dog Bent appeared, lumbering towards her – then, sensing her state of mind, the huge scarred beast halted, ostensibly to scratch itself, and moments later was distracted by the Hengese lapdog Roach. The two trundled off.

  Drawing a deep breath, Keneb walked up to the young Wickan witch. ‘I take it,’ he said, ‘the Adjunct was not pleased with your report.’

  She glared at him. ‘It is no
t our fault, Fist. This plague seethes through the warrens. We have lost all contact with Dujek and the Host; ever since they arrived outside G’danisban. And as for Pearl,’ she crossed her arms, ‘we cannot track him – he is gone and that is that. Besides, if the fool wants to brave the warrens it’s not for us to retrieve his bones.’

  The only thing worse than a Claw in camp was the sudden, inexplicable vanishing of that selfsame Claw. Not that there was anything that could be done about it. Keneb asked, ‘How many days has it been, then, since you were able to speak with High Fist Dujek?’

  The young Wickan looked away, her arms still crossed. ‘Since before Y’Ghatan.’

  Keneb’s brows rose. That long? Adjunct, you tell us so little. ‘What of Admiral Nok – have his mages had better luck?’

  ‘Worse,’ she snapped. ‘At least we’re on land.’

  ‘For now,’ he said, eyeing her.

  Nether scowled. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing, except… a frown like that can become permanent – you’re too young to have such deep creases there—’

  Snarling, the witch stalked off.

  Keneb stared after her a moment, then, shrugging, he turned and entered the command tent.

  The canvas walls still reeked of smoke, a grim reminder of Y’Ghatan. The map-table remained – not yet loaded out onto the transports – and around it, despite the fact that the tabletop was bare – stood the Adjunct, Blistig and Admiral Nok.

  ‘Fist Keneb,’ Tavore said.

  ‘Two more days, I should think,’ he replied, unclasping his cloak now that he was out of the wind.

  The Admiral had been speaking, it seemed, for he cleared his throat and said, ‘I still believe, Adjunct, that there is nothing untoward to the command. The Empress sees no further need for the Fourteenth’s presence here. There is also the matter of the plague – you have managed to keep it from your troops thus far, true enough, but that will not last. Particularly once your stores run out and you are forced to forage.’

  Blistig grunted sourly. ‘No harvest this year. Apart from abandoned livestock there ain’t much to forage – we’d have no choice but to march to a city.’