Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  Scillara cried out.

  ‘Are you hit? Oh, gods – no—’

  She twisted round. ‘Look! Hood take us – look!’ And she lifted an arm, pointed as a swelling wave lifted them – pointed eastward—

  Towards Otataral Island.

  It had… ignited. Jade green, a glowing dome that might have spanned the entire island, writhing, lifting skyward, and, rising up through it… hands. Of jade. Like… like Heboric’s. Rising, like trees. Arms – huge – dozens of them – rising, fingers spreading, green light spiralling out – from their upturned palms, from the fingers, from the veins and arteries cabling their muscled lengths – green light, slashing into the heavens like sword-blades. Those arms were too big to comprehend, reaching upward like pillars through the dome—

  —as the fires filling the sky seemed to flinch… tremble… and then began to converge.

  Above the island, above the hands of jade reaching up, through the billowing green light.

  The first falling sun struck the glowing dome.

  The sound was like a drum beat, on a scale to deafen the gods. Its pulse rippled through the dome’s burgeoning flanks, racing outward and seeming to strip the surface of the sea, shivering through Cutter’s bones, a concussion that triggered bursting agony in his ears – then another, and another as sun after sun plunged into that buckling, pocked dome. He was screaming, yet unable to hear himself. Red mist filled his eyes – he felt himself sliding from the raft, down into the foam-laden waves—

  Even as an enormous clawed foot reached down, spread wide over Cutter – and Scillara, who was grasping him by an arm, seeking to drag him back onto the raft – and talons the size of scimitars closed round them both. They were lifted from the thrashing water, upward, up—

  Reaching… yes. For me, closer, closer.

  Never mind the pain.

  It will not last. I promise. I know, because I remember.

  No, I cannot be forgiven.

  But maybe you can, maybe I can do that, if you feel it’s needed – I don’t know – I was the wrong one, to have touched… there in that desert. I didn’t understand, and Baudin could never have guessed what would happen, how I would be marked.

  Marked, yes, I see now, for this, this need.

  Can you hear me? Closer – do you see the darkness? There, that is where I am.

  Millions of voices, weeping, crying out, voices, filled with yearning – he could hear them—

  Ah gods, who am I? I cannot remember.

  Only this. The darkness that surrounds me. We, yes, all of you – we can all wait here, in this darkness.

  Never mind the pain.

  Wait with me. In this darkness.

  And the voices, in their millions, in their vast, unbearable need, rushed towards him.

  Shield Anvil, who would take their pain, for he could remember such pain.

  The darkness took them, and it was then that Heboric Ghost Hands, Shield Anvil, realized a most terrible truth.

  One cannot, in any real measure, remember pain.

  Two bodies tumbling like broken dolls onto the deck. Mappo struggled towards them, even as Spite wheeled away one more time – he could feel the dragon’s agony with every ragged breath she drew, and the air was foul with the reek of scorched scales and flesh.

  The rain of fire had descended in a torrent all round them, wild as a hailstorm and far deadlier; yet not one particle had struck their ship – protection gifted, Mappo realized, not by Spite, nor indeed by Iskaral Pust or Mogora. No, as the High Priest’s fawning, wet kisses gave proof, some power born in that damned black-eyed mule was responsible. Somehow.

  The beast simply stood, unmoving and seemingly indifferent, tail flicking the absence of flies. Slowly blinking, as if half-asleep, its lips twitching every now and then.

  While the world went mad around them; while it tore that other ship to pieces—

  Mappo rolled the nearer figure over. Blood-smeared face, streams from the ears, the nose, the corners of the eyes – yet he knew this man. He knew him. Crokus, the Daru. Oh, lad, what has brought you to this?

  Then the young man’s eyes opened. Filled with fear and apprehension.

  ‘Be at ease,’ Mappo said, ‘you are safe now.’

  The other figure, a woman, was coughing up seawater, and there was blood flowing down from her left ear to track the underside of her jaw before dripping from her chin. On her hands and knees, she lifted her head and met the Trell’s gaze.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Mappo asked.

  She nodded, crawled closer to Crokus.

  ‘He will live,’ the Trell assured her. ‘It seems we all shall live… I had not believed—’

  Iskaral Pust screamed.

  Pointed.

  A large, scarred, black-skinned arm had appeared over the port rail, like some slithering eel, the hand grasping, hard on the slick wood, the muscles straining.

  Mappo clambered over.

  The man he looked down upon was holding onto another body, a man easily as large as he was, and it was clear that the former was fast losing his strength. Mappo reached down and dragged them both onto the deck.

  ‘Barathol,’ the woman gasped.

  Mappo watched as the man named Barathol quickly rolled his companion over and began pushing the water from his lungs.

  ‘Barathol—’

  ‘Quiet, Scillara—’

  ‘He was under too long—’

  ‘Quiet!’

  Mappo watched, trying to remember what such ferocity, such loyalty, felt like. He could almost recall… almost. He has drowned, this one. See all that water? Yet Barathol would not cease in his efforts, pulling the limp, flopping body about this way and that, rocking the arms, then, finally, dragging the head and shoulders onto his lap, where he cradled the face as if it was a newborn babe.

  The man’s expression twisted, terrible in its grief. ‘Chaur! Listen to me! This is Barathol. Listen! I want you to – to bury the horses! Do you hear me? You have to bury the horses! Before the wolves come down! I’m not asking, Chaur, do you understand? I’m telling you!’

  He has lost his mind. From this, there is no recovery. I know, I know—

  ‘Chaur! I will get angry, do you understand? Angry… with you! With you, Chaur! Do you want Barathol angry at you, Chaur? Do you want—’

  A cough, gouting water, a convulsion, then the huge man held so tenderly in Barathol’s arms seemed to curl up, one hand reaching up, and a wailing cry worked its way through the mucus and froth.

  ‘No, no my friend,’ Barathol gasped, pulling the man into a tight, rocking embrace. ‘I’m not angry. No, I’m not. Never mind the horses. You did that already. Remember? Oh, Chaur, I’m not angry.’

  But the man bawled, clutching at Barathol like a child.

  He is a simpleton. Otherwise, this Barathol, he would not have spoken to him in such a manner. He is a child in a man’s body, this Chaur…

  Mappo watched. As the two huge men wept in each other’s arms.

  Spite now stood beside the Trell, and as soon as Mappo became aware of her, he sensed her pain – and then her will, pushing it away with such ferocity – he dragged his gaze from the two men on the deck and stared at her.

  Pushing, pushing away all that pain—

  ‘How? How did you do that?’ he demanded.

  ‘Are you blind, Mappo Runt?’ she asked. ‘Look – look at them, Trell. Chaur, his fear is gone, now. He believes Barathol, he believes him. Utterly, without question. You cannot be blind to this, to what it means.

  ‘You are looking upon joy, Mappo Runt. In the face of this, I will not obsess on my own pain, my own suffering, do you understand? I will not.’

  Ah, spirits below, you break my heart, woman. He looked back at the two men, then across to where Scillara held Crokus in her arms, stroking the man’s hair as he came round. Broken, by all this. Again.

  I had… forgotten.

  Iskaral Pust was dancing round Mogora, who watched him with a sour expressio
n, her face contracting until it resembled a dried-up prune. Then, in a moment when the High Priest drew too close, she lashed out with a kick that swept his feet out from beneath him. He thumped hard onto the deck, then began swearing. ‘Despicable woman! Woman, did I say woman? Hah! You’re what a shedding snake leaves behind! A sickly snake! With scabs and pustules and weals and bunions—’

  ‘I heard you lusting after me, you disgusting creep!’

  ‘I tried to, you mean! In desperation, but even imminent death was not enough! Do you understand? Not enough!’

  Mogora advanced on him.

  Iskaral Pust squealed, then slithered his way beneath the mule. ‘Come any closer, hag, and my servant will kick you! Do you know how many fools die each year from a mule kick? You’d be surprised.’

  The Dal Honese witch hissed at him, then promptly collapsed into a swarm of spiders – that raced everywhere, and moments later not one remained in sight.

  The High Priest, his eyes wide, looked about frantically, then began scratching beneath his clothes. ‘Oh! You awful creature!’

  Mappo’s bemused attention was drawn away by Crokus, who had moved towards Barathol and Chaur.

  ‘Barathol,’ the Daru said. ‘There was no chance?’

  The man looked over, then shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Cutter. But, he saved Chaur’s life. Even dead, he saved Chaur.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The body was glowing,’ Barathol said. ‘Bright green. It’s how I saw them. Chaur was snagged in the bolt cloth – I had to cut him free. I could not carry both of them to the surface – I barely made it—’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Crokus said.

  ‘He sank, down and down, and the glow ebbed. The darkness swallowed him. But listen, you got him close enough – do you understand? Not all the way, but close enough. Whatever happened, whatever saved us all, it came from him.’

  Mappo spoke: ‘Crokus – it is Cutter, now, yes? Cutter, who are you speaking about? Did someone else drown?’

  ‘No, Mappo. I mean, not really. A friend, he died – I, well, I was trying to take his body to the island – it’s where he wanted to go, you see. To give something back.’

  Something. ‘I believe your friend here is right, then,’ the Trell said. ‘You brought him close enough. To make a difference, to do what even death could not prevent him doing.’

  ‘He was named Heboric Ghost Hands.’

  ‘I will remember that name, then,’ Mappo said. ‘With gratitude.’

  ‘You… you look different.’ Cutter was frowning. ‘Those tattoos.’ Then his eyes widened, and he asked what Mappo feared he would ask. ‘Where? Where is he?’

  Doors within the Trell that had cracked open suddenly slammed shut once more. He looked away. ‘I lost him.’

  ‘You lost him?’

  ‘Gone.’ Yes, I failed him. I failed us all. He could not look at the Daru. He could not bear it. My shame…

  ‘Oh, Mappo, I am sorry.’

  You are… what?

  A hand settled on his shoulder, and that was too much. He could feel the tears, the grief flooding his eyes, running down. He flinched away. ‘My fault… my fault…’

  Spite stood watching for a moment longer. Mappo, the Trell. Who walked with Icarium. Ah, he now blames himself. I understand. My… that is… unfortunate. But such was our intent, after all. And, there is the chance – the one chance I most cherish. Icarium, he may well encounter my sister, before all of this is done. Yes, that would be sweet, delicious, a taste I could savour for a long, long time. Are you close enough, Envy, to sense my thoughts? My… desire? I hope so. But no, this was not the time for such notions, alluring as they were.

  Aching still with wounds, she turned and studied the wild, roiling clouds above Otataral Island. Blooms of colour, as if flames ravaged the land, tongues of fire flickering up those gargantuan jade arms, spinning from the fingers. Above the seething dome, night was dimming the penumbra of dust and smoke, where slashes of falling matter still cut through every now and then.

  Spite then faced the west, the mainland. Whoever you are… thank you.

  With a gasp, Paran opened his eyes, to find himself pitching forward – sandy gravel rising fast – then he struck, grunting with the impact. His arms felt like unravelled ropes as he slowly dragged them up, sufficiently to push himself onto his side, which let him roll onto his back.

  Above him, a ring of faces, all looking down.

  ‘High Fist,’ Rythe Bude asked, ‘did you just save the world?’

  ‘And us with it?’ Noto Boil added, then frowned. ‘Never mind that one, sir. After all, in answering the Fist’s query, the second is implicitly—’

  ‘Be quiet,’ Paran said. ‘If I saved the world – and by no means would I make such a claim – I am already regretting it. Does anyone have some water? With where I’ve just come back from, I’ve got a rather unpleasant taste in my mouth.’

  Skins sloshed into view.

  But Paran held up a hand. ‘The east – how bad does it look?’

  ‘Should have been much, much worse, sir,’ Fist Rythe Bude said. ‘There’s a real ruckus over there, but nothing’s actually coming out, if you understand me.’

  ‘Good.’ Good.

  Oh, Hood. Did you truly mean it?

  Gods, me and my promises…

  Night to the east was a lurid, silent storm. Standing near the Adjunct, with Nil and Nether a few strides off to one side, Fist Keneb shivered beneath his heavy cloak, despite the peculiar, dry sultriness of the steady wind. He could not comprehend what had happened beyond that eastern horizon, not before, not now. The descent of green-flamed suns, the raging maelstrom. And, for a time there, a pervasive malaise enshrouding everyone – from what was coming, it had seemed, there would be no reprieve, no escape, no hope of survival.

  Such a notion had, oddly enough, calmed Keneb. When struggle was meaningless, all pressure simply drained away. It struck him, now, that there was something to be said for holding on to such sentiments. After all, death was itself inevitable, wasn’t it? Inescapable – what point scratching and clawing in a doomed effort to evade it?

  The comfort of that was momentary, alas. Death took care of itself – it was in life, in living, that things mattered. Acts, desires, motives, fears, the gifts of joy and the bitter taste of failure – a feast we must all attend.

  At least until we leave.

  Stars wavered overhead, streaks of cloud clung to the north, the kind that made Keneb think of snow. And yet here I stand sweating, the sweat cooling, this chill fashioned not by night or the wind, but by exhaustion. Nether had said something about this wind, its urgency, the will behind it. Thus, not natural. A god, then, manipulating us yet again.

  The fleets of Nemil patrolled a vast stretch of this coast. Their war biremes were primitive, awkward-looking, never straying far from the rocky shoreline. That shoreline traditionally belonged to the Trell, but there had been wars, generations of wars, and now Nemil settlements dotted the bays and inlets, and the Trell, who had never been seafarers, had been driven far inland, into the hills, a dwindling enclave surrounded by settlers. Keneb had seen mixed-bloods among the Nemil crews in the trader ships that sailed out with supplies.

  Belligerent as the Nemil were towards the Trell, they were not similarly inclined when facing a huge Malazan fleet entering their territorial waters. Sages among them had foretold this arrival, and the lure of profit had triggered a flotilla of merchant craft setting forth from the harbours, accompanied by a disorganized collection of escorts, some private, others royal. The resupply had resembled a feeding frenzy for a time there, until, that is, the eastern sky suddenly burst into savage light.

  Not a single Nemil ship remained now, and that coastline had been left behind, as the second bell after midnight tolled dully at the sand-watcher’s hand – the sound taken up by nearby ships, rippling outward through the imperial fleet.

  From a Nemil captain, earlier in the day, had come interesting new
s, and it was that information that, despite the lateness, the Adjunct continued to discuss with her two Wickan companions.

  ‘Are there any details from Malazan sources,’ Nether was asking Tavore, ‘of the peoples beyond the Catal Sea?’

  ‘No more than a name,’ the Adjunct replied, then said to Keneb, ‘Fist, do you recall it?’

  ‘Perish.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And nothing more is known of them?’ Nether asked.

  There was no answer forthcoming from the others. And it seemed that the Wickans then waited.

  ‘An interesting suggestion,’ the Adjunct said after a moment. ‘And, given this near-gale, we shall discover for ourselves soon enough what manner of people are these Perish.’

  The Nemil captain had reported – second-hand – that another Edur fleet had been sighted the day before. Well to the north, less than a score of ships, struggling eastward in the face of this unceasing wind. Those ships were in a bad way, the captain had said. Damaged, limping. Struck by a storm, perhaps, or they had seen battle. Whatever the cause, they were not eager to challenge the Nemil ships, which in itself was sufficient matter for comment – apparently, the roving Edur ships had been preying on Nemil traders for nearly two years, and on those instances when Nemil escorts were close enough to engage, the results had been disastrous for the antiquated biremes.

  Curious news. The Adjunct had pressed the Nemil captain on information regarding the Perish, the inhabitants of the vast, mountain-girdled peninsula on the western side of the Catal Sea, which was itself a substantial, southward-jutting inlet, at the very bottom of which was the heart of the Nemil Kingdom. But the man had simply shaken his head, suddenly mute.

  Nether had, moments earlier, suggested that perhaps the Edur fleet had clashed with these Perish. And suffered in consequence.

  The Malazan fleet was cutting across the mouth of the Catal Inlet now – as it was called on the Malazan maps – a distance the captain had claimed was a journey of four days’ sailing under ideal conditions. The lead ships were already a fourth of the way across.

  There was more than wind, magic or otherwise – the way the horizons looked blurry, especially headlands…