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 artisanship 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 solemnity 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
Torbora
*
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.
Food was not her only excess. There was wine, and rustleaf, and, now, there was lovemaking. There were a dozen servants among those attending her whose task it was to deliver pleasure of the flesh. At first, Felisin had been shocked, even outraged, but persistence had won out. More of Kulat’s twisted rules – she understood that now. His desires were all of the voyeuristic variety, and many times she had heard the wet click of the stones in his mouth from behind a curtain or painted panel, as he spied on her with lascivious pathos.
She understood her new god, now. Finally. Bidithal had been entirely wrong – this was not a faith of abstinence. Apocalypse was announced in excess. The world ended in a glut, and just as her own soul was a bottomless cauldron, so too was the need of all humanity, and in this she was the perfect representative. As they devoured all that surrounded them, so too would she.
As Sha’ik Reborn, her task was to blaze bright, and quick – and then die. Into death, where lay the true salvation, the paradise Kulat spoke of again and again. Oddly enough, Felisin Younger struggled to imagine that paradise – she could only conjure visions that matched what now embraced her, her every want answered without hesitation, without judgement. Perhaps it would be like that – for everyone. But if everyone would know such an existence, then where were the servants?
No, she told Kulat, there needed to be levels on salvation. Pure service in this world was rewarded with absolute indolence in the other. Humility, self-sacrifice, abject servitude, these were the ways of living that would be measured, judged. The only difficulty with this notion – which Kulat had readily accepted and converted into edicts – was the position of Felisin herself. After all, was her present indolence – her luxuriating in all the excesses promised to others only following their deaths – to be rewarded by an afterlife of brutal slavery, serving the needs of everyone else?
Kulat assured her she had no need to be concerned. In life, she was the embodiment of paradise, she was the symbol of promise. Yet, upon her death, there would be absolution. She was Sha’ik Reborn, after all, and that was a role she had no
t assumed by choice. It had been thrust upon her, and this was the most profound form of servitude of them all.
He was convincing, although a tiny sliver of doubt lodged deep inside her, a few thoughts, one tumbling after the next: without excess I might feel better, about myself. I would be as I once was, when I walked in the wild-lands with Cutter and Scillara, with Greyfrog and Heboric Ghost Hands. Without all these servants, I would be able to fend for myself, and to see clearly that a measured life, a life tempered in moderation, is better than all this. I would see that this is a mortal paradise that cultivates flaws like flowers, that feeds only deathly roots, that chokes all life from me until I am left with… with this.
This. This wandering mind. Felisin Younger struggled to focus. Two men were standing before her. They had been standing there for some time, she realized. Kulat had announced them, although that had not been entirely necessary, for she knew that they were coming; indeed, she recognized both of them. Those hard, weathered faces, the streaks of sweat through a layer of dust, the worn leather armour, round shields and scimitars at their hips.
The one closest to her – tall, fierce. Mathok, who commanded the desert tribes in the Army of the Apocalypse. Mathok, Leoman’s friend.
And, one pace behind the commander, Mathok’s bodyguard T’morol, looking like some upright, hairless wolf, his eyes a hunter’s eyes, cold, intense.
They had brought their army, their warriors.
They had brought that, and more…
Felisin the Younger lowered her gaze from Mathok’s face, down to the tattered hide-bound book in his hands. The Holy Book of Dryjhna the Apocalyptic. Whilst Leoman had led the Malazans on a wild chase, into the trap that was Y’Ghatan, Mathok and his desert warriors had travelled quietly, secretly, evading all contact. There had been intent, Mathok had explained, to rendezvous at Y’Ghatan, but then the plague had struck, and the shamans in his troop had been beset by visions.
Of Hanar Ara, the City of the Fallen. Of Sha’ik, reborn yet again. Leoman and Y’Ghatan, they told Mathok, was a dead end in every sense of the phrase. A feint, punctuated by annihilation. And so the commander had turned away with his army, and had set out on the long journey to find the City of the Fallen. To find her. To deliver the Holy Book into her hands.
A difficult journey, one worthy of its own epic, no doubt.
And now, Mathok stood before her, and his army was encamping in the city and Felisin sat amidst the cushions of her own fat, wreathed in smoke, and considered how she would tell him what he needed to hear – what they all needed to hear, Kulat included.
Well, she would be… direct. ‘Thank you, Mathok, for delivering the Book of Dryjhna. Thank you, as well, for delivering your army. Alas, I have no need of either gift.’
Mathok’s brows rose fractionally. ‘Sha’ik Reborn, with the Book, you can do as you like. For my warriors, however, you have great need. A Malazan army approaches—’
‘I know. But you are not enough. Besides, I have no need for warriors. My army does not march in rank. My army carries no weapons, wears no armour. In conquering, my army kills not a single foe, enslaves no-one, rapes no child. That which my army wields is salvation, Mathok. Its promise. Its invitation.’
‘And the Malazans?’ T’morol demanded in his grating voice, baring his teeth. ‘That army does carry weapons and wear armour. That army, Holy One, marches in rank, and right now they’re marching right up our ass!’
‘Kulat,’ Felisin said. ‘Find a place for the Holy Book. Have the artisans prepare a new one, the pages blank. There will be a second holy book. My Book of Salvation. On its first page, Kulat, record what has been said here, this day, and accord all present with the honour they have earned. Mathok, and T’morol, you are most welcome here, in the City of the Fallen. As are your warriors. But understand, your days of war, of slaughter, are done. Put away your scimitars and your shields, your bows. Unsaddle your horses and loose them to the high pastures in the hills at Denet’inar Spring. They shall live out their lives there, well and in peace. Mathok, T’morol, do you accept?’
The commander stared down at the ancient tome in his hands, and Felisin saw a sneer emerge on his features. He spread his hands. The book fell to the floor, landing on its spine. The impact broke it. Ancient pages skirled out. Ignoring Felisin, Mathok turned to T’morol. ‘Gather the warriors. We will resupply as needed. Then we leave.’
T’morol faced the throne, and spat onto the floor before the dais. Then he wheeled and strode from the chamber.
Mathok hesitated, then he faced Felisin once more. ‘Sha’ik Reborn, you will no doubt receive my shamans without the dishonour witnessed here. I leave them with you. To you. As for your world, your bloated, disgusting world and its poisonous salvation, I leave that to you as well. For all of this, Leoman died. For all of this, Y’Ghatan burned.’ He studied her a moment longer, then he spun about and walked from the throne room.
Kulat scurried to kneel beside the broken book. ‘It is ruined!’ he said in a voice filled with horror.
Felisin nodded. ‘Utterly.’ Then she smiled at her own joke.
‘I judge four thousand,’ Fist Rythe Bude said.
The rebel army was positioned along a ridge. Horse-warriors, lancers, archers, yet none had readied weapons. Round shields remained strapped to backs, quivers lidded, bows unstrung and holstered on saddles. Two riders had moved out from the line and were working their horses down the steep slope to where Paran and his officers waited.
‘What do you think, High Fist?’ Hurlochel asked. ‘This has the look of a surrender.’
Paran nodded.
The two men reached the base of the slope and cantered up to halt four paces from the Host’s vanguard.
‘I am Mathok,’ the one on the left said. ‘Once of Sha’ik’s Army of the Apocalypse.’
‘And now?’ Paran asked.
A shrug. ‘We dwelt in the Holy Desert Raraku, a desert now a sea. We fought as rebels, but the rebellion has ended. We believed. We believe no longer.’ He unsheathed his scimitar and flung it onto the ground. ‘Do with us as you will.’
Paran settled back in his saddle. He drew a deep breath and released it in a long sigh. ‘Mathok,’ he said, ‘you and your warriors are free to go where you please. I am High Fist Ganoes Paran, and I hereby release you. As you said, the war is over, and I for one am not interested in reparation, nor punishment. Nothing is gained by inflicting yet more atrocities in answer to past ones.’
The grizzled warrior beside Mathok threw a leg over his horse’s neck and slipped down to the ground. The impact made him wince and arch his lower back, grimacing, then he hobbled over to his commander’s scimitar. Collecting it, he wiped the dust from the blade and the grip, then delivered it back to Mathok.
Paran spoke again: ‘You have come from the place of pilgrimage.’
‘The City of the Fallen, yes. Do you intend to destroy them, High Fist? They are defenceless.’
‘I would speak with their leader.’
‘Then you waste your time. She claims she is Sha’ik Reborn. If that is true, then the cult has seen a degradation from which it will never recover. She is fat, poisoned. I barely recognized her. She is indeed fallen. Her followers are sycophants, more interested in orgies and gluttony than anything else. They are disease-scarred and half-mad. Her High Priest watches her sex acts from behind curtains and masturbates, and in both their energy is unbounded and insatiable.’
‘Nonetheless,’ Paran said after a moment, ‘I sense power there.’
‘No doubt,’ Mathok replied, leaning to one side and spitting. ‘Slaughter them, then, High Fist, and you will rid the world of a new kind of plague.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A religion of the maimed and broken. A religion proffering salvation… you just have to die first. I predict the cult will prove highly contagious.’
He’s probably right. ‘I cannot slaughter innocents, Mathok.’
‘Then, one day, the most faithfu
l and zealous among them will slaughter you, High Fist.’
‘Perhaps. If so, I will worry about it then. In the meantime, I have other tasks before me.’
‘You will speak with Sha’ik Reborn?’
Paran considered, then he shook his head. ‘No. As you suggest, there is little point. While I see the possible wisdom of expunging this cult before it gains a foothold, I admit I find the notion reprehensible.’
‘Then where, if I may ask, High Fist, will you go now?’
Paran hesitated. Dare I answer? Well, now is as good as later for everyone to hear. ‘We turn round, Mathok. The Host marches to Aren.’
‘Do you march to war?’ the commander asked.
Paran frowned. ‘We’re an army, Mathok. Eventually, yes, there will be fighting.’
‘Will you accept our service, High Fist?’
‘What?’
‘We are a wandering people,’ Mathok explained. ‘But we have lost our home. Our families are scattered and no doubt many are dead of plague. We have nowhere to go, and no-one to fight. If you should reject us now, and free us to go, we shall ride into dissolution. We shall die with our backs covered in straw and sand in our gauntlets. Or warrior will turn upon warrior, and blood will be shed that is without meaning. Accept us into your army, High Fist Ganoes Paran, and we will fight at your side and die with honour.’
‘You have no idea where I intend to lead the Host, Mathok.’
The old warrior beside Mathok barked a laugh. ‘The wasteland back of camp, or the wasteland few have ever seen before, what’s the difference?’ He turned to his commander. ‘Mathok, my friend, the shamans said this one here killed Poliel. For that alone, I would follow him into the Abyss, so long as he promises us heads to lop off and maybe a woman or two to ride on the way. That’s all we’re looking for, right, before we dance in a god’s lap one last time. Besides, I’m tired of running.’
To all of this, Mathok simply nodded, his gaze fixed on Paran.
Four thousand or so of this continent’s finest light cavalry just volunteered, veterans one and all. ‘Hurlochel,’ he said, ‘attach yourself as liaison to Commander Mathok. Commander, you are now a Fist, and Hurlochel will require a written compilation of your officers or potential officers. The Malazan army employs mounted troops in units of fifty, a hundred and three hundred. Adjust your command structure accordingly.’
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