Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  Kalam did not slow down – he needed to push right through them, he needed to keep going – he caught weapons against his own, felt blade edges gouge tracks along his armour, links parting, and one point, thrust hard, sank deep into his left thigh, twisting, cutting in an upward motion – snarling, he writhed in the midst of the flashing weapons, wrapped an arm about the man’s face and head, then, as he pushed through with all his strength, he pulled that head in a twisting wrench, hearing the vertebrae pop. Kalam half-dragged the flopping corpse by its wobbly head, into his wake, where he dropped it.

  A long-knife from the right slashed into the side of his head, slicing down to sever his ear. He counter-thrust and felt his weapon skid along chain.

  Hood take them! Someone used me to make more of me—

  Continuing down, to the edge, Kalam then launched himself through the air, over the gap of an alley. He landed, pitching and rolling, on the flat roof of a sagging tenement, centuries old, the surface beneath him layered with the gravel of broken pottery. Multiple impacts followed, trembling along the rooftop, as his hunters came after him. Two, five, seven—

  Kalam regained his feet and turned, at bay, as nine assassins, spread into a half-circle, rushed him.

  Nine Kalams against one.

  Hardly.

  He surged forward, straight ahead, to the centre of that half-circle. The man before him raised his weapons in alarm, caught by surprise. He managed to parry twice with one long-knife, once with the other as he desperately backpedalled, before Kalam’s succession of attacks broke through. A blade sinking into the man’s chest, impaling his heart, the second one stabbing beneath the jaw-line, then twisting upward and pushing hard into the brain.

  Using both jammed weapons, Kalam yanked the man around, into the path of two more Claws, then he tore free his long-knives and charged into one flank of attackers with blinding speed. A blade-edge sliced into his left calf from one of the pursuers – not deep enough to slow him down – as he feinted low at the Claw closest to him, then thrust high with his other weapon – into the eye socket of the man a step beyond the first assassin. The long-knife jammed. Releasing his grip, Kalam dipped a shoulder and flung himself into the midsection of the next attacker. The impact jolted through his bones – this Hood-cursed bastard’s huge – yet he sank even lower, his freed arm sliding up between the man’s legs, up behind. Blades tore down along his back, links popping like ticks on hot stones, and he felt the Claw seeking to shift the angle of those weapons, to push them inward – as, legs bunching beneath him, Kalam then heaved the hunter upward, off his feet – up, Kalam loosing a roar that tore the lining of his throat, using his weapon-hand to grasp the front of the man’s shirt – up – and over.

  Legs kicking, the Claw’s head pitched forward, colliding with the chest of a pursuing assassin. Both went down. Kalam leapt after them, pounding an elbow into the forehead of the second Claw – collapsing it like a melon husk – while he sank his remaining long-knife into the back of the first man’s neck.

  A blade jammed into his right thigh, the point bursting through the other side. Kalam twisted fast to pull the weapon from the attacker’s hand, drew both legs up as he rolled onto his back, then kicked hard into the Claw’s belly, sending the figure flying. Another long-knife thrust at his face – he flung up a forearm and blocked the weapon, brought his hand round and grasped the Claw’s wrist, pulled him closer and gutted him with his own long-knife, the intestines spilling out to land in Kalam’s lap.

  Scrambling upright, he pulled out the weapon impaling his thigh – in time to parry a slash with it, then, backing away – his slashed and punctured legs almost failing beneath him – he fell into a sustained defence. Three hunters faced him, with the one he had kicked now regaining his feet, slowly, struggling to draw breath.

  Too much blood-loss; Kalam felt himself weakening. If any more Hands arrived…

  He leapt back, almost to the edge of the roof, and threw both long-knives, a move unexpected, particularly given the top-heavy imbalance of the weapons – but Kalam had practised short-range throwing with them, year after year. One buried itself deep in the chest of the Claw to his right; the other struck the breastbone of the Claw on the left with a solid thud and remained in place, quivering. Even as he threw the weapons, Kalam launched himself, barehanded, at the man in the middle.

  Caught one forearm in both hands, pushed it back then across – the hunter attempted an upthrust from low with his other long-knife, but Kalam kneed it aside. A savage wrench dislocated the arm in his hands, then he pushed it back up, grinding the dislodged bones into the ruptured socket – the man shrieked. Releasing the arm, he brought both hands up behind the Claw’s head, then, leaving his own feet, he drove that head downward, using all of his weight, downward, face-first into the roof.

  A crunch, a loud crack, and the entire rooftop sagged – explosions of old rotted timber beams, crumbling mortar and plaster.

  Swearing, Kalam rolled over the man – whose face was buried in the roof, amidst bubbling blood – and saw, through an ever widening fissure, a darkened room below. He slid himself forward—

  Time to leave.

  Ten paces away, Pearl stood and watched. Shaken, disbelieving. On the slanting rooftop all round him lay bodies.

  The finest assassins of the Malazan Empire. He cut through them all. Just… cut through them. And, in his heart, there was terror – a sensation new to him, filling him with trembling weakness.

  He watched as Kalam Mekhar, streaming blood, weaponless, dragged himself towards that hole in the roof. And Pearl drew back the sleeve of his left arm, extended it, aimed and released the quarrel.

  A grunt with the impact, the quarrel sinking deep just under Kalam’s outstretched left arm, even as the man slid forward, down, and vanished from sight.

  I am sorry, Kalam Mekhar. But you… I cannot accept… your existence. I cannot…

  He then made his way forward, joined now by the lone survivor of the two Hands, and collected Kalam’s weapons.

  My… trophies.

  He turned to the Claw. ‘Find the others—’

  ‘But what of Kalam—’

  ‘He’s finished. Gather the Hands here in the Mouse – we’re paying a visit to the Centre Docks, now. If the Adjunct makes it that far, well, we have to take her down there.’

  ‘Understood, Clawmaster.’

  Clawmaster. Yes. It’s done, Empress Laseen. Yes, he’s dead. By my own hand. I am without an equal in the Malazan Empire.

  Where would he begin?

  Mallick Rel.

  Korbolo Dom.

  Neither of you will see the dawn. I swear it.

  The other Claw spoke from the edge of the hole in the roof: ‘I don’t see him, Clawmaster.’

  ‘He’s crawling off to die,’ Pearl said. ‘Kartoolian paralt.’

  The man’s head snapped round. ‘Not the snake? The spider’s… ? Gods below!’

  Aye, a most painful, protracted death. And there’s not a priest left on the island who can neutralize that poison.

  Two weapons clunked on the roof. Pearl looked over. ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded.

  The man was staring at him. ‘Enough. How much dishonour will you set at the feet of the Claw? I am done with you.’ And he turned away. ‘Find the Adjunct yourself, Pearl, give her one of your damned spider bites—’

  Pearl raised his right arm, sent a second quarrel flying across the rooftop. Striking the man between the shoulder-blades. Arms flung out to the sides, the Claw toppled.

  ‘That, regrettably, was white paralt. Much quicker.’

  Now, as he had intended all along, there were no witnesses left. And it was time to gather the remaining Hands.

  He wished it could have been different. All of it. But this was a new Malazan Empire, with new rules. Rules I can manage well enough. After all, I have nothing left. No-one left…

  Closing his eyes, Fiddler set down his fiddle. He said nothing, for there was nothing to say. The
reprise that had taken him was done. The music had left his hands, had left his mind, his heart. He felt empty inside, his soul riven, lifeless. He had known this was coming, a truth that neither diminished the pain of loss nor intensified it – a burden, that was all. Just one more burden.

  Screams from the street below, then the sound of a door smashing into kindling.

  Braven Tooth glanced up, wiped at his eyes.

  Heavy footsteps on the stairs.

  Gesler collected the wine jug from the table and slowly refilled the cups. No-one had touched the bread.

  Thumping steps coming up the corridor. Scraping, dragging.

  Halting before the Master Sergeant’s door.

  Then a heavy, splintering knock, like claws gouging the wood.

  Gesler rose and walked over.

  Fiddler watched as the sergeant opened the door, stood motionless for a long moment, staring at whoever was in the corridor, then Gesler said, ‘Stormy, it’s for you.’

  The huge man slowly rose as Gesler turned about and walked back to his chair.

  A shape filled the entrance. Broad-shouldered, wearing tattered, dripping furs. A flat face, the skin betel brown and stretched taut over robust bones. Pits for eyes. Long arms hanging to the sides. Fiddler’s brows rose. A T’lan Imass.

  Stormy cleared his throat. ‘Legana Breed,’ he said, his voice oddly high.

  The reply that rasped from the apparition was like the grating of barrow stones. ‘I have come for my sword, mortal.’

  Gesler collapsed into his chair and collected his cup. ‘A long, wet walk, was it, Breed?’

  The head swivelled with a creak, but the T’lan Imass said nothing.

  Stormy collected the flint sword and walked over to Legana Breed. ‘You been scaring a lot of people below,’ he said.

  ‘Sensitive souls, you mortals.’

  The marine held the sword out, horizontally. ‘Took your time getting out of that portal.’

  Legana Breed grasped it. ‘Nothing is ever as easy as it seems, Shield Anvil. Carry the pain in your heart and know this: you are far from finished with this world.’

  Fiddler glanced across at Braven Tooth. Shield Anvil?

  The Master Sergeant simply shook his head.

  Legana Breed was studying the weapon in his skeletal hands. ‘It’s scratched.’

  ‘What? Oh, but I – oh, well—’

  ‘Humour is extinct,’ the T’lan Imass said, turning back to the doorway.

  Gesler suddenly straightened. ‘A moment, Legana Breed!’

  The creature paused.

  ‘Stormy did all that you asked of him. Now, we need repayment.’

  Sweat sprang out on Fiddler’s skin. Gesler!

  The T’lan Imass faced them again. ‘Repayment. Shield Anvil, did not my weapon serve you well?’

  ‘Aye, well enough.’

  ‘Then there is no debt—’

  ‘Not true!’ Gesler said in a growl. ‘We saw you take that Tiste Andii head with you! But we told your fellow T’lan Imass nothing – we kept your secret, Legana Breed! When we could have bargained with it, gotten ourselves right out of that damned mess we were in! There is a debt!’

  Silence from the ancient undead warrior, then, ‘What do you demand of me?’

  ‘We – me, Stormy and Fiddler here – we need an escort. Back to our ship. It could mean a fight.’

  ‘There are four thousand mortals between us and the docks,’ Legana Breed said. ‘One and all driven into madness by chaotic sorcery.’

  ‘And?’ Gesler sneered. ‘Are you afraid, T’lan Imass?’

  ‘Afraid.’ A declarative statement. Then the head cocked. ‘Humour?’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘The docks.’ Hesitation, then, ‘I just came from there.’

  Fiddler began collecting his gear. ‘With answers like that one, Legana Breed,’ he said, ‘you belong in the marines.’ He glanced over at Braven Tooth. ‘Well met, old friend.’

  The Master Sergeant nodded. ‘And with you. The three of you. Sorry about punching you in the gut, Fid.’

  ‘Like Hood you are.’

  ‘I didn’t know it was you—’

  ‘To Hood you didn’t.’

  ‘All right, I heard you come in. Heard cloth against fiddle strings. Smelled Moranth munitions. Not hard with all that.’

  ‘So you punched me anyway?’

  Braven Tooth smiled. The particular smile that gave the bastard his name.

  Legana Breed spoke: ‘You are all marines?’

  ‘Aye,’ Fiddler said.

  ‘Tonight, then, I too am a marine. Let us go kill people.’

  Throatslitter clambered up the gangplank, stumbled down onto the deck. ‘Fist,’ he gasped, ‘we need to call more in – we none of us can hold much longer—’

  ‘No, soldier,’ Keneb replied, his gaze fixed on the vicious fighting on the concourse before them, the ever-contracting Perish lines, the evergrowing mass of frenzied attackers pouring in from every street and alley mouth between warehouse buildings. Don’t you see? We commit more and we get pulled deeper into this mess, deeper and deeper – until we cannot extricate ourselves. There’s too much sorcery out there – gods below, my head feels ready to explode. He so wanted to explain all of this to the desperate marine, but that was not what a commander did.

  Just like the Adjunct. You want to, gods how you want to, if only to see the understanding in their eyes. But you cannot. All right, so I’m starting to comprehend…

  ‘Attend, Fist Keneb!’ The warning came from the Destriant. ‘Assassins, seeking to penetrate our defences—’

  A hiss from Throatslitter, and he turned, called down to the marines on the jetty. ‘Sergeant! Get the squads up here! We got Claws on the way!’

  Keneb faced Run’thurvian. ‘Can you block them?’

  A slow nod of the suddenly pallid face. ‘This time, yes – at the last moment – but they are persistent, and clever. When they breach, they will appear, suddenly, all about us.’

  ‘Who is their target? Do you know?’

  ‘All of us, I believe. Perhaps, most of all,’ the Destriant glanced over at Nil and Nether, who stood on the foredeck, silent witnesses to the defence, ‘those two. Their power sleeps. For now, it cannot be awakened – it is not for us, you see. Not for us.’

  Hood’s breath. He turned to see the first marines arrive. Koryk, Tarr, Smiles – damn you, Fiddler, where are you? – then Cuttle and Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas. A moment later Sergeant Balm appeared, followed by Galt and Lobe. ‘Sergeant, where is your healer – and your mage?’

  ‘Used up,’ the Dal Honese replied. ‘They’re recovering on the Silanda, sir.’

  ‘Very well. I want you to form a cordon around Nil and Nether – the Claw will go for them first and foremost.’ As the soldiers scrambled he turned to Run’thurvian, and said in a low voice, ‘I assume you can protect yourself, Destriant.’

  ‘Yes, I have held myself in abeyance, anticipating such a moment. But what of you, Fist Keneb?’

  ‘I doubt I’m important enough.’ Then something occurred to him and he called over to the marines. ‘Smiles! Head down to the First Mate’s cabin – warn Quick Ben and if you can, convince him to get up here.’ He made his way to the starboard rail, leaned out to study the fighting at the base of the jetty.

  There were uniformed Malazan soldiers amidst the mob, now, all pretence gone. Armoured, many with shields, others holding back with crossbows, sending one quarrel after another into the line of Perish. The foreign allies had been pushed back almost to the jetty itself.

  Cuttle was on the foredeck, yelling at the ballista crew – the sapper held a handful of fishing net in one hand and a large round object in the other. A cusser. After a moment the crew stepped back and Cuttle set to affixing the munition just behind the head of the oversized dart.

  Nice thinking. A messy way to clear a space, but there’s little choice.

  Smiles returned, hurried up to Keneb. ‘Fist, he�
��s not there.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s gone!’

  ‘Very well. Never mind. Go join your squad, soldier.’

  From somewhere in Malaz City, a bell sounded, the sonorous tones ringing four times. Gods below, is that all?

  Lieutenant Pores stood beside his captain, staring across the dark water to the mayhem at Centre Docks. ‘We’re losing, sir,’ he said.

  ‘That’s precisely why I made you an officer,’ Kindly replied. ‘Your extraordinary perceptiveness. And no, Lieutenant, we will not disobey our orders. We remain here.’

  ‘It’s not proper, sir,’ Pores persisted. ‘Our allies are dying there – it’s not even their fight.’

  ‘What they choose to do is their business.’

  ‘Still not proper, sir.’

  ‘Lieutenant, are you truly that eager to kill fellow Malazans? If so, get out of that armour and you can swim ashore. With Oponn’s luck the sharks won’t find you, despite my fervent prayers to the contrary. And you’ll arrive just in time to get your head lopped off, forcing me to find myself a new lieutenant, which, I grant you, will not be hard, all things considered. Maybe Hanfeno, now there’s officer material – to the level of lieutenant and no higher, of course. Almost as thick and pig-headed as you. Now go on, climb out of that armour, so Senny can start laying bets.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, but I’d rather not.’

  ‘Very well. But one more complaint from you, Lieutenant, and I’ll throw you over the side myself.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘In your armour.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘After docking your pay for the loss of equipment.’

  ‘Of course, Captain.’

  ‘And if you keep trying to get the last word here I think I will kill you outright.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Lieutenant.’

  Pores clamped his jaws shut, and held off. For the moment.

  With barely a whisper, the figure landed on the sundered, pitched rooftop. Paused to look round at the sprawl on corpses. Then approached the gaping hole near one end.

  As it neared, another figure seemed to materialize as if from nowhere, crouched down on one knee above a body lying face-down near the breach. A quarrel was buried deep in that body’s back, the fletching fashioned of fish bone – the cheek sections of some large sea-dwelling species, pale and semi-translucent. The newcomer swung a ghostly face up to regard the one who approached.