More and more congregated. A spectral host. A great battle must have ravaged this coast some time in history. Somehow, Traveller’s presence seemed to call to them. Their empty spirits lusted for his essence. Eyes like torn openings into unending desolation fixed past Ereko into the dark of the hut. Clawed hands reached…
Ereko waved them away with the back of a hand. He whispered, ‘Be gone spirits! Trouble not the living with your old hatreds.’ Sleep, rest, wait. Be patient. Wait long enough and your time will come. Was he not living proof?
The spectres dispersed. Some sank into the earth, others drifted away. One remained, however. The standard-bearer. Tall he must’ve been in life, for a human. He closed upon Ereko. A horrific wound had carried away half his skull. The empty pits of his eyes fixed upon him.
‘My name is Surat,’ came his words, achingly faint – such potent yearning to cross an unbridgeable distance. Great must have been this one’s power in life. ‘They come,’ he intoned.
‘Who comes?’
‘The Diaspora ends. The Guard returns. The appointed time has come to us.’ He pointed to the hut. ‘This one shall be destroyed.’
‘What is he to you now?’
Silence, a coldness that bit even at Ereko. ‘Malazan.’
‘Whatever he once was he has given all that up now. He is Malazan no longer. Now, I do not even know what he is.’
The empty pits regarded Ereko and he believed he saw in their depths utter uninterest. ‘The Vow remains.’
A strange emotion stirred in Ereko’s stomach then, roused the hairs upon his neck and forearms. It took him a time to recognize it, so long had it been. Anger. Fury at the plain uselessness of hatreds carried beyond life. Who were these Crimson Guardsmen to awaken such an emotion within him? ‘Then you are fools! Put aside your old rivalries, your precious feuds. But you cannot…You dare not release your desperate grip. Without them you would be nothing…They are all you have left. Not even Death awaits you now.’
Ghost hands shifted on the haft of the lifeless banner. ‘He waits for you. He is close now. Closer than you think.’
‘There are few walking the world today whom I fear.’ Ereko’s words were trite but he was intrigued and, he must admit, tense with a new emotion, a touch of dread.
‘Such a one you will meet.’
The tension drained from him in a gust of exhalation. Nothing new. No revelations. No darkness dispelled. ‘That meeting was foretold before humans walked these lands, Surat. You have nothing of interest to me.’
He waved the spectre away. It sank, reluctantly, into the windswept grasses. As it disappeared it raised a hand, accusing: ‘That one leads you to Him.’
Ereko nodded. ‘That was the promise made long ago.’
Late in the evening, leaning his chair back against the shack of the Untan harbour guard, Nait banged a knuckle on the clapboard slats.
‘What is it?’ Sergeant Tinsmith grumbled.
‘Ship just tied up. Looks like that tub, the Rag-what’s it. The Ragstopper?’
‘The Ragstopper sank. Could be his new one, the Ragstopper.’
Chair legs thumped to the dock. ‘New? You gotta be kidding me.’
‘All his new ships are old. He buys them new old. He says he likes them worn in; says they know what to do then.’
Nait shifted the bird’s bone he chewed from one side of his mouth to the other. ‘Well, this one looks like it knows what to do, an’ that’s sink.’
Sergeant Tinsmith came to the open doorway. His white moustache hung to either side of his turned-down mouth. Deep fissures framed the mouth, lancing beneath narrowed brown eyes. ‘All right then,’ he sighed. ‘Let’s have a look. Get the boys rousted.’
Jogging, Nait crossed to a row of waterfront three-storey buildings housing poor merchants, flophouses, inns and a Custom House. The building he headed to featured a tall wooden figurehead cut from a man-o’-war and subsequently vandalized by countless knives and fists until all semblance of its original build, paint and gilt were gone. All that remained were two clawed feet, perhaps of some demon or fantastic bird. This tavern, The Figurehead, the harbour guard had adopted as their billet. He found a band of the guard sitting around a table engrossed in a game of troughs. Corporal Hands had just thrown. Nait took the bird legbone from his mouth. ‘The old man says to get your gear.’ Hands snatched up the knucklebone dice. Yells burst from around the table.
‘Hey! That was a six,’ said Honey Boy. ‘Make the move.’
Hands slipped the dice into a pouch. ‘You heard the man – get your gear.’
The biggest man at the table, a Barghast warrior, straightened to his feet, banging the table in the process and sending the counters dancing. Yells of fresh outrage. A shaggy black bhederin cloak hung at his shoulders making them almost as wide as a horse. Twists of cloth and totems swung and clattered in his matted hair. ‘You count that throw or I’ll use your head.’
‘No fighting, Least,’ said Hands.
Least frowned. ‘Why?’
‘Because I might get hurt.’ Hands picked up her weaponbelt from the back of her chair. ‘What’s it about?’ she asked Nait.
‘How the fuck should I know?’
‘Hey! What’d I tell you about that swearing. No swearing.’
Nait walked away. ‘Hood on his bone throne! Who the fuck cares?’
Outside Nait stood studying the moonlit forest of masts crowding the harbour. A lot of traffic, even for this time of the season. War was always good for business. He hoped the harbourmaster was keeping his books in good order; their cut had better be up to date. The majority of the company on duty that night came shuffling out, pulling on their guard surcoats and rearranging belts and hauberks. Hands led the way up the dock to Tinsmith who waited, a leather vest over his shirt, long-knives at his waist.
‘Let’s go.’
They walked down the pier to the newly berthed ship. It looked worse the closer they got. Nait wondered if it was the original Ragstopper drawn up from the bottom of whatever sea it was that took it. ‘Cap’n!’ Tinsmith called up to the apparently empty deck. A rat waddled along the gunwale.
‘Maybe that’s him,’ suggested Honey Boy.
‘No, he’s a bigger one,’ said Tinsmith, sounding tired by the whole thing.
A head popped up into view from the stern. Wild greasy hair framed a pale smear of a face, eyes bulging. ‘What in the Twins’ name do you want?’
‘Harbour guard. You carrying any contraband?’
The man straightened, lurched to the gunwale, clenched the stained wood in a white-knuckled grip. ‘Contraband? Contraband! I wish we were! Tons of it! D’bayang poppy! Moranth blood liquor! White nectar! Barrels of it! Anything! But no! I’ll tell you what we’re carrying – Nothing! Not a stitch! The full bounteous mercy of Hood we have in our hold! No! Off we go sailing from port to port – empty! It’s a crime I’m telling you! A crime!’
Least tapped a blunt finger to his temple. Honey Boy nodded. ‘Back home among your people someone like that would be sacred or something, right?’
‘No. Back home we’d just kick the shit out of him.’
‘What in the infinite Abyss is all the yellin’?’ An old man, his face the pale blue cast of a Napan, came to the gunwale. He was wincing, scratching at a halo of white hair standing in all directions, and wore a white patchy beard to match.
‘’Evening, Cap’n,’ said Tinsmith.
‘Eh? Who’s that?’ The man caught sight of Tinsmith, winced anew. ‘Oh, it’s you.’ He waved to the squad. ‘Why the army? There’s no need for all this between us old friends.’
‘These days I’m in charge of the peace down here along the waterfront, Cap’n. Passing strange you showing up here and now. There’s those who’d like to know.’
The captain dragged his fingers through his beard. His tongue worked around his mouth like it was hunting down a bad taste. ‘But you wouldn’t do that to an old comrade, now would you?’
‘No, I wouldn�
��t. Unless there was trouble. Don’t like trouble.’
The captain brightened. ‘No trouble at all, Smithy. No trouble at all. Just come to do some salvage work here in the harbour. Gettin’ a little low on funds these days, I am.’
‘Because the blasted hold is empty, that’s why!’ the sailor screamed. ‘You damned senile—’
A wooden belaying pin ricocheted from the sailor’s head; he disappeared behind the gunwale. The captain lowered his arm. ‘Quiet, Tillin. Won’t have no insolence on board the Ragstopper.’
Sergeant Tinsmith gave a long slow shake of his head. ‘Haven’t changed a bit I see, Cartharon.’
Captain Cartharon’s smile was savage. ‘Caught you a few times, hey, Smithy? I never miss.’
On the way back to the Figurehead, Hands asked Tinsmith, ‘What did that crazy old guy mean, he was after salvage in the harbour?’
Tinsmith traced a finger over his moustache. ‘Salvage. There’s more cargo ’n’ ships sunk in this bay than anyone can guess and that old guy had a hand in the sinking of most of it. Maybe just for such an eventuality. Anyways, we’ll keep a close eye on him. And Hands…’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘That name stays with us in the company.’
‘Yes, sir. Why? Might someone recognize it?’
At the door to the guardhouse the old sergeant stopped. He watched his corporal for a time, an unreadable expression on his long dour face. ‘Double the watch, corporal. I’ll be inside. I need a drink.’
‘Yes, sir.’
More than just Kyle were relieved when it became clear that Skinner intended to keep to the ruins that had once been Fortress Haven. But it did make life hard for Kyle for a number of days as second and third investiture men – all those recruited into the Guard since the original Vow – kept coming around asking what the man was like. ‘Pretty damned scary’ was the answer they liked the best. Skinner had brought through a few of his Avowed. Names the Guardsmen whispered around the campfires in tones of awe: a Kartoolan master swordsman named Shijel, and a Napan named Black the Lesser. He’d also brought over his own personal bodyguard of Avowed mages, Mara, Gwynn and Petal, all of whom, Stoop said, now stayed busy masking everyone’s presence from any sorcerous probings. Shimmer once came ashore and climbed the stairs into the ruins for a meet. Kyle wondered if was just him, but when she’d come back down she’d looked shaken.
Another ship had arrived. A foreign vessel storm-battered and listing, its masts shattered. Rumour was the twelve Avowed it held had rowed night and day across half the world. Coming ashore they’d looked the part – emaciated, exhausted, dressed in rags. But the second and third investiture men were jubilant. Apparently the number of Avowed now with the Guard had passed seventy. The men were of the opinion that nothing would stop them now. Kyle couldn’t help reflecting that while he knew the Avowed were the nastiest news around, why did it look like they always had their arses kicked?
The days passed in a numbing round of training and practice. New recruits had to be integrated into the Guard. More local recruits came trickling in from the upriver settlements, small villages and homesteads, all eager to join – if only for the chance to get away from their lives here – but numbering far fewer than Kyle thought Shimmer and other of the Avowed had expected.
Two weeks after Skinner’s arrival, word came that the other ships of the crossing from Bael were now close after having stopped for repairs and that not one had been lost in the storms. It seemed that the sea was inclined to be kind to the Guard. That night in the squad’s shared hut Stoop woke Kyle when he jerked upright from his blankets cursing as if burned. ‘What is it?’ Kyle whispered.
‘Nothing,’ he answered, surprised to see Kyle awake. ‘Get back to sleep.’
Kyle lay down but kept one eye open. Stoop dressed hurredly, then stamped out into the night. After debating things for a time Kyle finally threw himself out after him. He was bored, frankly, and Stalker had warned him to keep an eye out for anything unusual.
He found that he’d waited too long; Stoop was out of sight. The old saboteur had been heading into the woods though. Kyle snuck along, easily evading one picket. He was surprised, and a little disappointed, to find that while these Guardsmen might be hardened professional soldiers, woodsmen or scouts they certainly weren’t. Lying still on the cold damp moss he stilled his breath and listened – after his hearing adjusted to the night sounds he heard voices murmuring deeper into the woods. Staying low, he edged ahead.
As it turned out he needn’t have worried about sneaking up: a full-blown argument between three Avowed was raging in a clearing of tall weeds. Stoop was there, with Skinner and, the hairs on Kyle’s forearms rose in a tingle, Cowl. What was he doing here? Last he’d heard that man should be days from shore.
‘I don’t like the way talk here’s going, Cowl,’ Stoop was saying. ‘We have to keep up the search for the Duke.’
‘That’s always been your priority, Stoop,’ Cowl answered, sounding dismissive. ‘What about you, Skinner? What’s your opinion on the matter?’
‘There is no need. The Dolmans remain.’
‘No need?’ Stoop echoed outraged. ‘What in Hood’s grin does that mean? Dolmans? What’re you two dancing around here like a couple o’ Talian whores?’
‘Dancing around?’ asked Cowl. ‘Why nothing, Stoop. There can’t be anything hidden between us old campaigners, now can there?’
‘Then why bar all our brothers and sisters from this meet? Even the Brethren?’
The Guard’s High Mage and Master Assassin eyed Stoop in silence. He clasped his hands behind his back. Skinner, for his part, hadn’t moved the entire time Kyle had been watching; the man stood with his arms crossed, feet planted firmly wide apart, as still as a statue of iron. ‘This is a command discussion between myself and Skinner,’ Cowl finally said.
‘Don’t pull that shit with me,’ Stoop answered. ‘I was siegemaster to K’azz and his father afore him. Strickly speaking I out-rank you.’
Kyle was amazed; siegemaster to the Guard? He wished he’d paid more attention when the old man had held forth on various topics the way he always seemed to.
Cowl now paced the clearing, a gloved hand brushing at the dark tattoos down his chin. ‘Yes, now that you bring that up, that does remain a problem for us. What to do about it, hmm, Stoop?’
The old saboteur eyed Cowl, puzzled. ‘What’re you gettin’ at?’
The mage’s pacing had brought him to a point where Skinner now stood to Stoop’s rear. Kyle saw it even as it happened. The huge commander moved with astonishing speed; he drew and thrust in one move, his blade bursting through Stoop’s chest. Kyle gasped as if that very blade had pierced him.
The mage’s gaze snapped to the brush disguising Kyle’s hiding place. ‘Finish Stoop,’ he snarled. ‘I’ll deal with this one.’
Kyle could only stare, stunned, utterly immobile. What was going on? He knew he should run, but how could he possibly escape the Guard’s premier mage and assassin? Stoop broke the spell by lashing out and slapping his hand to Cowl’s wrist.
‘Takes more than that to kill an Avowed, Cowl,’ he ground out through clenched teeth. ‘Or have you fogotten?’
Skinner tore his blade free. Stoop grunted but held on. ‘Run lad! I’ve got a good grip o’ this snake.’
‘Finish him!’ Cowl bellowed to Skinner.
Kyle ran. In the clearing behind, Skinner raised his blade.
Not far from the clearing a huge figure rose from the darkness to take Kyle’s arm. His heart jumping to his throat, Kyle moved to draw his weapon – the man’s hand shifted to push the blade down in its sheath. ‘What’s the fright, lad?’ the figure asked.
Kyle saw it was Greymane, Ogilvy, the Genabackan veteran, with him and he struggled to find the words. ‘Back in the woods – Skinner killed Stoop! He and Cowl!’
Greymane’s gaze flicked to Ogilvy. ‘We heard nothing.’
‘They’re coming…please!’
Greym
ane rubbed a finger along his flattened broken nose in thought. A nod of his head gave Kyle permission to pass. ‘I’ll see about this. You go on now.’
Kyle ran, not pausing to thank the man. He struck south through the gloom of the woods, avoiding any trail, trusting to the broken moonlight to guide his path. At times he thought he glimpsed figures moving through the dense forest around him. At other times magery flashed in the distances, killing his night vision, and echoing distant thunder. He had no idea why Cowl nor any of the other Guard mages had not yet found him. There must be some explanation. But for now he had no time to think about such things. Now, all that concerned him was when to end this diversion south to strike west into the interior, and how long could he keep this punishing pace given the weeks spent crammed in that ship? He also tried not to think about just how many Guardsmen and Avowed might be at this moment on his trail.
Kyle had grown up running; for days on end he’d jogged after game across the plains of his youth. He’d run from and chased the raiding parties of neighbouring tribes. That sinewy endurance saw him through now, as it was not until the night of the third day of alternating dog-trotting and running that his numb legs collapsed under him and he was too exhausted even to push himself up. He slept where he fell.
While Kyle’s body may have been drained beyond all exhaustion, his mind was not. Strange, otherwordly dreams possessed him. Images and colours swirled before his mind’s eye. He dreamed the darkness that filled his vision assaulted him; he fought it with a power that drove it back yet entities emerged from within to attack. He and they fought with all manner of limbs, talons, claws and teeth. They wrapped themselves around each other squeezing and tearing. Shapes blended, melded, in a ferocious roiling battle in a dark sky that seemed to have no end or beginning. The enormity of the confrontation numbed him; he could not grasp it. He seemed to float for a time, insensate.
Then, in his dreams it was as if Stoop was still alive: the old saboteur came and knelt at his side. ‘Time to wake up, lad,’ he said. ‘The enemy’s coming. T’ain’t safe. This is my last warning, I’m sorry. That snake Cowl’s sent me off. But I promise I’ll try to make it back. Now, wake up – they’ve found you.’
The Malazan Empire Series: (Night of Knives, Return of the Crimson Guard, Stonewielder, Orb Sceptre Throne, Blood and Bone, Assail) (Novels of the Malazan Empire) Page 52