Golan broke off, for distantly, across the encampment, here and there, rose shrill screams of agony and uncomprehending terror – the shrieks of those being eaten alive from within.
* * *
In the quiet of the gloomy chamber Osserc blinked rapidly, coming to himself. He peered about quickly, a touch panicked. All was as before: the monkey creature lay asleep at the table, its head down, snoring contentedly, drool dripping from its open mouth. Across the gouged slats of the tabletop, Gothos still sat immobile. His knotted hands lay flat before him. His roped iron-grey hair hung like moss to his shoulders. It was as if the Jaghut was carved from granite.
He’d been thinking of his youth among the Tiste and the halls of his father’s hold. All so different from now. So much lost. It was all he could do to hold on to even a fraction of it. He’d always been of the mind that one must look back to know how to proceed. Yet now this creature sitting opposite seemed to be suggesting that holding on to the past – being guided by the past – was wrong. A self-limiting trap.
Odd to hear such things coming from a Jaghut, of all creatures. Though they always did have a pragmatic streak. For his part he never truly understood them. Perhaps there can be no true understanding between the races. A downturned smile pulled at his lips. The historical record attests that such relations hold little promise for understanding.
Very well. The lesson is to be guided by the past without being trapped by it. A pithy homily. Why be guided by lessons of the past? For wisdom, of course. Ah. Here we approach the meat of the matter. Wisdom.
Not something usually associated with his name.
Anomander, now, that was another thing. Wise beyond his years, everyone thought him. The wisdom of Anomander. Whereas Osserc … well, few mentioned wisdom and Osserc in the same breath.
What, then, had he gathered? Knowledge. A great deal of knowledge. He had wandered the very shores of creation. Tasted the blood of the Eleint. Plumbed the depths of the Abyss itself. Studied the verges of the Realms. He had questioned the Azathanai repeatedly – though he came away with little to show for it. And now he had even investigated the Azath. Few could boast of as thorough an interrogation of the underlying truths of existence.
Yet what had all this study and probing and ruthless examination taught him? He considered his hands on the table before him. He turned them over to inspect the lined palms.
Only his appalling ignorance.
He might have assembled a truly impressive archive of facts, yet one area remained a dark chasm before him. Self-knowledge. The sort of exploration that inflicted true pain. Was this why he’d so … studiously … avoided it? And how then could he be puzzled as to why he did not understand anyone else when he did not know himself? Some would argue that was plainly obvious.
He remembered, then, the time L’oric had been trapped within the shrinking fragment of a shattered realm. He’d had to rescue the fool. Then, he’d felt only anger at the lad’s stupidity, resentment at the intrusion and embarrassment that one of his should have been so careless. Of course he’d communicated none of this to L’oric.
Now, reflecting back, it struck him that what the lad had been doing was in fact emulating him. That, if anyone was to blame, it was he for bringing into being such exploratory recklessness and pushing of boundaries. For his utter neglect and lack of guidance.
Osserc felt a hot sharp stabbing in his chest and his breath came short and tight. He clutched the wooden slats as if he would fall. Across the table Gothos’ gaze, hidden deep within his curtain of hair, shifted, glittering like sunken wells.
If this be the price of self-knowledge I want none of it. It is just too much … Not the errors of the forefathers revisited. Not that. Too painful by far.
So – is the judgement that I have learned nothing? That I stand now as an even poorer example than my own poor father? Perhaps so. Perhaps so.
The eternal question then, that we return to once again, is how to proceed from this datum …
The head of the monkey creature, the Nacht, popped up from the table. Blinking, it peered about suspiciously. Across the table Gothos’ hands drew in closer to his body. The talon-like nails raked lines in the wood.
‘What is it?’ Osserc asked. His voice sounded shockingly loud in the silence.
The Jaghut turned his head to the hall leading to the front door. ‘Something…’
Osserc then heard a sound. It appeared to be coming from the front – a scratching and tearing noise. It was oddly dim, or muted. He stood away from the table and headed up the hall. The sound, whatever it might be, was coming from outside. Osserc regarded the barrier of the thick planks of the front door, the beaten iron handle. He turned back to peer up the hall; Gothos had stood as well and now regarded him, his arms crossed.
Osserc gestured to the door. ‘Shall I?’
The Jaghut shrugged eloquently. ‘It is not up to me.’
Very well. He tried the door: it opened, creaking loudly. Outside it was an overcast night. It had been raining. The glow of the moon and the Visitor behind the massed clouds gleamed from the wet slates of the walkway. Mist obscured the surrounding stone buildings. The sea broke surging against the nearby shore.
A ragged human figure lay on the ground. A trail of churned-up dirt lay behind it. The trail ended at the steaming heap of a disturbed burial barrow.
Osserc called up the hall: ‘Something’s escaping. Or tried.’
Gothos approached. He peered out past Osserc’s shoulder. ‘Indeed?’
While they stood watching, the figure thrust out an arm ahead of itself to grasp a fistful of grass and dirt to pull, heaving itself one agonizing hand’s-breadth along. It looked like a man, but stick-thin, in rags and caked in dirt.
‘Know you it, or him?’
Gothos scratched his chin with a thick yellowed nail. His upthrusting Jaghut tusk-like teeth, so close now, appeared to bear the scars of once having been capped. ‘One of the more recently interred.’
‘How is it he’s got this far? Is the House weakening?’
Gothos shook his head. ‘No … Not in this case.’
The jangle of metal announced someone jogging down the street. He appeared from the mist as an iron-grey shape in heavy banded armour. A battered helmet boasting wide cheek-guards completely obscured his face. He looked quite formidable, barrel-chested, with a confident rolling bear-like gait. Osserc was mildly surprised to see such a martial figure here on this small backwater island. The soldier, or guard, took up a post near the low wall surrounding the House’s grounds – the point that the crawling escapee appeared to be making for.
Osserc and Gothos continued to watch while the escapee made his agonizingly slow way towards the wall. Osserc noted that although the many roots writhing like mats across the yard grasped at him they seemed unable to retain their grip as he slipped onward through their hold.
‘I admire his … persistence,’ Gothos murmured. ‘But he is called…’
‘Called?’ Osserc asked, but the Jaghut did not respond.
The wretched figure made the wall and, by scrabbling at the piled fieldstones, pulled himself upright. He was wearing tattered dirt-caked rich silks that might have once been black. Thin baldrics that might once have held weapons criss-crossed his back. His hair was black, touched by grey. He was a slim, aristocratic-looking fellow.
The moment he straightened the soldier ran him through. The broad heavy blade of the soldier’s longsword emerged from the man’s back then was withdrawn, scraping on bone.
The escapee did not so much as flinch. He remained standing. Shaking his head, he gave a long low chuckle that sounded quite crazed.
‘Let him go,’ Gothos called. ‘The House has no hold over him.’
‘How in the name o’ Togg could that be?’ the soldier answered in a rough, parade-ground bark.
The figure had thrown a leg over the wall; the soldier shield-bashed him to tumble back on to the ground where he lay laughing a high giggle as if the situation was hilarious
.
‘Let him go, Temper,’ Gothos called once more, sounding bored. ‘You cannot stop him.’
‘Wait a damned minute,’ the soldier, Temper, growled. He pointed an armoured finger. ‘I know this bastard. It’s Cowl! There’s no way I’m lettin’ this ghoul free in my town!’
The figure, perhaps Cowl, grew quite still at that. Then he was up on his feet in an instant, crouched, a knife in each dirt-smeared hand. ‘Your town!’ he hissed. ‘Yours! You don’t actually think I want to spend more than one second in this pathetic shithole?’ He lifted his chin as if to gather his dignity, and brushed at his tattered shirt as if to smooth it. ‘Business elsewhere calls me. I have a message to deliver to my commander.’ Then he pressed a hand to his mouth to stifle a laugh that almost doubled him over.
Temper set his fists on his waist. ‘Well – seems I can’t kill you, seeing as you’re already dead.’ He lifted his armoured head to Osserc and Gothos at the door. ‘What guarantee can you offer?’
Gothos snorted his disgust and walked away up the hall. Osserc remained. Crossing his arms, he called to Cowl, ‘You intend to leave?’
The figure offered a mocking courtier’s bow. Osserc had placed that name now: Cowl, chief assassin and High Mage of the mercenary army, the Crimson Guard. A powerful and dangerous entity to be allowed his freedom on any continent. Yet how could this one possess the strength to shrug off entombment by the Azath? He personally knew of several far more potent beings currently inhumed on these very grounds – some he had battled and was quite glad were now writhing, constrained, beneath his feet. Some who possessed the very blood of the Azathanai themselves. Why, even one of his own daughters had once been taken by a House … Well, that was between them.
And he had warned them.
‘The House cannot, or chooses not to, hold him,’ he called. ‘Let him go. I’ve no doubt he’ll flee.’
‘Flee!’ Cowl echoed, outraged.
Temper laughed his scorn – as Osserc hoped he would. ‘Yeah,’ the soldier scoffed, ‘run away, you pissant knifer. No-good backstabber.’ He backed up a step, inviting Cowl forward.
The assassin was hunched, as if suspicious. But he drew a hand across his mouth, the knife’s blued blade shimmering in the moonlight. In one quick fluid motion he was over the low wall. He tilted his head then, to the soldier, and disappeared in a flicker of shadows.
‘You take a lot upon yourself, soldier,’ Osserc called.
‘That?’ the soldier sneered. He hawked up a mouthful of phlegm and spat where the assassin had been standing. ‘That was nothin’. Come down here and take one step outside and I’ll run you through. ’Bout time some someone took you down to size.’
Osserc raised a brow. He was half tempted to accept the challenge. But right now he had no intention of gaining D’rek’s ire. For he recognized her touch upon the man. And so he merely saluted the fellow and pulled the door shut.
He found Gothos reseated, as if nothing had happened, hands flat once more upon the slats of the table. He sat opposite. After a time he found that he could no longer contain his curiosity and so he said: ‘Very well. I must ask – why doesn’t the House have a hold on this man? Surely he is no more powerful than others of the interred.’
Gothos sighed his world-weariness. ‘Because,’ he murmured, completely disinterested, ‘he has already been claimed.’
Osserc grunted his understanding, or rather his complete lack of understanding. That was an answer – but at the same time it answered nothing. Claimed? Whatever did he mean? His thoughts, however, were interrupted by a loud scraping noise of metal over stone echoing from the hallway.
The Nacht creature appeared. It was muttering under its breath, perhaps even mouthing curses. It came dragging a long-handled shovel after it, up the hallway towards the front.
After a moment Osserc heard the front door open then slam shut.
CHAPTER XI
Ancient legend has it that within the central tower of the ceremonial complex dwells a goddess, or genie, formed in the shape of a giant serpent with nine heads. During certain propitious nights of the year this genie appears in the shape of a woman, with whom the god-king must couple. Should the king fail to keep his tryst, disaster is sure to follow.
Ular Takeq
Customs of Ancient Jakal-Uku
The strategy meeting to consider the attack upon the Thaumaturg capital, Anditi Pura, was a much less contentious affair than the earlier one for Isana Pura. From his seat among the scattered cushions, Prince Jatal studied the reclining figures of the various family heads and could not believe what he was witnessing. In their ease and laughter, their self-assurance and certainty of the victory ahead, he read ignorance, over-confidence – even childish recklessness.
To his sustained astonishment, they merely accepted every assurance the foreign Warleader offered. All would be as at Isana Pura, the ancient promised them. The populace constituted no threat. The Thaumaturgs would be contained within their walled precincts, their Inner City, and the shaduwam, whom they had been waiting for, would deal with them. Throughout the man’s explanations the various chiefs had nodded their acceptance, including Princess Andanii.
‘What of the organized resistance we met upon the road?’ Jatal demanded. ‘Someone is obviously mustering their opposition.’
The Warleader turned his dead grey gaze upon him. He made a vague gesture of dismissal. ‘Yes, my prince. And it has been crushed. So much for it.’
The circle of family heads laughed at that, toasting the victory. It was all Jatal could do to stop himself from damning them as a carnival of fools – but that would win him no allies. Steadying himself with a deep breath, he tried again: ‘And these reports of barricades and roadblocks throughout the city?’
Another impatient flick of a veined hand from the old commander. ‘Yes. By now they understand that they face a mounted threat and some few efforts are being made to block the roads. However, they cannot stop up every entrance. The Adwami will win through, yes?’
The various chiefs and family heads cheered at that and pledged to win through no matter what.
It was precisely this ‘no matter what’ that worried Jatal. Who knew what faced them? Perhaps things would go as at Isana Pura. Perhaps not. To his mind it was too great a risk to blindly thrust one’s head into the leopard’s mouth trusting it to work a second time.
Yet, a voice whispered in the back of his mind, do not great gains demand great risks? Is this meekness speaking? Cowardice?
And so, seeing that the Warleader had won round Princess Andanii and all her Vehajarwi allies, Jatal said no more. Better not to alienate or sideline himself from the general council. ‘The Elites plus your mercenaries will secure the inner precincts then?’ he asked.
The Warleader inclined his head in agreement. ‘Of course. As before.’ The mercenary commander then swept the circle of reclining chiefs. ‘If there are no more questions – then we are decided. We ride before dawn.’
More cheering and toasting – completely idiotic in Jatal’s opinion – followed this pronouncement. Throughout, his gaze held upon Princess Andanii, who sat close to the Warleader. The entire time she refused to meet his eyes. How he wished to send her a yearning glance, a silent plea for a sign – any sign at all. But that would be weakness and so he kept his gaze hard and flat. He would not abase himself before anyone. He excused himself at the first opportunity.
In his tent, he dismissed his Horsemaster and aides and servants then threw himself down on his bedding of piled blankets and cushions. But sleep would not come. Instead he tossed and turned, sweating in the warm humid night. Finally, he sat up and pulled a night table close for a glass of cold tea. He considered his sleeplessness. He should be resting before the attack. Was this the base writhing of a coward before battle? No, let us say not. What, then? Reasonable and understandable nerves in the face of such profound unknowns? Perhaps. Yet it felt so much stronger, so much more visceral. He had it then. Dread. A presaging of doom.
An absolute certainty of failure.
He peered round the murky tent walls. What to do? Flee? No. He knew he was without options. There was only one course available – to go through with it. He felt like a man on his way to his execution, his feet bringing him steadily closer to the headsman’s sword. The longing thought brushed through him then: would she come?
No. No more weakness. No more mewling or cringing. He must resign himself to his coming destruction. He remembered, then, what he as a prince of the Hafinaj ought to be doing in preparation for impending death.
He dug out his personal satchel of books and writing materials. He opened the wooden case holding the inkstone, spread a sheet of clean vellum.
He paused, holding himself still, sensing the moment, his mood, his churning spinning thoughts. Then he composed:
The wind blows across the sands
My steps ahead lie as unknown
As those behind
He set down the sharpened quill. There. Last duty done. He dusted the ink then folded up the sheet and tucked it into his shirt over his heart.
Now perhaps sleep would come.
* * *
Woken before dawn, Jatal found himself in a rare fey mood. His aides dressed and armoured him. He consumed a light breakfast of hot tea and fruit. Readying to go, he thrust two daggers through his belt, tested the weight of his sword, then tucked his helmet under an arm. At the tent flap he turned to the aides and tilted his head in salute. ‘Good hunting today, gentlemen.’
They bowed. ‘Victory, Prince.’ Jatal accepted this with a nod, let the flap fall. Yes, victory. But whose? He went in search of Pinal.
The Horsemaster found him first. Ash was ready, accoutred in his light armour bardings. Jatal stroked his neck and fed him an apple he’d kept from breakfast. ‘Good hunting today, friend,’ he murmured to the stallion who shook his head in answer, jesses jangling.
‘The Elites are mustering,’ Pinal said as he mounted.
‘You will ride with the regulars today, Pinal,’ he told the Horse-master, whose brows rose in surprise. ‘Command in my name. And … take good care of them. Yes? That is your first duty.’
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 312