‘One did, before,’ came a low breathless observation from among the hanging strings of filthy hair.
‘One has? Before? You mean…’ Osserc’s gaze snapped up to the hanging threat. ‘You cannot mean to suggest that they would actually do it again.’
‘I do.’
‘That would be utter madness. They learned that from the first, surely.’
Gothos snorted his scorn as only a Jaghut could. ‘Learned?’ he scoffed.
‘Someone should do something.’
‘I suppose someone ought,’ Gothos sighed. ‘But in any case you will be safe hiding in here.’
‘Hiding? I am not hiding.’
‘No? Then you are doing a very good imitation of it.’
Rage clawed up Osserc’s chest, almost choking him, and his gaze darkened. All that leashed it was the knowledge that this Jaghut was merely doing his job in goading and mocking him. Breathing heavily, he growled through clenched teeth: ‘And you are doing a very good job of being a prick, Gothos.’
The Jaghut inclined his head in a false bow.
Osserc sat once again. He crossed his arms. ‘So we just sit here while fools undo all that we have striven to build and protect.’
‘Build? I have striven to build nothing. Quite the opposite, in fact.’
Osserc shook his head in remonstration. ‘Do not dissemble. You strove as mightily as any. It was just that your efforts were not in stone or iron. They resided in another field entirely. The battlefield of ideas and the mind.’
The Jaghut inclined his head once more.
Yet instead of a sense of having won a point, Osserc could not shake the feeling that he had in fact once more been manoeuvred to where the Jaghut wanted him. Once more dwelling upon ideas and the mind.
The Nacht came shambling into the room again. This time he dragged a long pole at the end of which had been tied a dirty rag. The creature made a great show of lifting the pole to brush the cobwebs from the murky corners of the ceiling. Dust drifted down in clouds upon Osserc and Gothos. Neither moved throughout, though Osserc did grind his teeth.
He decided a retreat and reordering was called for. What he knew from Gothos’ rebounding of questions with questions was that the Azath were insisting that the answer must come from within. An obvious path in retrospect, given that the Azath themselves were by definition notoriously inward. It made sense that they would applaud such an approach. That aside, this did not necessarily undermine any potential insight. Any such revelation would be his to accept or dismiss.
Insights from self-reflection were beyond the capability of many – perhaps himself included. Rationalization, denial, self-justification, delusion, all made it nearly impossible for any true insight to penetrate into the depths of one’s being. And Osserc was ruthless enough in his thinking not to consider himself above such equivocations. Therefore, as he had seen in his reflections, one measure of progress was discomfort and pain.
If this were the case then the Azath were demanding a high price indeed.
It struck him that all this hinged upon one plain and simple thing. He faced a choice: whether to remain or to step out. No one forbade either option. Gothos had made this clear – he was no gatekeeper. The choice was entirely Osserc’s. Any choice represented a future action. Therefore, the Azath were more concerned with his future than with his past. The choice represented an acceptance of that future.
Osserc’s unfocused gaze drifted down to settle upon the obscured features of the Jaghut opposite. ‘I am being asked to face something I find personally distasteful. I never accepted the mythopoeia I see accreting around the Liosan. It all means nothing to me.’
‘Whether it means anything to you in fact means nothing.’ Gothos sounded particularly pleased in saying that. ‘I’m sorry, but I suspect it is all very much larger than you.’ He sounded in no way apologetic at all.
Osserc found himself gritting his teeth once again. ‘It would seem that stepping outside would be an endorsement of a future I have no interest in, and do not support.’
The Jaghut revealed his first hint of temper as his nails gouged even further into the slats of the table and he hung his head. ‘It is obvious even to me that nothing at all is being asked of you!’ He raised his head and flattened his hands upon the table. ‘Think of it more as an opportunity to guide and to shape.’
‘But what if—’
Gothos snapped up a finger for silence. ‘No.’
‘You really cannot expect me to relinquish all control!’
Something changed in the poise of the Jaghut. A wide predatory smile now rose behind the ropy curtain of hair. His tusks caught the emerald glow from outside. Osserc fought the uncomfortable sensation of having fallen into a carefully prepared trap. ‘Osserc,’ Gothos began, his voice now silken, ‘how can you relinquish that which you never possessed in the first place?’
CHAPTER XIV
The locals, I am sorry to say, are indolent and lazy. All that they need can be found in the surrounding jungle within reach of everyone, and so they lack industry and application. They are oddly content in their simple ways: an earthenware pot serves to cook foods; three stones are buried to serve as a hearth; ladles are made from coconuts; the small leaves of the chao plant are used to make little spoons to bring liquids to the mouth – these they throw away when the meal is finished. It is in vain one searches for the natural urge to a better way of life.
Ular Takeq
Customs of Ancient Jakal-Uku
Golan woke from a troubling dream in which he heard distant voices chanting through darkness. That alone was nothing to be alarmed about; dreams, his training taught him, were merely random images swirling about the mind, not dire portents or prophecies. No such ignorant superstitions for the Thaumaturgs. Yet this chanting had carried whispered echoes of ancient compellings and forbidden phrasings. It called to mind references to a ritual said to have been completed only once – the greatest, and most perilous, of all their order’s invocations. One he and his fellow students discussed only in the most muted and guarded terms.
It was no wonder, he reflected, that his mind should choose to throw up such an echo now. He faced a reality of slow grinding annihilation every day.
He opened his eyes to the thin frayed awning spread above him, dripping with the passing rain. He sat up and pulled his sweat-soaked shirt from his chest. His bare arms glistened and bore countless red swellings of bites. His yakshaka guards stood in a broad circle about him. It seemed to him that the night was as quiet as it ever could get; the usual hunting calls shocked everyone – each morning one or two of his remaining force would always be missing. The constant buzzing of the cicadas also grated on nerves already frayed beyond endurance. The rush of passing bats made him glance to the trees; he quite disliked bats. There was also the constant moaning and groaning of the sick in camp. ‘The sick’, in point of fact, now described nearly all of the remaining army.
Myself included, Golan reflected. He’d come down with the chills. The fever of shuddering cold spells followed by prostrating sweats. It was quite debilitating, and it was only through his Thaumaturg training that he was able to continue to function.
He paused then, for he heard something more: the murmuring that had haunted his dreams had not stopped. Indeed, he heard it even more clearly now. A true chill took him suddenly – one far more profound than his fever. He crossed to one of his last remaining pieces of luggage: an iron chest that, if lost, would necessitate his death in penance. Frost limned it now. Even in the depths of this heated abyss frost feathered its sides. A silver light escaped from the crack of its lid. He reached for it but paused, reconsidering. His hands were close enough to feel the cold breath wafting from it.
The whispered chanting spoke to him then and he knew. He knew. He scrambled to the centre of the clearing his awning occupied. Yakshaka turned their armoured heads to peer at him. He scanned the clearing night sky. There, through gaps in the canopy, the Visitor glowed behind the thinne
st ribbon of cloud. The scarf drifted on as he waited, scarcely able to breathe. What was revealed was a swollen gibbous jade banner so gravid Golan thought it about to break upon the treetops.
To think I haven’t been paying attention, he wondered. Not at all.
What could possibly drive them to … No matter. He wiped a hand down his face, peered about frantically. ‘Second!’ he called, his voice rather high. ‘Mister Waris! You are needed!’
The man appeared, a loose shirt that he’d obviously just thrown on hanging down over his trousers. I chose well, Golan decided. ‘Break camp, Second,’ he told him. ‘We must continue pressing east, quickly now.’
The man’s slit gaze revealed nothing. Golan would have preferred some sort of reaction. Even the suggestion that he was losing his mind. But whatever doubts or reservations the man might have harboured he continued to keep them to himself and he bowed, still silent. Golan waved him away. ‘Begin at once.’
The man bowed again and jogged off.
A new figure pushed its way through the wall of yakshaka guards, this one gangly and crooked of neck, his bulging pouch of papers at his side. How does he do that? Golan wondered. Have to have a word with my guards.
‘Troubled dreams, Commander?’ Principal Scribe Thorn asked.
‘In a sense, Principal Scribe. You are here now for what reason? Other than to trouble me with questions?’
Thorn pulled his quill from behind his blackened ear. ‘Why, to record your orders of course!’
‘Like history, you are too late, Scribe. However, just for you, I shall recreate the scene.’ He leaned closer, peered at the sheet of pressed fibre paper the scribe held ready on a wooden pallet, and said, ‘March east.’
Principal Scribe Thorn scratched at the sheet. He mouthed aloud as he wrote: ‘Glorious Leader Golan allows no respite in his remorseless advance upon the enemy.’
‘You capture it eerily.’
‘My lord is too kind.’
‘Not at all.’ Golan gestured aside. ‘Now, if you do not mind. We are breaking camp.’
‘The soldiers will consider it a privilege to set aside sleep to return to the march, Commander. No doubt the sick will be inspired to attempt to stand.’
Golan, who had been moving off, halted to return to the man. Mustn’t show the bastard that he can reach me. He drew a patient breath. ‘No doubt. That is why I shall order the yakshaka to carry the worst – to spare them the effort.’
The Principal Scribe’s fist-sized Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He blinked his bulging rheumy eyes, then quickly lowered them to his sheet. He wrote, mouthing, ‘So eager to crush the enemy is Golan the Great that he orders his soldiers carried into battle!’
Golan studied the man – who bowed obsequiously. ‘Such accuracy in recording is uncanny, Principal Scribe. Future scholars shall hang on every word. I’m certain of it.’
Thorn stooped again, even lower. Like a buzzard … and I am the corpse.
* * *
His last mount had fallen under Jatal two days before. He and Scarza were descending out of the Gangrek Mounts, the Dragon’s Teeth, when the abused, exhausted animal pitched forward, tumbling his rider over his neck to slew down the grade of loose gravel and rock. Jatal received several bruises and a numbed arm, but the horse broke a leg and so they killed it. He was all for moving on immediately. But Scarza had insisted on the time to butcher a portion of the animal for meat and so it was some while before they set off, the half-Trell carrying a haunch over his shoulder. The giant had shown great foresight in that. The meat saw them through the next few days, until it turned, and they had to throw the remainder away.
They were gaining upon the Warleader – at least so Scarza insisted. Jatal had no idea. He couldn’t track here in this abyssal green maze. The half-Trell led him to one old abandoned fire site. It could have belonged to anyone as far as he could tell, but Scarza insisted he had been here.
Jatal merely shrugged. ‘Let us move on.’
Scarza nodded, eyeing him. ‘Yes – for a time. Yet he is keeping a fire. We should also.’
‘It may alert him,’ Jatal objected. He turned away and pushed through the surrounding broad-leafed plants.
Scarza followed. ‘There are more things in this pit than just he.’
‘They do not concern me.’
‘They do me. I for one do not intend to be torn to pieces before I can get my hands on him.’
Jatal glanced back. ‘Do as you choose.’
When evening came Scarza called a halt. In the gloom he offered Jatal a wink. ‘We do not want to fall down a hole, now do we? Like back in those Gangreks. That was a close call.’
‘We’ve left the sinkholes behind.’
‘Quicksand, then. Or a boggy morass.’
Jatal said nothing – there was nothing to say as far as he was concerned.
Scarza peered about, then gestured to one side. ‘Under cover of that tree, I think. It should keep the rain off. I’ll build a small fire.’
Jatal sat. When the fire was going, Scarza let go a great breath and sat back. He offered a fruit. ‘Try that. I think it’s edible. Looks familiar.’
Jatal took a bite.
‘How is it?’
‘I’m not dead.’
‘Ah! In that case I’ll try one.’ And he popped a fruit into his mouth. He watched Jatal eating and nodded approvingly. ‘Had you heard that the Moon’s Spawn has fallen?’
‘We heard something of that.’
‘Yes. They say it has.’ He nodded again, scanning the overcast sky. ‘Man could make a fortune sifting through that wreckage. Imagine. I was thinking … after this … I would head over that way. What say you?’
Over the fruit, Jatal eyed him, blinking. There was no ‘after this’ for him. He would join Andanii. If her spirit was as fierce in death as it had been in life, then he knew she’d be waiting for him. He hoped she would forgive him for the wait.
Scarza was quiet for a time, watching him. Then he cleared his throat and glanced away. He studied the sky, and after a while he frowned. ‘Tell me, Adwami scholar, have you ever seen one of these passing Visitors grow so large before?’
Jatal glanced up briefly. The broad streaming head of the Banner did loom monstrously bloated behind the cloud cover. Its emerald glow was now the murky olive of deep water. ‘I have only seen one before.’ He shrugged.
‘Well, I have seen many, my friend. And I swear, in all my years, I have never seen one come this close.’
‘What of it?’
‘Well … the legends. The stories. That old lay – how was it? Oh yes, “The Fall of the Shattered God”.’
‘And?’
Scarza waved a thick arm. ‘Well, I for one would not wish to be beneath it!’
‘If it falls, it falls. There is nothing we can do about it.’
‘True. But perhaps it is meant for someone in particular … if you follow my reasoning.’
Jatal regarded him levelly for a time. He swallowed a mouthful of the underripe fruit. ‘Then I will hold him down myself.’
‘Now, lad. I do not think the lass would want—’
‘Andanii waits for me,’ Jatal cut in. His voice was flat but hard. ‘You do as you choose. I will continue on.’
Scarza blew out a long exhalation, rubbed a wide hand over his mop of hair. He shot another glance skyward, winced. Then he brightened, sitting up straighter. ‘Well … there is only one thing for it. We can always hope their aim is as good as the first time, hey?’ And he laughed in great loud guffaws.
Staring out at the jungle, Jatal did not even smile.
* * *
The first thing that gripped Mara was the terrifying cold. The next was the wet. She was kneeling in water so frigid a slush of ice washed about within it. She vomited into the water, then wrapped her arms about her soaked robes, and bellowed: ‘Red! For Burn’s sake do something!’
‘I’m on it!’ He sounded just as shocked and pained as she.
All a
bout, Crimson Guard Disavowed straightened, groaning and cursing. Skinner had brought fifteen swords and all three mages.
They occupied the top of a bare rocky shoreline. A tower rose just inland. Water foamed and washed back and forth across the land, storm-driven, leaving layers of ice behind. Low clouds churned overhead so close she imagined she could touch them.
‘Where are we?’ she shouted to the priest over the screaming wind and the crash of breakers down the coast. The man merely cackled and laughed wildly. ‘The tower!’ he cried, pointing.
The water pulled back downhill round her. It carried bodies, some in blue woollen robes over mail, others in opalescent scaled breastplates, greaves and helms that gleamed like mother-of-pearl. Mara stared while they nudged past her in the flow.
‘Stormriders?’ she yelled to the priest as he scrambled by.
‘Matters not,’ the man laughed. Ahead, Skinner was already advancing on the tower. Disavowed formed ranks behind. He appeared to still be arguing with Shijel for one of his swords. Since he broke Black’s no one was willing to lend him theirs.
A Warren-fed warmth now stole over her. She recognized Red’s work. It blunted the worst of the strength-draining frigidity but hardly thawed her. She knew she wouldn’t have much time here before her fingers and toes froze.
‘Ware!’ a voice called from behind and she just had time to turn before a wall of webbed green came breaking over her. The mountain of water drove her off her knees and swept her up the slope. She knocked bodies with others, either living or dead, she had no idea. The waters stole all the sense of warmth she’d regained. She almost lost consciousness from the soul-penetrating cold stabbing her. She breached the surface and gasped for breath. Something slashed her side with stinging cold and she spun to see a Stormrider raising his jagged sword for another blow.
She reacted instantly, raising her Warren and thrusting all in one. The creature flew backwards to crack against the tower’s stone wall in a sickening crunch of shattering armour. She gestured again and all the waters swirling about her were driven back in a broad circle. A melee of Riders against Disavowed lay spread across the hillside. Enraged, she threw her arms out and all the Riders lurched backwards as if yanked. They tumbled and rolled to disappear into the churning moil of waters.
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 325