Dust of Dreams
Page 120
Gesler knew it was now dead, a lifeless hulk slowly tumbling in the sky.
Two sky keeps still raged in death-throes behind it, leaning like drunks, moments from colliding with one another. The smoke column from a third was shredding apart to high winds, but of the keep itself there was no sign. The rest were but ashes on the black wind.
Before them rose a mountain of gnarled rock, enclosing the wreckage that had once been Kalse Uprooted, holding it up as if it was a gem, or a giant shattered eye. Something about the stone was familiar, but for the moment, he could not place it. The manifestation reached stunningly high, piercing through the dust and smoke.
Stormy’s hunt for the last fleeing Nah’ruk had taken him and a thousand or so Ve’Gath beyond the hills to the southeast.
Exhausted, numbed beyond all reason, Gesler leaned back in the strange saddle. Some damned dog was yapping at his mount’s ankles.
He saw Kalyth, Sag’Churok, Gunth Mach and the J’an Sentinel, and beyond them, approaching at a careless walk, two children.
Grub. Sinn.
Gesler leaned forward and glared down at the yapping dog. ‘Gods below, Roach,’ he said in a hoarse voice, ‘you returning the favour?’ He drew a shuddering breath. ‘Listen, rat, cos I’m only going to say this once—I guarantee it. But right now, your voice is the prettiest sound I’ve ever heard.’
The miserable thing snarled up at him.
It had never learned how to smile.
Slipping down from the Ve’Gath, Gesler sagged on aching legs. Kalyth was kneeling, facing the direction from which Sinn and Grub were approaching. ‘Get up, Destriant,’ he said, finding himself leaning against the Ve’Gath’s hip. ‘Those two got heads so swelled it’s a wonder a mortal woman pushed ’em out.’
She looked over and he saw the muddy streaks of tears on her cheeks. ‘She had . . . faith. In us humans.’ The woman shook her head. ‘I did not.’
The two children walked up.
Gesler scowled. ‘Stop looking so smug, Sinn. You two are in a lot of trouble.’
‘Bent and Roach found us,’ said Grub, scratching in the wild thatch of hair on his head. It looked as though neither of them had bathed in months. ‘We were safe, Sergeant Gesler.’
‘Happy for you,’ he said in a growl. ‘But they needed you—both of you. The Bonehunters were in the Nah’ruk’s path—what do you think happened to them?’
Grub’s eyes widened.
Sinn walked up to the Ve’Gath and set a hand on its flank. ‘I want one for myself,’ she said.
‘Didn’t you hear me, Sinn? Your brother—’
‘Is probably dead. We were in the warrens—the new warrens. We were on the path, we could taste the blood—so fresh, so strong.’ She looked up at Gesler with bleak eyes. ‘The Azath has sealed the wound.’
‘The Azath?’
She shrugged, facing the tree of rock, its lone knot gripping Kalse Uprooted. She bared her teeth in something that might have been a smile.
‘Who is in there, Sinn?’
‘He’s gone.’
‘Dead stone can’t seal a gate—not for long—even an Azath needs a life force, a living soul—’
She shot him a quick look. ‘That’s true.’
‘So what seals it—if he’s gone—’
‘An eye.’
‘A what?’
Kalyth spoke in the trader tongue. ‘Mortal Sword, the One Daughter is now the Matron of Mach Nest. Bre’nigan stands as her J’an Sentinel. Sag’Churok is the bearer of the seed. She will speak to you now.’
He turned to face the K’Chain Che’Malle.
‘Mortal Sword. The Shield Anvil returns. Shall we await him?’
Don’t bother, Matron, it’s not like he’s smart or anything.
‘I can, even from this distance, breach the defences he has raised.’
Do that. He deserves the headache.
‘Mortal Sword. Shield Anvil. Destriant. You three stand, you three are the mortal truths of my mother’s faith. New beliefs are born. What is an eternity spent in sleep? What is this morning of our first awakening? We honour the blood of our kin spilled this day. We honour too the fallen Nah’ruk and pray that one day they will know the gift of forgiveness.’
You must have seen it for yourself, Matron, Gesler said, that those Nah’ruk are bred down, past any hope of independent thought. Those sky keeps were old. They can repair, but they cannot make anything new. They are the walking dead, Matron. You can see it in their eyes.
Kalyth said, ‘I believed I saw the same in your eyes, Mortal Sword.’
He grunted and then sighed. Too tired for this. I have grieving to do. ‘You might have been right, Destriant. But we shed things like that like snake skin. You wear what you need to get through, that’s all.’
‘Then perhaps we can hope for the Nah’ruk.’
‘Hope all you like. Sinn—can they burn another gate through?’
‘Not for a long time,’ she replied, reaching down to collect up Roach. She cradled the foul thing in her arms, scratching it behind the ears.
The ugly rat’s pink tongue slid in and out as it panted. Its eyes were demonic with witless malice.
Gesler shivered.
The Matron spoke: ‘We are without a Nest. But the need must wait. Wounds must heal, flesh must be harvested. Mortal Sword, we now pledge ourselves to you. We now serve. Among your friends, there will be survivors. We shall find them.’
Gesler shook his head. ‘We led your army, Matron. We had our battle, but it’s over now. You don’t owe us anything. And whatever your mother believed, she never asked us, did she? Me and Stormy, we’re not priests. We’re soldiers and nothing more. Those titles you gave us—well, we’re shedding that skin too.’
Stormy’s voice rumbled through his mind, ‘Same for me, Matron. We can find our friends on our own—you need a city to build, or maybe some other Rooted you can find. Besides, we got Grub and Sinn, and Bent here—gods, he’s almost wagging that stub of a tail and I ain’t never seen that before. Must be all the gore on his face.’
Kalyth laughed, even as tears streamed down her lined cheeks. ‘You two—you cannot shed your titles. They are branded upon your souls—will you just leave me here?’
‘You’re welcome to come with us,’ said Gesler.
‘Where?’
‘East, I think.’
The woman flinched.
‘You’re from there, aren’t you? Kalyth?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Elan. But the Elan are no more. I am the last. Mortal Sword, you must not choose that direction. You will die—all of you.’ She pointed at Grub and Sinn. ‘Even them.’
The Matron said, ‘Then we see the path before us. We shall guard you all. Ve’Gath. K’ell. J’an. Gu’Rull who still lives, still serves. We shall be your guardians. It is the new way our mother foresaw. The path of our rebirth.
‘Humans, welcome us. The K’Chain Che’Malle have returned to the world.’
Sulkit heard her words and something stirred within her. She had been a J’an Sentinel in the time of her master’s need, but her master was gone, and now she was a Matron in her own right.
The time had not yet come when she would make herself known. Old seeds grew within her: the first born would be weak, but that could not be helped. In time, vigour would return.
Her master was gone. The throne was empty, barring a lone eye, embedded in the headrest. She was alone within Kalse.
Life was bleeding into the Rooted’s stone. Strange, alien life. Its flesh and bone was rock. Its mind and soul was the singular imposition of belief. But then, what else are any of us? She would think on this matter.
He was gone. She was alone. But all was well.
‘I have lost him. Again. We were so close, but now . . . gone.’
With these words the trek staggered to a halt, as if in Mappo’s private loss all other desires had withered, blown away.
The twins had closed on the undead wolf. Faint had a fear that death
had somehow addicted them to its hoary promise. They spoke of Toc. They closed small fingers tight in the ratty fur of Baaljagg. The boy slept in Gruntle’s arms—now who could have predicted that bond? No matter, there was something in that huge man that made her think he should have been a father a hundred times by now—to the world’s regret, since he was not anything of the sort.
No, Gruntle had broken loves behind him. Hardly unique, of course, but in that man the loss belonged to everyone.
Ah, I think I just yearn for his shadow. Me and half the lasses here. Oh well. Silly Faint.
Setoc, who had been conversing with Cartographer, now walked over.
‘The storm to the south’s not getting any closer—we have that, at least.’
Faint rubbed the back of her neck and winced at the pressure. ‘Could have done with the rain.’
‘If there was rain.’
She glanced at the girl. ‘Saw you meet Gruntle’s eyes a while back. A look passed between you when we were talking about that storm. So, out with it.’
‘It was a battle, not a storm. Sorcery, and worse. But now it’s over.’
‘Who was fighting, Setoc?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s far away. We don’t have to go there.’
‘Seems like we’re not going anywhere right now.’
‘We will. For now, let’s leave him be,’ she said, eyes on Mappo, who stood a short distance away, motionless as a statue—as he had been for some time.
Amby had been walking alongside the horse-drawn travois carrying his brother—Jula was still close to death. Precious Thimble’s healing was a paltry thing. The Wastelands could not feed her magic, she said. There was still the chance that Jula would die. Amby knelt, shading his brother’s face with one hand. He suddenly looked very young.
Setoc walked back to the horse.
Sighing, Faint looked around.
And saw a rider approaching. ‘Company,’ she said, loud enough to catch everyone’s attention. All but Mappo reacted, turning or rising and following her gaze.
From Setoc: ‘I know him! That’s Torrent!’
More lost souls to this pathetic party. Welcome.
A single flickering fire marked the camp, and occasionally a figure passed in front of it. The wind carried no sound from those gathered there. Among the travellers, sorrow and joy, grief and the soft warmth of newborn love. So few mortals, and yet all of life was there, ringing the fire.
Faint jade light limned the broken ground, as if darkness itself could be painted into a mockery of life. The rider who sat upon a motionless, unbreathing horse, was silent, feeling like a creature too vast to approach any shore—he could look on with one dead eye or the other dead eye. He could remember what it was like to be a living thing among other living things.
The heat, the promise, the uncertainties and all the hopes to sweeten the bitterest seas.
But that shore was for ever beyond him now.
They could feel the warmth of that fire. He could not. And never again.
The figure that rose from the dust beside him said nothing for a time, and when she spoke it was in the spirit language—her voice beyond the ears of the living. ‘We all do as we must, Herald.’
‘What you have done, Olar Ethil . . .’
‘It is too easy to forget.’
‘Forget what?’
‘The truth of the T’lan Imass. Did you know, a fool once wept for them?’
‘I was there. I saw the man’s barrow—the gifts . . .’
‘The most horrid of creatures—human and otherwise—are so easily, so carelessly recast. Mad murderers become heroes. The insane wear the crown of geniuses. Fools flower in endless fields, Herald, where history once walked.’
‘What is your point, bonecaster?’
‘The T’lan Imass. Slayers of Children from the very beginning. Too easy to forget. Even the Imass themselves, the First Sword himself, needed reminding. You all needed reminding.’
‘To what end?’
‘Why do you not go to them, Toc the Younger?’
‘I cannot.’
‘No,’ she nodded, ‘you cannot. The pain is too great. The loss you feel.’
‘Yes,’ he whispered.
‘Nor should they yield love to you, should they? Any of them. The children . . .’
‘They should not, no.’
‘Because, Toc the Younger, you are the brother of Onos T’oolan. His true brother now. And for all the mercy that once dwelt in your mortal heart, only ghosts remain. They must not love you. They must not believe in you. For you are not the man you once were.’
‘Did you think I needed reminding, too, Olar Ethil?’
‘I think . . . yes.’
She was right. He felt inside for the pain he’d thought—he’d believed—he had lived with for so long. As if lived was even the right word. When he found it, he saw at last its terrible truth. A ghost. A memory. I but wore its guise.
The dead have found me.
I have found the dead.
And we are the same.
‘Where will you go now, Toc the Younger?’
He gathered the reins of his horse and looked back at the distant fire. It was a spark. It would not last the night. ‘Away.’
Snow drifted down, the sky was at peace.
The figure on the throne had been frozen, lifeless, for a long, long time.
A fine shedding of dust from the corpse marked that something had changed. Ice then crackled. Steam rose from flesh slowly thickening with life. The hands, gripping the arms of the throne, suddenly twitched, fingers uncurling.
Light flickered in its pitted eyes.
And, looking out from mortal flesh once more, Hood, who had once been the Lord of Death, found arrayed before him fourteen Jaghut warriors. They stood in the midst of frozen corpses, weapons out but lowered or resting across shoulders.
One spoke. ‘What was that war again?’
The others laughed.
The first one continued, ‘Who was that enemy?’
The laughter this time was louder, longer.
‘Who was our commander?’
Heads rocked back and the thirteen roared with mirth.
The first speaker shouted, ‘Does he live? Do we?’
Hood slowly rose from the throne, melted ice streaming down his blackened hide. He stood, and eventually the laughter fell away. He took one step forward, and then another.
The fourteen warriors did not move.
Hood lowered to one knee, head bowing. ‘I seek . . . penance.’
A warrior far to the right said, ‘Gathras, he seeks penance. Do you hear that?’
The first speaker replied. ‘I do, Sanad.’
‘Shall we give it, Gathras?’ another asked.
‘Varandas, I believe we shall.’
‘Gathras.’
‘Yes, Haut?’
‘What was that war again?’
The Jaghut howled.
The Errant was lying on wet stone, on his back, unconscious, the socket of one eye a pool of blood.
Kilmandaros, breathing hard, stepped close to look down upon him. ‘Will he live?’
Sechul Lath was silent for a moment, and then he sighed. ‘Live is such a strange word. We know nothing else, after all. Not truly. Not . . . intimately.’
‘But will he?’
Sechul turned away. ‘I suppose so.’ He halted suddenly, cocked his head and then snorted. ‘Just what he always wanted.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s got an eye on a Gate.’
Her laughter rumbled in the cavern, and when it faded she turned to Sechul and said, ‘I am ready to free the bitch. Beloved son, is it time to end the world?’
Face hidden from her view, Sechul Lath closed his eyes. Then said, ‘Why not?’
This ends the Ninth Tale
of The Malazan
Book of the Fallen
Dust of DreamsCOVER
TITLE
COPYRIGHT
&n
bsp; DEDICATION
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
PROLOGUE
BOOK ONE: The Sea Does Not Dream of You
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
BOOK TWO: Eaters of Diamonds and Gems
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
BOOK THREE: Only the Dust Will Dance
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
BOOK FOUR: The Path Forever Walked
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four