The Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  ****

  Sixteen barrows had been raised half a league south of Y'Ghatan, each one a hundred paces long, thirty wide, and three man-heights high. Rough-cut limestone blocks and internal columns to hold up the curved roofs, sixteen eternally dark abodes, home to Malazan bones. Newly cut, stone-lined trenches reached out to them from the distant city, carrying Y'Ghatan's sewage in turgid flows swarming with flies. Sentiments, Fist Keneb reflected sourly, could not be made any clearer.

  Ignoring the stench as best he could, Keneb guided his horse towards the central barrow, which had once been surmounted by a stone monument honouring the empire's fallen. The statue had been toppled, leaving only the broad pedestal. Standing on it now were two men and two dogs, all facing Y'Ghatan's uneven, whitewashed walls.

  The Barrow of Dassem Ultor and his First Sword, which held neither Dassem nor any of his guard who had fallen outside the city all those years ago. Most soldiers knew the truth of that. The deadly, legendary fighters of the First Sword had been buried in unmarked graves, to keep them from desecration, and Dassem's own grave was believed to be somewhere outside Unta, on Quon Tali.

  Probably empty.

  The cattle-dog, Bent, swung its huge head to watch Keneb push his horse up the steep slope. Red-rimmed eyes, set wide in a nest of scars, a regard that chilled the Malazan, reminding him yet again that he but imagined his own familiarity with that beast. It should have died with

  Coltaine. The animal looked as though pieced together from disparate, unidentifiable parts, only roughly approxi­mating a dog's shape. Humped, uneven shoulder muscles, a neck as thick round as a grown man's thigh, misshapen, muscle-knitted haunches, a chest deep as a desert lion's. Beneath the empty eyes the creature was all jaw, overwide, the snout misaligned, the three remaining canines visible even when Bent's fierce mouth was closed, for most of the skin covering them had been torn away at the Fall, and nothing had replaced it. One shorn ear, the other healed flat and out to the side.

  The stub that was all that was left of Bent's tail did not wag as Keneb dismounted. Had it done so, Keneb allowed the possibility that he would have been shocked to death.

  The mangy, rat-like Hengese dog, Roach, trotted up to sniff at Keneb's left boot, whereupon it squatted ladylike and urinated against the leather. Cursing, the Malazan stepped away, cocking one foot for a savage kick, then halt­ing the motion at a deep growl from Bent.

  Warleader Gall rumbled a laugh. 'Roach but claims this heap of stones, Fist. Hood knows, there's no-one below to get offended.'

  'Too bad one cannot say the same for the other barrows,' Keneb said, drawing off his riding gloves.

  'Ah, but that insult belongs at the feet of the citizens of Y'Ghatan.'

  'Roach should have displayed more patience, then, Warleader.'

  'Hood take us, man, she's a damned dog. Besides, you think she'll run out of piss any time soon?'

  If I had my way, she'd run out of a lot more besides. 'Not likely, I'll grant you. That rat has more malign fluids in it than a rabid bhederin bull.'

  'Poor diet.'

  Keneb addressed the other man: 'Fist Temul, the Adjunct wishes to know if your Wickan scouts have ridden round the city.'

  The young warrior was a child no longer. He had grown two hand's' widths since Aren. Lean, hawk-faced, with far too many losses pooled in his black eyes. The Crow clan warriors who had so resented his command at Aren were silent these days. Gaze fixed on Y'Ghatan, he gave no indication of having heard Keneb's words.

  More and more like Coltaine with every passing day, Gall says. Keneb knew enough to wait.

  Gall cleared his throat. 'The west road shows signs of an exodus, no more than a day or two before we arrived. A half-dozen old Crow horse-warriors demanded that they pursue and ravage the fleeing refugees.'

  'And where are they now?' Keneb asked.

  'Guarding the baggage train, hah!'

  Temul spoke. 'Inform the Adjunct that all gates are sealed. A trench has been dug at the base of the tel, cutting through the ramped roads on all sides, to a depth of nearly a man's height. Yet, this trench is but two paces wide — clearly the enemy ran out of time.'

  Out of time. Keneb wondered at that. With pressed workers, Leoman could have had a far broader barrier excavated within the span of a single day. 'Very well. Did your scouts report any large weapons mounted on the walls or on the roofs of the corner towers?'

  'Malazan-built ballistae, an even dozen,' Temul replied, 'ranged about at equal intervals. No sign of concentrations.'

  'Well,' Keneb said with a grunt, 'foolish to suppose that Leoman would give away his perceived weak-points. And those walls were manned?'

  'Yes, crowds, all shouting taunts to my warriors.'

  'And showing their naked backsides,' Gall added, turn­ing to spit.

  Roach trotted over to sniff at the gleaming phlegm, then licked it up.

  Nauseous, Keneb looked away, loosening the chin-strap of his helm. 'Fist Temul, have you made judgement as to our surest approach?'

  Temul glanced over, expressionless. 'I have.'

  'And?'

  'And what, Fist? The Adjunct cares nothing for our opinions.'

  'Perhaps not, but I would like to hear your thoughts in any case.'

  'Ignore the gates. Use Moranth munitions and punch right through a wall midway between tower and gate. Any side will do. Two sides would be even better.'

  'And how will the sappers survive camping out at the base of a wall?'

  'We attack at night.'

  'That is a risky thing to do.'

  Temul scowled, and said nothing.

  Gall turned to regard Keneb, his tear-etched face mildly incredulous. 'We begin a siege, man, not a Hood-damned fly dance.'

  'I know. But Leoman must have mages, and night will not hide sappers from them.'

  'They can be countered,' Gall retorted. 'It's what our mages are for. But we waste our breaths with such things. The Adjunct will do as she chooses.'

  Keneb faced right and studied the vast encampment of the Fourteenth Army, arrayed to fend off a sortie, should Leoman prove so foolish. The investiture would be a care­ful, measured exercise, conducted over two or three days. The range of the Malazan ballistae on the walls was well known, so there would be no surprises there. Even so, encirclement would stretch their lines appallingly thin. They would need advance emplacements to keep an eye on the gates, and Temul's Wickans and Seti, as well as Gall's Khundryl horse-warriors, divided into companies and positioned to respond should Leoman surprise them.

  The Fist shook his head. 'This is what I do not under­stand. Admiral Nok's fleet is even now sailing for Lothal with five thousand marines on board, and once Dujek forces the last city to capitulate he will begin a fast march to join us. Leoman must know his position is hopeless. He cannot win, even should he maul us. We will still be able to keep this noose knotted tight round Y'Ghatan, whilst we wait for reinforcements. He is finished. So why does he continue to resist?'

  'Aye,' said Gall. 'He should have carried on riding west, out into the odhan. We would never have caught him out there, and he could begin rebuilding, drawing warriors to his cause.'

  Keneb glanced over. 'So, Warleader, you are as nervous about this as I am.'

  'He means to bleed us, Keneb. Before he falls, he means to bleed us.' A rough gesture. 'More barrows to ring this cursed city. And he will die fighting, and so will become yet another martyr.'

  'So, the killing of Malazans is sufficient cause to fight. What have we done to deserve this?'

  'Wounded pride,' Temul said. 'It is one thing to suffer defeat on a field of battle, it is another to be crushed when your foe has no need even to draw a sword.'

  'Humiliated in Raraku,' Gall said, nodding. 'The growing cancer in their souls. This cannot be carved out. The Malazans must be made to know pain.'

  'That is ridiculous,' Keneb said. 'Was not the Chain of Dogs glory enough for the bastards?'

  'The first casualty among the defeated is recalling
their own list of crimes, Fist,' Temul said.

  Keneb studied the young man. The foundling Grub was often in Temul's company, and among the strange lad's disordered host of peculiar observations, Grub had hinted of glory, or perhaps infamy, bound to Temul's future. Of course, that future could be tomorrow. Besides, Grub might be no more than a brain-addled waif... all right, I don't believe that — he seems to know too much. If only half the things he said made any sense... Well, in any case, Temul still managed to startle Keneb with statements more suited to some veteran campaigner. 'Very well, Fist Temul. What would you do, were you in Leoman's place?'

  Silence, then a quick look at Keneb, something like surprise in Temul's angular features. A moment later the expressionless mask returned, and he shrugged.

  'Coltaine walks in your shadow, Temul,' Gall said, running his fingers down his own face as if to mimic the tears tattooed there. 'I see him, again and again—'

  'No, Gall. I have told you before. You see naught but the ways of the Wickans; all else is but your imagination. Coltaine sent me away; it is not to me that he will return.'

  He haunts you still, Temul. Coltaine sent you with Duiker to keep you alive, not to punish or shame you. Why won't you accept that?

  'I have seen plenty of Wickans,' Gall said in a growl.

  This had the sound of an old argument. Sighing, Keneb walked over to his horse. 'Any last words for the Adjunct? Either of you? No? Very well.' He swung up into the saddle and gathered the reins.

  The cattle-dog Bent watched him with its sand-coloured, dead eyes. Nearby, Roach had found a bone and was lying sprawled on its belly, legs spread out as it gnawed with the mindless concentration unique to dogs.

  Halfway down the slope, Keneb realized where that bone had likely come from. A kick, all right, hard enough to send that rat straight through Hood's Gate.

  ****

  Corporal Deadsmell, Throatslitter and Widdershins were sitting round a game of Troughs, black stones bouncing off the rudder and rolling in the cups, as Bottle walked up.

  'Where's your sergeant?' he asked.

  Deadsmell glanced up, then back down. 'Mixing paint.'

  'Paint? What kind of paint?'

  'It's what Dal Honese do,' said Widdershins, 'death-mask paint.'

  'Before a siege?'

  Throatslitter hissed — what passed for laughter, Bottle supposed — and said, 'Hear that? Before a siege. That's very cute, very cute, Bottle.'

  'It's a death mask, idiot,' Widdershins said to Bottle. 'He paints it on when he thinks he's about to die.'

  'Great attitude for a sergeant,' Bottle said, looking around. The other two soldiers of the Ninth Squad, Gait and Lobe, were feuding over what to put in a pot of boiling water. Both held handfuls of herbs, and as each reached to toss the herbs in the other soldier pushed that hand away and sought to throw in his own. Again and again, over the boiling water. Neither spoke. 'All right, where is Balm find­ing his paint?'

  'There's a local cemetery north of the road,' Deadsmell said. 'I'd guess maybe there.'

  'If I don't find him,' Bottle said, 'the captain wants a meeting with all the sergeants in her company. Dusk.'

  'Where?'

  'The sheep pen back of the farm south of the road, the one with the caved-in roof.'

  Over by the hearth the pot had boiled dry and Gait and Lobe were fighting over water jugs.

  Bottle moved on to the next encampment. He found Sergeant Moak sprawled with his back resting on a heap of bedrolls. The Falari, copper-haired and bearded, was pick­ing at his overlarge teeth with a fish spine. His soldiers were nowhere in sight.

  'Sergeant. Captain Faradan Sort's called a meeting—'

  'I heard. I ain't deaf.'

  'Where's your squad?'

  'Got the squats.'

  'All of them?'

  'I cooked last night. They got weak stomachs, that's all.' He belched, and a moment later Bottle caught a whiff of something like rotting fish guts.

  'Hood take me! Where'd you find anywhere to catch fish on this trail?'

  'Didn't. Brought it with me. Was a bit high, it's true, but nothing a real soldier couldn't handle. There's some scrap­ings in the pot — want some?'

  'No.'

  'No wonder the Adjunct's in trouble, what with a whole damn army of cowardly whiners.'

  Bottle stepped past to move on.

  'Hey,' Moak called out, 'tell Fid the wager's still on as far as I'm concerned.'

  'What wager?'

  'Between him and me and that's all you got to know.'

  'Fine.'

  He found Sergeant Mosel and his squad dismantling a broken wagon in the ditch. They had piled up the wood and Flashwit and Mayfly were prying nails, studs and fittings from the weathered planks, whilst Taffo and Uru Hela struggled with an axle under the sergeant's watchful eye.

  Mosel glanced over. 'Bottle, isn't it? Fourth Squad, Fid's, right? If you're looking for Neffarias Bredd you just missed him. A giant of a man, must have Fenn blood in him.'

  'No, I wasn't, Sergeant. You saw Bredd?'

  'Well, not me, I've just come back, but Flashwit...'

  At mention of her name the burly woman looked up. 'Yah. I heard he was just by here. Hey, Mayfly, who was it said he was just by?'

  'Who?'

  'Neffarias Bredd, you fat cow, who else would we be talk­ing 'bout?'

  'I don't know who said what. I was only half listening, anyway. I think it was Smiles, was it Smiles? Might have been. Anyway, I'd like to roll in the blankets with that man—'

  'Smiles isn't a man—'

  'Not her. Bredd, I mean.'

  Bottle asked, 'You want to bed Bredd?'

  Mosel stepped closer, eyes narrowing. 'You making fun of my soldiers, Bottle?'

  'I'd never do that, Sergeant. Just came to tell there's a meeting—'

  'Oh, yes, I heard.'

  'From who?'

  The lean man shrugged. 'Can't remember. Does it matter?'

  'It does if it means I'm wasting my time.'

  'You ain't got time to waste? Why, what makes you unique?'

  'That axle doesn't look broken,' Bottle observed.

  'Who said it was?'

  'Then why are you taking the wagon apart?'

  'We been eating its dust so long we just took revenge.'

  'Where's the wagoner, then? The load crew?'

  Flashwit laughed an ugly laugh.

  Mosel shrugged again, then gestured further down the ditch. Four figures, bound and gagged, were lying motion­less in the yellow grass.

  The two squads of sergeants Sobelone and Tugg were gathered round a wrestling match between, Bottle saw as he pushed his way in for a better look, Saltlick and Shortnose. Coins were being flung down, puffing the dust of the road, as the two heavy infantrymen strained and heaved in a knot of arm and leg holds. Saltlick's massive, round face was visible, red, sweaty and streaked with dust, the expression fixed in its usual cow-like, uninterested incomprehensibility. He blinked slowly, and seemed to be concentrating on chewing something.

  Bottle nudged Toles, the soldier on his right. 'What are they fighting over?'

  Toles looked down on Bottle, his thin, pallid face twitch­ing. 'It's very simple. Two squads, marching in step, one behind the other, then the other in front of the one that had been in front beforehand, proving the mythical camaraderie to be no more than some epic instigator of bad poetry and bawdy songs designed to appease lowbrows, in short, a lie. Culminating at the last in this disreputable display of animal instincts—'

  'Saltlick bit Shortnose's ear off,' cut in Corporal Reem, standing on Bottle's left.

  'Oh. Is that what he's chewing?'

  'Yeah. Taking his time with it, too.'

  'Do Tugg and Sobelone know about the captain's meet­ing?'

  'Yeah.'

  'So, Shortnose who got his nose tip cut off now has only one ear, too.'

  'Yeah. He'll do anything to spite his face.'

  'Is he the one who got married last week?' />
  'Yeah, to Hanno there. She's the one betting against him. Anyway, from what I hear, it ain't his face that she adores, if you know what I mean.'

  Bottle caught sight of a low hill on the north side of the road on which stood a score of twisted, hunched guldindha trees. 'Is that the old cemetery?'

  'Looks like it, why?'

  Without answering, Bottle pushed his way back through the crowd and set off for the burial ground. He found Sergeant Balm in a looter's pit, face streaked with ash, making a strange monotonous nasal groaning sound as he danced in tight circles.

  'Sergeant, captain wants a meeting—'

  'Shut up, I'm busy.'

  'Dusk, in the sheep pen—'

  'Interrupt a Dal Honese death dirge and you'll know a thousand thousand lifetimes of curses, your bloodlines for ever. Hairy old women will steal your children and your children's children and chop them up and cook them with vegetables and tubers and a few precious threads of saffron—'

  'I'm done, Sergeant. Orders delivered. Goodbye.'

  '—and Dal Honese warlocks wearing snake girdles will lie with your woman and she'll birth venomous worms all covered in curly black hair—'

  'Keep it up, Sergeant, and I'll make a doll of you—'

  Balm leapt from the pit, eyes suddenly wide. 'You evil man! Get away from me! I never done nothing to you!' He spun about and ran away, gazelle-skins flapping.

  Bottle turned and began the long walk back to the camp.

  He found Strings assembling his crossbow, Cuttle watching with avid interest. A crate of Moranth munitions was to one side, the lid pried loose and the grenados lying like turtle eggs in nests of padding. The others of the squad were sitting some distance away, looking nervous.

  The sergeant glanced up. 'Bottle, you found them all?'

  'Aye.'

  'Good. So, how are the other squads holding up?'

  'Just fine,' Bottle replied. He regarded the others on the far side of the hearth. 'What's the point?' he asked. 'If that box goes up, it'll knock down Y'Ghatan's wall from here, and you and most of this army will be red hail.'

  Sudden sheepish expressions. Grunting, Koryk rose, deliberately casual. 'I was already sitting here,' he said. 'Then Tarr and Smiles crawled over to huddle in my shadow.'