The Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  Unanticipated, this sudden repudiation of sorcery — he could see no otataral, nothing veined through this brutal, black basalt. No obvious explanation. Leather gloves cut through, blood slicking his hands, and above, a mountain to climb, with this dry silver mist closing in around him. Somewhere far below crouched Quick Ben and Stormy, the former wondering what had gone wrong and, hopefully, trying to come up with an idea for dealing with it. The latter likely scratching his armpits and popping lice with his fingernails.

  Well, there was no point in waiting for what might not come, when what was going to come was inevitable. Groaning with the effort, Kalam began pulling himself along the rock.

  The last sky keep he had seen had been Moon's Spawn, and its pocked sides had been home to tens of thousands of Great Ravens. Fortunately, this did not seem to be the case here. A few more man-heights' worth of climbing and he would find himself on a side, rather than virtually upside-down as he was now. Reach there, he knew, and he would be able to rest.

  Sort of.

  That damned wizard. That damned Adjunct. Damned everybody, in fact, since not one of them was here, and of course they weren't, since this was madness and nobody else was this stupid. Gods, his shoulders were on fire, the insides of his thighs a solid ache edging towards numbness. And that wouldn't be good, would it?

  Too old for this by far. Men his age didn't reach his age falling for stupid plans like this one. Was he getting soft? Soft-brained.

  He pulled himself round a chiselled projection, scrabbled with his feet for a moment, then edged over, drew himself up and found ledges that would take his weight. A whimper escaped him, sounding pathetic even to his own ears, as he settled against the stone.

  A while later, he lifted his head and began looking round, searching for a suitable outcrop or knob of rock that he could loop his rope over.

  Quick Ben's rope, conjured out of nothing. Will it even work here, or will it just vanish? Hood's breath, 1 don't know enough about magic. Don't even know enough about Quick, and I've known the bastard for bloody ever. Why isn't he the one up here?

  Because, if the Short-Tails noticed the gnat on their hide, Quick was better backup, even down there, than Kalam could have been. A crossbow quarrel would be spent by the time it reached this high — you could just pluck it out of the air. As for Stormy — a whole lot more expendable than me, as far as I'm concerned — the man swore he couldn't climb, swore that as a babe he never once made it out of his crib without help.

  Hard imagining that hairy-faced miserable hulk ever fitting into a crib in the first place.

  Regaining control of his breathing, Kalam looked down.

  To find Quick Ben and Stormy nowhere in sight. Gods below, now what? The modest features of the ash-laden plain beneath offered little in the way of cover, especially from this height. Yet, no matter where he scanned, he saw no-one. The tracks they had made were faintly visible, leading to where the assassin had left them, and at that location there was... something dark, a crack in the ground. Difficult to determine scale, but maybe... maybe big enough to swallow both of the bastards.

  He resumed his search for projections for the rope. And could see none. 'All right, I guess it's time. Cotillion, consider this a sharp tug on your rope. No excuses, you damned god, I need your help here.'

  He waited. The moan of the wind, the slippery chill of the mist.

  'I don't like this warren.'

  Kalam turned his head to find Cotillion alongside him, one hand and one foot holding the god in place. He held an apple in the other hand, from which he now took a large bite.

  'You think this is funny?' Kalam demanded.

  Cotillion chewed, then swallowed. 'Somewhat.'

  'In case you hadn't noticed, we're clinging to a sky keep, and it's got companions, a whole damned row of them.'

  'If you needed a ride,' the god said, 'you'd be better off with a wagon, or a horse.'

  'It's not moving. It stopped. And I'm trying to break into this one. Quick Ben and a marine were waiting below, but they've just vanished.'

  Cotillion examined the apple, then took another bite.

  'My arms are getting tired.'

  Chewing. Swallowing. 'I'm not surprised, Kalam. Even so, you will have to be patient, since I have some questions. I'll start with the most obvious one. Why are you trying to break into a fortress filled with K'Chain Che'Malle?'

  'Filled? Are you sure?'

  'Reasonably.'

  'Then what are they doing here?'

  'Waiting, looks like. Anyway, I'm the one asking questions.'

  'Fine. Go ahead, I've got all day.'

  'Actually, I think that was my only question. Oh, wait, there's one more. Would you like me to return you to solid ground, so we can resume our conversation in more comfort?'

  'You're enjoying this way too much, Cotillion.'

  'The opportunities for amusement grow ever rarer. Fortunately, we're in something like this keep's shadow, so our descent will be relatively easy.'

  'Any time.'

  Cotillion tossed the apple aside, then reached out to grasp Kalam's upper arm. 'Step away and leave the rest to me.'

  'Hold on a moment. Quick Ben's spells were dispelled — that's how I ended up stuck here—'

  'Probably because he's unconscious.'

  'He is?'

  'Or dead. We should confirm things either way, yes?'

  You sanctimonious blood-lapping sweat-sucking—

  'Risky,' Cotillion cut in, 'making your cursing sound like praying.' A sharp tug, and Kalam bellowed as he was snatched out from the rockface. And was held, suspended in the air by Cotillion's grip on his arm. 'Relax, you damned ox, "easy" is a relative term.'

  Thirty heartbeats later their feet touched ground. Kalam pulled his arm away and headed over to the fissure gaping in the place where Quick and Stormy had been waiting. He approached the edge carefully. Called down into the dark. 'Quick! Stormy!' No answer.

  Cotillion was at his side. 'Stormy? That wouldn't be Adjutant Stormy, would it? Pig-eyed, hairy, scowling—'

  'He's now a corporal,' Kalam said. 'And Gesler's a sergeant.'

  A snort from the god, but no further comment.

  The assassin leaned back and studied Cotillion. 'I didn't really think you'd answer my prayer.'

  'I am a god virtually brimming with surprises.'

  Kalam's gaze narrowed. 'You came damned fast, too. As if you were... close by.'

  An outrageous assumption,' Cotillion said. 'Yet, oddly enough, accurate.'

  The assassin drew the coil of rope from his shoulder, then looked around, and swore.

  Sighing, Cotillion held out one hand.

  Kalam gave him one end of the rope. 'Brace yourself,' he said, as he tumbled the coil down over the pit's edge. He heard a distant snap.

  'Don't worry about that,' Cotillion said. 'I'll make it as long as you need.'

  Hood-damned gods. Kalam worked his way over the edge, then began descending through the gloom. Too much climb­ing today. Either that or I'm gaining weight. His moccasins finally settled on stone. He stepped away from the rope.

  From overhead a small globule of light drifted down, illuminating the nearest wall, vertical, man-made, featur­ing large painted panels, the images seeming to dance in the descending light. For a moment, Kalam simply stared. No idle decoration, this, but a work of art, a master's hand exuberantly displayed in each and every detail. Heavily clothed, more or less human in form, the figures were in positions of transcendence, arms upraised in worship or exaltation, faces filled with joy. Whilst, crowding their feet, dismembered body parts had been painted, blood-splashed and buzzing with flies. The mangled flesh continued down to the chamber's floor, then on out, and Kalam saw now that the bloody scene covered the entire expanse of floor, as far as he could see in every direction.

  Pieces of rubble were scattered here and there, and, less than a half-dozen paces away, two motionless bodies.

  Kalam headed over.

  Both men
lived, he was relieved to discover, though it was difficult to determine the extent of their injuries, beyond the obvious. Stormy had broken both legs, one above the knee, the other both bones below the knee. The back of his helm was dented, but he breathed evenly, which Kalam took for a good sign. Quick Ben seemed physically intact — nothing obviously shattered, at least, nor any blood. For both of them, however, internal injuries were another matter. Kalam studied the wizard's face for a moment, then slapped it.

  Quick's eyes snapped open. He blinked, looked round, coughed, then sat up. 'One half of my face is numb — what happened?'

  'No idea,' Kalam said. 'You and Stormy fell through a hole. The Falari's in rough shape. But somehow you made it unscathed — how did you do that?'

  'Unscathed? I think my jaw's broken.'

  'No it isn't. Must have hit the floor — looks a little puffy but you wouldn't be talking if it was broke.'

  'Huh, good point.' He climbed to his feet and approached Stormy. 'Oh, those legs look bad. We need to set those before I can do any healing.'

  'Healing? Dammit, Quick, you never did any healing in the squad.'

  'No, that was Mallet's task. I was the brains, remember?'

  'Well, as I recall, that didn't take up much of your time.'

  'That's what you think.' The wizard paused and looked round. 'Where are we? And where did that light come from?'

  'Compliments of Cotillion, who is on the other end of that rope.'

  'Oh. Well, he can do the healing, then. Get him down here.'

  'Then who will hold the rope?'

  'We don't need it. Hey, weren't you climbing the Moon's Spawn? Ah, that's why your god is here. Right.'

  'To utter the demon's name is to call him,' Kalam said, looking up to watch Cotillion's slow, almost lazy descent.

  The god settled near Stormy and Quick Ben. A brief nod to the wizard, one eyebrow lifting, then Cotillion crouched beside the marine. 'Adjutant Stormy, what has happened to you?'

  'That should be obvious,' Kalam said. 'He broke his legs.'

  The god rolled the marine onto his back, pulled at each leg, drawing the bones back in line, then rose. 'That will do, I think.'

  'Hardly—'

  'Adjutant Stormy,' Cotillion said, 'is not quite as mortal as he might seem. Annealed in the fires of Thyrllan. Or Kurald Liosan. Or Tellann. Or all three. In any case, as you can see, he's mending already. The broken ribs are com­pletely healed, as is the failing liver and shattered hip. And the cracked skull. Alas, nothing can be done for the brain within it.'

  'He's lost his mind?'

  'I doubt he ever had one,' the god replied. 'He's worse than Urko. At least Urko has interests, peculiar and point­less as they are.'

  A groan from Stormy.

  Cotillion walked over to the nearest wall. 'Curious,' he said. 'This is a temple to an Elder God. Not sure which one. Kilmandaros, maybe. Or Grizzin Farl. Maybe even K'rul.'

  'A rather bloody kind of worship,' Kalam muttered.

  'The best kind,' Quick Ben said, brushing dust from his clothes.

  Kalam noted Cotillion's sly regard of the wizard and wondered at it. Ben Adaephon Delat, Cotillion knows some­thing about you, doesn't he? Wizard, you've got too many secrets by far. The assassin then noticed the rope, still dan­gling from the hole far above. 'Cotillion, what did you tie the rope to?'

  The god glanced over, smiled. 'A surprise. I must be going. Gentlemen...' And he faded, then was gone.

  'Your god makes me nervous, Kalam,' Quick Ben said as Stormy groaned again, louder this time.

  And you in turn make him nervous. And now... He looked down at Stormy. The rips in the leggings were all that remained of the ghastly compound fractures. Adjutant Stormy. Annealed in holy fires. Still scowling.

  ****

  High rock, the sediments stepped and ragged, surrounded their camp, an ancient tree to one side. Cutter sat near the small dung-fire they had lit, watching as Greyfrog circled the area, evincing ever more agitation. Nearby, Heboric Ghost Hands looked to be dozing, the hazy green eman­ations at the ends of his wrists dully pulsing. Scillara and Felisin Younger were packing their pipes for their new sharing of a post-meal ritual. Cutter's gaze returned to the demon.

  Greyfrog, what's ailing you?

  'Nervous. I have intimations of tragedy, swiftly approaching. Something... worried and uncertain. In the air, in the sands. Sudden panic. We should leave here. Turn back. Flee.'

  Cutter felt sweat bead his skin. He had never heard the demon so... frightened. 'We should get off this ridge?'

  The two women looked up at his spoken words. Felisin Younger glanced at Greyfrog, frowned, then paled. She rose. 'We're in trouble,' she said.

  Scillara straightened and walked over to Heboric, nudged him with a boot. 'Wake up.'

  The Destriant of Treach blinked open his eyes, then sniffed the air and rose in a single, fluid motion.

  Cutter watched all this in growing alarm. Shit. He kicked sand over the fire. 'Collect your gear, everyone.'

  Greyfrog paused in his circling and watched them. 'So imminent? Uncertain. Troubled, yes. Need for panic? Changing of mind? Foolishness? Uncertain.'

  'Why take chances?' Cutter asked. 'There's enough light — we'll see if we can find a more defensible place to camp.'

  'Appropriate compromise. Nerves easing their taut sensitivity. Averted? Unknown.'

  'Usually,' Heboric said in a rough voice, pausing to spit. 'Usually, running from one thing throws you into the path of another.'

  'Well, thanks for that, old man.'

  Heboric gave Cutter an unpleasant smile. 'My pleasure.'

  ****

  The cliff-face was pocked with caves which had, over countless centuries, seen use as places of refuge, as crypts for internment of the dead, as storage chambers, and as sheltered panels for rock-paintings. Detritus littered the narrow ledges that had been used as pathways; here and there a dark sooty stain marred overhangs and crevasses where fires had been lit, but nothing looked recent to Mappo's eye, and he recognized the funerary ceramics as belonging to the First Empire era.

  They were approaching the summit of the escarpment, Icarium scrambling up towards an obvious notch cut into the edge by past rains. The lowering sun on their left was red behind a curtain of suspended dust that had been raised by the passing of a distant storm. Bloodflies buzzed the air around the two travellers, frenzied by the storm's brittle, energized breath.

  Icarium's drive had become obsessive, a barely restrained ferocity. He wanted judgement, he wanted the truth of his past revealed to him, and when that judgement came, no matter how harsh, he would stand before it and raise not a single hand in his own defence.

  And Mappo could think of nothing to prevent it, short of somehow incapacitating his friend, of striking him into unconsciousness. Perhaps it would come to that. But there were risks to such an attempt. Fail and Icarium's rage would burgeon into life, and all would be lost.

  He watched as the Jhag reached the notch and clambered through, then out of sight. Mappo quickly followed. Reaching the summit, he paused, wiping grit from his hands. The old drainage channel had carved a channel through the next tiers of limestone, creating a narrow, twisting track flanked by steep walls. A short distance beyond, Mappo could see the edge of another drop-off, towards which Icarium was heading.

  Thick shadows within the channel, insects swarming in the few shafts of sunlight spearing through a gnarled tree. Three strides from reaching Icarium's side, and the gloom seemed to explode around the Trell. He caught a momentary glimpse of something closing on Icarium from the pinnacle of stone to the Jhag's right, then figures swarmed him.

  The Trell lashed out, felt his fist connect with flesh and bone to his left, the sound solid and crunching. A spatter of blood and phlegm.

  A brawny arm snaked round from behind to close on his neck, twisting his head back, the glistening skin of that limb sliding as if oiled before the arm locked tight. Another figure plunged into view from the front,
long-taloned hands snapping out, puncturing Mappo's belly. He bellowed in agony as the claws raked across in an eviscerating slash.

  That failed, for the Trell's hide was thicker than the leather armour covering it. Even so, blood sprayed. The creature behind him tightened its stranglehold. He could feel something of its immense weight and size. Unable to draw a weapon, Mappo pivoted, then flung him­self backward into a rock wall. The crunch of bone and skull behind him, a gasp from the beast that rose into a screech of pain.

  The creature with its claws in Mappo's belly had been dragged closer by the Trell’s backward lunge. He closed his hands round its squat, bony skull, flexed, then savagely twisted the head to one side. The neck snapped. Another scream, this time seeming to come from all sides.

  Roaring, Mappo staggered forward, grasping at the fore­arm drawn across his neck. The beast's weight slammed into him, sent him stumbling.

  He caught a glimpse of Icarium, collapsing beneath a swarm of dark, writhing creatures.

  Too late he felt his leading foot pitch down over the crumbled edge of the cliff-side, down into... open air. The creature's weight pushed him further forward, then, as it saw the precipice they were both about to plunge over, the forearm loosened.

  But Mappo held fast, twisting to drag the beast with him as he fell.

  Another shriek, and he finally caught full sight of the thing. Demonic, mouth opened wide, needle-like fangs fully locked in their hinges, each as long as Mappo's thumb, glistening black eyes, the pupils vertical and the hue of fresh blood.

  T'rolbarahl.

  How?

  He saw its rage, its horror, as they both plummeted from the cliff.

  Falling.

  Falling...

  Gods, this was—

  Book Two

  Beneath This Name

  In darkness he came, this brutal slayer of kin,

  discharged and unleashed, when all but ghosts

  fled the wild dishevelled swagger — oh he knew pain,

  twin fires of vast oblivion burning his soul—