The Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  The soldier, Futhgar, was standing on his left, half a pace back. Paran gave nothing away, simply stepping to his right then driving his left elbow into the soldier's face. Breaking his nose. The man dropped to the ground like a sack of melons.

  The captain sat up, legs swinging round, and was on her feet in time for Paran to take a forward step and punch her hard, his knuckles cracking against her jaw. Eyes rolling up, she collapsed back down onto the cot, breaking its wooden legs.

  Massaging his hand, Paran looked round. Futhgar was out cold, as was the captain. The steady downpour outside had ensured that no sounds from the brief fight had been heard beyond the tent.

  He walked over to the captain's travel chest. Unlocked. He tilted back the lid and began rummaging through the clothes lying atop armour. Before long, he had enough lengths of material suitable to gag and bind the two soldiers. Dragging Futhgar from near the entrance, he removed the man's eating knife, his sticker and a broad-bladed Kethra gutting knife, then his sword belt. He prepared a wad of cloth for a gag, then bent close to deter­mine if enough air was getting through the man's broken nose. Not even close. Leaving that for the moment, he tightly bound the wrists and ankles, using a harness strap to link the two behind Futhgar's back. He then tied a strip round Futhgar's head, hard against the gaping mouth, leav­ing room to breathe but no room for the tongue to push outward. He'd be able to make groaning sounds, but not much more than that.

  He bound the captain in an identical manner, then added the wad of cloth fixed in place with another strip of material torn from one of the captain's shirts. And, finally, he tied both of them to either side of the cot, and the cot to the tent's centre pole, to hinder their squirming from the tent — which he hoped would give him sufficient time. Satisfied, he took one last look round, then, drawing up his hood, he stepped back outside.

  He found the main avenue and made his way towards the large command tent at the centre of the encampment. Soldiers walked past, paying him no heed. This was Onearm's Host, but he'd yet to see a single familiar face, which wasn't too surprising — he had commanded the Bridgeburners, and the Bridgeburners were gone. Most of these soldiers would be newcomers to the army, drawn in from garrisons at Pale, Genabaris and Nathilog. They would have arrived since the Pannion War. Nonetheless, he expected to find at least someone from the original force that had marched all the way to Coral, someone who had been part of that devastating battle.

  Four soldiers stood guard outside Dujek's command tent. A fifth figure was nearby, holding the reins of a mud-spattered horse.

  Paran walked closer, eyes on the horseman. Familiar —he'd found what he had been looking for. An outrider — but one who'd belonged to Caladan Brood's army, he believed — though I might be wrong in that. Now, what was his name?

  The man's pale brown eyes fixed on him as Paran approached. From within the shadow of the hood, there came the flicker of recognition, then confusion. The out­rider straightened, then saluted.

  Paran shook his head, but it was too late for that. The four guards all stood to attention as well. Paran answered the salute with a vague, sloppy gesture, then stepped close to the outrider. 'Soldier,' he murmured, 'do you know me? Make your answer quiet, if you please.'

  A nod. 'Captain Ganoes Paran. I don't forget faces or names, sir, but we'd heard you were—'

  'Aye, and that's how it stays. Your name?'

  'Hurlochel.'

  'Now I remember. You acted as chronicler on occasion, didn't you?'

  A shrug. 'I keep an account of things, yes, sir. What are you doing here?'

  'I need to speak with Dujek.'

  Hurlochel glanced over at the guards, then scowled. 'Walk with me, sir. Don't mind them, they're new enough not to know all the officers.'

  Leading the horse, Hurlochel guided Paran away, down a side alley nearby, where he halted.

  'Hurlochel,' Paran said, 'why is Dujek's tent guarded by green soldiers? That doesn't make sense at all. What's happened and why are you camped outside G'danisban?'

  'Yes, sir, we've had a hard time of it. It's the plague, you see — the legion healers were keeping it from us, but what it's done to Seven Cities... gods, Captain, there's bodies in the tens of thousands. Maybe hundreds of thousands. Every city. Every village. Caravan camps — everywhere, sir. We had a Gold Moranth accompanying us, you see, a rene­gade of sorts. Anyway, there's a temple, in G'danisban. The Grand Temple of Poliel, and it's where this foul wind is coming from, and it's getting stronger.' Hurlochel paused to wipe rain from his eyes.

  'So Dujek decided to strike at the heart, didn't he?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Go on, Hurlochel.'

  'We arrived, a month back, and the High Fist formed up companies of his veterans, along with the Gold Moranth. They planned an assault on that damned temple. Well, they expected at least a High Priestess or some other sort, but they were ready for it. What nobody planned on, though, was the Grey Goddess herself.'

  Paran's eyes widened. 'Who made it back out?' 'Most of them, sir, except the Gold Moranth. But... they're all sick, sir. The plague's got hold of them and they're only still alive because of the healers... only the healers are losing the battle. So, here we are. Stuck, and nobody skank enough to take real command and make some real decisions.' Hurlochel hesitated, then said, 'Unless that's why you're here, Captain. I sure hope so.'

  Paran looked away. 'I'm officially dead, Outrider. Dujek threw us out of the army, myself and a few others—'

  'Bridgeburners.'

  'Yes.'

  'Well, sir, if anybody earned their days in the sweet sun...'

  Paran grimaced. 'Aye, I'm sure that sun's around some­where. Anyway, I can hardly take command — besides, I'm just a captain—'

  'With absolute seniority, sir. Dujek took his officers with him — they were the veterans, after all. So, we got nearly ten thousand soldiers camped here, and the nearest thing to a commander is Captain Sweetcreek, who's a Falari princess, if you can believe that.'

  'Red hair?'

  'Wild red, aye, and a pretty face—'

  'With a swollen jaw. We've met.'

  'A swollen jaw?'

  'It wasn't a pleasant meeting.' Still Paran hesitated, then he swore and nodded. 'All right. I'll keep the rank of captain... with seniority. But I need a new name—'

  'Captain Kindly, sir.'

  'Kindly?'

  'Old soldiers talk about him like grandmothers talk monsters to the brats, to keep them in line, sir. Nobody here's met him — at least nobody who's not fevered and half out of their minds.'

  'Well, where was Kindly last posted?'

  'Fourteenth, sir. The Adjunct's army out west of Raraku. Which direction did you come in from?'

  'West.'

  'That'll do, sir, I think. I'll make it so's I recognize you. Nobody knows a thing about me, only that the High Fist used me to run messages.'

  'So why would I let two soldiers arrest me if I'm supposed to take over command?'

  'You did? Well, maybe you wanted to see how we were running things here.'

  'All right. One more question, Hurlochel. Why aren't you still with Caladan Brood on Genabackis?'

  'The alliance broke up, sir, not long after the Tiste Andii settled in Black Coral. Rhivi back to the plains, the Barghast back to their hills. The Crimson Guard, who were up north, just vanished — no-one knows where they went. When Onearm shipped out, well, seemed like they were headed somewhere interesting.'

  'Regrets?'

  'With every heartbeat, sir.' Hurlochel then frowned. 'Captain Sweetcreek's got a swollen jaw, you said?'

  'I punched her. Along with some soldier named Futhgar. They're bound and gagged in the captain's tent. They might have come round by now.'

  The man grinned, but it was not a pleasant grin. 'Captain, you knocked out cold a Falari princess — that's perfect. It fits with what people have heard about Kindly. That's brilliant.'

  Paran winced, then rubbed at his face. Gods below, what is it with
me and royalty?

  ****

  She had slowly emerged from the hidden temple to see a straggling line of battered figures walking the road below. Making her way down the dusty, stony slope, she was within fifteen paces before anyone noticed her. There was a strangeness in that moment of meeting, survivors eye to eye, both recognition and disbelief. Acceptance, a sense of something shared, and beneath it the ineffable flow of sorrow. Few words were exchanged.

  Joining the soldiers in their march, Lostara Yil found herself alongside Captain Faradan Sort, who told her some­thing of Y'Ghatan's aftermath. 'Your Fist, Tene Baralta, was hovering on the edge of death, if not of the flesh, then of the spirit. He has lost an arm — it was burned beyond repair — and there was other damage... to his face. I believe he was a vain man.'

  Lostara grunted. 'That damned beard of his, slick with oil.' She thought about Tene Baralta for a time. She'd never liked him much. More than just vain. Perhaps, truth be told, something of a coward, despite all his belligerence and posturing. She remembered the way he had led the retreat following her assassination of the elder Sha'ik, and his eagerness to take credit for every success whilst dancing from the path of disaster. There had been a sadistic streak in the man, and Lostara now feared that it would burgeon, as Tene Baralta sought means to feed all that was wounded within him. 'Why did the army leave all of you behind?'

  Faradan Sort shrugged. 'They assumed no-one who had been trapped within the city could have survived the firestorm.' She paused, then added, 'It was a reasonable assumption. Only Sinn knew otherwise, and something told me to trust the girl. So we kept looking.'

  'They're all wearing rags... and they're unarmed.'

  'Aye, which is why we need to rejoin the army as soon as possible.'

  'Can Sinn magically contact the Fourteenth? Or Quick Ben?'

  'I have not asked her. I do not know how much of her ability is unformed talent — such creatures occur occasionally, and without the discipline of schooling as an apprentice, they tend to become avatars of chaos. Power, yes, but undirected, wild. Even so, she was able to defeat the wall of fire and so save Fist Keneb's companies... well, some of them.'

  Lostara glanced over at the captain, then back at the soldiers in their wake for a moment before saying, 'You are Korelri?'

  'I am.'

  'And you stood the Wall?'

  A tight smile, there for an instant then gone. 'None are permitted to leave that service.'

  'It's said the Stormriders wield terrible sorcery in their eternal assault upon the Wall.'

  'All sorcery is terrible — to kill indiscriminately, often from a great distance, there is nothing more damaging to the mortal who wields such power, whether it is human or something else.'

  'Is it better to look your foe in the eye as you take his life?'

  'At the very least,'. Faradan replied, 'you gave them the chance to defend themselves. And Oponn decides in the end, decides in which set of eyes the light shall fade.'

  'Oponn — I thought it was skill.'

  'You're still young, Captain Lostara Yil.'

  'I am?'

  Faradan Sort smiled. 'With each battle I find myself in, my faith in skill diminishes. No, it is the Lord's push or the Lady's pull, each time, every time.'

  Lostara said nothing. She could not agree with that assessment, even disregarding the irritation of the other woman's condescension. A clever, skilled soldier lived where dim-witted, clumsy soldiers died. Skill was a currency that purchased Oponn's favour — how could it be otherwise?

  'You survived Y'Ghatan,' Faradan Sort said. 'How much of that was the Lady's pull?'

  Lostara considered for a moment, then replied, 'None.'

  ****

  Once, years ago, a few score soldiers had stumbled clear of a vast swamp. Bloodied, half-mad, their very skin hanging in discoloured strips from weeks slogging through mud and black water. Kalam Mekhar had been among them, along with the three he now walked beside, and it seemed that, in the end, only the details had changed.

  Black Dog had brutally culled the Bridgeburners, a pro­tracted nightmare war conducted in black spruce stands, in lagoons and bogs, clashing with the Mott Irregulars, the Nathii First Army and the Crimson Guard. The survivors were numbed — to step free of the horror was to cast aside despair, yet whatever came to replace it was slow in awakening. Leaving... very little. Look at us, he remembered Hedge saying, we're nothing but hollowed-out logs. We done rotted from the inside out, just like every other damned thing in that swamp. Well, Hedge had never been one for optimism.

  'You're looking thoughtful,' Quick Ben observed at his side.

  Kalam grunted, then glanced over. 'Was wondering, Quick. You ever get tired of your own memories?'

  'That's not a good idea,' the wizard replied.

  ' 'No, I suppose it isn't. I'm not just getting old, I'm feel­ing old. I look at all those soldiers behind us — gods below, they're young. Except in their eyes. I suppose we were like that, once. Only... from then till now, Quick, what have we done? Damned little that meant anything.'

  'I admit I've been wondering a few things about you myself,' Quick Ben said. 'That Claw, Pearl, for example.'

  'The one that stabbed me in the back? What about him?'

  'Why you ain't killed him already, Kalam. I mean, it's not something you'd normally set aside, is it? Unless, of course, you're not sure you can take him.'

  From behind the two men, Fiddler spoke: 'It was Pearl that night in Malaz City? Hood's breath, Kalam, the bastard's been strutting round in the Fourteenth since Raraku, no wonder he's wearing a sly smile every time he sees you.'

  'I don't give a damn about Pearl, not about killing him, anyway,' Kalam said in a low voice. 'We got bigger things to worry about. What's our Adjunct got in mind? What's she planning?'

  'Who says she's planning anything?' Fiddler retorted. He was carrying one of the children in his arms, a girl, fast asleep with her thumb in her mouth. 'She went after Leoman, and now she's fleeing a plague and trying to link up with the transport fleet. And then? My guess is, we're on our way back to Genabackis, or maybe the Korel Peninsula. It's more of the same 'cause that's what soldiers do, that's how soldiers live.'

  'I think you're wrong,' Kalam said. 'It's all snarled, now.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Pearl's the key, sapper,' the assassin said. 'Why is he still around? What's the point of spying on the Adjunct? What's the point of dogging the Fourteenth's heels? I'm telling you, Fid, what the Adjunct does next depends on Empress Laseen, her and nobody else.'

  'She won't cut us all loose,' Fiddler said. 'Not the Adjunct, not the Fourteenth. We're her only mobile army worthy of the name. There ain't no more commanders out there — well, there are, but the only salute I'd give 'em is point first. Bloody or not, Tavore's put an end to the rebellion here, and that's got to count for something.'

  'Fid,' Quick Ben said, 'the war's a lot bigger than you might think, and it's just starting. There's no telling which side the Empress is on.'

  'What in Hood's name are you talking about?'

  Apsalar spoke. 'A war among the gods, Sergeant. Captain Paran talked of such a wart at length—'

  Both Kalam and Quick Ben turned at this.

  'Ganoes Paran?' the assassin asked. 'Quick said he left him in Darujhistan. What's he to do with all of this? And when did you speak with him?'

  She was leading her horse by the reins three paces behind Fiddler; in the saddle sat three children, dull-eyed in the heat. At Kalam's questions she shrugged, then said, 'He is Master of the Deck of Dragons. In that capacity, he has come here, to Seven Cities. We were north of Raraku when we parted ways. Kalam Mekhar, I have no doubt that you and Quick Ben are in the midst of yet another scheme. For what it is worth, I would advise caution. Too many unknown forces are in this game, and among them will be found Elder Gods and, indeed, Elder Races. Perhaps you believe you comprehend the ultimate stakes, but I suggest that you do not—'

  'And you do?' Quick
Ben demanded.

  'Not entirely, but then, I have constrained my... goals... seeking only what is achievable.'

  'Now you got me curious,' Fiddler said. 'Here you are, marching with us once again, Apsalar, when I'd figured you'd be settled in some coastal village back in Itko Kan, knitting greasy sweaters for your da. Maybe you left Crokus behind, but it seems to me you ain't left nothing else behind.'

  'We travel this same road,' she said, 'for the moment. Sergeant, you need fear nothing from me.'

  'And what about the rest of us?' Quick Ben asked.

  She did not reply.

  Sudden unease whispered through Kalam. He met Quick's eyes for a brief moment, then faced forward once more. 'Let's just catch up with that damned army first.'

  'I'd like to see Pearl disposed of,' Quick Ben said.

  No-one spoke for a long moment. It wasn't often that the wizard voiced his desire so... brazenly, and Kalam realized, with a chill, that things were getting bad. Maybe even desperate. But it wasn't that easy. Like that rooftop in Darujhistan — invisible enemies on all sides — you look and look but see nothing.

  Pearl, who was once Salk Elan. Mockra warren... and a blade sliding like fire into my back. Everyone thinks Topper's the master in the Claw, but I wonder... can you take him, Kalam? Quick's got his doubts — he's just offered to help. Gods below, maybe I am getting old. 'You never answered me, friend,' the assassin said to Quick Ben.

  'What was the question again?'

  'Ever get tired of your own memories?'

  'Oh, that one.'

  'Well?'

  'Kalam, you have no idea.'

  ****

  Fiddler didn't like this conversation. In fact, he hated it, and was relieved as everyone fell silent once more, walking the dusty track, every step pushing that damned ruin of a city further behind them. He knew he should be back in the column, with his squad, or maybe up ahead, trying to pry stuff loose from Faradan Sort — that captain was full of surprises, wasn't she just. She'd saved all their lives — there was no doubting that — but that didn't mean that he had to trust her. Not yet, despite the truth that he wanted to, for some arcane reason he'd yet to comprehend.