The Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  The huge man stood over the wrapped corpse of Heboric, staring with wide eyes at the demon.

  'It's all right, Chaur,' said Barathol. 'Now, let's carry the dead man to the tailings heap back of the smithy.'

  Smiling again, the huge man picked up Heboric's body. The stench of decaying flesh reached Barathol.

  Shrugging, the blacksmith collected the shovel.

  Greyfrog set off in a loping gait towards the hamlet's main street.

  ****

  Dozing, Scillara's eyes snapped open as an exultant voice filled her mind. 'Joy! Dearest Scillara, time of vigil is at an end! Stalwart and brave Greyfrog has defended your sanctity, and the brood even now squirms in Brother L'oric's arms!'

  'Greyfrog? But they said you were dead! What are you doing talking to me? You never talk to me!'

  'Female with brood must be sheathed with silence. All slivers and darts of irritation fended off by noble Greyfrog. And now, happily, I am free to infuse your sweet self with my undying love!'

  'Gods below, is this what the others had to put up with?' She reached for her pipe and pouch of rustleaf.

  A moment later the demon squeezed through the door­way, followed by L'oric, who held in his arms the babe.

  Scowling, Scillara struck spark to her pipe.

  'The child is hungry,' L'oric said.

  'Fine. Maybe that will ease the pressure and stop this damned leaking. Go on, give me the little leech.'

  The High Mage came closer and handed the infant over. 'You must acknowledge that this girl belongs to you, Scillara.'

  'Oh she's mine all right. I can tell by the greedy look in her eyes. For the sake of the world, you should pray, L'oric, that all she has of her father is the blue skin.'

  'You know, then, who that man was?'

  'Korbolo Dom.'

  'Ah. He is, I believe, still alive. A guest of the Empress.'

  'Do you think I care, L'oric? I was drowning in durhang. If not for Heboric, I'd still be one of Bidithal's butchered acolytes. Heboric...' She looked down at the babe suckling from her left breast, squinting through the smoke of the pipe. Then she glared up at L'oric. 'And now some damned T'lan Imass have killed him — why?'

  'He was a servant of Treach. Scillara, there is war now among the gods. And it is us mortals who shall pay the price for that. It is a dangerous time to be a true worshipper — of anyone or anything. Except, perhaps, chaos itself, for if one force is ascendant in this modern age, it is surely that.'

  Greyfrog was busy licking itself, concentrating, it seemed, on its new limbs. The entire demon looked... smaller.

  Scillara said, 'So you're reunited with your familiar, L'oric. Which means you can go now, off to wherever and whatever it is you have to do. You can leave, and get as far away from here as possible. I'll wait for Cutter to wake up. I like him. I think I'll go where he goes. This grand quest is done. So go away.'

  'Not until I am satisfied that you will not surrender your child to an unknown future, Scillara.'

  'It's not unknown. Or at least, no more unknown than any future. There are two women here both named Jessa and they'll take care of it. They'll raise it well enough, since they seem to like that sort of thing. Good for them, I say Besides, I'm being generous here — I'm not selling it, am I? No, like a damned fool, I'm giving the thing away.'

  'The longer and the more often you hold that girl,' L'oric said, 'the less likely it is that you will do what you presently plan to do. Motherhood is a spiritual state — you will come to that realization before too long.'

  'That's good, so why are you still here? Clearly, I'm already doomed to enslavement, no matter how much I rail.'

  'Spiritual epiphany is not enslavement.'

  'Shows how much you know, High Mage.'

  'I feel obliged to tell you, your words have crushed Greyfrog.'

  'He'll survive it — he seems able to survive everything else. Well, I'm about to switch tits here, you two eager to watch?'

  L'oric spun on his heel and left.

  Greyfrog's large eyes blinked translucently up at Scillara.

  'I am not crushed. Brother of mine misapprehends. Broods climb free and must fend, each runtling holds to its own life. Recollection. Many dangers. Transitional thought. Sorrow. I must now accompany my poor brother, for he is well and truly distressed by many things in this world. Warmth. I shall harbour well my adoration of you, for it is a pure thing by virtue of being ever unattainable, the consummation thereof. Which would, you must admit, be awkward indeed.'

  'Awkward isn't the first word that comes to my mind, Greyfrog. But thank you for the sentiment, as sick and twisted as it happens to be. Listen, try and teach L'oric, will you? Just a few things, like, maybe, humility. And all that terrible certainty — beat it down, beat it out of him. It's making him obnoxious.'

  'Paternal legacy, alas. Loric's own parents... ah, never mind. Farewell, Scillara. Delicious fantasies, slow and exquisitely unveiled in the dark swampy waters of my imagin­ation. All that need sustain me in fecund spirit.'

  The demon waddled out.

  Hard gums clamped onto her right nipple. Pain and pleasure, gods what a miserable, confusing alliance. Well, at least all the lopsidedness would go away — Nulliss had been planting the babe on her left ever since it had come out. She felt like a badly packed mule.

  More voices in the outer room, but she didn't bother listening.

  They'd taken Felisin Younger. That was the cruellest thing of all. For Heboric, at least, there was now some peace, an end to whatever had tormented him, and besides, he'd been an old man. Enough had been asked of him. But Felisin...

  Scillara stared down at the creature on her chest, its tiny grasping hands, then she settled her head against the back wall and began repacking her pipe.

  ****

  Something formless filling his mind, what had been timeless and only in the last instants, in the drawing of a few breaths, did awareness arrive, carrying him from one moment to the next. Whereupon Cutter opened his eyes. Old grey tree-trunks spanned the ceiling overhead, the joins thick with cobwebs snarled around the carcasses of moths and flies. Two lanterns hung from hooks, their wicks low. He struggled to recall how he had ended up here, in this unfamiliar room.

  Darujhistan... a bouncing coin. Assassins...

  No, that was long ago. Tremorlor, the Azath House, and Moby... that god-possessed girl — Apsalar, oh, my love... Hard words exchanged with Cotillion, the god who had, once, looked through her eyes. He was in Seven Cities; he had been travelling with Heboric Ghost Hands, and Felisin Younger, Scillara, and the demon Greyfrog. He had become a man with knives, a killer, given the chance.

  Flies...

  Cutter groaned, one hand reaching tentatively for his belly beneath the ragged blankets. The slash was naught but a thin seam. He had seen... his insides spilling out. Had felt the sudden absence of weight, the tug that pulled him down to the ground. Cold, so very cold.

  The others were dead. They had to be. Then again, Cutter realized, he too should be dead. They'd cut him wide open. He slowly turned his head, studying the narrow room he found himself in. A storage chamber of some kind, a larder, perhaps. The shelves were mostly empty. He was alone.

  The motion left him exhausted — he did not have the strength to draw his arm back from where it rested on his midsection.

  He closed his eyes.

  A dozen slow, even breaths, and he found himself standing, in some other place. A courtyard garden, unkempt and now withered, as if by years of drought. The sky overhead was white, featureless. A stone-walled pool was before him, the water smooth and unstirred. The air was close and unbearably hot.

  Cutter willed himself forward, but found he could not move. He stood as if rooted to the ground.

  To his left, plants began crackling, curling black as a ragged hole formed in the air. A moment later two figures stumbled through that gate. A woman, then a man. The gate snapped shut in their wake, leaving only a swirl of ash and a ring of scorched plants.r />
  Cutter tried to speak, but he had no voice, and after a few moments it was clear that they could not see him. He was as a ghost, an unseen witness.

  The woman was as tall as the man, a Malazan which he was certainly not. Handsome in a hard, unyielding way. She slowly straightened.

  Another woman now sat on the edge of the pool. Fair-skinned, delicately featured, her long golden-hued hair drawn up and bound in an elaborate mass of braids. One hand was immersed in the pool, yet no ripples spanned out­ward. She was studying the water's surface, and did not look up as the Malazan woman spoke.

  'Now what?'

  The man, two vicious-looking flails tucked in his belt, had the look of a desert warrior, his face dark and flat, the eyes slitted amidst webs of squint-lines. He was armoured as if for battle. At his companion's question he fixed his gaze on the seated woman and said, 'You were never clear on that, Queen of Dreams. The only part of this bargain I'm uneasy about.'

  'Too late for regrets,' the seated woman murmured.

  Cutter stared at her anew. The Queen of Dreams. A goddess. It seemed that she too had no inkling that Cutter was somehow present, witnessing this scene. But this was her realm. How could that be?

  The man had scowled at the Queen's mocking observation. 'You seek my service. To do what? I am done leading armies, done with prophecies. Give me a task if you must, but make it straightforward. Someone to kill, someone to protect — no, not the latter — I am done with that, too.'

  'It is your... scepticism... I most value, Leoman of the Flails. I admit, however, to some disappointment. Your companion is not the one I anticipated.'

  The man named Leoman glanced over at the Malazan woman, but said nothing. Then, slowly, his eyes widened and he looked back at the goddess. 'Corabb?'

  'Chosen by Oponn,' the Queen of Dreams said. 'Beloved of the Lady. His presence would have been useful...' A faint frown, then a sigh, and still she would not look up as she said, 'In his stead, I must countenance a mortal upon whom yet another god has cast an eye. To what end, I wonder? Will this god finally use her? In the manner that all gods do?' She frowned, then said, 'I do not refute this... alliance. I trust Hood understands this well enough. Even so, I see something unexpected stirring... in the depths of these waters. Dunsparrow, did you know you were marked? No, I gather you did not — you were but newborn when sanctified, after all. And then stolen away, from the temple, by your brother. Hood never forgave him for that, and took in the end a most satisfying vengeance, ever turning away a healer's touch when nothing else was needed, when that touch could have changed the world, could have shattered an age-old curse.' She paused for a moment, still staring down into the pool. 'I believe Hood now regrets his decision — his lack of humility stings him yet again. Dunsparrow, with you, I suspect, he may seek restitution...'

  The Malazan woman was pale. 'I had heard of my brother's death,' she said in a low voice. 'But all death comes by Hood's hand. I see no need for restitution in this.'

  'By Hood's hand. True enough, and so too Hood chooses the time and the manner. Only on the rarest of occasions, however, does he manifestly intervene in a single mortal's death. Consider his usual... involvement... as little more than withered fingers ensuring the seamless weave of life's fabric, at least until the arrival of the knot.'

  Leoman spoke: 'Ponder the delicacies of dogma some other time, you two. I already grow weary of this place. Send us somewhere, Queen, but first tell us what services you require.'

  She finally looked up, studied the desert warrior in silence for a half-dozen heartbeats, then said, 'For now, I require from you... nothing.'

  There was silence then, and Cutter eventually realized that the two mortals were not moving. Not even the rise and fall of breath was visible. Frozen in place... just like me.

  The Queen of Dreams slowly turned her head, met Cutter's eyes, and smiled.

  Sudden, spinning retreat — he awoke with a start, beneath threadbare blankets and a cross-beamed ceiling layered in the carcasses of sucked-dry insects. Yet that smile lingered, racing like scalded blood through him. She had known, of course she had known, had brought him there, to that moment, to witness. But why? Leoman of the Flails... the renegade commander from Sha'ik's army, the one who had been pursued by the Adjunct Tavore's army. Clearly he found a way to escape, but at a price. Maybe that was the lesson — never bargain with gods.

  A faint sound reached him. The wail of a babe, insistent, demanding.

  Then a closer noise, scuffling, and Cutter twisted his head round to see the curtain covering the doorway drawn back and a young, unfamiliar face staring in at him. The face quickly withdrew. Voices, heavy footsteps, then the curtain was thrown aside. A huge, midnight-skinned man strode in.

  Cutter stared at him. He looked... familiar, yet he knew he'd never before met this man.

  'Scillara is asking after you,' the stranger said.

  'That child I'm hearing — hers?'

  'Yes, for the moment. How do you feel?'

  'Weak, but not as weak as before. Hungry, thirsty. Who are you?'

  'The local blacksmith. Barathol Mekhar.'

  Mekhar? 'Kalam...'

  A grimace. 'Cousin, distant. Mekhar refers to the tribe — it's gone now, slaughtered by Falah'd Enezgura of Aren, during one of his westward conquests. Most of us survivors scattered far and wide.' He shrugged, eyeing Cutter. 'I'll get you food and drink. If a Semk witch comes in here and tries to enlist you in her cause, tell her to get out.'

  'Cause? What cause?'

  'Your friend Scillara wants to leave the child here.'

  'Oh.'

  'Does that surprise you?'

  He considered. 'No, not really. She wasn't herself back then, from what I understood. Back in Raraku. I expect she wants to leave all reminders far behind her.'

  Barathol snorted and turned back to the doorway. 'What is it with all these refugees from Raraku, anyway? I'll be back shortly, Cutter.'

  Mekhar. The Daru managed a smile. This one here looked big enough to pick up Kalam and fling him across a room. And, if Cutter had read the man's expression aright, in that single unguarded moment when he'd said Kalam's name, this Barathol was likely inclined to do just that, given the chance.

  Thank the gods I have no brothers or sisters... or cousins, for that matter.

  His smile suddenly faded. The blacksmith had mentioned Scillara, but no-one else. Cutter suspected it hadn't been an oversight. Barathol didn't seem the type who was careless with his words. Beru fend...

  ****

  L'oric stepped outside. His gaze worked its way down the squalid street, building to building, the decrepit remnants of what had once been a thriving community. Intent on its own destruction, even then, though no doubt few thought that way at the time. The forest must have seemed endless, or at least immortal, and so they had harvested with frenzied abandon. But now the trees were gone, and all those hoarded coins of profit had slipped away, leaving hands filled with nothing but sand. Most of the looters would have moved on, sought out some other stand of ancient trees, to persist in the addiction of momentary gain. Making one desert after another... until the deserts meet.

  He rubbed at his face, felt the grit of his stay here, raw as crushed glass on his cheeks. There were some rewards, at least, he told himself. A child was born. Greyfrog was at his side once more, and he had succeeded in saving Cutter's life. And Barathol Mekhar, a name riding ten thousand curses... well, Barathol was nothing like L'oric had imagined him to be, given his crimes. Men like Korbolo Dom better fit his notions of a betrayer, or the twisted madness of someone like Bidithal. And yet Barathol, an officer in the Red Blades, had murdered the Fist of Aren. He'd been arrested and gaoled, stripped of his rank and beaten without mercy by his fellow Red Blades — the first and deepest stain upon their honour, fuelling their extreme acts of zealotry ever since.

  Barathol was to have been crucified on Aren Way. Instead, the city had risen in rebellion, slaughtering the Malazan garrison and driving the
Red Blades from the city.

  And then the T'lan Imass had arrived, delivering the harsh, brutal lesson of imperial vengeance. And Barathol Mekhar had been seen, by scores of witnesses, flinging open the north gate...

  But it is true. T'lan Imass need no opened gates...

  The question no-one had asked was: why would an offi­cer of the Red Blades murder the city's Fist?

  L'oric suspected Barathol was not one to give him the satisfaction of an answer. The man was well past defending himself, with words at any rate. The High Mage could see as much in the huge man's dark eyes — he had long ago given up on humanity. And his own sense of his place in it. He was not driven to justify what he did; no sense of decency nor honour compelled the man to state his case. Only a soul that has surrendered utterly gives up on notions of redemption. Something had happened, once, that crushed Barathol's faith, leaving unbarred the paths ol betrayal.

  Yet these local folk came close to outright worship in their regard for Barathol Mehkar, and it was this that L'orid could not understand. Even now, when they knew the truth, when they knew what their blacksmith had done years ago, they defied the High Mage's expectations. He was baffled, left feeling strangely helpless.

  Then again, admit it, L'oric, you have never been able to gather followers, no matter how noble your cause. Oh, there were allies here, adding their voices to his own outrage at Scillara's appalling indifference regarding her child, but he knew well enough that such unity was, in the end, transitory and ephemeral. They might all decry Scillara's position, but they would do nothing about it; indeed, all but Nulliss had already come to accept the fact that the child was going to be passed into the hands of two women both named Jessa. There, problem solved. But in truth it is nothing but a crime accommodated.

  The demon Greyfrog ambled to his side and settled belly-down in the dust of the street. Four eyes blinking lazily, it offered nothing of its thoughts, yet an ineffable whisper of commiseration calmed L'oric's inner tumult.

  The High Mage sighed. 'I know, my friend. If I could but learn to simply pass through a place, to be wilfully un­mindful of all offences against nature, both small and large. This comes, I suspect, of successive failures. In Raraku, in Kurald Liosan, with Felisin Younger, gods below, what a depressing list. And you, Greyfrog, I failed you as well...