The Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  All that Kulat had predicted was coming to pass. Survivors arrived, at first a trickle, then by the hundred, drawn here, guided by the hand of a god. They began excavating the long-buried city, making for themselves homes amidst the ghosts of long-dead denizens who still haunted the rooms, the hallways and the streets, silent and motionless, spectres witnessing a rebirth, on their faint, blurred faces a riot of expressions ranging from dismay to horror. How the living could terrify the dead.

  Herders arrived with huge flocks, sheep and goats, the long-limbed cattle called eraga that most had believed extinct for a thousand years — Kulat said that wild herds had been found in the hills — and here the dogs recollected what they had been bred for in the first place and now fended the beasts against the wolves and the grey eagles that could lift a newborn calf in their talons.

  Artisans had arrived and had begun producing images that had been born in their sickness, in their fevers: the God in Chains, the multitudes of the Broken and the Scarred and the Unmanned. Images on pottery, on walls painted in the ancient mix of eraga blood and red ochre, stone statues for the Carriers. Fabrics woven with large knots of wool to represent the nodules, scenes of fever patterns of colour surrounding central images of Felisin her­self, Sha'ik Reborn, the deliverer of the true Apocalypse.

  She did not know what to make of all this. She was left bewildered again and again by what she witnessed, every gesture of worship and adoration. The horror of physical disfigurement assailed her on all sides, until she felt numb, drugged insensate. Suffering had become its own language, life itself defined as punishment and imprisonment. And this is my flock.

  Her followers had, thus far, answered her every need but one, and that was the growing sexual desire, reflecting the changes overtaking her body, the shape of womanhood, the start of blood between her legs, and the new hunger feeding her dreams of succour. She could not yearn for the touch of slaves, for slavery was what these people willingly embraced, here and now, in this place they called Hanar Ara, the City of the Fallen.

  Around a mouthful of stones, Kulat said, 'And this is the problem, Highness.'

  She blinked. She hadn't been listening. 'What? What is the problem?'

  This Carrier, who arrived but this morning from the southwest track. With his dogs that answer only to him.'

  She regarded Kulat, the old bastard who confessed sexually fraught dreams of wine as if the utterance was itself more pleasure than he could bear, as if confession made him drunk. 'Explain.'

  Kulat sucked at the stones in his mouth, swallowed spit, then gestured. 'Look upon the buds, Highness, the buds of disease, the Many Mouths of Bluetongue. They are shrink­ing. They have dried up and are fading. He has said as much. They have grown smaller. He is a Carrier who shall, one day, cease being a Carrier. This child shall lose his usefulness.'

  Usefulness. She looked upon him again, more carefully this time, and saw a hard, angular face older than its years, clear eyes, a frame that needed more flesh and would likely find it once again, now that he had food to eat. A boy still young, who would grow into a man. 'He shall reside in the palace,' she said.

  Kulat's eyes widened. 'Highness—'

  'I have spoken. The Open Wing, with the courtyard and stables, where he can keep his dogs—'

  'Highness, there are plans for converting the Open Wing into your own private garden—'

  'Do not interrupt me again, Kulat. I have spoken.'

  My own private garden. The thought now amused her, as she reached for her goblet of wine. Yes, and we shall see how it grows.

  So carried on her unspoken thoughts, Felisin saw nothing of Kulat's sudden dark look, the moment before he bowed and turned away.

  The boy had a name, but she would give him a new name. One better suited to her vision of the future. After a moment, she smiled. Yes, she would name him Crokus.

  Chapter Fifteen

  An old man past soldiering

  his rivets green, his eyes

  rimmed in rust,

  stood as if heaved awake

  from slaughter's pit, back-cut

  from broken flight

  when young blades chased him

  from the field.

  He looks like a promise only fools

  could dream unfurled,

  the banners of glory

  gesticulating

  in the wind over his head,

  stripped like ghosts,

  skulls stove in, lips flapping,

  their open mouths mute.

  'Oh harken to me,' cries he

  atop his imagined summit,

  'and I shall speak — of riches

  and rewards, of my greatness,

  my face once young like these

  I see before me — harken!'

  While here I sit at the Tapu's

  table, grease-fingered

  with skewered meat, cracked goblet

  pearled in the hot sun, the wine

  watered to make, in the

  alliance of thin and thick,

  both passing palatable.

  As near as an arm's reach

  from this rabbler, this

  ravelling trumpeter who once

  might have stood shield-locked

  at my side, red-hued, masked

  drunk, coarse with fear, in

  the moment before he broke—

  broke and ran—

  and now he would call a new

  generation to war, to battle-clamour,

  and why? Well, why — all

  because he once ran, but listen:

  a soldier who ran once

  ever runs, and this,

  honoured magistrate,

  is the reason—

  the sole reason I say—

  for my knife finding his back.

  He was a soldier

  whose words heaved me

  awake.

  'Bedura's Defence' in The Slayng of King Qualin Tros of Bellid, (transcribed as song by Fisher, Malaz City, last year of Laseen's Reign)

  Within an aura redolent and reminiscent of a crypt, Noto Boil, company cutter, Kartoolian by birth and once priest of Soliel, long, wispy, colourless hair plucked like strands of web by the wind, his skin the hue of tanned goat leather, stood like a bent sapling and picked at his green-furred teeth with a fish spine. It had been a habit of his for so long that he had worn round holes between each tooth, and the gums had receded far back, making his smile skeletal.

  He had smiled but once thus far, by way of greeting, and for Ganoes Paran, that had been once too many.

  At the moment, the healer seemed at best pensive, at worst distracted by boredom. 'I cannot say for certain, Captain Kindly,' the man finally said.

  'About what?'

  A flicker of the eyes, grey floating in yellow murk. 'Well, you had a question for me, did you not?'

  'No,' Paran replied, 'I had for you an order.'

  'Yes, of course, that is what I meant.'

  'I commanded you to step aside.'

  'The High Fist is very ill, Captain. It will avail you nothing to disturb his dying. More pointedly, you might well become infected with the dread contagion.'

  'No, I won't. And it is his dying that I intend to do some­thing about. For now, however, I wish to see him. That is all.'

  'Captain Sweetcreek has—'

  'Captain Sweetcreek is no longer in command, cutter. I am. Now get out of my way before I reassign you to irrigat­ing horse bowels, and given the poor quality of the feed they have been provided of late...'

  Noto Boil examined the fish spine in his hand. 'I will make note of this in my company log, Captain Kindly. As the Host's ranking healer, there is some question regarding chain of command at the moment. After all, under normal circumstances I far outrank captains—'

  'These are not normal circumstances. I'm losing my patience here.'

  An expression of mild distaste. 'Yes, I have first-hand knowledge of what happens when you lose patience, no matter how unjust the situation
. It fell to me, I remind you, to heal Captain Sweetcreek's fractured cheekbone.' The man stepped to one side of the entrance. 'Please, Captain, be welcome within.'

  Sighing, Paran strode past the cutter, pulled aside the flap and entered the tent.

  Gloom, the air hot and thick with heavy incense that could only just mask the foul reek of sickness. In this first-chamber were four cots, each occupied by a company commander, only two of whom were familiar to Paran. All slept or were unconscious, limbs twisted in their sweat-stained blankets, necks swollen by infection, each drawn breath a thin wheeze like some ghastly chorus. Shaken, the captain moved past them and entered the tent's back chamber, where there was but one occupant.

  In the grainy, crepuscular air, Paran stared down at the figure in the cot. His first thought was that Dujek Onearm was already dead. An aged, bloodless face marred by dark purple blotches, eyes crusted shut by mucus. The man's tongue, the colour of Aren Steel, was so swollen it had forced open his mouth, splitting the parched lips. A healer — probably Noto Boil — had packed Dujek's neck in a mixture of mould, ash and clay, which had since dried, looking like a slave collar.

  After a long moment, Paran heard Dujek draw breath, the sound uneven, catching again and again in faint convulsions of his chest. The meagre air then hissed back out in a rattling whistle.

  Gods below, this man will not last the night.

  The captain realized that his lips had gone numb, and he was having trouble focusing. This damned incense, it's d'bayang. He stood for another half-dozen heartbeats, looking down on the shrunken, frail figure of the Malazan Empire's greatest living general, then he turned about and strode from the chamber.

  Two steps across the outer room and a hoarse voice halted him.

  'Who in Hood's name are you?'

  Paran faced the woman who had spoken. She was propped up on her bed, enough to allow her a level gaze on the captain. Dark-skinned, her complexion lacking the weathered lines of desert life, her eyes large and very dark. Stringy, sweat-plastered black hair, cut short yet none­theless betraying a natural wave, surrounded her round face, which sickness had drawn, making her eyes seem deeper, more hollow.

  'Captain Kindly—'

  'By the Abyss you are. I served under Kindly in Nathilog.'

  'Well, that's discouraging news. And you are?'

  'Fist Rythe Bude.'

  'One of Dujek's recent promotions, then, for I have never heard of you. Nor can I fathom where you hail from.'

  'Shal-Morzinn.'

  Paran frowned. 'West of Nemil?'

  'Southwest.'

  'How did you come to be in Nathilog, Fist?'

  'By the Three, give me some water, damn you.'

  Paran looked round until he found a bladder, which he brought to her side.

  'You're a fool,' she said. 'Coming in here. Now you will die with the rest of us. You'll have to pour it into my mouth.'

  He removed the stopper, then leaned closer.

  She closed her remarkable, luminous eyes and tilted her head back, mouth opening. The weals on her neck were cracked, leaking clear fluid as thick as tears. Squeezing the bladder, he watched the water stream into her mouth.

  She swallowed frantically, gasped then coughed.

  He pulled the bladder away. 'Enough?'

  She managed a nod, coughed again, then swore in some unknown language. 'This damned smoke,' she added in Malazan. 'Numbs the throat so you can't even tell when you're swallowing. Every time I close my eyes, d'bayang dreams rush upon me like the Red Winds.'

  He stood, looking down upon her.

  'I left Shal-Morzinn... in haste. On a Blue Moranth trader. Money for passage ran out in a town called Pitch, on the Genabarii coast. From there I made it to Nathilog, and with a belly too empty to let me think straight, I signed up.'

  'Where had you intended to go?'

  She made a face. 'As far as my coin would take me, fool. Crossing the Three is not a recipe for a long life. Blessings to Oponn's kiss, they didn't come after me.'

  'The Three?'

  'The rulers of Shal-Morzinn... for the past thousand years. You seemed to recognize the empire's name, which is more than most.'

  'I know nothing beyond the name itself, which is found on certain Malazan maps.'

  She croaked a laugh. 'Malazans. Knew enough to make their first visit their last.'

  'I wasn't aware we'd visited at all,' Paran said.

  'The Emperor. And Dancer. The imperial flagship, Twist. Gods, that craft alone was sufficient to give the Three pause. Normally, they annihilate strangers as a matter of course — we trade with no-one, not even Nemil. The Three despise outsiders. Were they so inclined they would have conquered the entire continent by now, including Seven Cities.'

  'Not expansionists, then. No wonder no-one's heard of them.'

  'More water.'

  He complied.

  When she'd finished coughing, she met his eyes. 'You never told me — who are you in truth?'

  'Captain Ganoes Paran.'

  'He's dead.'

  'Not yet.'

  'All right. So why the lie?'

  'Dujek decommissioned me. Officially, I am without rank.'

  'Then what in Hood's name are you doing here?'

  He smiled. 'That's a long story. At the moment, I have one thing I need to do, and that is, repay a debt. I owe Dujek that much. Besides, it's not good to have a goddess loose in the mortal realm, especially one who delights in misery.'

  'They all delight in misery.'

  'Yes, well.'

  She bared a row of even teeth, stained by sickness. 'Captain, do you think, had we known Poliel was in the temple, we would have gone in at all? You, on the other hand, don't have that excuse. Leaving me to conclude that you have lost your mind.'

  'Captain Sweetcreek certainly agrees with you, Fist,' Paran said, setting the bladder down. 'I must take my leave. I would appreciate it, Fist Rythe Bude, if you refer to me as Captain Kindly.' He walked towards the tent's exit.

  'Ganoes Paran.'

  Something in her tone turned him round even as he reached for the flap.

  'Burn my corpse,' she said. 'Ideally, fill my lungs with oil, so that my chest bursts, thus freeing to flight my ravaged soul. It's how it's done in Shal-Morzinn.'

  He hesitated, then nodded.

  Outside, he found the cutter Noto Boil still standing at his station, examining the bloodied point of the fish spine a moment before slipping it back into his mouth.

  'Captain Kindly,' the man said in greeting. 'The outrider Hurlochel was just here, looking for you. From him, I gather you intend something... rash.'

  'Cutter, when the alternative is simply waiting for them to die, I will accept the risk of doing something rash.'

  'I see. How, then, have you planned this assault of yours? Given that you shall face the Grey Goddess herself. I doubt even your reputation will suffice in compelling the soldiers to assail the Grand Temple of Poliel. Indeed, I doubt you will get them to even so much as enter G'danisban.'

  'I’m not taking any soldiers, cutter.'

  A sage nod from the gaunt man. 'Ah, an army of one, then, is it? Granted,' he added, eyeing Paran speculatively, 'I have heard tales of your extraordinary... ferocity. Is it true you once dangled a Falah'd over the edge of his palace's tower balcony? Even though he was an ally of the empire at the time. What was his crime again? Oh yes, a clash of colours in his attire, on the first day of the Emperor's Festival. What were those colours he had the effrontery to wear?'

  Paran studied the man for a moment, then he smiled. 'Blue and green.'

  'But those colours do not clash, Captain.'

  'I never claimed good judgement in aesthetic matters, cutter. Now, what were we talking about? Oh yes, my army of one. Indeed. I intend to lead but one man. Together, the two of us shall attack the Grey Goddess, with the aim of driving her from this realm.'

  'You chose wisely, I think,' Noto Boil said. 'Given what awaits Hurlochel, he displayed impressive calm a few mom
ents ago.'

  'And well he should,' Paran said, 'since he's not coming with me. You are.'

  The fish spine speared through the cutter's upper lip. A look of agony supplanted disbelief. He tore the offending needle from his lip and flung it away, then brought up both hands to clench against the pain. His eyes looked ready to clamber from their sockets.

  Paran patted the man on the shoulder. 'Get that seen to, will you? We depart in half a bell, cutter.'

  ****

  He sat on a kit chest, settled back slowly, until the give of the tent wall ceased, then stretched out his legs. 'I should be half-drunk right now,' he said, 'given what I'm about to do.'

  Hurlochel seemed unable to muster a smile. 'Please, Captain. We should decamp. Cut our losses. I urge you to abandon this course of action, which will do naught but result in the death of yet another good soldier, not to mention an irritating but competent company cutter.'

  'Ah, yes. Noto Boil. Once priest to Soliel, sister goddess of Poliel.'

  'Priest no longer, Captain. Disavowed hold no weight with the ascendant so abandoned.'

  'Soliel. Mistress of Healing, Beneficence, the Goddess that Weeps Healing Tears. She must have let loose an ocean of them by now, don't you think?'

  'Is it wise to mock her at this threshold, Captain?'

  'Why not? How has her infamous, unceasing sorrow for the plight of mortals done them any good, any at all, Hurlochel? It's easy to weep when staying far away, doing nothing. When you take credit for every survivor out there — those whose own spirits fought the battle, whose own spirits refused to yield to Hood's embrace.' He sneered up at the tent roof. 'It's the so-called friendly, sympathetic gods who have the most to answer for.' Paran glared at the man standing before him. 'Hood knows, the other ones are straightforward and damned clear on their own infamy — grant them that. But to proffer succour, salvation and all the rest, whilst leaving true fate to chance and chance alone — damn me, Hurlochel, to that they will give answer!'

  The outrider's eyes were wide, unblinking.