The Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  She had known.

  All he had done here... too late.

  Dujek Onearm is dead.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The privileged waifs are here now,

  preening behind hired armies,

  and the legless once-soldier

  who leans crooked against a wall

  like a toppled, broken statue—

  writ on his empty palm the warning

  that even armies cannot eat gold—

  but these civil younglings cannot see

  so far and for their own children,

  the future's road is already picked clean,

  cobbles pried free to build rough walls

  and decrepit wastrel shelters,

  yet this is a wealthy world still

  heaving its blood-streaked treasures

  at their silken feet — they are here now,

  the faces of civilization and oh how

  we fallen fools yearn to be among them,

  fellow feasters at the bottomless trough.

  What is to come of this? I rest crooked,

  hard stone at my back, and this lone

  coin settling in my hand has a face—

  some ancient waif privileged in his time,

  who once hid behind armies, yes, until –

  until those armies awoke one day

  with empty bellies — such pride,

  such hauteur! Look on the road!

  From this civil strait I would run, and run –

  if only I had not fought,

  defending that mindless devourer

  of tomorrow, if only I had legs—

  so watch them pass, beneath their parasols

  and the starving multitudes are growing

  sullen, now eyeing me in their avid hunger—

  I would run, yes, if only I had legs.

  In the Last Days of the First Empire, Sogruntes

  A single strand of black sand, four hundred paces long, broke the unrelieved basalt ruin of the coast­line. That strip was now obscured beneath ramps, equipment, horses and soldiers; and the broad loader skiffs rocked through the shallows on their heavy draw-lines out to the anchored transports crowding the bay. For three days the Fourteenth Army had been embarking, making their escape from this diseased land.

  Fist Keneb watched the seeming chaos down below for a moment longer, then, drawing his cloak tighter about him­self against the fierce north sea's wind, he turned about and made his way back to the skeletal remnants of the encampment.

  There were problems — almost too many to consider. The mood among the soldiers was a complex mixture of relief, bitterness, anger and despondency. Keneb had seriously begun to fear mutiny during the wait for the fleet — the embers of frustration fanned by dwindling supplies of food and water. It was likely the lack of options that had kept the army tractable, if sullen — word from every city and settlement west, east and south had been of plague. Bluetongue, ferocious in its virulence, sparing no-one. The only escape was with the fleet.

  Keneb could understand something of the soldiers' senti­ments. The Fourteenth's heart had been cut out at Y'Ghatan. It was extraordinary how a mere handful of veterans could prove the lifeblood of thousands, especially when, to the Fist's eyes, they had done nothing to earn such regard.

  Perhaps survival alone had been sufficiently heroic. Survival, until Y'Ghatan. In any case, there was a palpable absence in the army, a hole at the core, gnawing its way outward.

  Compounding all this, the command was growing increasingly divided — for we have our own core of rot. Tene Baralta. The Red Blade... who lusts for his own death. There were no healers in the Fourteenth skilled enough to erase the terrible damage to Baralta's visage; it would take High Denul to regenerate the man's lost eye and forearm, and that was a talent growing ever rarer — at least in the Malazan Empire. If only Tene had also lost the capacity for speech. Every word from him was bitter with poison, a burgeoning hatred for all things, beginning with himself.

  Approaching the Adjunct's command tent, Keneb saw Nether exit, her expression dark, bridling. The cattle-dog Bent appeared, lumbering towards her — then, sensing her state of mind, the huge scarred beast halted, ostensibly to scratch itself, and moments later was distracted by the Hengese lapdog Roach. The two trundled off.

  Drawing a deep breath, Keneb walked up to the young Wickan witch. 'I take it,' he said, 'the Adjunct was not pleased with your report.'

  She glared at him. 'It is not our fault, Fist. This plague seethes through the warrens. We have lost all contact with Dujek and the Host; ever since they arrived outside G'danisban. And as for Pearl,' she crossed her arms, 'we cannot track him — he is gone and that is that. Besides, if the fool wants to brave the warrens it's not for us to retrieve his bones.'

  The only thing worse than a Claw in camp was the sudden, inexplicable vanishing of that selfsame Claw. Not that there was anything that could be done about it. Keneb asked, 'How many days has it been, then, since you were able to speak with High Fist Dujek?'

  The young Wickan looked away, her arms still crossed. 'Since before Y'Ghatan.'

  Keneb's brows rose. That long? Adjunct, you tell us so little. 'What of Admiral Nok — have his mages had better luck?'

  'Worse,' she snapped. 'At least we're on land.'

  'For now,' he said, eyeing her.

  Nether scowled. 'What is it?'

  'Nothing, except... a frown like that can become permanent — you're too young to have such deep creases there—'

  Snarling, the witch stalked off.

  Keneb stared after her a moment, then, shrugging, he turned and entered the command tent.

  The canvas walls still reeked of smoke, a grim reminder of Y'Ghatan. The map-table remained — not yet loaded out onto the transports — and around it, despite the fact that the tabletop was bare — stood the Adjunct, Blistig and Admiral Nok.

  'Fist Keneb,' Tavore said.

  'Two more days, I should think,' he replied, unclasping his cloak now that he was out of the wind.

  The Admiral had been speaking, it seemed, for he cleared his throat and said, 'I still believe, Adjunct, that there is nothing untoward to the command. The Empress sees no further need for the Fourteenth's presence here. There is also the matter of the plague — you have managed to keep it from your troops thus far, true enough, but that will not last. Particularly once your stores run out and you are forced to forage.'

  Blistig grunted sourly. 'No harvest this year. Apart from abandoned livestock there ain't much to forage — we'd have no choice but to march to a city.'

  'Precisely,' said the Admiral.

  Keneb glanced at Tavore. 'Forgive me, Adjunct—'

  'After I sent you out to gauge the loading of troops, the subject of command structure was concluded, to the satis­faction.of all.' A certain dryness to that, and Blistig snorted. Tavore continued, 'Admiral Nok has finally relayed to us the command of the Empress, that we are to return to Unta. The difficulty before us now lies in deciding our return route.'

  Keneb blinked. 'Why, east and then south, of course. The other way would take—'

  'Longer, yes,' Nok interrupted. 'Nonetheless, at this time of year, we would be aided by currents and prevailing winds. Granted, the course is less well charted, and most of our maps for the western coast of this continent are derived from foreign sources, making their reliability open to challenge.' He rubbed at his weathered, lined face. 'All of that is, alas, not relevant. The issue is the plague. Adjunct, we have sought one port after another on our way to this rendezvous, and not one was safe to enter. Our own supplies are perilously low.'

  Blistig asked, 'So where do you believe we can resupply anywhere west of here, Admiral?'

  'Sepik, to begin with. The island is remote, sufficiently so that I believe it remains plague-free. South of that, there is Nemil, and a number of lesser kingdoms all the way down to Shal-Morzinn. From the southern tip of the continent the journey down to the northwest coast of Quon Tali is in f
act shorter than the Falar lanes. Once we have cleared the risk that is Drift Avalii we will find ourselves in the Genii Straits, with the coast of Dal Hon to our north. At that time the currents will once again be with us.'

  'All very well,' Blistig said in a growl, 'but what happens if Nemil and those other "lesser kingdoms" decide they're not interested in selling us food and fresh water?'

  'We shall have to convince them,' the Adjunct said, 'by whatever means necessary.'

  'Let's hope it's not by the sword.'

  As soon as Blistig said that his regret was obvious — the statement should have sounded reasonable; instead, it simply revealed the man's lack of confidence in the Adjunct's army.

  She was regarding her Fist now, expressionless, yet a certain chill crept into the chamber, filling the silence.

  On Admiral Nok's face, a look of disappointment. Then he reached for his sealskin cloak. 'I must return now to my flagship. Thrice on our journey here, the outrider escorts sighted an unknown fleet to the north. No doubt the sight­ings were mutual but no closer contact occurred, so I believe it poses no threat to us.'

  'A fleet,' Keneb said. 'Nemil?'

  'Possibly. There was said to be a Meckros city west of Sepik Sea — that report is a few years old. Then again,' he glanced over at the Adjunct as he reached the flap, 'how fast can a floating city move? In any case, Meckros raid and trade, and it may well be that Nemil has dispatched ships to ward them from their coast.'

  They watched the Admiral leave.

  Blistig said, 'Your pardon, Adjunct—'

  'Save your apology,' she cut in, turning away from him. 'One day I shall call upon you, Blistig, to voice it again. But not to me; rather, to your soldiers. Now, please visit Fist Tene Baralta and relay to him the essence of this meeting.'

  'He has no interest—'

  'His interests do not concern me, Fist Blistig.'

  Lips pressed together, the man saluted, then left.

  'A moment,' the Adjunct said as Keneb prepared to follow suit. 'How fare the soldiers, Fist?'

  He hesitated, then said, 'For the most part, Adjunct, they are relieved.'

  'I am not surprised,' she said.

  'Shall I inform them that we are returning home?'

  She half-smiled. 'I have no doubt the rumour is already among them. By all means, Fist. There is no reason to keep it a secret.'

  'Unta,' Keneb mused, 'my wife and children are likely there. Of course, it stands to reason that the Fourteenth will not stay long in Unta.'

  'True. Our ranks will be refilled.'

  'And then?'

  She shrugged. 'Korel, I expect. Nok thinks the assault on Theft will be renewed.'

  It was a moment before Keneb realized that she did not believe a word she was saying to him. Why not Korel? What might Laseen have in store for us, if not another campaign? What does Tavore suspect? He hid his confusion by fumbling over the cloak's clasps for a few heartbeats.

  When he glanced up again, the Adjunct seemed to be staring at one of the tent's mottled walls.

  Standing, always standing — he could not recall ever having seen her seated, except on a horse. 'Adjunct?'

  She started, then nodded and said, 'You are dismissed, Keneb.'

  He felt like a coward as he made his way outside, angry at his own sense of relief. Still, a new unease now plagued him. Unta. His wife. What was, is no longer. I'm old enough to know the truth of that. Things change. We change—

  'Make it three days.'

  Keneb blinked, looked down to see Grub, flanked by Bent and Roach. The huge cattle-dog's attention was fixed elsewhere — southeastward — while the lapdog sniffed at one of Grub's worn moccasins, where the child's big toe pro­truded from a split in the upper seam. 'Make what three days, Grub?'

  'Until we leave. Three days.' The boy wiped his nose.

  'Dig into one of the spare kits,' Keneb said, 'and find some warmer clothes, Grub. This sea is a cold one, and it's going to get colder yet.'

  'I'm fine. My nose runs, but so does Bent's, so does Roach's. We're fine. Three days.'

  'We'll be gone in two.'

  'No. It has to be three days, or we will never get anywhere. We'll die in the sea, two days after we leave Sepik Island.'

  A chill rippled through the Fist. 'How did you know we were headed west, Grub?'

  The boy looked down, watched as Roach licked clean his big toe. 'Sepik, but that will be bad. Nemil will be good. Then bad. And after that, we find friends, twice. And then we end up where it all started, and that will be very bad. But that's when she realizes everything, almost everything, I mean, enough of everything to be enough. And the big man with the cut hands says yes.' He looked up, eyes bright. 'I found a bone whistle and I'm keeping it for him because he'll want it back. We're off to collect seashells!'

  With that all three ran off, down towards the beach.

  Three days, not two. Or we all die. 'Don't worry, Grub,' he said in a whisper, 'not all grown-ups are stupid.'

  ****

  Lieutenant Pores looked down at the soldier's collection. 'What in Hood's name are these?'

  'Bones, sir,' the woman replied. 'Bird bones. They was coming out of the cliff — look, they're hard as rock — we're going to add them to our collection, us heavies, I mean. Hanfeno, he's drilling holes in 'em — the others, I mean, we got hundreds. You want us to make you some, sir?'

  'Give me a few,' he said, reaching out.

  She dropped into his hand two leg bones, each the length of his thumb, then another that looked like a knuckle, slightly broader than his own. 'You idiot. Thid one's not from a bird.'

  'Well I don't know, sir. Could be a skull?'

  'It's solid.'

  'A woodpecker?'

  'Go back to your squad, Senny. When are you on the ramp?'

  'Looks like tomorrow now, sir. Fist Keneb's soldiers got delayed — he pulled half of 'em back off, it was complete chaos! There's no figuring officers, uh, sir.'

  A wave sent the woman scurrying. Lieutenant Pores nestled the small bones into his palm, closing his fingers over to hold them in place, then he walked back to where Captain Kindly stood beside the four trunks that comprised his camp kit. Two retainers were busy repacking one of the trunks, and Pores saw, arranged on a camel-hair blanket, an assortment of combs — two dozen, maybe more, no two alike. Bone, shell, antler, tortoiseshell, ivory, wood, slate, silver, gold and blood-copper. Clearly, they had been collected over years of travel, the captain's sojourn as a sol­dier laid out, the succession of cultures, the tribes and peoples he had either befriended or annihilated. Even so... Pores frowned. Combs?

  Kindly was mostly bald.

  The captain was instructing his retainers on how to pack the items. '... those cotton buds, and the goat wool or whatever you call it. Each one, and carefully — if I find a scratch, a nick or a broken tooth I will have no choice but to kill you both. Ah, Lieutenant, I trust you are now fully recovered from your wounds? Good. What's wrong, man? Are you choking?'

  Gagging, his face reddening, Pores waited until Kindly stepped closer, then he let loose a cough, loud and bursting and from his right hand — held before his mouth — three bones were spat out to clunk and bounce on the ground. Pores drew in a deep breath, shook his head and cleared his throat.

  'Apologies, Captain,' he said in a rasp. 'Some broken bones still in me, I guess. Been wanting to come out for a while now.'

  'Well,' Kindly said, 'are you done?'

  'Yes sir.'

  The two retainers were staring at the bones. One reached over and collected the knuckle.

  Pores wiped imaginary sweat from his brow. 'That was some cough, wasn't it? I'd swear someone punched me in the gut.'

  The retainer reached over with the knuckle. 'He left you this, Lieutenant.'

  'Ah, thank you, soldier.'

  'If you think any of this is amusing, Lieutenant,' Kindly said. 'You are mistaken. Now, explain to me this damned delay.'

  'I can't, Captain. Fist Keneb's soldiers,
some kind of recall. There doesn't seem to be a reasonable explanation.'

  'Typical. Armies are run by fools. If I had an army you'd see things done differently. I can't abide lazy soldiers. I've personally killed more lazy soldiers than enemies of the empire. If this was my army, Lieutenant, we would have been on those ships in two days flat, and anybody still on shore by then we'd leave behind, stripped naked with only a crust of bread in their hands and the order to march to Quon Tali.'

  'Across the sea.'

  'I'm glad we're understood. Now, stand here and guard my kit, Lieutenant. I must find my fellow captains Madan'Tul Rada and Ruthan Gudd — they're complete idiots but I mean to fix that.'

  Pores watched his captain walk away, then he looked back down at the retainers and smiled. 'Now wouldn't that be something? High Fist Kindly, commanding all the Malazan armies.'

  'Leastways,' one of the men said, 'we'd always know what we was up to.'

  The lieutenant's eyes narrowed. 'You would like Kindly doing your thinking for you?'

  'I'm a soldier, ain't I?'

  'And what if I told you Captain Kindly was insane?'

  'You be testing us? Anyway, don't matter if'n he is or not, so long as he knows what he's doing and he keeps telling us what we're supposed to be doing.' He nudged his companion, 'Ain't that right, Thikburd?'

  'Right enough,' the other mumbled, examining one of the combs.

  'The Malazan soldier is trained to think,' Pores said. 'That tradition has been with us since Kellanved and Dassem Ultor. Have you forgotten that?'

  'No, sir, we ain't. There's thinkin' and there's thinkin' and that's jus' the way it is. Soldiers do one kind and leaders do the other. Ain't good the two gettin' mixed up.'

  'Must make life easy for you.'

  A nod. 'Aye, sir, that it does.'

  'If your friend scratches that comb he's admiring, Captain Kindly will kill you both.'

  'Thikburd! Put that down!'

  'But it's pretty!'

  'So's a mouthful of teeth and you want to keep yours, don't ya?'