The Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  ****

  On the Silanda, Sergeant Gesler had made use of the bone whistle, and now banks of oars swept out and back with steady indifference to the heaving swells, and the ship groaned with each surge, easily keeping pace with the Adjunct's dromon. The squads had finished reefing the sails and were now amidships, readying armour and weapons.

  Fiddler crouched over a wooden crate, trying to quell his ever-present nausea — gods, I hate the sea, the damned back and forth and up and down. No, when I die I want my feet to be dry. That and nothing more. No other stipulations. Just dry feet, dammit — as he worked the straps loose and lifted the lid. He stared down at the Moranth munitions nestled in their beds of padding. 'Who can throw?' he demanded, glaring over at his squad, then something cold slithered in his gut.

  'I can,' both Koryk and Smiles said.

  'Why ask?' said Cuttle.

  Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas sat nearby, knees drawn up, too sick to move, much less respond to Fiddler's question.

  Tarr said, shrugging, 'If it's right in front of me, maybe I can hit it, Sergeant.'

  But Fiddler barely heard any of this — his eyes were fixed on Bottle, who stood, motionless, staring at the enemy line of ships. 'Bottle? What is it?'

  An ashen face turned to regard him. 'It's bad, Sergeant. They're... conjuring.'

  ****

  Samar Dev shrank away until hard, insensate wood pressed against her back. Before her, to either side of the main mast, stood four Tiste Edur, from whom burgeoned crackling, savage sorcery, whipping like chains between them, fulminating with blooms and gouts of grey flames — and, beyond the rocking prow, a tumbling wave was rising, thrashing as if held taut, lifting skyward—

  Bristling chains of power snapped out from the four warlocks, arcing left and right, out to conjoin with identical kin from the ships to either side of Hanradi Khalag's command ship, and then onward to other ships, one after another, and the air Samar Dev drew into her lungs seemed dead, some essential necessity utterly destroyed. She gasped, sank down to the deck, drawing up her knees. A cough, then trembles racked through her in waves—

  Sudden air, life flooding her lungs — someone stood to her left. She looked over, then up.

  Karsa Orlong, motionless, staring at the billowing, surg­ing wall of magic. 'What is this?' he demanded.

  'Elder,' she said in a ragged voice. 'They mean to destroy them. They mean to tear ten thousand souls and more... into pieces.'

  'Who is the enemy?'

  Karsa, what is this breath of life you deliver?

  'The Malazan Imperial Fleet,' Samar heard the Taxilian answer, and she saw that he had appeared on deck, along with Feather Witch and the Preda, Hanradi Khalag, and all were staring upward at the terrible, chained storm of power.

  The Toblakai crossed his arms. 'Malazans,' he said. 'They are not my enemy.'

  In a harsh, halting accent, Hanradi Khalag turned to Karsa Orlong and said, 'Are they Tiste Edur?'

  The giant's eyes thinned to slits as he continued studying the conjuration, from which there now came a growing roar, as of a million enraged voices. 'No,' he said.

  'Then,' replied the Preda, 'they are enemy.'

  'If you destroy these Malazans,' Karsa said, 'more of them will come after you.'

  'We do not fear.'

  The Toblakai warrior finally glanced over at the Preda, and Samar Dev could read, with something fluttering inside her, his contempt. Yet he said nothing, simply turned about and crouched down at Samar Dev's side.

  She whispered, 'You were going to call him a fool. I'm glad you didn't — these Tiste Edur don't manage criticism too well.'

  'Which makes them even bigger fools,' the giant rumbled. 'But we knew that, Samar Dev. They believe their Emperor can defeat me.'

  'Karsa—'

  A strange chorus of cries erupted from the warlocks, and they all convulsed, as if some fiery hand had reached into their bodies, closed tight and cruel about their spines — Samar Dev's eyes widened — this ritual, it twists them, oh — such pain—

  The enormous wall lifted free of the sea's suddenly becalmed surface. Rose higher, then higher still — and in the space beneath it, a horizontal strip mocking normality, the Malazan ships were visible, their sails awry, each one losing way as panic raced through the poor bastards — except for those two, in the lead, a dromon warship, and on its sea­ward flank, a black-hulled craft, its oars flashing to either side.

  What?

  Hanradi Khalag had stepped forward upon seeing that odd black ship, but from where Samar sat curled up she could not see his expression, only the back of his head — the suddenly taut posture of his tall form.

  And then, something else began to happen...

  ****

  The wall of magic was pulling free from the surface, draw­ing with it spouts of white, churning water that fragmented and fell away like toppling spears as the grey-shot, raging manifestation lifted ever higher. The roar of sound rolled forward, loud and fierce as a charging army.

  The Adjunct's voice was low, flat. 'Quick Ben.'

  'Not warrens,' the wizard replied, as if awed. 'Elder. Not warrens. Holds, but shot through with Chaos, with rot—'

  'The Crippled God.'

  Both the wizard and Kalam looked over at her.

  'You're full of surprises, Adjunct,' Quick Ben observed.

  'Can you answer it?'

  'Adjunct?'

  'This Elder sorcery, High Mage — can you answer it?'

  The glance that Quick Ben cast at Kalam startled the assassin, yet it matched his reply perfectly: 'If I cannot, Adjunct, then we are all dead.'

  You bastard — you've got something—

  'You do not have long,' the Adjunct said. 'If you fail,' she added as she turned away, 'I have my sword.'

  Kalam watched her make her way down the length of the ship. Then, heart pounding hard in his chest, he faced the tumbling, foaming conjuration that filled the north sky. 'Quick, you ain't got long here, you know — once she comes back with her sword—'

  'I doubt it'll be enough,' the wizard cut in. 'Oh, maybe for this ship and this ship alone. As for everybody else, forget it.'

  'Then do something!'

  And Quick Ben turned on Kalam a grin the assassin had seen before, hundreds of times, and that light in his eyes – so familiar, so—

  The wizard spat on his hands and rubbed them together, facing the Elder sorcery once more. 'They want to mess with Holds... so will I.'

  Kalam bared his teeth. 'You've got some nerve.'

  'What?'

  '"Full of surprises", you said to her.'

  'Yes, well, best give me some room. It's been a while. I may be a little... rusty.' And he raised his arms.

  So familiar... so... alarming.

  ****

  On the Silanda four reaches to seaward, Bottle felt something jolt all his senses. His head whipped round, to fix his eyes on the forecastle of the Froth Wolf. Quick Ben, alone, standing tall at the prow, arms stretched out to the sides, like some damned offering—

  —and around the High Mage, fire the colour of gold-flecked mud billowed awake, rushed outward, upward, fast — so fast, so fierce — gods take me —no, more patience, you fool! If they—

  Whispering a prayer, Bottle flung all his will at the High Mage's conjuration — slower, you fool. Slower! Here, deepen the hue, thicker, fling it out to the sides, it's just a reverse mudslide, yes, all going back up the slope, flames like rain, tongues of gold nastiness, yes, like that—

  No, stop fighting me, damn you. I don't care how terrified you are — panic will ruin everything. Pay attention!

  Suddenly, filling Bottle's head, a scent... of fur. The soft brush of not-quite-human hands — and Bottle's flailing efforts to quell Quick Ben's manic enthusiasm all at once ceased to matter, as his will was brushed aside like a cobweb—

  ****

  Kalam, crouched down on the forecastle's wooden steps, watched as Quick Ben, legs spread wide, slowly lifted from the deck, as
if some outside force had closed invisible hands on the front of his tunic, drawing him close, then giving him a shake.

  'What in Hood's name—'

  The magic rising in answer to that grey seething storm opposite was like a wall of earth, shot through with burning roots, churning and heaving and tumbling back into itself, its wild, explosive will bound tighter to something more powerful — and when he releases it, into that other one... Hood below, nobody's going to survive this—

  ****

  Hanradi Khalag had stared, frozen in place for a dozen heartbeats, as the wild chaos of Elder magic rose in appalling challenge to that of the Edur warlocks — to that of nearly a hundred Edur warlocks — and, Samar Dev realized as she stared at the lead Malazan dromon, all from that one man, that black-skinned man floating above the ship's prow, his limbs spread wide.

  The Preda seemed to stagger, then he straightened, and screamed orders — the same phrase repeated, again and again, as he lurched drunkenly towards his warlocks.

  They collapsed, flung to the deck as if knocked down one after another by a giant's blows, then they lay writhing, mouths foaming, liquids spilling from them—

  As the looming, roaring grey wall seemed to implode, tendrils whipping off to vanish in the air or strike the now churning surface of the sea, sending gouts skyward that shot into view from clouds of billowing steam. The roaring sound shattered, fell away.

  The sorcery collapsed, the chains linking wielders on each ship flickering out, or breaking explosively as if they were in truth links of iron.

  The deck pitched drunkenly beneath them, and all but Karsa Orlong staggered.

  Samar Dev dragged her eyes away from him and looked out once more upon that dark, earthen wall of magic — it too was subsiding — yes, maybe these Edur fools feel no compunction about unleashing such things when unopposed... but the same stupidity cannot be said of you, Malazan, whoever you are.

  Hanradi Khalag, ignoring the warlocks thrashing about in their own filth, was calling out commands, and Letherii sailors — white-faced and chanting prayers — scrambled to bring the ship about, eastward.

  We're withdrawing. The Malazan called their bluff. He faced them down — oh, wizard, I could kiss you — I could do more than that. Gods, I'd—

  'What are the Edur saying?' Karsa Orlong demanded.

  The Taxilian, frowning, shrugged, then said, 'They're disbelieving—'

  'Disbelieving?' Samar Dev croaked. 'They're shaken, Taxilian. Badly.'

  The man nodded, glancing over at Feather Witch, who was watching all three of them. 'Toblakai, the Edur are saying that these Malazans — they have a Ceda on board.'

  Karsa scowled. 'I do not know that word.'

  'I do,' Samar Dev said. She smiled as a sudden shaft of sunlight broke through the tumult overhead and bathed her face with unexpected warmth. 'Tell them, Taxilian, that they are right. They do. A Ceda. The Malazans have a Ceda, and for all the Edur expected from this day, in their arrogance, these Malazans were not afraid. Tell them that, Taxilian. Tell them!'

  ****

  Kalam knelt beside Quick Ben, studied the man's face for a moment, the slack expression, the closed eyes. Then he slapped the wizard. Hard.

  Quick Ben swore, then glared up at the assassin. 'I should crush you like a bug, Kalam.'

  'Right now, I think,' he rumbled in reply, 'a bug's fart might blow you right off this ship, Quick.'

  'Be quiet. Can't I just lie here for a while longer?'

  The Adjunct's coming. Slowly, I'll grant you. Idiot, you gave too much away—'

  'Enough, Kalam. I need to think, and think hard.'

  'Since when did you play with Elder magic?'

  Quick Ben met Kalam's eyes. 'When? Never, you idiot.'

  'What?'

  'That was a Hood-damned illusion. Thank the gods cowering in their outhouses right now that the idiots swallowed the hook — but listen, it wasn't just that. I had help. And then I had help!'

  'What does that mean?'

  'I don't know! Let me think!'

  'No time for that,' Kalam said, sitting back, 'the Adjunct's here.'

  Quick Ben's hand snapped up and grasped Kalam's shirt, tugged him close. 'Gods, friend,' he whispered, 'I've never been so scared in my entire life! Don't you see? It started out as an illusion. Yes, but then—'

  The Adjunct's voice: 'High Mage, you and I must talk.'

  'It wasn't—'

  'Ben Adaephon Delat, you and I will talk. Now.'

  Straightening, Kalam backed away, then halted at a ges­ture from Tavore.

  'Oh no, assassin. You as well.'

  Kalam hesitated, then said, 'Adjunct, this conversation you propose... it cannot be one-sided.'

  She frowned, then, slowly, nodded.

  ****

  Fiddler stood next to Bottle where he lay on the deck. 'You, soldier.'

  The man's eyes were closed, and at Fiddler's words the eyes scrunched tight. 'Not now, Sergeant. Please.'

  'Soldier,' Fiddler repeated, 'you have, uh, made some­thing of a mess of yourself. You know, around your crotch.'

  Bottle groaned.

  Fiddler glanced over at the others of the squad. Still busy with themselves for the moment. Good. He crouched down. 'Dammit, Bottle, crawl off and get yourself cleaned up — if the others see this — but hold on, I need to know something. I need to know what you found so exciting about all that?'

  Bottle rolled onto his side. 'You don't understand,' he mumbled. 'She likes doing that. When she gets the chance. I don't know why. I don't know.'

  'She? Who? Nobody's been near you, Bottle!'

  'She plays with me. With... it.'

  'Somebody sure does,' Fiddler said. 'Now get below and clean yourself up. Smiles sees this and you're looking at a life of torment.'

  The sergeant watched the man crawl away. Excited. Here we were, about to get annihilated. Every damned one of us. And he fantasizes about some old sweetheart.

  Hood's breath.

  ****

  Taralack Veed studied the confusion on the deck for a time, frowning as he watched the commander, Tomad Sengar, pacing back and forth whilst Edur warriors came and went with messages somehow signalled across from the seemingly countless other Edur ships. Something had struck Tomad Sengar an almost physical blow — not the ritual sorcery that had challenged their own, but some news that arrived a short time later, as the Malazan fleet worked to extricate itself from the encirclement. Ships were passing within a quarrel's flight of each other, faces turned and staring across the gap, something like relief connecting that regard — Taralack had even seen a Malazan soldier wave. Before a fellow soldier had batted the man in the side of the head with a fist.

  Meanwhile, the two Edur fleets were conjoining into one — no simple task, given the unsettled waters and the vast number of craft involved, and the fading light as the day waned.

  And, there in the face of Tomad Sengar, the admiral of this massive floating army, the haunting that could only come with news of a very personal tragedy. A loss, a terrible loss. Curious indeed.

  The air hung close about the ship, still befouled with Elder sorcery. These Edur were abominations, to so flagrantly unleash such power. Thinking they would wield it as if it were a weapon of cold, indifferent iron. But with Elder powers — with chaos — it was those powers that did the wielding.

  And the Malazans had answered in kind. A stunning revelation, a most unexpected unveiling of arcane know­ledge. Yet, if anything, the power of the Malazan ritual surpassed that of the scores of Edur warlocks. Extraordinary. Had not Taralack Veed witnessed it with his own eyes, he would have considered such ability in the hands of the Malazan Empire simply unbelievable. Else, why had they never before exploited it?

  Ah, a moment's thought and he had the answer to that. The Malazans might be bloodthirsty tyrants, but they are not insane. They understand caution. Restraint.

  These Tiste Edur, unfortunately, do not.

  Unfortunate, that is, for them.
<
br />   He saw Twilight, the Atri-Preda, moving among her Letherii soldiers, voicing a calming word or two, the occasional low-toned command, and it seemed the dis­traught eddies calmed in her wake.

  The Gral headed over.

  She met his eyes and greeted him with a faint nod.

  'How fares your companion below?' she asked, and Taralack was impressed by her growing facility with the language.

  'He eats. His fortitude returns, Atri-Preda. But, as to this day and its strange events, he is indifferent.'

  'He will be tested soon.'

  Taralack shrugged. 'This does not concern him. What assails Tomad Sengar?' he asked under his breath, stepping closer as he did so.

  She hesitated for a long moment, then said, 'Word has come that among the Malazan fleet was a craft that had been captured, some time back and an ocean away, by the Edur. And that ship was gifted to one of Tomad's sons to command — a journey into the Nascent, a mission the nature of which Emperor Rhulad would not be told.'

  'Tomad now believes that son is dead.'

  'There can be no other possibility. And in losing one son, he in truth has lost two.'

  'What do you mean?'

  She glanced at him, then shook her head. 'It is no matter. But what has been born in Tomad Sengar this day, Taralack Veed, is a consuming hatred. For these Malazans.'

  The Gral shrugged. 'They have faced many enemies in their day, Atri-Preda. Caladan Brood, Sorrel Tawrith, K'azz D'Avore, Anomander Rake—'

  At the last name Twilight's eyes widened, and as she was about to speak her gaze shifted fractionally, to just past Taralack Veed's left shoulder. A male voice spoke from behind him.

  'That is impossible.'

  The Gral stepped to one side to take in the newcomer.

  An Edur.

  'This one is named Ahlrada Ahn,' Twilight said, and he sensed some hidden knowledge between the two in her voicing of the Edur's name. 'Like me, he has learned your language — swifter than I.'

  'Anomander Rake,' the Edur said, 'the Black Winged Lord, dwells at the Gates of Darkness.'

  'The last I heard,' Taralack Veed said, 'he dwelt in a floating fortress called Moon's Spawn. He fought a sorcerous battle with the Malazans on a distant continent, above a city named Pale. And Anomander Rake was defeated. But not killed.'