The Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  Here, in the chasm, night reigned eternal, and there was no fire in the soul, no heat of lovemaking. There was only the promise of death.

  And Onrack was impatient with that. There was no glory in waiting for oblivion. No, in an existence bound with true meaning and purpose, oblivion should ever arrive unexpected, unanticipated and unseen. One moment racing full tilt, the next, gone.

  As a T'lan Imass of Logros, Onrack had known the terrible cost borne in wars of attrition. The spirit exhausted beyond reason, with no salvation awaiting it, only more of the same. The kin falling to the wayside, shattered and motionless, eyes fixed on some skewed vista — a scene to be watched for eternity, the minute changes measuring the centuries of indifference. Some timid creature scampering through, a plant's exuberant green pushing up from the earth after a rain, birds pecking at seeds, insects building empires...

  Trull Sengar came to his side where Onrack stood guard­ing the choke-point. 'Monok Ochem says the Edur's presence has... contracted, away from us. For now. As if something made my kin retreat. I feel, my friend, that we have been granted a reprieve — one that is not welcome. I don't know how much longer I can fight.'

  'When you can no longer fight in truth, Trull Sengar, the failure will cease to matter.'

  'I did not think they would defy her, you know, but now, I see that it makes sense. She expected them to just aban­don this, leaving the handful remaining here to their fate. Our fate, I mean.' He shrugged. 'Panek was not surprised.'

  'The other children look to him,' Onrack said. 'They would not abandon him. Nor their mothers.'

  'And, in staying, they will break the hearts of us all.'

  'Yes.'

  The Tiste Edur looked over. 'Have you come to regret the awakening of emotions within you, Onrack?'

  'This awakening serves to remind me, Trull Sengar.'

  'Of what?'

  'Of why I am called "The Broken".'

  'As broken as the rest of us.'

  'Not Monok Ochem, nor Ibra Gholan.'

  'No, not them.'

  'Trull Sengar, when the attackers come, I would you know — I intend to leave your side.'

  'Indeed?'

  'Yes. I intend to challenge their leader. To slay him or be destroyed in the attempt. Perhaps, if I can deliver a truly frightful cost, they will reconsider their alliance with the Crippled God. At the very least, they may withdraw and not return for a long time.'

  'I understand.' Trull then smiled in the gloom. 'I will miss your presence at my side in those final moments, my friend.'

  'Should I succeed in what I intend, Trull Sengar, I shall return to your side.'

  'Then you had better be quick killing that leader.'

  'Such is my intention.'

  'Onrack, I hear something new in your voice.'

  'Yes.'

  'What does it mean?'

  'It means, Trull Sengar, that Onrack the Broken, in dis­covering impatience, has discovered something else.'

  'What?'

  'This: I am done with defending the indefensible. I am done with witnessing the fall of friends. In the battle to come, you shall see in me something terrible. Something neither Ibra Gholan nor Monok Ochem can achieve. Trull Sengar, you shall see a T'lan Imass, awakened to anger.'

  ****

  Banaschar opened the door, wavered for a moment, leaning with one hand against the frame, then staggered into his decrepit room. The rank smell of sweat and unclean bedding, stale food left on the small table beneath the barred window. He paused, considering whether or not to light the lantern — but the oil was low and he'd forgotten to buy more. He rubbed at the bristle on his chin, more vigorously than normal since it seemed his face had gone numb.

  A creak from the chair against the far wall, six paces distant. Banaschar froze in place, seeking to pierce the darkness. 'Who's there?' he demanded.

  'There are few things in this world,' said the figure seated in the chair, 'more pathetic than a once-Demidrek fallen into such disrepair, Banaschar. Stumbling drunk into this vermin-filled hovel every night — why are you here?'

  Banaschar stepped to his right and sank heavily onto the cot. 'I don't know who you are,' he said, 'so I see no reason to answer you.'

  A sigh, then, 'You send, one after another for a while there, cryptic messages. Pleading, with increasing desperation, to meet with the Imperial High Mage.'

  'Then you must realize,' Banaschar said, struggling to force sobriety into his thoughts — the terror was helping — 'that the matter concerns only devotees of D'rek—'

  'A description that no longer fits either you or Tayschrenn.'

  'There are things,' Banaschar said, 'that cannot be left behind. Tayschrenn knows this, as much as I—'

  'Actually, the Imperial High Mage knows nothing.' A pause, accompanying a gesture that Banaschar interpreted as the man studying his fingernails, and something in his tone changed. 'Not yet, that is. Perhaps not at all. You see, Banaschar, the decision is mine.'

  'Who are you?'

  'You are not ready yet to know that.'

  'Why are you intercepting my missives to Tayschrenn?'

  'Well, to be precise, I have said no such thing.'

  Banaschar frowned. 'You just said the decision was yours.'

  'Yes I did. That decision centres on whether I remain inactive in this matter, as I have been thus far, or — given sufficient cause — I elect to, um, intervene.'

  'Then who is blocking my efforts?'

  'You must understand, Banaschar, Tayschrenn is the Imperial High Mage first and foremost. Whatever else he once was is now irrelevant—'

  'No, it isn't. Not given what I have discovered—'

  Tell me.'

  'No.'

  'Better yet, Banaschar, convince me.'

  'I cannot,' he replied, hands clutching the grimy bedding to either side.

  'An imperial matter?'

  'No.'

  'Well, that is a start. As you said, then, the subject per­tains to once-followers of D'rek. A subject, one presumes, related to the succession of mysterious deaths within the cult of the Worm. Succession? More like slaughter, yes? Tell me, is there anyone left? Anyone at all?'

  Banaschar said nothing.

  'Except, of course,' the stranger added, 'those few who have, at some time in the past and for whatever reasons, fallen away from the cult. From worship.'

  'You know too much of this,' Banaschar said. He should never have stayed in this room. He should have been find­ing different hovels every night. He hadn't thought there'd be anyone, anyone left, who'd remember him. After all, those who might have were now all dead. And I know why. Gods below, how I wish I didn't.

  'Tayschrenn,' said the man after a moment, 'is being isolated. Thoroughly and most efficiently. In my professional standing, I admit to considerable admiration, in fact. Alas, in that same capacity, I am also experiencing considerable alarm.'

  'You are a Claw.'

  'Very good — at least some intelligence is sifting through that drunken haze, Banaschar. Yes, my name is Pearl.'

  'How did you find me?'

  'Does that make a difference?'

  'It does. To me, it does, Pearl.'

  Another sigh and a wave of one hand. 'Oh, I was bored. I followed someone, who, it turned out, was keeping track of you — with whom you spoke, where you went, you know, the usual things required.'

  'Required? For what?'

  'Why, preparatory, I imagine, to assassination, when that killer's master deems it expedient.'

  Banaschar was suddenly shivering, the sweat cold and clammy beneath his clothes. 'There is nothing political,' he whispered, 'nothing that has anything to do with the empire. There is no reason—'

  'Oh, but you have made it so, Banaschar. Do you forget? Tayschrenn is being isolated. You are seeking to break that, to awaken the Imperial High Mage—'

  'Why is he permitting it?' Banaschar demanded. 'He's no fool—'

  A soft laugh. 'Oh no, Tayschrenn is no fool. And in that,
you may well have your answer.'

  Banaschar blinked in the gloom. 'I must meet with him, Pearl.'

  'You have not yet convinced me.'

  A long silence, in which Banaschar closed his eyes, then placed his hands over them, as if that would achieve some kind of absolution. But only words could do that. Words, uttered now, to this man. Oh, how he wanted to believe it would... suffice. A Claw, who would be my ally. Why? Because the Claw has... rivals. A new organization that has deemed it expedient to raise impenetrable walls around the Imperial High Mage. What does that reveal of that new organization? They see Tayschrenn as an enemy, or they would so exclude him as to make his inaction desirable, even to himself. They know he knows, and wait to see if he finally objects. But he has not yet done so, leading them to believe that he might not – during whatever is coming. Abyss take me, what are we dealing with here?

  Banaschar spoke from behind his hands. 'I would ask you something, Pearl.'

  'Very well.'

  'Consider the most grand of schemes,' he said. 'Consider time measured in millennia. Consider the ageing faces of gods, goddesses, beliefs and civilizations...'

  'Go on. What is it you would ask?'

  Still he hesitated. Then he slowly lowered his hands, and looked across, to that grey, ghostly face opposite him. 'Which is the greater crime, Pearl, a god betraying its followers, or its followers betraying their god? Followers who then choose to commit atrocities in that god's name. Which, Pearl? Tell me, please.'

  The Claw was silent for a dozen heartbeats, then he shrugged. 'You ask a man without faith, Banaschar.'

  'Who better to judge?'

  'Gods betray their followers all the time, as far as I can tell. Every unanswered prayer, every unmet plea for salvation. The very things that define faith, I might add.'

  'Failure, silence and indifference? These are the definitions of faith, Pearl?'

  'As I said, I am not the man for this discussion.'

  'But are those things true betrayal?'

  'That depends, I suppose. On whether the god worshipped is, by virtue of being worshipped, in turn beholden to the worshipper. If that god isn't — if there is no moral compact — then your answer is "no", it's not betrayal.'

  'To whom — for whom — does a god act?' Banaschar asked.

  'If we proceed on the aforementioned assertion, the god acts and answers only to him or herself.'

  'After all,' Banaschar said, his voice rasping as he leaned forward, 'who are we to judge?'

  'As you say.'

  'Yes.'

  'If,' Pearl said, 'on the other hand, a moral compact does exist between god and worshipper, then each and every denial represents a betrayal—'

  'Assuming that which is asked of that god is in itself bound to a certain morality.'

  'True. A husband praying his wife dies in some terrible accident so that he can marry his mistress, for example, is hardly something any self-respecting god would acquiesce to, or assist in.'

  Banaschar heard the mockery in the man's voice, but chose to ignore it. 'And if the wife is a tyrant who beats their children?'

  'Then a truly just god would act without the necessity for prayer.'

  'Meaning the prayer itself, voiced by that husband, is also implicitly evil, regardless of his motive?'

  'Well, Banaschar, in my scenario, his motive is made suspect by the presence of the mistress.'

  'And if that mistress would be a most loving and adoring stepmother?'

  Pearl snarled, chopping with one hand. 'Enough of this, damn you — you can wallow in this moral quandary all you want. I don't see the relevance...' His voice fell away.

  His heart smothered in a bed of ashes, Banaschar waited, willing himself not to sob aloud, not to cry out.

  'They prayed but did not ask, nor beseech, nor plead,' Pearl said. 'Their prayers were a demand. The betrayal... was theirs, wasn't it?' The Claw sat forward. 'Banaschar. Are you telling me that D'rek killed them all? Her entire priesthood? They betrayed her! In what way? What did they demand?'

  'There is war,' he said in a dull voice.

  'Yes. War among the gods, yes — gods below — those worshippers chose the wrong side!'

  'She heard them,' Banaschar said, forcing the words out. 'She heard them choose. The Crippled God. And the power they demanded was the power of blood. Well, she decided, if they so lusted for blood... she would give them all they wanted.' His voice dropped to a whisper. 'All they wanted.'

  'Banaschar... hold on a moment... why would D'rek's followers choose blood, the power of blood? That is an Elder way. What you are saying makes no sense.'

  'The Cult of the Worm is ancient, Pearl. Even we cannot determine just how old. There is mention of a goddess, the Matron of Decay, the Mistress of Worms — a half-dozen titles — in Gothos's Folly — in the fragments possessed by the temple. Or at least, once in the temple's possession — those scrolls disappeared—'

  'When?'

  Banaschar managed a bitter smile. 'On the night of Tayschrenn's flight from the Grand Temple in Kartool. He has them. He must have them. Don't you see? Something is wrong! With all of this! The knowledge that I hold, and the knowledge that Tayschrenn must possess — with his access to Gothos's Folly — we must speak, we must make sense of what has happened, and what it means. This goes beyond the Imperium — yet this war among the gods — tell me, whose blood do you think will be spilled? What happened in the cult of D'rek, that is but the beginning!'

  'The gods will betray us?' Pearl asked, leaning back. 'Us... mortals. Whether we worship or not, it is mortal blood that will soak the earth.' He paused, then said, 'Perhaps, given the opportunity, you will be able to persuade Tayschrenn. But what of the other priesthoods — do you truly believe you can convince them — and what will you say to them? Will you plead for some kind of reform­ation, Banaschar? Some revolution among believers? They will laugh in your face.'

  Banaschar looked away. 'In my face, perhaps. But... Tayschrenn…'

  The man opposite him said nothing for a time. A graininess filled the gloom — dawn was coming, and with it a dull chill. Finally, Pearl rose, the motion fluid and silent. 'This is a matter for the Empress—'

  'Her? Don't be a fool—'

  'Careful,' the Claw warned in a soft voice.

  Banaschar thought quickly, in desperation. 'She only comes into play with regard to releasing Tayschrenn from his position as High Mage, in freeing him to act. And besides, if the rumours are true about the Grey Mistress stalking Seven Cities, then it is clear that the pantheonic war has already begun in its myriad manipulations of the mortal realm. She would be wise to heed that threat.'

  'Banaschar,' Pearl said, 'the rumours do not even come close to the truth. Hundreds of thousands have died. Perhaps millions.'

  Millions?

  'I shall speak with the Empress,' Pearl repeated.

  'When do you leave?' Banaschar asked. And what of those who are isolating Tayschrenn? What of those who contemplate killing me?

  'There will be no need for that,' the Claw said, walking to the door. 'She is coming here.'

  'Here? When?'

  'Soon.'

  Why? But he did not voice that question, for the man had gone.

  ****

  Saying it needed the exercise, Iskaral Pust was sitting atop his mule, struggling to guide it in circles on the mid deck. From the looks of it, he was working far harder than the strange beast as it was cajoled into a step every fifty heart­beats or so.

  Red-eyed and sickly, Mappo sat with his back to the cabin wall. Each night, in his dreams, he wept, and would awaken to find that what had plagued his dreams had pushed through the barrier of sleep, and he would lie beneath the furs, shivering with something like a fever. A sickness in truth, born of dread, guilt and shame. Too many failures, too many bad judgements; he had been stumbling, blind, for so long. Out of friendship he had betrayed his only friend. I will make amends for all of this. So I vow, before all the Trell spirits.

  Standi
ng at the prow, the woman named Spite was barely visible within the gritty, mud-brown haze that engulfed her. Not one of the bhok'arala, scrambling about in the rigging or back and forth on the decks, would come near her.

  She was in conversation. So Iskaral Pust had claimed. With a spirit that didn't belong. Not here in the sea, and that wavering haze, like dust skirling through yellow grasses —even to Mappo's dull eyes, blatantly out of place.

  An intruder, but one of power, and that power seemed to be growing.

  'Mael,' Iskaral Pust had said with a manic laugh, 'he's resisting, and getting his nose bloodied. Do you sense his fury, Trell? His spitting outrage? Hee. Hee hee. But she's not afraid of him, oh no, she's not afraid of anyone!'

  Mappo had no idea who that 'she' was, and had not the energy to ask. At first, he had thought the High Priest had been referring to Spite, but no, it became increasingly apparent that the power manifesting itself over the bow of the ship was nothing like Spite's. No draconean stink, no cold brutality. No, the sighs of wind reaching the Trell were warm, dry, smelling of grasslands.

  The conversation had begun at dawn, and now the sun was directly overhead. It seemed there was much to discuss... about something.

  Mappo saw two spiders scuttle past his moccasined feet. You damned witch, I don't think you're fooling anyone.

  Was there a connection? Here, on this nameless ship, two shamans from Dal Hon, a land of yellow grasses, acacias, huge herds and big cats — savannah — and now, this... visitor, striding across foreign seas.

  'Outraged, yes,' Iskaral Pust had said. 'Yet, do you sense his reluctance? Oh, he struggles, but he knows too that she, who chooses to be in one place and not many, she is more than his match. Dare he focus? He doesn't even want this stupid war, hah! But oh, it is that very ambivalence that so frees his followers to do as they please!'

  A snarling cry as the High Priest of Shadow fell from the back of the mule. The animal brayed, dancing away and wheeling round to stare down at the thrashing old man. It brayed again, and in that sound Mappo imagined he could hear laughter.