The Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  'No. They're going home.'

  'And how do you come by this knowledge?'

  Nether spoke: 'Because a god visits her, Fist. He comes to break her heart. Again and again.'

  Apsalar felt as if she had been punched in the chest, the impact reverberating through her bones, the beat inside suddenly erratic, tightening as heat flooded through her veins. Yet, outwardly, she revealed nothing.

  Keneb's voice was taut with fury. 'Was that necessary, Nether?'

  'Don't mind my sister,' Nil said. 'She lusts after someone—'

  'Bastard!'

  The young Wickan woman rushed off. Nil watched her for a moment, then he looked over at Keneb and Apsalar, and shrugged.

  A moment later he too left.

  'My apologies,' Keneb said to Apsalar. 'I would never have invited such a cruel answer — had I known what Nether would say—'

  'No matter, Fist. You need not apologize.'

  'Even so, I shall not pry again.'

  She studied him for a moment.

  Looking uncomfortable, he managed a nod, then walked away.

  The island was now on the ship's starboard, almost five pegs along. 'He comes to break her heart. Again and again.' Oh, there could be so few secrets on a ship such as this one. And yet, it seemed, the Adjunct was defying that notion.

  No wonder Quick Ben is hiding.

  ****

  'They killed everyone,' Bottle said, shivering. 'A whole damned island's worth of people. And Monkan Isle, too —it's in the wind, now, the truth of that.'

  'Be glad for that wind,' Koryk said. 'We've left that nightmare behind fast, damned fast, and that's good, isn't it?'

  Cuttle sat straighter and looked at Fiddler. 'Sergeant, wasn't Sepik an Imperial principality?'

  Fiddler nodded.

  'So, what these Tiste Edur did, it's an act of war, isn't it?'

  Bottle and the others looked over at the sergeant, who was scowling — and clearly chewing over Cuttle's words. Then he said, 'Technically, aye. Is the Empress going to see it that way? Or even care? We got us enough enemies as it is.'

  'The Adjunct,' Tarr said, 'she'll have to report it even so. And the fact that we already clashed once with that damned fleet of theirs.'

  'It's probably tracking us right now,' Cuttle said, grimac­ing. 'And we're going to lead it straight back to the heart of the empire.'

  'Good,' Tarr said. 'Then we can crush the bastards.'

  'That,' Bottle muttered, 'or they crush us. What Quick Ben did, it wasn't real—'

  'To start,' Fiddler said.

  Bottle said nothing. Then, 'Some allies you're better off without.'

  'Why?' the sergeant demanded.

  'Well,' Bottle elaborated, 'the allies that can't be figured out, the ones with motives and goals that stay forever out­side our comprehension — that's what we're talking about here, Sergeant. And believe me, we don't want a war fought with the sorcery of the Holds. We don't.'

  The others were staring at him.

  Bottle looked away.

  'Drag 'im round the hull,' Cuttle said. 'That'll get him to cough it all up.'

  'Tempting,' Fiddler said, 'but we got time. Lots of time.'

  You fools. Time is the last thing we got. That's what she's trying to tell us. With this eerie wind, thrusting like a fist through Mael's realm — and there's not a thing he can do about it. Take that, Mael, you crusty barnacle!

  Time? Forget it. She's driving us into the heart of a storm.

  Chapter Twenty

  Discipline is the greatest weapon against the self-right­eous. We must measure the virtue of our own controlled response when answering the atrocities of fanatics. And yet, let it not be claimed, in our own oratory of piety, that we are without our own fanatics; for the self-right­eous breed wherever tradition holds, and most often when there exists the perception that tradition is under assault. Fanatics can be created as easily in an environ­ment of moral decay (whether real or imagined) as in an environment of legitimate inequity or under the banner of a common cause.

  Discipline is as much facing the enemy within as the enemy before you; for without critical judgement, the weapon you wield delivers — and let us not be coy here — naught but murder.

  And its first victim is the moral probity of your cause.

  (Words to the Adherents), Mortal Sword Brukhalian, The Grey Swords

  It was growing harder, Ganoes Paran realized, not to regret certain choices he had made. While scouts reported that the Deragoth were not trailing his army as it marched north and east across virtually empty lands, this very absence led to suspicion and trepidation. After all, if those hoary beasts were not following them, what were they up to?

  Ganath, the Jaghut sorceress, had more or less intimated that Paran's decision to unleash those beasts was a terrible mistake. He probably should have listened to her. It was a conceit to imagine he could manipulate indefinitely all the forces he had let loose to deal with the T'rolbarahl. And, perhaps, there had been a lack of confidence in the capa­bilities of ascendants already active in this realm. The Deragoth were primal, but sometimes, that which was primal found itself assailed by a world that no longer per­mitted its unmitigated freedom.

  Well, enough of that. It's done, isn't it. Let someone else clean up the mess I made, just for a change.

  Then he frowned. Granted, that's probably not the proper attitude for the Master of the Deck. But I didn't ask for the title, did I?

  Paran rode in the company of soldiers, somewhere in the middle of the column. He didn't like the notion of an entourage, or a vanguard. Fist Rythe Bude was leading the way at the moment, although that position rotated among the Fists. While Paran remained where he was, with only Noto Boil beside him and, occasionally, Hurlochel, who appeared when there was some message to deliver — and there were, blissfully, scant few of those.

  'You were more forceful, you know,' Noto Boil said beside him, 'when you were Captain Kindly.'

  'Oh, be quiet,' Paran said.

  'An observation, High Fist, not a complaint.'

  'Your every observation is a complaint, healer.'

  'That's hurtful, sir.'

  'See what I mean? Tell me something interesting – Kartoolian, right? Were you a follower of D'rek, then?'

  'Hood, no! Very well, if you wish to hear something interesting, I shall tell you of my own history. As a youth, I was a leg-breaker—'

  'A what?'

  'I broke dog legs. Just one per mongrel, mind you. Lame dogs were important for the festival—'

  'Ah, you mean the D'rek festival! That disgusting, barbaric, filth-strewn day of sordid celebration! So, you broke the legs of poor, bemused animals, so they could be stoned to death in alleys by psychotic little children.'

  'What is your point, High Fist? Yes, that is precisely what I did. Three crescents a dog. It was a living. Alas, I eventu­ally tired of that—'

  'The Malazans outlawed the festival—'

  'Yes, that too. A most unfortunate decision. It has made my people moribund, forcing us to search elsewhere for our—'

  'For your sick, obnoxious tastes in delivering misery and suffering.'

  'Well, yes. Whose story is this?'

  'Abyss take me, please accept my apologies. Do go on —assuming I can stomach it.'

  Noto Boil tilted his nose skyward. 'I was not busy run­ning around skewering goddesses in my youth—'

  'Neither was I, although I suppose, like any healthy young non-leg-breaking boy, I lusted after a few. At least, based on their statues and the like. Take Soliel, for instance—'

  'Soliel! A likeness expressly visualized to encourage notions of motherhood!'

  'Oh, really? My, that's a little too revealing, isn't it?'

  'Mind you,' Noto Boil said in a commiserating tone, 'you were a young boy...'

  'So I was, now let's forget all that. You were saying? After your leg-breaker career died with a whimper, then what?'

  'Oh, how very droll, sir. I should also point o
ut, the Manifestation of Soliel back in G'danisban—'

  'Damned disappointing,' Paran agreed. 'You've no idea how many adolescent fantasies were obliterated by that.'

  'I thought you had no desire to discuss that subject any further?'

  'Fine. Go on.'

  'I was apprenticed for a short time to a local healer—'

  'Healing lame dogs?'

  'Not our primary source of income, sir. There was a mis­understanding, as a consequence of which I was forced to depart his company, in some haste. A local recruiting drive proved opportune, especially since such efforts by the Malazans rarely garnered more than a handful of Kartoolians — and most of those either destitute or criminal—'

  'And you were both.'

  'The principal source of their delight at my joining the ranks derived from my skills as a healer. Anyway my first campaign was in Korel, the Theftian Campaigns, where I was fortunate to acquire further tutelage from a healer who would later become infamous. Ipshank.'

  'Truly?'

  'Indeed, none other. And yes, I met Manask as well. It must be said — and you, High Fist, will comprehend more than most the necessity of this — it must be said, both Ipshank and Manask remained loyal to Greymane... to the last. Well, as far as I knew, that is — I was healer to a full legion by then, and we were sent to Genabackis. In due course—'

  'Noto Boil,' Paran interrupted, 'it seems you have a singular talent for consorting with the famous and the infamous.'

  'Why, yes, sir. I suppose I have at that. And now, I sus­pect, you are wondering into which category I place you?'

  'Me? No, don't bother.'

  The healer prepared to speak again but was interrupted by the arrival of Hurlochel.

  'High Fist.'

  'Outrider.'

  'The trail ahead, sir, has up until now revealed little more than a scattering of your so-called pilgrims. But it seems that a troop of riders have joined the migration.'

  'Any idea how many?'

  'More than five hundred, High Fist. Could be as many as a thousand — they are riding in formation so it's difficult to tell.'

  'Formation. Now, who might they be, I wonder? All right, Hurlochel, advance your scouts and flanking out­riders — how far ahead are they?'

  'Four or five days, sir. Riding at a collected canter for the most part.'

  'Very good. Thank you, Hurlochel.'

  The outrider rode back out of the column.

  'What do you think this means, High Fist?'

  Paran shrugged at the healer's question. 'I imagine we'll discover soon enough, Boil.'

  'Noto Boil, sir. Please.'

  'Good thing,' Paran continued, unable to help himself, 'you became a healer and not a lancer.'

  'If you don't mind, sir, I think I hear someone complain­ing up ahead about saddle sores.' The man clucked his mount forward.

  Oh my, he prefers saddle sores to my company. Well, to each his own...

  ****

  'High Fist Paran,' Captain Sweetcreek muttered. 'What's he doing riding back there, and what's all that about no saluting? It's bad for discipline. I don't care what the soldiers think — I don't even care that he once commanded the Bridgeburners — after all, he took them over only to see them obliterated. It's not proper, I'm saying. None of it.'

  Fist Rythe Bude glanced over at the woman. Her colour was up, the Fist observed, eyes flashing. Clearly, the captain was not prepared to forget that punch in the jaw. Mind you, I probably wouldn't forgive something like that either.

  'I think the Fists need to organize a meeting—'

  'Captain,' Rythe Bude warned, 'you forget yourself.'

  'My apologies, sir. But, now that we're trailing some kind of army, well, I don't want to end up like the Bridgeburners. That's all.'

  'Dujek Onearm's confidence in Paran, and his admir­ation for the man, Captain, is sufficient for me. And my fellow Fists. I strongly advise you to suppress your anger and recall your own discipline. As for the army ahead of us, even a thousand mounted warriors hardly represents a significant threat to the Host. This rebellion is over – there's no-one left to rebel, after all. And little left to fight over.' She gestured forward with one gauntleted hand. 'Even these pilgrims keep falling to the wayside.'

  A low mound of stones was visible to one side of the rough track — another sad victim of this pilgrimage — and from this one rose a staff bedecked in crow feathers.

  'That's eerie, too,' Sweetcreek said. 'All these Coltaine worshippers...'

  'This land breeds cults like maggots in a corpse, Captain.'

  Sweetcreek grunted. 'A most appropriate image, Fist, in this instance.'

  Rythe Bude grunted. Aye, I stumble on those every now and then.

  Behind the two riders, Corporal Futhgar said, 'Sirs, what are those?'

  They twisted round in their saddles, then looked to where the man was pointing. The eastern sky. Voices were rising among the soldiers now, invoked prayers, a few shouts of surprise.

  A string of suns, a dozen in all, each small but bright enough to burn blinding holes in the blue sky. From two stretched tails of fiery mist. The row of suns curved like a longbow, the ends higher, and above it was the blurred, misshapen face of the moon.

  'An omen of death!' someone shouted.

  'Captain,' Rythe Bude snapped, 'get that fool to shut his mouth.'

  'Aye, sir.'

  ****

  'The sky falls,' Noto Boil said as he fell back in beside the High Fist.

  Scowling, Paran continued studying the strange appear­ance in the eastern sky, seeking some sense of what it was they were witnessing. Whatever it is, I don't like it.

  'You doubt me?' the healer asked. 'High Fist, I have walked the lands of Korel. I have seen the craters left behind by all that descended from the sky. Have you ever perused a map of Korel? The entire northern subcontinent and its host of islands? Fling a handful of gravel into mud, then wait whilst water fills the pocks. That is Korel, sir. The people still tell tales of the countless fires that fell from the sky, in the bringing down of the Crippled God.'

  'Ride to the head of the column, Noto Boil,' Paran said.

  'Sir?'

  'Call a halt. Right now. And get me Hurlochel and his outriders. I need a sense of the surrounding area. We may need to find cover.'

  For once, the healer made no complaint.

  Paran stared at the string of fires, growing like a salvo from the Abyss. Damn, where's Ormulogun? I need to find him, and he'd better have that Deck ready — or at least the cards etched out, preferably scribed and ready for the threads of paint. Gods below, he'd better have something, because I don't have time to... his thoughts trailed away.

  He could feel them now, coming ever closer — he could feel their heat — was that even possible?

  The damned moon — I should have paid attention. I should have quested, found out what has happened up there, to that forlorn world. And then another thought struck him, and he went cold.

  War among the gods.

  Is this an attack? A salvo in truth?

  Paran bared his teeth. 'If you're out there,' he whispered, glaring at the eastern sky as his horse shied nervously beneath him, 'you're not playing fair. And... I don't like that.' He straightened, stood in his stirrups, and looked about.

  'Ormulogun! Where in Hood's name are you!'

  ****

  'Against this,' Iskaral Pust muttered, 'I can do nothing.' He hugged himself. 'I think I should start gibbering, now. Yes, that would be highly appropriate. A crazed look in my eyes. Drool, then froth, yes. Who could blame me? We're all going to die!'

  These last words were a shriek, sufficient to shake Mappo from his insensate lethargy. Lifting his head, he looked across at the High Priest of Shadow. The Dal Honese was huddled beside his mule, and both were bathed in a strange light, green-hued — no, the Trell realized, that light was everywhere.

  Spite descended from the forecastle, and Mappo saw in her expression cold rage. 'We are in trouble,'
she said in a grating voice. 'Out of time — I had hoped... never mind—' Suddenly her head snapped round and she stared southwestward. Her eyes narrowed. Then she said, 'Oh... who in Hood's name are you? And what do you think you are up to?' Falling silent once more, her frown deepening.

  Blinking, Mappo Runt pushed himself upright, and saw that the sky was on fire — almost directly above them. As if the sun had spawned a host of children, a string of incandescent pearls, their flames wreathed in haloes of jade. Growing... descending. What are those?

  The sea seemed to tremble around them, the waves choppy, clashing in confusion. The air felt brittle, hot, and all wind had fallen away. And there, above the mass of land to the east that was Otataral Island... Mappo looked back at Iskaral Pust. The High Priest, crouching now, had his hands covering his head. Bhoka'rala were converging, around him, mewling and whimpering, reaching out to touch the shivering old man. As he babbled, 'We didn't plan for this, did we? I don't remember — gods, I don't remember anything! Mogora, my dear hag, where are you? This is my moment of greatest need. I want sex! Even with you! I'll drink the white paralt later — what choice? It's that, or the memory of most regrettable weakness on my part! There is only so much I can suffer. Stop touching me, you vile apes! Shadowthrone, you miserable insane shade —where are you hiding and is there room for me, your most devoted servant, your Magus? There'd better be! Come get me, damn you — never mind anyone else! Just me! Of course there's room! You mucus-smeared knee-in-the-groin fart-cloud! Save me!'

  'Spirits below,' Mogora muttered at Mappo's side, 'listen to that pathetic creature! And to think, I married him!'

  Spite suddenly wheeled and ran back to the bow, bhok'arala scattering from her path. Once there, she spun round and shouted. 'I see them! Make for them, fools! Quickly!'

  And then she veered, rising above the wallowing, rock­ing ship, silver-etched wings spreading wide. Swirling mists, writhing, growing solid, until an enormous dragon hovered before the ship, dwarfing the craft in its immensity. Lambent eyes flared like quicksilver in the eerie, emerald light. The creature's long, sinuous tail slithered down, snake-like, and coiled round the upthrust prow. The dragon then twisted in the air, a savage beat of the wings—