The Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  —and with an alarming jolt the ship lunged forward.

  Mappo was flung back into the cabin wall, wood splintering behind him. Gasping, the Trell regained his feet and clambered towards the bows.

  She sees them? Who?

  The sky was filling with spears of green fire, plunging towards them.

  Iskaral Pust screamed.

  ****

  Over a thousand leagues away, westward, Bottle stood with the others and stared at the eastern horizon — where darkness should have been, crawling heavenward to announce the unending cycle of day's death and night's birth. Instead they could see distinctly a dozen motes of fire, descending, filling a third of the sky with a lurid, incandescent, greenish glow.

  'Oh,' Bottle whispered, 'this is bad.'

  Fiddler clutched at his sleeve, pulled him close. 'Do you understand this?' the sergeant demanded in a harsh whisper.

  Bottle shook his head.

  'Is this — is this another Crippled God?'

  Bottle stared at Fiddler, eyes widening. Another? 'Gods below!'

  'Is it?'

  'I don't know!'

  Swearing, Fiddler pushed him away. Bottle staggered back, shouldering into Sergeant Balm — who barely reacted — then he twisted through the press, stumbling as he made his way clear, looked across the waters. To the south, the Nemil ships — war biremes and supply transports — had every sheet to the wind as they raced back towards their homeland, the former swiftly outdistancing the latter, many of the transports still half-filled with cargo — the resupply abandoned.

  Aye, it's every fool for himself now. But when those things hit, that shock wave will roll fast. It will smash us all into kindling. Poor bastards, you'll never make it. Not even those ugly biremes.

  The unceasing wind seemed to pause, as if gathering breath, then returned with redoubled force, sending every­one on deck staggering. Sailcloth bucked, mast and spars creaking — the Silanda groaned beneath them.

  Quick Ben? Best make your escape now, and take whoever you can with you. Against what's coming... there is no illusion that will dissuade it. As for those Tiste Edur, well, they're as finished as we are. I will accept that as consolation.

  Well, Grandma, you always said the sea will be the death of me.

  ****

  Sergeant Hellian wandered across the deck, marvelling at the green world she had found. This Nemil brandy packed a punch, didn't it just? People were screaming, or just standing, as if frozen in place, but that's how things usually were, those times she accidentally — oops — slipped over that blurry line of not-quite drunk. Still, this green was making her a little sick.

  Hood-damned Nemil brandy — what idiots drank this rubbish? Well, she could trade it for some Falari sailor's rum. There were enough idiots on this ship who didn't know better, she just had to find one. A sailor, like that one there.

  'Hey. Look, I got N'm'l brandy, but I'm thirsty for rum, right? Paid ten crescents for this, I know, it's a lot, but my squad, they love me y'see. Took up a c'lection. So's, I'm thinking, how 'bout we trade. Straight across, baw'll for baw'll. Sure, I drunk most a this, but it's worth more, right. Which, as you can see, e'ens thingzup.' Then she waited.

  The man was a tall bastard. Kind of severe looking. Other people were staring — what was their problem, anyway?

  Then the man took the bottle, swished it back and forth and frowned. He drank it down, three quick swallows.

  'Hey—'

  And reached beneath his fancy cloak, drawing out a flask, which he passed across to her. 'Here, soldier,' he said. 'Now get below and drink until you pass out.'

  She collected the flask with both hands, marvelling at its polished silver surface, even the gouge that ran diagonally across one side, and the sigils stamped into it, very nice. The Imperial Sceptre, and four old ones — the ones that used to identify flagships — she'd seen those before. There, that was Cartheron Crust's, and that one was Urko's, and that one she didn't know, but the last one was the same as on the flag up top of this ship she was on. That's a coincidence now, ain't it? She blinked at the man. 'Can't,' she said. 'I got orders—'

  'I am countermanding those orders, Sergeant.'

  'You can do that?'

  'Under these circumstances, yes.'

  'Well then, I'll never forget you, sailor. Promise. Now, where's the hatch... ?'

  He guided her, with one firm hand on her shoulder, in the right direction. Clutching the beautiful and beautifully swishing flask against her chest, Hellian made her way along, through the green murk, and all the staring faces. She stuck out her tongue.

  They can get their own.

  ****

  Apsalar turned at the sigh from the Adjunct.

  Tavore's expression was... philosophic, as she stared at the eastern horizon. 'Humbling, is it not?'

  'Yes, Adjunct, I suppose it is.'

  'All of our plans... our conceits... as if the sheer force of our wills, each of us, can somehow ensure that all else remains unchanged around us, awaiting naught but what we do, what we say.'

  'The gods—'

  'Yes, I know. But that' — she nodded eastward — 'does not belong to them.'

  'No?'

  'It is too devastating, soldier. Neither side is that desper­ate... yet. And now,' she shrugged, 'even their games dwindle into insignificance.'

  'Adjunct,' Apsalar said, 'you lack confidence.'

  'Do I? In what?'

  'Our resilience.'

  'Perhaps.'

  But Apsalar could feel her own confidence crumbling, clinging to a single thought — and the resolve behind that thought was itself weakening. Even so. A single thought. This — this was anticipated. By someone. It had to be.

  Someone saw this coming.

  Most people were blind, wilfully or otherwise. But, there were some who weren't.

  So now, my prescient friend, you had better do something about it. And quick.

  ****

  Ormulogun, trailed by his toad, stumbled into view, an overflowing leather satchel in his arms. The toad was bleat­ing something about delusional artists and the brutal world in a tone of pessimistic satisfaction. Ormulogun tripped and fell almost at Paran's feet, the satchel tipping and spilling its contents — including scores of wooden cards, most of them blank.

  'You've barely started! You damned fool!'

  'Perfection!' Ormulogun shrieked. 'You said—'

  'Never mind,' Paran snarled. He looked back at the eastern sky. Spears of fire were descending like rain. 'Mainland? Into the sea?' he wondered aloud. 'Or Otataral Island?'

  'Maybe all three,' Noto Boil said, licking his lips.

  'Well,' Paran said, crouching down and clearing a space in the sand before him, 'sea's worse. That means...' He began drawing with his index finger.

  'I have some!' Ormulogun whimpered, fumbling through the cards.

  Mael. I hope you're paying attention — I hope you're ready to do what needs doing. He studied the streaks he had etched in the sand. Enough? It has to be. Closing his eyes, he focused his will. The Gate is before me—

  'I have this one!'

  The shout was loud in Paran's right ear, and even as the force of his will was unleashed, he opened his eyes — and saw, hovering before him, another card—

  And all of his power rushed into it—

  Onto his knees, skidding on clay that deformed beneath him, hands thrusting out to catch himself. Grey air, a charnel stench, and Paran lifted his head. Before him stood a gate, a mass of twisted bones and pale, bruised flesh, dangling strands of hair, innumerable staring eyes, and beyond it was grey, murky oblivion.

  'Oh, Hood.'

  He was at the very threshold. He had damned near flung himself right through—

  A figure appeared in the portal, black-cloaked, cowled, tall. This isn't one of his servants. This is the hoary old bastard himself—

  'Is there time for such unpleasant thoughts, mortal?' The voice was mild, only faintly rasping. 'With what is about to hap
pen... well, Ganoes Paran, Master of the Deck of Dragons, you have positioned yourself in a most un­fortunate place, unless you wish to be trampled by the multitudes who shall momentarily find themselves on this path.'

  'Oh, be quiet, Hood,' Paran hissed, trying to climb to his feet, then stopping when he realized that doing so would not be a good idea. 'Help me. Us. Stop what's coming — it'll destroy—'

  'Far too much, yes. Too many plans. I can do little, how­ever. You have sought out the wrong god.'

  'I know. I was trying for Mael.'

  'Pointless...' Yet, even as Hood spoke that word, Paran detected a certain... hesitation.

  Ah, you've had a thought.

  'I have. Very well, Ganoes Paran, bargain.'

  'Abyss take us — there's no time for that!'

  'Think quickly, then.'

  'What do you want? More than anything else, Hood. What do you want?'

  And so Hood told him. And, among the corpses, limbs and staring faces in the gate, one face in particular suddenly grew animate, its eyes opening very wide — a detail neither noticed.

  Paran stared at the god, disbelieving. 'You can't be serious.'

  'Death is always serious.'

  'Oh, enough with the portentous crap! Are you certain?'

  'Can you achieve what I ask, Ganoes Paran?'

  'I will. Somehow.'

  'Do you so vow?'

  'I do.'

  'Very well. Leave here. I must open this gate.'

  'What? It is open!'

  But the god had turned away, and Paran barely heard Hood's reply: 'Not from this side.'

  ****

  Chaur squealed as a hail of firestones struck the roiling waters barely a ship's-breadth away. Explosions of steam, a terrible shrieking sound tearing through the air. Cutter pushed hard on the steering oar, trying to scull the wallow­ing craft — but he didn't have the strength for that. The Grief wasn't going anywhere. Except, I fear, to the bottom.

  Something struck the deck; a thud, splintering, reverber­ations trembling the entire hull, then steam was billowing from the fist-sized hole. The Grief seemed to sag beneath them.

  Cursing, Barathol scrambled to the breach, dragging a bundle of spare sailcloth. Even as he sought to push it down into the hole, two more stones struck the craft, one up front tearing away the prow, another — a flash of heat against Cutter's left thigh and he looked down to see steam then water gushing up.

  The air seethed like the breath from a forge. The entire sky overhead seemed to be on fire.

  The sail above them was burning, ripped through.

  Another concussion, and more than half of the port rail was simply gone, pulverized wood a mist drifting away, flaring with motes of flame.

  'We're sinking!' Scillara shouted, grasping hold of the opposite rail as the Griefs deck tilted alarmingly.

  Cargo shifted — too many supplies — we got greedy — making the dying craft lean further.

  The wrapped corpse of Heboric rolled towards the choppy waves.

  Crying out, Cutter sought to make his way towards it, but he was too far away — the cloth-wrapped form slid down into the water—

  And, wailing, Chaur followed it.

  'No!' Barathol yelled. 'Chaur – no!' The mute giant's huge arms closed about the corpse, a moment before both simply slipped from sight.

  ****

  Sea. Bara called it sea. Warm now, wet. Was so nice. Now, sky bad, and sea bad — up there — but nice now. Here. Dark, night, night is coming, ears hurt. Ears hurt. Hurt. Bara said never breathe in sea. Need to breathe now. Oh, hurt! Breathe!

  He filled his lungs, and fire burst through his chest, then... cool, calm, the spasms slowing. Darkness closed in round him, but Chaur was no longer frightened by that. The cold was gone, the heat was gone, and numbness filled his head.

  He had so loved the sea.

  The wrapped body in his arms pulled ever down, and the limbs that had been severed and that he had collected when Bara told him to, seemed to move about within as the canvas stretched, lost shape.

  Darkness, now, inside and out. Something hot and savage tore past him, racing downward like a spear of light, and Chaur flinched. And he closed his eyes to make those things go away. The ache was finally gone from his lungs.

  I sleep now.

  ****

  Geysers of steam shooting skyward, thunderous concussions racking the air and visibly battering the sea so that it shook, trembled, and Cutter saw Barathol dive into the churning water, into Chaur's wake. The body. Heboric — Chaur, oh gods...

  He reached Scillara's side and pulled her close, into his arms. She clutched his sodden shirt. 'I'm so glad,' she whispered, as the Grief groaned and canted further onto its side.

  'About what?'

  'That I left her. Back there. I left her.'

  Cutter hugged her all the tighter.

  I'm sorry, Apsalar. For everything—

  Sudden buffeting winds, a sweeping shadow. He looked up and his eyes widened at the monstrous shape occluding the sky, descending—

  A dragon. What now?

  And then he heard shouts — and at that moment, the Grief seemed to explode.

  Cutter found himself in the water, thrashing, panic awakened within him, like a fist closing round his heart.

  ****

  ... Reaching... reaching...

  What is this sound? Where am I?

  A million voices — screaming, plunging into terrible death — oh, they had travelled the dark span for so long, weightless, seeing before them that vast... emptiness. Unmindful of their arguing, their discussions, their fierce debates, it swallowed them. Utterly. Then, out, through to the other side... a net of power spreading out, something eager for mass, something that grew ever stronger, and the journey was suddenly in crazed, violent motion — a world beneath — so many lost then — and beyond it, another, this one larger—

  'Oh, hear us, so many... annihilated. Mountains struck to dust, rock spinning away into dark, blinding clouds that scintillated in harsh sunlight — and now, this beast world that fills our vision — is this home?

  'Have we come home?'

  Reaching... hands of jade, dusty, raw, not yet polished into lurid brightness. I remember... you had to die, Treach, didn't you? Before ascendancy, before true godhood. You had to die first.

  Was I ever your Destriant?

  Did that title ever belong to me?

  Did I need to be killed?

  Reaching — these hands, these unknown, unknowable hands — how can I answer these screams? These millions in their shattered prisons — I touched, once, fingertip to fingertip, I touched, oh... the voices—

  'This is not salvation. We simply die. Destruction—'

  'No, no, you fool. Home. We have come home—'

  'Annihilation is not salvation. Where is he? Where is our god?'

  '1 tell you, the search ends!'

  'No argument there.'

  Listen to me.

  'Who is that?'

  'He returns! The one outside — the brother!'

  Listen to me, please. I — I'm not your brother. I'm no-one. I thought... Destriant... did I know it for certain? Have I been lied to? Destriant... well, maybe, maybe not. Maybe we all got it wrong, every one of us. Maybe even Treach got it wrong.

  'He has lost his mind.'

  'Forget him — look, death, terrible death, it comes—'

  'Mad? So what. I'd rather listen to him than any of you. He said listen, he said that, and so I shall.'

  'We will all listen, idiot — we have no choice, have we?'

  Destriant. We got it all wrong. Don't you see? All I have done... cannot be forgiven. Can never be forgiven — he's sent me back. Even Hood — he's rejected me, flung me back. But... it's slipping away, so tenuous, I am failing—

  'Failing, falling, what's the difference?'

  Reaching.

  'What?'

  My hands — do you see them? Cut loose, that's what happened. The hands... cut loose. Freed
. I can't do this.. but I think they can. Don't you see?

  'Senseless words.'

  'No, wait—'

  Not Destriant.

  Shield Anvil.

  Reaching... look upon me — all of you! Reach! See my hands! See them! They're reaching — reaching out for you!

  They... are... reaching...

  ****

  Barathol swam down into darkness. He could see... nothing. No-one. Chaur, oh gods, what have I done? He con­tinued clawing his way downward. Better he drowned as well — he could not live with this, not with that poor man-child's death on his hands — he could not—

  His own breath was failing, the pressure closing in, pounding in his skull. He was blind—

  A flash of emerald green below, blooming, incandescent, billowing out — and at its core — Oh gods, wait — wait for me—

  Limp, snagged in unravelled folds of canvas, Chaur was sinking, arms out to the sides, his eyes closed, his mouth... open.

  No! No, no!

  From the pulsing glow, heat — such heat — Barathol fought closer, his chest ready to explode — and reached down, down—

  ****

  A section of the aft deck floated free from what was now little more than pummelled wreckage. The firestones tore down on all sides as Cutter struggled to help Scillara clamber onto the pitching fragment. Those firestones —they were smaller than pebbles, despite the fist-sized holes they had punched through the Grief. Smaller than pebbles — more like grains of sand, glowing bright green, like spatters of glass, their colour changing, almost instantly, into rust red as they plummeted into the depths.

  Scillara cried out.

  'Are you hit? Oh, gods — no—'

  She twisted round. 'Look! Hood take us — look!' And she lifted an arm, pointed as a swelling wave lifted them —pointed eastward—

  Towards Otataral Island.

  It had... ignited. Jade green, a glowing dome that might have spanned the entire island, writhing, lifting skyward, and, rising up through it... hands. Of jade. Like... like Heboric's. Rising, like trees. Arms — huge — dozens of them — rising, fingers spreading, green light spiralling out — from their upturned palms, from the fingers, from the veins and arteries cabling their muscled lengths — green light, slashing into the heavens like sword-blades. Those arms were too big to comprehend, reaching upward like pillars through the dome—