The Bonehunters

The Bonehunters Page 108

by Steven Erikson

  They're herding us. To the bridge. What's waiting for us on the other side?

  The alley widened into something like a street just past the first flanking buildings, and directly before them was the low wall encircling the park.

  T'amber slowed, as if unsure whether to skirt that wall to the left or the right, then she staggered, lifting her sword as attackers closed in on her from both sides.

  The Adjunct cried out.

  Blades clashed, a body tumbled to one side, the others swarming round T'amber — Kalam saw two knives sink into the woman's torso, yet still she remained on her feet, slash­ing out with her sword. As Tavore reached them — thrusting her otataral blade into the side of an assassin's head, a savage lateral tug freeing it, the rust-hued weapon hissing into the path of an arm, slicing through flesh and bone, the arm flying away—

  Kalam saw, in the heartbeat before he joined the fight, T'amber reaching out with her free hand to take a Claw by the throat, then pull the attacker into the air, pivoting to throw the Claw against the stone wall. Even as the figure repeatedly stabbed the woman in the chest, shoulders and upper arms.

  Gods below!

  Kalam arrived like a charging bhederin, long-knives lick­ing out even as he hammered his weight into one Claw, then another, sending both sprawling.

  There in the gloom before the wall of Raven Hill Park, a savage frenzy of close-in fighting, a second Hand joining what was left of the first. A dozen rapid heartbeats, and it was over.

  And there was no time to pause, no time for a breath to recover, as quarrels began pounding into the wall.

  Kalam waved mutely to run along the wall, westward, and somehow — impossibly — T'amber once more took the lead.

  Screams erupted behind them, but there was no time to look. The wall curved southward, forming one side of the street leading to Admiral Bridge, and there stood the stone span, unlit, so buried in shadows that it might have been at the base of a pit. As they drew closer, that sorcery wavered, then died. Revealing... nothing. No-one in sight.

  'T'amber!' Kalam hissed. 'Hold up!'

  Whatever had struck in their wake had snared the attention of the pursuing Claws — at least for the moment. 'Adjunct, listen to me. You and T'amber, get down into the river. Follow it straight to the harbour.'

  'What about you?' Tavore demanded.

  'We haven't yet encountered a third of the Hands in the city, Adjunct.' He nodded towards the Mouse. 'They're in there. I plan on leading them a merry chase.' He paused, then spat out a mouthful of phlegm and blood. 'I can lose them eventually — I know the Mouse, Tavore. I'll take to the rooftops.'

  'There's no point in splitting up—'

  'Yes, Adjunct. There is.' Kalam studied T'amber for a moment. Yes, despite everything, not much longer for you. 'T'amber agrees with me. She'll get you to the harbour.'

  From the streets and alleys behind them, ominous silence, now. Closing in. 'Go.'

  The Adjunct met his eyes. 'Kalam—'

  'Just go, Tavore.'

  He watched as they moved to the edge of the river, the old sagging stone retaining wall at their feet. T'amber climbed down first. The river was befouled, sluggish and shallow. It would be slow going, but the darkness would hide them. And when they get to the harbour... well, it'll be time to improvise.

  Kalam adjusted his grips on the long-knives. A last glance behind him. Still nothing there. Odd. He fixed his gaze on the bridge. All right. Let's get this over with.

  ****

  Lostara Yil made her way across the concourse, leaving Rampart Way

  and the bodies at its foot behind her. The sounds of rioting were still distant — coming from the harbour and beyond — while the nearby buildings and estates were silent and unlit, as if she had found herself in a necropolis, a fitting monument to imperial glory.

  The small figure that stepped out before her was thus all the more startling, and her disquiet only increased upon recognizing him. 'Grub,' she said, approaching, 'what are you doing here?'

  'Waiting for you,' the boy replied, wiping at a runny nose.

  'What do you mean?'

  'I'll take you where you need to go. It's a sad night, but it will be all right, you'll see that one day.' With that he turned around and headed off along the avenue, southward. 'We don't need to stay on the path, not yet. We can take the first bridge. Lostara Yil—' a glance back, 'you're very pretty.'

  Suddenly chilled despite the sultry air, she set off after him. 'What path?'

  'Doesn't matter.'

  Skittering sounds in the shadows off to her left. She closed a hand on her sword. 'Something's there—'

  'That's okay,' Grub said. 'They're my friends. There won't be any trouble. But we should hurry.'

  Before long they reached the bridge leading into Centre District, whereupon Grub angled them westward for a short time, before turning south once more.

  They soon came upon the first of the bodies. Claws, sprawled in small groups at first — where rats and wild dogs had already come out to feed — and then, as they neared Raven Hill Park, the street was literally filled with corpses. Lostara slowed her pace as she approached the elongated scene of slaughter — heading southward, as if a bladed whirlwind had raced through a hundred or more imperial assassins — and, slowly, Lostara Yil realized something, as she looked upon one cut-up figure after another... a pattern to the wounds, to their placements, to the smooth precision of every mortal blow.

  Her chill deepened, stole into her bones.

  Three paces ahead, Grub was humming a Wickan drover's song.

  ****

  Halfway across Admiral Bridge, Kalam lodged one weapon under an arm and reached for the acorn tucked into the folds of his sash. Smooth, warm even through the leather of his tattered glove, as if welcoming. And... impatient.

  Ducking into a crouch along one of the low retaining walls on the bridge, Kalam flung the acorn to the pave-stones. It cracked, spun in place for a moment, then stilled.

  'All right, Quick,' Kalam muttered, 'any time now.'

  ****

  In a cabin on the Froth Wolf, Adaephon Delat, seated cross-legged on the floor, his eyes closed, flinched at that distant summons. Closer to hand, he could hear more fighting along the harbourfront, and he knew the Perish were being pushed back, step by step, battered by sorcery and an ever­growing mass of frenzied attackers. Whilst above decks Destriant RunThurvian was maintaining a barrier against every magical assault on the ship itself. Quick Ben sensed that the man was not exactly hard-pressed, but clearly dis­tracted by something, and so there was a hesitation in him, as if he but awaited a far more taxing calling — a moment that was fast approaching.

  Well, we got trouble everywhere, don't we just?

  It would not be easy slipping through the maze of warrens unleashed in the streets of the city this night. Pockets of virulent sorcery wandered here and there, mobile traps eager to deliver agonizing death, and Quick Ben recognized those. Ruse, the path of the sea. Those traps are water, stolen from deep oceans and retaining that savage pressure — they crush everything they envelop. This is High Ruse, and it's damned ugly.

  Someone out there was waiting for him. To make his move. And whoever it was, they wanted Quick Ben to remain precisely where he was, in a cabin on the Froth Wolf. Remain, doing nothing, staying out of the fight.

  Well. He had unveiled four warrens, woven an even dozen sorcerous spells, all eager to be sprung loose — his hands itched, then burned, as if he was repeatedly dipping them in acid.

  Kalam's out there, and he needs my help.

  The High Mage allowed himself the briefest of nods, and the rent of a warren opened before him. He slowly rose to his feet, joints protesting the motion — gods, I think I'm getting old. Who'd have thought? He drew a deep breath, then, blinking to clear his vision, he lunged forward — into the rent—

  —and, even as he vanished he heard a soft giggle, then a sibilant voice: 'You said you owed me, remember? Well, my dear Snake, it's time.
'

  ****

  Twenty heartbeats. Twenty-five. Thirty. Hood's breath! Kalam stared down at the broken acorn. Shit. Shit shit shit. Forty. Cursing under his breath, he set off.

  That's the problem with the shaved knuckle in the hole. Sometimes it doesn't work. So, I'm on my own. Well, so be it, I've been getting sick of this life anyway. Murder was overrated, he decided. It achieved nothing, nothing of real value. There wasn't an assassin out there who didn't deserve to have his or her head cut off and stuck on a spike. Skill, talent, oppor­tunity — none of them justified the taking of a life.

  How many of us – yes you — how many of you hate what you are? It's not worth it, you know. Hood take all those blistering egos, let's flash our pathetic light one last time, then surrender to the darkness. I'm done, with this. I'm done.

  He reached the end of the bridge and paused once more. Another backward glance. Well, it ain't burning, except here in my mind. Closing the circle, right? Hedge, Trotts, Whiskeyjack...

  The dark, pitted and broken face of the Mouse beckoned. A decayed grin, destitution and degradation, the misery that haunted so much life. It was, Kalam Mekhar decided, the right place. The assassin burst into motion, a diagonal sprint, hard and as low to the ground as he could manage, up to the leaning facade of a remnant of some estate wall, surging upward, one foot jamming in a cluttered murder hole — dislodging a bird's nest — up, forearm wrapping round the top edge, broken shards of cemented crockery cutting through the sleeve, puncturing skin — then over, one foot gaining purchase on the ragged row, launch­ing himself forward, through the air, onto an angled roof that exploded with guano dust as he struck it, scrambling along the incline, two long strides taking him to the peak, then down the other side—

  And onto the wild maze, the crackled, disjointed back of the vast Mouse—

  Claws, crouched and waiting, lunged in from all sides. Big, the biggest assassins Kalam had seen yet, each wielding long-knives in both hands. Fast, like vipers, lashing out.

  Kalam did not slow down — he needed to push right through them, he needed to keep going — he caught weapons against his own, felt blade edges gouge tracks along his armour, links parting, and one point, thrust hard, sank deep into his left thigh, twisting, cutting in an upward motion — snarling, he writhed in the midst of the flashing weapons, wrapped an arm about the man's face and head, then, as he pushed through with all his strength, he pulled that head in a twisting wrench, hearing the vertebrae pop. Kalam half-dragged the flopping corpse by its wobbly head, into his wake, where he dropped it.

  A long-knife from the right slashed into the side of his head, slicing down to sever his ear. He counter-thrust and felt his weapon skid along chain.

  Hood take them! Someone used me to make more of me—

  Continuing down, to the edge, Kalam then launched himself through the air, over the gap of an alley. He landed, pitching and rolling, on the flat roof of a sagging tenement, centuries old, the surface beneath him layered with the gravel of broken pottery. Multiple impacts followed, trembling along the rooftop, as his hunters came after him. Two, five, seven—

  Kalam regained his feet and turned, at bay, as nine assassins, spread into a half-circle, rushed him.

  Nine Kalams against one.

  Hardly.

  He surged forward, straight ahead, to the centre of that half-circle. The man before him raised his weapons in alarm, caught by surprise. He managed to parry twice with one long-knife, once with the other as he desperately back­pedalled, before Kalam's succession of attacks broke through. A blade sinking into the man's chest, impaling his heart, the second one stabbing beneath the jaw-line, then twisting upward and pushing hard into the brain.

  Using both jammed weapons, Kalam yanked the man around, into the path of two more Claws, then he tore free his long-knives and charged into one flank of attackers with blinding speed. A blade-edge sliced into his left calf from one of the pursuers — not deep enough to slow him down — as he feinted low at the Claw closest to him, then thrust high with his other weapon — into the eye socket of the man a step beyond the first assassin. The long-knife jammed. Releasing his grip, Kalam dipped a shoulder and flung himself into the midsection of the next attacker. The impact jolted through his bones — this Hood-cursed bastard's huge — yet he sank even lower, his freed arm sliding up between the man's legs, up behind. Blades tore down along his back, links popping like ticks on hot stones, and he felt the Claw seeking to shift the angle of those weapons, to push them inward — as, legs bunching beneath him, Kalam then heaved the hunter upward, off his feet — up, Kalam loosing a roar that tore the lining of his throat, using his weapon-hand to grasp the front of the man's shirt — up – and over.

  Legs kicking, the Claw's head pitched forward, colliding with the chest of a pursuing assassin. Both went down. Kalam leapt after them, pounding an elbow into the fore­head of the second Claw — collapsing it like a melon husk – while he sank his remaining long-knife into the back of the first man's neck.

  A blade jammed into his right thigh, the point bursting through the other side. Kalam twisted fast to pull the weapon from the attacker's hand, drew both legs up as he rolled onto his back, then kicked hard into the Claw's belly, sending the figure flying. Another long-knife thrust at his face — he flung up a forearm and blocked the weapon, brought his hand round and grasped the Claw's wrist, pulled him closer and gutted him with his own long-knife, the intestines spilling out to land in Kalam's lap.

  Scrambling upright, he pulled out the weapon impaling his thigh — in time to parry a slash with it, then, backing away — his slashed and punctured legs almost failing beneath him — he fell into a sustained defence. Three hunters faced him, with the one he had kicked now regain­ing his feet, slowly, struggling to draw breath.

  Too much blood-loss; Kalam felt himself weakening. If any more Hands arrived...

  He leapt back, almost to the edge of the roof, and threw both long-knives, a move unexpected, particularly given the top-heavy imbalance of the weapons — but Kalam had practised short-range throwing with them, year after year. One buried itself deep in the chest of the Claw to his right; the other struck the breastbone of the Claw on the left with a solid thud and remained in place, quivering. Even as he threw the weapons, Kalam launched himself, barehanded, at the man in the middle.

  Caught one forearm in both hands, pushed it back then across — the hunter attempted an upthrust from low with his other long-knife, but Kalam kneed it aside. A savage wrench dislocated the arm in his hands, then he pushed it back up, grinding the dislodged bones into the ruptured socket — the man shrieked. Releasing the arm, he brought both hands up behind the Claw's head, then, leaving his own feet, he drove that head downward, using all of his weight, downward, face-first into the roof.

  A crunch, a loud crack, and the entire rooftop sagged —explosions of old rotted timber beams, crumbling mortar and plaster.

  Swearing, Kalam rolled over the man — whose face was buried in the roof, amidst bubbling blood — and saw, through an ever widening fissure, a darkened room below. He slid himself forward—

  Time to leave.

  ****

  Ten paces away, Pearl stood and watched. Shaken, dis­believing. On the slanting rooftop all round him lay bodies.

  The finest assassins of the Malazan Empire. He cut through them all. Just... cut through them. And, in his heart, there was terror — a sensation new to him, filling him with trembling weakness.

  He watched as Kalam Mekhar, streaming blood, weapon­less, dragged himself towards that hole in the roof. And Pearl drew back the sleeve of his left arm, extended it, aimed and released the quarrel.

  A grunt with the impact, the quarrel sinking deep just under Kalam's outstretched left arm, even as the man slid forward, down, and vanished from sight.

  I am sorry, Kalam Mekhar. But you... I cannot accept... your existence. I cannot...

  He then made his way forward, joined now by the lone survivor of the two Hands,
and collected Kalam's weapons.

  My... trophies.

  He turned to the Claw. 'Find the others—'

  'But what of Kalam—'

  'He's finished. Gather the Hands here in the Mouse — we're paying a visit to the Centre Docks, now. If the Adjunct makes it that far, well, we have to take her down there.'

  'Understood, Clawmaster.'

  Clawmaster. Yes. It's done, Empress Laseen. Yes, he's dead. By my own hand. I am without an equal in the hialazan Empire.

  Where would he begin?

  Mallick Rel.

  Korbolo Dom.

  Neither of you will see the dawn. I swear it.

  The other Claw spoke from the edge of the hole in the roof: 'I don't see him, Clawmaster.'

  'He's crawling off to die,' Pearl said. 'Kartoolian paralt.'

  The man's head snapped round. 'Not the snake? The spider's... ? Gods below!'

  Aye, a most painful, protracted death. And there's not a priest left on the island who can neutralize that poison.

  Two weapons clunked on the roof. Pearl looked over. 'What are you doing?' he demanded.

  The man was staring at him. 'Enough. How much dis­honour will you set at the feet of the Claw? I am done with you.' And he turned away. 'Find the Adjunct yourself, Pearl, give her one of your damned spider bites—'

  Pearl raised his right arm, sent a second quarrel flying across the rooftop. Striking the man between the shoulder-blades. Arms flung out to the sides, the Claw toppled.

  'That, regrettably, was white paralt. Much quicker.'

  Now, as he had intended all along, there were no witnesses left. And it was time to gather the remaining Hands.

  He wished it could have been different. All of it. But this was a new Malazan Empire, with new rules. Rules I can manage well enough. After all, I have nothing left. No-one left...

  ****

  Closing his eyes, Fiddler set down his fiddle. He said nothing, for there was nothing to say. The reprise that had taken him was done. The music had left his hands, had left his mind, his heart. He felt empty inside, his soul riven, lifeless. He had known this was coming, a truth that neither diminished the pain of loss nor intensified it — a burden, that was all. Just one more burden.

 

‹ Prev Next ›