The Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  Fiddler had given Gesler and Stormy crossbows, both fitted with the sharper-packed grenados, whilst his own weapon held a cusser. They approached a wider street that ran parallel to the harbourfront, still south of the bridge leading over to Centre Docks. Familiar buildings for Fiddler, on all sides, yet a surreal quality had come to the air, as if the master hand of some mad artist had lifted every detail into something more profound than it should have been.

  From the docks came the roar of battle, punctuated with the occasional crackle of Moranth munitions. Sharpers, mostly. Cuttle. He's using up my supply!

  They reached the intersection. Legana Breed paused in the middle, slowly faced the sagging facade of a tavern opposite. Where the door slammed open and two figures stumbled out. Reeling, negotiating the cobbles beneath them as if traversing stepping stones across a raging river, one grasping the other by an arm, tugging, pulling, then leaning against him, causing both to stagger.

  Swearing under his breath, Fiddler headed towards them. 'Sergeant Hellian, what in Hood's name are you doing ashore?'

  Both figures hitched up at the voice, turned.

  And Hellian's eyes fixed on the T'lan Imass. 'Fiddler,' she said, 'you look awful.'

  'Over here, you drunken idiot.' He waved Gesler and Stormy ahead as he came closer. 'Who's that with you?'

  Hellian turned and regarded the man she held by an arm, for what seemed a long time.

  'Your priz'ner,' the man said by way of encouragement.

  'Thaz right.' Hellian straightened as she faced Fiddler again. 'He's wanted for questioning.'

  'By whom?'

  'Me, thazoo. So's anyway, where's the boat?'

  Gesler and Stormy were making their way towards the bridge. 'Go with them,' Fiddler said to Legana Breed, and the T'lan Imass set off, feet scraping. The sapper turned back to Hellian. 'Stay close, we're heading back to the ships right now.'

  'Good. Glad you could make it, Fid, in case thiz one tries an' 'scapes, right? Y'got my p'mission to shoot 'im down. But only in the foot. I wan' answers from 'im an' I'm gonna get 'em.'

  'Hellian,' Fiddler said, 'could be we'll need to make a run for it.'

  'We can do that. Right, Banash?'

  'Fool,' Fiddler muttered. 'That's Smiley's there. The demon doesn't serve regular ale. Any other place...' He then shook his head. 'Come on, you two.'

  Up ahead, Gesler and Stormy had reached the bridge. Crouched low, they moved across its span.

  Fiddler heard Gesler shout, a cry of surprise and alarm —and all at once both he and Stormy were running — straight for a heaving crowd that loomed up before them.

  'Shit.'' Fiddler sprinted forward.

  ****

  A winding trench swallowed in gloom, a vein that seemed to run beneath the level where the frenzy of slaughter com­manded every street, every alley to either side. The woman behind her coughing gouts of blood as she sloshed along, the Adjunct, Tavore Paran, waded through a turgid stream of sewage.

  Ever closer to the sounds of fighting at Centre Docks.

  It had seemed impossible — the Claws had not found them, had not plunged down the rotted brick walls to deliver murder in the foul soup that was Malaz River. Oh, Tavore and T'amber had pushed past enough corpses on their journey, but the only sounds embracing them were the swirl of water, the skittering of rats along the ledges to either side, and the whine of biting insects.

  That all changed when they reached the edge of the concourse. The concussion of a sharper, startlingly close, then the tumbling of a half-dozen bodies as a section of the retaining wall collapsed directly ahead. More figures sliding down, screaming, weapons waving in the air—

  —and a soldier turned, saw them—

  As he bellowed his discovery, T'amber pushed past the Adjunct. Longsword arced across, diagonally, and cut off the top third of the man's head, helm and bone, white mat­ter spraying out.

  Then T'amber reached back, closed a bloody hand on the Adjunct's cloak, dragged her forward, onto the sunken bank of dislodged brick, sand and gravel.

  The strength in that grip stunned Tavore, as T'amber assailed the slope, dragging the Adjunct from her feet, up, up onto the level of the concourse. Stumbling onto her knees, even as that hand left her and the sounds of fighting erupted around them—

  City Guard, three squads at least — detonations had pushed them to this side of the concourse, and they turned upon the two women like rabid wolves—

  Tavore pushed herself upright, caught a sword-thrust reaching for her midsection with a desperate parry, the weapons ringing. She instinctively counter-attacked, and felt the tip of her sword tear through chain and gouge the muscles of a shoulder. Her opponent grunted, flinched back. Tavore chopped down onto the knee of his lead leg, cutting in two the patella. He shrieked and fell.

  To her left, T'amber cut, slashed, parried and lunged, and bodies were falling all around her. Even as swords sank into the woman — and she staggered.

  Tavore cried out, twisting to move towards T'amber—

  And saw, less than twenty paces away, a score or more Claws, rushing to join the fray.

  A sword burst from T'amber's back, between the shoulder-blades, and the soldier gripping the weapon pushed close to the woman and heaved her from her feet, throwing her backward, where she slid off the length of iron, landing hard on the cobbles, her own sword leaving her hand, clattering away.

  Six paces between the Adjunct and a dozen Guards —and behind them and closing fast, the Claws. Tavore hacked away — faces turned to her, faces twisted in blind rage, eyes cold and hard, inhuman. The Adjunct raised her sword, both hands on the grip now, took a step back—

  The Guards rushed forward—

  Then, a blinding flash, immediately behind them, and that rush became a mass of torn bodies, severed limbs, sheets of blood — the roar of the detonation seemed to ignite in the centre of Tavore's skull. The world pitched, she saw night sky, wheeling, stars seeming to race outward in all directions — her head cracking on the cobbles, dislodging her helm, and she was on her back, staring up, confused by the tumbling smoke, the red mist, the thundering protest of every muscle and bone in her body.

  A second explosion lifted her from the cobbles, pounded her back down on a surface suddenly heaved askew. More blood rained down—

  Someone skidded up against her, a hand reaching down to rest lightly on her sternum, a face, blurred, looming close. She watched the mouth move but heard nothing.

  A flash, recognition. Sergeant Fiddler.

  What? What are you doing?

  And then she was being dragged along, boots pulling loose at the ends of senseless legs. The right one dislodging, left behind. She stared at her cloth-wrapped foot, soaked in river-slime and blood.

  She could now see behind her as the sergeant continued pulling her towards the jetty. Two more marines, covering their retreat with strange, oversized crossbows in their hands. But no-one was coming after them — they were busy dying beneath a stone sword in the desiccated hands of a T'lan Imass — the creature punched at by virulent sorcery, yet pushing ever forward, killing, killing.

  What was happening? Where had the marines come from? She saw another one, struggling with a prisoner — he wasn't trying to escape, however, just stay on his feet. They're drunk, the both of them — well, on this night, I think I'll let it pass.

  Oh, T'amber…

  More figures surrounding them now. Bloodied soldiers. The Perish. People were shouting — she could see that — but the roaring in her head was unabated, drowning out all else. She half-lifted one arm, stared at her gauntleted hand — my sword. Where is my sword?

  Never mind, fust sleep, now. Sleep.

  ****

  Grub led her into the alley, to where a body was lying, curled up, racked with spasms and voicing a dreadful moan­ing. As she drew closer, Lostara recognized him. Anguish rose up within her and she lunged past Grub, fell to her knees.

  Pearl was covered in wounds, as if he had been system­atical
ly tortured. And pain was consuming him. 'Oh, my love...'

  Grub spoke behind her. 'The poison has him, Lostara Yil. You must take his life.'

  What?

  'He thought you were dead,' the boy continued. 'He'd given up. On everything. Except revenge. Against the Adjunct.'

  'Who did this?'

  'I won't tell you,' Grub said. 'Pearl hungered for vengeance, and vengeance was repaid him. That's all.'

  That's all.

  'Kill him now, Lostara. He can't hear you, he can't see you. There's only the pain. It's the spiders, you see, they breathe the blood of their victims, they need it rich, bright red. And so the venom, it doesn't let go. And then, there's the acid in the stomach, leaking out, eating everything up.'

  Numbed, she drew out her knife.

  'Make the heart stop.'

  Yes, there, behind and beneath the shoulder-blade. Push deep, work the edges. Full it loose, look, how the body stills, how the muscles cease their clenching. It's quiet, now. He's gone.

  'Come along, there's more. Quickly.'

  He set off, and she rose and followed. You've left me. You were there, in Mock's Hold, but I didn't know. You didn't know.

  Past a tumbled mass of corpses now. Claws. The alley was filled with them.

  Ahead, Centre Docks, the clearing—

  Sudden detonations, rocking the buildings. Screams.

  At the alley mouth, between warehouses, Grub crouched and waved her down to his side.

  People were fleeing — those still on their feet, and they were scant few. At least two cussers had exploded in the midst of the mobs. Cussers and sharpers, and there a Hood-damned T'lan Imass, cutting down the last ones within reach.

  'Gods,' Lostara muttered, 'there must be a thousand dead out there.'

  'Yes. But look, you must see this.' He pointed to their right, near the river. 'What?'

  'Oh.' Grub reached out and settled a hand on her forearm.

  And the scene seemed to somehow shift, a new illumi­nation — it was gathered about a single body, too distant to make out details—

  'T'amber,' Grub said. 'Only you and me can see. So watch, Lostara. Watch.'

  The golden glow was coalescing, rising up from the corpse. A faint wind flowed past Lostara and Grub, familiar now, heady with the scent of savannah grasses, warm and dry.

  'She stayed with us a long time,' Grub whispered. 'She used T'amber. A lot. There wasn't any choice. The Fourteenth, it's going to war, and we're going with it. We have to.'

  A figure now stood at a half-crouch over the body. Furred, tall, and female. No clothing, no ornamentation of any kind.

  Lostara saw the T'lan Imass, thirty or more paces away, slowly turn to regard the apparition. And then, head bowing, the undead warrior slowly settled onto one knee. 'I thought you said we were the only ones who could see, Grub.'

  'I was wrong. She has that effect.'

  'Who — what is she?'

  'The Eres'al. Lostara, you must never tell the Adjunct. Never.'

  The Red Blade captain scowled. 'Another damned secret to keep from her.'

  'Just the two,' Grub said. 'You can do that.'

  Lostara glanced over at the boy. 'Two, you said.'

  Grub nodded. 'Her sister, yes. That one, and this one. Two secrets. Never to tell.'

  'That won't be hard,' she said, straightening. 'I'm not going with them.'

  'Yes you are. Look! Look at the Eres'al!'

  The strange female was lowering her head towards the body of T'amber. 'What's she doing?'

  'Just a kiss. On the forehead. A thank-you.'

  The apparition straightened once more, seemed to sniff the air, then, in a blur, vanished.

  'Oh!' said Grub. Yet added nothing. Instead, taking her hand in his. 'Lostara. The Adjunct, she's lost T'amber now. You need to take that place—'

  'I'm done with lovers, male or female—'

  'No, not that. Just... at her side. You have to. She cannot do this alone.'

  'Do what?' .

  'We have to go — no, not that way. To the Mouse Docks—'

  'Grub — they're casting off!'

  'Never mind that! Come on!'

  ****

  Deadsmell pushed Fiddler out of the way and knelt beside the body of the Adjunct. He set a hand on her begrimed forehead, then snatched it back. 'Hood's breath! She doesn't need me.' He backed- away, shaking his head. 'Damned otataral — I never could get that, what it does...'

  Tavore's eyes opened. After a moment, she struggled into a sitting position, then accepted Fiddler's hand in helping her to her feet.

  The Froth Wolf was edging away from the jetty. The Silanda had pulled further out, the oars sweeping and sliding into the water.

  Blinking, the Adjunct looked round, then she turned to Fiddler. 'Sergeant, where is Bottle?'

  'I don't know. He never made it back. Seems we lost Quick Ben, too. And Kalam.'

  At the last name, she flinched.

  But Fiddler had already known. The game... 'Adjunct—'

  'I have never seen a man fight as he did,' she said. 'Him, and T'amber, the two of them — cutting through an entire city—'

  'Adjunct. There's signals from the other ships. Where are we going?'

  But she turned away. 'Bottle — we have failed, Sergeant. He was to retrieve someone.'

  'Someone? Who?'

  'It doesn't matter, now. We have failed.'

  All of this? All of the fallen this night — for one person? 'Adjunct, we can wait here in the bay until light, send a detachment into the city looking—'

  'No. Admiral Nok's escorts will be ordered to sink the transports — the Perish will intervene, and more will die. We must leave.'

  'They can chase us down—'

  'But they won't find us. The Admiral has assured me of his impending incompetence.'

  'So, we signal the others to ship their anchors and make sail?'

  'Yes.'

  A shout from one of the crew. 'Ship closing to starboard!' Fiddler followed the Adjunct to the rail. Where Fist Keneb already stood.

  A small craft was approaching on an intercept course. A lantern appeared at its bow, flashing.

  'They got passengers to drop off,' the lookout called down.

  The ship came alongside with a crunch and grinding of hulls. Lines were thrown, rope ladders dropped down.

  Fiddler nodded. 'Bottle.' Then he scowled. 'I thought you said one person — the fool's brought a damned score with him.'

  The first to arrive over the rail, however, was Grub.

  A bright grin. 'Hello, father,' he said as Keneb reached out and lifted the boy, setting him on the deck. 'I brought Captain Lostara Yil. And Bottle's brought lots of people—'

  A stranger then clambered aboard, landing lightly on the deck and pausing, hands on hips, to look round. 'A damned mess,' he said.

  As soon as he spoke, Fiddler stepped forward. 'Cartheron Crust. I thought you were—'

  'Nobody here by that name,' the man said in a growl, one hand settling on the knife handle jutting from his belt.

  Fiddler stepped back.

  More figures were arriving, strangers one and all: the first a huge man, his expression flat, cautious, and on his fore­arms were scars and old weals that Fiddler recognized. He was about to speak when Crust — who was not Crust —spoke.

  'Adjunct Tavore, right? Well, I'm charging you sixteen gold imperials for delivering this mob of fools to your ship.'

  'Very well.'

  'So get it, because we're not hanging round this damned harbour any longer than we have to.'

  Tavore turned to Keneb. 'Fist, go to the legion paychest and extract two hundred gold imperials.'

  'I said sixteen—'

  'Two hundred,' the Adjunct repeated.

  Keneb set off for below.

  'Captain,' the Adjunct began, then fell silent.

  The figures now climbing aboard were, one and all, tall, black-skinned. One, a woman, stood very near the scarred man, and this one now faced the
Adjunct.

  And in rough Malazan, she said, 'My husband has been waiting for you a long time. But don't think I am just letting you take him away. What is to come belongs to us — to the Tiste Andii — as much and perhaps more than it does to you.'

  After a moment, the Adjunct nodded, then bowed. 'Welcome aboard, then, Tiste Andii.'

  Three small black shapes scrambled over the rail, made immediately for the rigging.

  'Gods below,' Fiddler muttered. 'Nachts. I hate those things—'

  'Mine,' the scarred stranger said.

  'What is your name?' Tavore asked him.

  'Withal. And this is my wife, Sandalath Drukorlat. Aye, a handful of a name and more than a handful of a—'

  'Quiet, husband.'

  Fiddler saw Bottle trying to sneak off to one side and he set off after the soldier. 'You.'

  Bottle winced, then turned. 'Sergeant.'

  'How in Hood's name did you find Cartheron Crust?'

  'That Crust? Well, I just followed my rat. We couldn't hope to get through the battle on the concourse, so we found us a ship—'

  'But Cartheron Crust?'

  Bottle shrugged.

  Keneb had reappeared, and Fiddler saw the Adjunct and Crust arguing, but he could not hear the exchange. After a moment, Crust nodded, collected the small chest of coins. And the Adjunct walked towards the bow.

  Where stood Nil and Nether.

  'Sergeant?'

  'Go get some rest, Bottle.'

  'Aye, thank you, Sergeant.'

  Fiddler walked up behind the Adjunct to listen in on the conversation.

  Tavore was speaking, '... pogrom. The Wickans of your homeland need you both. And Temul. Alas, you won't be able to take your horses — the captain's ship is not large enough — but we can crowd every Wickan aboard. Please, make yourself ready, and, for all that you have done for me, thank you both.'

  Nil was the first to descend to the mid deck. Nether followed a moment later, but made for Bottle, who was slumped into a sitting position, his back to the railing. She glared down at him until, some instinct warning him, he opened his eyes and looked up at her.