The Bonehunters

by Steven Erikson

  —as a midnight-hued demon swirled from shadows, the wide-mawed head on its sinuous neck darting out, jaws closing on Icarium's right shoulder, single foreleg raking huge talons down the front of the Jhag, along his ribs, seek­ing the softer flesh of his belly. The demon reared, dragging the Jhag into the air—

  But the single-edged sword would not be denied, slashing down, cutting through the demon's neck. Black blood sprayed as the huge body pitched sideways, legs kicking spasmodically. Icarium landed into a crouch, then struggled to loosen the death-grip of those jaws clamped round his shoulder.

  Beyond Icarium, the Tiste Edur was dragging Ahlrada Ann's body back, retreating towards the archway—

  No point. No point at all — once he's free—

  The roaring wind was abrading the stone wall, filling the blood-laden air with glittering pieces of granite. Cracks travelled the stone in a crazed web — the storm's roar grew yet louder, and all at once Varat's left eardrum shattered in a burst of agony.

  ****

  Staggering, his forearms bloody ribbons of flailed flesh, Trull pulled Ahlrada Ahn closer to the portal. Ibra Gholan no longer stood guard — in fact, the Edur saw no-one, no-one at all.

  Have they fled? Surrendered the throne? Please, Sisters, please. Let them escape, out of here, away from this—

  He reached the entranceway, and saw, just within, Ibra Gholan — the warrior's back to Trull, facing the First Throne — no, Trull saw, facing what was left of Monok Ochem. The sorcerous windstorm must have raced into the chamber, with a power the bonecaster could not withstand — the T'lan Imass had been thrown back, colliding with the right side of the throne, where, Trull saw with growing horror, Monok Ochem had melted. Fused, destroyed and twisted as its body was melded into the First Throne. Barely half of the bonecaster's face was visible, one eye surrounded by its cracked, collapsed socket.

  To either side and against the wall crouched the pitifully few children still alive, Panek kneeling beside the prone, motionless form of Minala, who lay in a slowly spreading pool of blood.

  Ibra Gholan turned as Trull dragged Ahlrada into the chamber.

  'Monok Ochem has failed,' the undead warrior intoned. 'Move from the portal, Trull Sengar. I will now meet the Lifestealer.'

  Trull pulled his friend to one side, then knelt and settled a hand on Ahlrada Ahn's spattered forehead. To his surprise, the eyes flickered open.

  'Ahlrada…'

  The dying warrior sought to speak, mouth opening then filling with bubbles of blood. A savage cough sprayed it into Trull's face, then a single word slurred free, a moment before Ahlrada Ahn died.

  A single word.

  'Home.'

  ****

  Ibra Gholan strode out to meet the one he called Lifestealer. Four paces from the Jhag, who had finally managed to tear free the Aptorian's death-grip, the T'lan Imass charged.

  Stone and iron, sparks at the heart of the roaring winds, and on those winds spun fragments of flesh, bone splinters, clumps of sodden hair and pieces of armour.

  Collecting a spear from the scatter of weapons on the floor, Trull limped to place himself in the entranceway.

  Ibra Gholan's attack had driven the Jhag back a step, then another—

  A harsh cracking sound and the T'lan Imass reeled, its flint sword shattered. Lifestealer's weapon whirled down, tore through the undead warrior's left shoulder — another chop, ribs bursting, pieces caught on the wind — Ibra Gholan staggered back—

  And the sword connected with the side of the warrior's head.

  The skull exploded into a mass of shards—

  Another swing ripped through the body, just above the hip, straight across, through the spine, out the other side, severing the T'lan Imass in half. Four more blows before what was left of the undead warrior could even reach the floor. Bone fragments skirling in every direction.

  Lifestealer tilted his head back and roared, the sound slamming Trull to the ground, driving all breath from his lungs — he stared, helpless, as the monstrosity took a step closer, then another.

  ****

  A flash, solid ripping of the air, and a figure stumbled as if from nowhere into the Jhag's path. A figure who hissed, 'Damn you, Shadowthrone!' Trull saw it look up, take in the approaching apparition, manage a single step back, then, as the Jhag raised his sword, sorcery burst from the figure —blinding — and when it dispelled, the wind was racing with a banshee shriek back down the ragged corridor — and Lifestealer was nowhere to be seen.

  ****

  Varat Taun watched Icarium annihilate the T'lan Imass, and saw once more the lone Tiste Edur, readying a spear moments before that triumphant roar battered the warrior from his feet.

  The captain saw a gate open before Icarium, saw the unleashing of magic, and then Varat Taun ducked, as if to squeeze beneath more bodies, as the concussion that erupted when the sorcery struck the Jhag shook the very stone — the floor, the walls — and in an instant, a momentary flash, he saw Icarium wheeling through the air, towards him, then over, then past — and the furious wind plunged into the Jhag's wake.

  Only to return with renewed force, and Varat felt the sodden bodies around him jostle and press down, as Icarium strode back over the dead, tilted forward, raising his sword once more.

  The Ceda, dark-skinned, lithe, watched the Jhag's approach, and then released another thunderous gout of magic—

  —and Icarium flew back—

  ****

  The storm winds seemed to twist as if in berserker rage, howling, tearing at the stone walls, ripping huge chunks away. The bodies of the fallen were plucked into the air, the flesh scouring away from the bones, the bones thinning then splitting apart — weapons sailed past, withering into nothing.

  And Trull Sengar, on his knees, watched as the stranger hammered Lifestealer. Again and again, each trembling detonation punching the Jhag back through the air, spinning, flailing, striking some distant obstruction with deep, rattling impacts.

  And then, each time, the terrible slayer regained his feet, and marched forward once more.

  Only to be struck again.

  In the interval following the last one, the stranger turned and saw Trull Sengar, and, in Malazan, he yelled, 'Who in Hood's name is that man?'

  Trull blinked, shook his head.

  Wrong question. Who in Hood's name are you?

  Roaring, Lifestealer clambered closer, and this time, he withstood the sorcerous blast, was pushed back but a few steps, and as the wild blaze faded, he shook his head, and lifted his sword. And came forward again.

  Another eruption, but the Jhag leaned against it—

  And Trull saw the mage jolt as if he had been punched. Skin split on the back of the man's hands, blood spurting.

  Lifestealer stepped back, then surged forward yet again.

  And the mage seemed to half-vanish in a mist of blood, flung back, stumbling, then, with a snarl, finding his balance once more—

  In time for the Jhag's next assault.

  And Trull found the mage skidding to a halt directly in front of him. No skin was visible that was not sheathed in blood. Ruptures marred every limb, the face, the neck; the eyes were deep red, streaming crimson tears. One trembling hand lifted, and through torn lips, the mage seemed to smile as he said, 'That's it for me. All yours, Edur, and tell Shadowthrone and Cotillion, I'll be waiting for them on the other side of Hood's Gate.'

  Trull looked up, then straightened, readying his spear.

  Lifestealer's eyes blazed, and in that incandescence, Trull imagined he saw recognition. Yes, me again.

  All at once the roaring wind stuttered, seemed to rip into itself, sending fragments of detritus flying against the walls – and there was heat, warm, sultry heat, flowing from behind the Jhag — who raised his sword and tottered closer—

  ****

  Clawing part-way free of the bodies, Varat Taun felt the shattering of the storm. His breath caught, as a golden glow seemed to rise, suffusing the air — and in that glow, war
mth, life.

  Furtive movement to his left and he twisted his head round — a figure, furred, as if wearing a skin-tight brown pelt — no, naked, a woman — no, a female — not human at all. Yet—

  In a half-crouch, moving lithe, sinuous, filled with trepidation, approaching Icarium from behind, as the Jhag began walking towards the lone Tiste Edur. Then, a swift dart forward — Icarium heard and began his spin round — but she had reached out, a long-fingered hand – no weapon, reaching out, and Varat Taun saw the finger­ tips brush Icarium, just above the Jhag's right hip — the slightest of touches—

  And the Slayer crumpled to the ground.

  Behind Varat, a wordless cry, and the Letherii flinched as someone scrambled past him — Taralack Veed—

  The unhuman female had crouched beside the fallen form of Icarium. Softly stroking the slayer's forehead, as the amber glow began to fade, and with that fading, the female herself grew indistinct, then dissolved into gold light, which flickered, then vanished.

  Taralack Veed turned his head and met Varat's eyes. 'Help me!' he hissed.

  'Do what?' the Letherii demanded.

  'The gate behind you — it fades! We need to drag Icarium back through! We need to get him out of here!'

  'Are you insane?'

  The Gral's face twisted. 'Don't you understand? Icarium – he is for your Emperor!'

  A sudden chill, sweeping away the last vestiges of that healing warmth, and then, in its wake, a flood of emotion — scalding his mind. Varat Taun pushed himself upright, clambered to join Taralack Veed.

  For Rhulad. Gods. Yes, I see now. Yes. For Rhulad —even Rhulad — even that sword —yes, I see, I see!

  The entranceway to the throne room was unoccupied once more, as the Tiste Edur had pulled the Ceda into the sanctity of that chamber — now was their chance — he and Taralack reached the prostrate form of Icarium.

  The Gral collected the sword and sheathed it beneath his belt, then grasped one arm. 'Take the other,' he com­manded in a hiss. 'Hurry! Before they realize — before that damned gate slams shut!'

  And Varat grasped the other arm, and they began dragging Icarium back.

  The slickness of what lay beneath the Jhag made it easier than expected.

  ****

  Kneeling, Trull Sengar wiped blood from the mage's face, cautiously, gentle round the closed eyes. From beyond the archway, a profound silence. Within this chamber, the sounds of weeping, muted, hopeless.

  'Will he live?'

  The Tiste Edur started, then looked up. 'Cotillion. You said you'd send help. Is this him?'

  The god nodded.

  'He wasn't enough.'

  'I know that.'

  'So who would you have sent next?'

  'Myself, Trull Sengar.'

  Ah. He looked back down at the unconscious mage. 'The Eres'al... she did what no-one else could do.'

  'So it would seem.'

  'Unanticipated, her arrival, I presume.'

  'Most unexpected, Trull. It is unfortunate, nonetheless, that her power of healing did not reach through, into this chamber.'

  The Tiste Edur frowned, then looked back up at the god. 'What do you mean?'

  Cotillion could not meet his eyes. 'Onrack. Even now he rises. Mended, more or less. I think she feels for him...'

  'And who feels for us?' Trull demanded. He turned his head aside and spat out blood.

  There was no answer from the god.

  The Tiste Edur slumped down into a ragged sitting position. 'I'm sorry, Cotillion. I don't know if you deserved that. Probably not.'

  'It has been an eventful night,' the god said. Then sighed. 'Such is convergence. I asked you earlier, will Quick Ben live?'

  Quick Ben. Trull nodded. 'I think so. The blood's stopped flowing.'

  'I have called Shadowthrone. There will be healing.'

  Trull Sengar glanced over to where Panek sat beside his mother — one of his mothers — 'Shadowthrone had best hurry, before those children become orphans once again.'

  A scuffling sound from the portal, and Onrack shuffled into view.

  'Trull Sengar.'

  He nodded, managed a broken smile. 'Onrack. It seems you and I are cursed to continue our pathetic existence for a while longer.'

  'I am pleased.'

  No-one spoke for a moment, and then the T'lan Imass said, 'Lifestealer is gone. He was taken away, back through the gate.'

  Cotillion hissed in frustration. 'The damned Nameless Ones! They never learn, do they?'

  Trull was staring at Onrack. 'Taken? He lives? Why — how? Taken?'

  But it was the god who answered. 'Icarium — Lifestealer — is their finest weapon, Trull Sengar. The Nameless Ones intend to fling him against your brother, the Emperor of Lether.'

  As comprehension reached through the numbness of exhaustion, Trull slowly closed his eyes. Oh no, please... 'I see. What will happen then, Cotillion?'

  'I don't know. No-one does. Not even the Nameless Ones, although in their arrogance they would never admit to it.'

  A squeal from Panek drew their attention — and there was Shadowthrone, crouching down over Minala, settling a hand on her forehead.

  Trull spat again — the insides of his mouth were lacerated — then grunted and squinted up at Cotillion. 'I will not fight here again,' he said. 'Nor Onrack, nor these children — Cotillion, please—'

  The god turned away. 'Of course not, Trull Sengar.' Trull watched Cotillion walk through the archway, and the Tiste Edur's gaze fell once more on the body of Ahlrada Ahn. As Shadowthrone approached Quick Ben, Trull climbed to his feet and made his way to where his friend was lying. Ahlrada Ahn. I do not understand you — I have never understood you — but I thank you nonetheless. I thank you...

  He stepped to the entranceway, looked out, and saw Cotillion, the Patron of Assassins, the god, sitting on a shelf of stone that had slipped down from one wall, sitting, alone, with his head in his hands.

  Epilogue

  In a journey through the wastes, I found a god

  kneeling as it pushed its hands into the sand

  again and again, each time lifting them up

  to watch the lifeless grains stream down.

  Dismounting from my weary horse, I walked

  to stand before this apparition and its dusty hands

  and watched for a time the cycles of their motion

  when at last up it looked, eyes beseeching.

  'Where,' asked this god, 'are my children?'

  The Lost Believers, Fisher

  The bite, then the blessed numbness of smoke in her lungs, slowly released as Scillara moved up to lean on the rail at Cutter's side. 'You look far away,' she said, scanning the endless seas. He sighed, then nodded. 'Thinking of her, were you? What was her name again?'

  'Apsalar.'

  She smiled, mostly to herself, drew in more smoke, watched it whirl away from her nostrils and her pursed lips, three streams becoming one. 'Tell me about her.'

  Cutter glanced back over a shoulder, and Scillara, to be companionable, did the same. Barathol was at the stern, Chaur seated almost at the huge blacksmith's boots. Iskaral Pust and Mogora were nowhere in sight, likely in the cabin below, arguing over supper's mysterious ingredients. The black mule had vanished days ago, probably over the side although Iskaral simply smiled at their enquiries.

  Mappo was at the bow, crouched down, knees drawn up. Rocking, weeping. He had been that way since morning and no-one seemed able to get through to find out what assailed him.

  Cutter turned and stared back over the seas. Scillara happily did the same, pulling hard on her pipe.

  And the Daru spoke. 'I was remembering back. After the big fête in Darujhistan, there was another one, a smaller one, celebrating the withdrawal of Malazan interests... for the time being. Anyway, it was in Coll's estate, just before we left the city — gods below, it seems so long ago now...'

  'You'd just met, then.'

  'Yes. Well, there was music. And Apsalar ... she danced.' H
e looked across at her. 'She danced so beauti­fully, all conversation stopped, everyone watched.' Cutter shook his head. 'I couldn't even draw breath, Scillara...'

  And yours is a love that will not die.

  So be it.

  'A good memory, Cutter. Hold on to it. Me, I could never dance well, unless drunk or otherwise softened up.'

  'Do you miss those days, Scillara?'

  'No. It's more fun this way.'

  'What way?'

  'Well now, you see, I don't miss a thing any more. Not a thing. That's very... satisfying.'

  'You know, Scillara, I do envy your happiness.' She smiled across at him once more, a simple act that took all her will, all her strength.

  So be it.

  Cutter said, 'I think... I think I need to lie in your arms right now, Scillara.'

  For all the wrong reasons. But there's this — in this Hood-damned world, it's worth taking what you can get. Whatever you can get.

  Three streams.

  Into one.

  ****

  Karsa Orlong turned about as Samar Dev moved up beside him and settled down — a fierce gale was busy ripping off the surface of the waves in the sea beyond, and the hammering against the hull was incessant, as if eager spirits sought to tear the craft to pieces. 'Well, woman, what has got you looking so excited?'

  'Something's happened,' she said. 'Here, give me some of that fur cloak, I'm chilled to the bone.'

  He yielded the bear fur. 'Take it.'

  'I bless your martyrdom, Karsa Orlong.'

  'A wasted effort, then,' he rumbled in reply. 'I will be martyr to no-one, not even the gods.'

  'Just a saying, you thick-skulled oaf. But listen, something happened. There was an assault. Hundreds of Edur warriors and Letherii auxiliaries. And, another champion.'

  Karsa grunted. 'Plenty of those in this fleet.'

  'But only that champion and his servant returned. And one Letherii. The rest were slaughtered.'

  'Where was this battle? We have seen no other ships.'

  'Through a warren, Karsa Orlong. In any case, I heard the name of the champion. And this is why you have to listen to me. We have to get off this damned ship — if we even come in sight of land between here and that empire, we should go over the side. You said I was excited? Wrong. I am terrified.'