The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (110 page)

Stormy hesitated, then, growling a curse, set off after Duiker.

A flash of sorcery ignited the air above the front street, followed by an agonized shriek.

Kulp
, Duiker thought.
Delivering or dying
. He stayed on the beach, running parallel to the village, until he judged he was opposite the stables, then he turned inward, scrabbling through the weeds of the tide line. Stormy moved up beside the historian.

“I'll just see you safe on your way, eh?”

“My thanks,” Duiker whispered.

“Who are you anyway?”

“Imperial Historian. And who are you, Stormy?”

The man grunted. “Nobody. Nobody at all.”

They slowed as they slipped between the first row of huts, keeping to the shadows. A few paces from the street the air blurred in front of them and Kulp appeared. His cape was scorched, his face red from a fireflash.

“Why in Hood's name are you two here?” he demanded in a hiss. “There's a High Mage out prowling around—Hood knows why he's here. Problem is, he knows
I'm
here, which makes me bad company to be around—I barely squeezed the last one—”

“That scream we heard was yours?” Duiker asked.

“Ever had a spell roll onto you? My bones have been rattled damn near out of their sockets. I shat my pants, too. But I'm alive.”

“So far,” Stormy said, grinning.

“Thanks for the blessing,” Kulp muttered.

Duiker said, “We need to—”

The night blossomed around them, a coruscating, flame-lit explosion that flung all three men to the ground. The historian's shriek of pain joined two others as the sorcery seemed to claw into his flesh, clutch icy cold around his bones, sending jolts of agony up his limbs. His scream rose higher as the relentless pain reached his brain, blotting out the world in a blood-misted haze that seemed to sizzle behind his eyes. Duiker thrashed about and rolled across the ground, but there was no escape. This sorcery was killing him, a horrifyingly personal assault, invading every corner of his being.

Then it was gone. He lay unmoving, one cheek pressed against the cool, dusty ground, his body twitching in the aftermath. He'd soiled himself. He'd pissed himself. His sweat was a bitter stink.

A hand clutched the collar of his telaba. Kulp's breath gusted hot at his ear as the mage whispered, “I slapped back. Enough to sting. We need to get to the boat—Gesler's—”

“Go with Stormy,” Duiker gasped. “I'm taking the horses—”

“Are you mad?”

Biting back a scream, the historian pushed himself to his feet. He staggered as memories of pain rippled through his limbs. “Go with Stormy, damn you—go!”

Kulp stared at the man, then his eyes narrowed. “Aye, ride as a Dosii. Might work…”

Stormy, his face white as death, plucked the mage's sleeve. “Gesler won't wait forever.”

“Aye.” With a final nod at Duiker, the mage joined the marine. They ran hard back down to the beach.

Gesler and the sailors were in trouble. Bodies lay sprawled in the churned-up sand around the dock—the first dozen locals and two of the Cawn sailors. Gesler, flanked by Truth and another sailor, were struggling to hold at bay a newly arrived score of villagers—men and women—who flung themselves forward in a spitting frenzy, using harpoons, mallets, cleavers, some with only their bare hands. The remaining two sailors—both wounded—were on
Ripath
, feebly attempting to cast off the lines.

Stormy led Kulp to within a dozen paces of the mob, then the marine crouched, took aim and fired a quarrel into the press. Someone shrieked. Stormy slung the crossbow over a shoulder and drew a short sword and gutting dagger. “Got anything for this, Mage?” he demanded, then, without waiting for a reply, he plunged forward, striking the mob on its flank. Villagers reeled; none was killed, but many were horribly maimed as the marine waded into the press—the dead posed no burden; the wounded did.

Gesler now held the dock alone, as Truth was pulling a downed comrade back toward the boat. One of the wounded sailors on
Ripath
's deck had stopped moving.

Kulp hesitated, knowing that whatever sorcery he unleashed would draw down on them the High Mage. The cadre mage did not think it likely that he could withstand another attack. All his joints were bleeding inside, swelling the flesh with blood. By the morning he would not be able to move.
If I survive this night
. Even so, more subtle ploys remained.

Kulp raised his arms, voicing a keening shriek. A wall of fire erupted in front of him, then rolled, tumbling and growing, rushing toward the villagers. Who broke, then ran. Kulp sent the flame up the beach in pursuit. When it reached the banked sward, it vanished.

Stormy whirled. “If you could do that—”

“It was nothing,” Kulp said, joining the men.

“A wall of—”

“I meant
nothing
! A Hood-blinked illusion, you fool! Now, let's get out of here!”

They lost Vered twenty spans from the shore, a harpoon-head buried deep in his chest finally gushing the last of his blood onto the slick deck. Gesler unceremoniously rolled the man over the side. Remaining upright in addition to the corporal were the youth Truth, Stormy and Kulp. Another sailor was slowly losing a battle with a slashed artery in his left thigh and was but minutes from Hood's Gate.

“Everyone stay quiet,” Kulp whispered. “Show no lights—the High Mage is on the beach.”

Breaths were held, including a pitiless hand clamped down over the dying sailor's mouth until the man's moaning ceased.

With barely a storm-sail rigged,
Ripath
slipped slowly from the shallow bay, her keel parting water with a soft susurration.

Loud enough, Kulp knew. He opened his warren, threw sounds in random directions, a muted voice here, a creak of wood there. He cast a shroud of gloom over the area, holding the power of his warren back, letting it trickle forth to deceive, not challenge.

Sorcery flashed sixty spans to their left, fooled by a thrown sound. The gloom swallowed the magic's light.

The night fell silent once again. Gesler and others seemed to grasp what Kulp was doing. Their eyes held on him, hopeful, with barely checked fear. Truth held the tiller, motionless, not daring to do anything but keep the sail ahead of the soft breeze.

It seemed they merely crawled on the water. Sweat dripped from Kulp—he was soaked through with the effort of evading the High Mage's questing senses. He could feel those deadly probes, only now realizing that his opponent was a woman, not a man.

Far to the south, Hissar's harbor was a glowing wall of black-smeared flames. No effort was made to angle toward it, and Kulp understood as well as the others that there would be no succor found there. Seven Cities had risen in mutiny.

And we're at sea. Is there a safe harbor left to us? Gesler said this boat was provisioned—far enough to take us to Aren? Through hostile waters at that…
A better option would be Falar, but that was over six hundred leagues south of Dosin Pali.

Then another thought struck him, even as the questing of the High Mage faded, then finally vanished.
Heboric Light Touch—the poor bastard's heading for the rendezvous if all's gone as planned. Crossing a desert to a lifeless coast
. “Breathe easy now,” the mage said. “She's abandoned the hunt.”

“Out of range?” Truth asked.

“No, just lost interest. I'd guess she has more important matters to attend to, lad. Corporal Gesler.”

“Aye?”

“We need to cross the strait. To the Otataral Coast.”

“What in Hood's name for, Mage?”

“Sorry, this time I'm pulling rank. Do as I command.”

“And what if we just push you over the side?” Gesler inquired calmly. “There's dhenrabi out here, feeding along the edge of Sahul Shelf. You'd be a tasty morsel…”

Kulp sighed. “We go to pick up a High Priest of Fener, Corporal. Feed me to a dhenrabi and no one mourns the loss. Anger a High Priest and his foul-tempered god might well cock one red eye in your direction. Are you prepared for that risk?”

The corporal leaned back and barked a laugh. Stormy and Truth were grinning as well.

Kulp scowled. “You find this amusing?”

Stormy leaned over the gunnel and spat into the sea. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then said, “It seems Fener's already cocked an eye in our direction, Mage. We're Boar Company, of the disbanded First Army. Before Laseen crushed the cult, that is. Now we're just marines attached to a miserable Coastal Guard.”

“Ain't stopped us from following Fener, Mage,” Gesler said. “Or even recruiting new followers to the warrior cult,” he added, nodding toward Truth. “So just point the way—Otataral Coast, you said. Angle her due east, lad, and let's get this sail up and ready the spinnaker for the morning winds.”

Slowly, Kulp sat back. “Anyone else need to wash out their leggings?” he asked.

 

Wrapped in his telaba, Duiker rode from the village. There were figures to either side of the coastal road, featureless in the faint moon's light. The cool desert air seemed to carry in it the residue of a sandstorm, a desiccating haze that parched the throat. Reaching the crossroads, the historian reined in. Southward the coastal road continued on, down to Hissar. A trader track led west, inland. A quarter-mile down this track was encamped an army.

There was no order evident. Thousands of tents were haphazardly pitched around a huge central corral shrouded in fire-lit clouds of dust. Tribal chants drifted across the sands. Along the track, no more than fifty long paces from Duiker's position, a hapless squad of Malazan soldiers writhed on what were locally called Sliding Beds—four tall spears each set upright, the victim set atop the jagged points, at the shoulders and upper thighs. Depending on their weight and their strength of will in staying motionless, the impaling and the slow slide down to the ground could take hours. With Hood's blessing, the morrow's sun would hasten the tortured death. The historian felt his heart grow cold with rage.

He could not help them, Duiker knew. It was challenge enough to simply stay alive in a countryside aflame with murderous lust. But there would come a time for retribution.
If the gods will it
.

Mage fires blossomed vast and—at this distance—silent over Hissar. Was Coltaine still alive? Bult? The Seventh? Had Sormo divined what was coming in time?

He tapped his heels against his mount's flanks, continued down the coastal road. The renegade army's appearance was a shock. It had emerged as if from nowhere, and for all the chaos of the encampment there were commanders there, filled with bloodthirsty intent and capable of achieving what they planned. This was no haphazard revolt.
Kulp said a High Mage. Who else is out there? Sha'ik has had years in which to build her army of the Apocalypse, despatch her agents, plan this night—and all that will follow. We knew it was happening. Laseen should have stuck Pormqual's head on a spike long ago. A capable High Fist could have crushed this
.

“Dosii kim'aral!”

Three cloaked shapes rose from the flood track on the inland side of the road. “A night of glory!” Duiker responded, not slowing as he rode past.

“Wait, Dosii! The Apocalypse waits to embrace you!” The figure gestured toward the encampment.

“I have kin in Hissari Harbor,” the historian replied. “I go to share in the riches of liberation!” Duiker reined in suddenly and pulled his horse around. “Unless the Seventh has won back the city—is this the news you have for me?”

The spokesman laughed. “They are crushed. Destroyed in their beds, Dosii! Hissar has been freed of the Mezla curse!”

“Then I ride!” Duiker kicked the horse forward again. He held his breath as he continued on, but the tribesmen did not call after him.
The Seventh gone? Does Coltaine ride a sliding bed right now?
It was hard to believe, yet it might well be true. Clearly the attack had been sudden, backed by high sorcery
—with me dragging Kulp away, on this night of all nights, Hood curse my bones
. For all the lives within him, Sormo E'nath was still a boy, his flesh hardly steeled to such a challenge. He might well have bloodied a few noses among the enemy's mages. To expect or hope for more than that was being unfair. They would have fought hard, every one of them. Hissar's price would have been high.

Nonetheless, Duiker would have to see for himself. The Imperial Historian could do no less. More, he could ride among the enemy and that was an extraordinary opportunity.
Never mind the risks
. He would gather all the information he could, anticipating an eventual return to the ranks of a Malazan punitive force, where his knowledge could be put to lethal use.
In other words, a spy. So much for objectivity, Duiker
. The image of the Malazan soldiers lining the trader track, dying slowly on the sliding beds, was enough to sear away his detachment.

Magic flared in the fishing village half a mile behind him. Duiker hesitated, then rode on. Kulp was a survivor, and by the look of that Coastal Guard, he had veterans at his side. The mage had faced powerful sorcery before—what he could not defeat, he could escape. Duiker's soldiering days were long past, his presence more of an impediment than an asset—they were better off without him.

But what would Kulp do now? If there were any survivors among the Seventh, then the cadre mage's place was with them. What, then, of Heboric's fate?
Well, I've done what I could for the old handless bastard. Fener guard you, old man
.

There were no refugees on the road. It seemed the fanatic call to arms was complete—all had proclaimed themselves soldiers of Dryjhna. Old women, fisherwives, children and pious grandfathers. Nonetheless, Duiker had been expecting to find Malazans, or at the very least signs of their passage, scenes where their efforts to escape came to a grisly end. Instead, the raised military road stretched bare, ghostly in the moon's silver light.